When news arrived of the Imperial Emperor’s rumored passing, Chu Yanyi was having a meal with a business associate.
The soft murmur of flowing water echoed through the highly discreet private dining room. Occasionally, a server glided in with food on quiet feet, disappearing seconds later as though they had never been there at all.
Under the warm lighting, he unhurriedly finished the last slice of meat on his plate, set down his fork and knife, wiped his mouth, and offered a calm smile to the somber-faced, middle-aged man across from him.
“You heard the news as well. In times like these, no one can predict where the Empire is heading. You are well aware of Sheng Yan’s financial reports over these past few years; pushing any further means taking a loss. As a senior figure in the Chamber of Commerce, you understand the risks involved. Out of respect for you, I am only asking for a 30% profit cut. What do you say?”
At those words, even the President of the Chamber of Commerce—seated nearby as a mediator—showed a crack in his composure.
The middle-aged man clenched his fists and abruptly stood up, his chair scraping against the polished floor with a jarring shriek. He made no effort to conceal the anger and dissatisfaction in his voice: “Mr. Chu, you certainly have a way with business. Do you truly believe you can hold a monopoly over the trade route between the Empire and Desert Planet θ forever?”
Chu Yanyi remained still, his expression turning even more innocently calm as he toyed with his cutlery: “You flatter me. We merely acted on the Governor’s request to submit an application to the Empire six months in advance. It was pure luck that it got approved. Anyone on Desert Planet θ could have done the same.”
“There is no need to rush. Take a few days to consider it. It is no small matter, after all, and I understand your predicament,” Chu Yanyi paused, looking up. “Though I cannot guarantee… what the landscape will look like a few days from now.”
Zheng Qian blew his top. Ignoring the President’s attempts to stop him, he kicked back his chair, strode toward the door, and turned back to point a trembling finger at Chu Yanyi, gritting his teeth: “Fine, fine! Ying Yu acted like an absolute tyrant in the Second District back then, and you saw how he ended up. I’d like to see if you end up down that same path. The Third District isn’t a place where you get the final say alone!”
Chu Yanyi leaned on his cane and stood up, offering a light, indifferent response: “Rest assured, I am not Ying Yu. Should you change your mind, you may reach out to me at any time.”
The door slammed shut with a heavy thud, sealing Zheng Qian’s fury outside. The private room fell back into silence, save for the trickling water and the ticking clock. A thin layer of white grease was beginning to congeal over the cooling food.
The President shook his head: “Old Zheng’s temper gets worse by the day. Don’t take his words to heart; I’ll talk some sense into him later.”
Chu Yanyi gave a helpless smile: “My apologies for troubling you to make this trip amidst your busy schedule.”
“It’s no trouble at all,” the President leaned against the table as he stood up, letting out a sigh. “In business, deals go through or they fall apart. There’s no reason to ruin relations over it. The real headache is that I have to make a trip to the Second District in a few days. Have you heard, Mr. Chu? Ying Yu’s death was far too sudden, leaving his vast assets in total disarray. That area is completely leaderless right now…”
“I have heard rumors,” Chu Yanyi stepped forward, offering a light, polite hand to steady him. “Mr. Ying surely had his own plans.”
The President patted Chu Yanyi’s arm, exchanging a few standard pleasantries before dropping the subject.
Once the President was escorted out, Chu Yanyi leaned on his cane and slowly sank back into his seat. He stared at the overturned chair with a faint, unreadable smile and lit a cigarette: “For the next few days, no matter what Zheng Qian says, tell him I am busy—unless he agrees to the terms.”
Chen Ke, who had been standing silently in the corner, uttered an affirmative “Mm,” before stepping behind Chu Yanyi with a look of confusion: “Mr. Chu, why did you demand such a high cut?”
“Is it high?” Chu Yanyi surveyed his surroundings, his gaze resting on a decorative painting on the wall—a composition of twisted lines and color blocks depicting a deity trampling a demon beneath its feet.
“What he wants to transport goes beyond what’s listed on paper. It includes military equipment that the Empire has strictly banned from transport and sale recently. The current Imperial Marshal isn’t like his predecessors, and the risks involved are entirely different.”
“Ah?” Chen Ke and the other assistants in the room froze. “In that case, Mr. Chu, with such major shifts in the Empire, should we temporarily hold off on signing large orders and reactivate our old routes?”
Chu Yanyi took a sip of his remaining wine: “Is the source of that news reliable? Where did it first originate?”
“It first appeared across a few niche social media platforms, but the Imperial official media has yet to issue a denial,” Chen Ke pulled up a virtual display, projecting several news snippets.
“Mm,” Chu Yanyi lowered his head, sending a message to a blank account. “Open this livestream.”
Puzzled, the assistants looked at the screen, which showed a stream for a virtual game. While the game Shiju was wildly popular among the younger demographic, Chu Yanyi had never shown any interest in gaming.
On screen, the game producer was giving a real-time commentary on a newly implemented gameplay mode. The handsome young Alpha was witty and engaging, exuding charm in every gesture.
“No need,” Chu Yanyi stood up. “The old Emperor isn’t dead yet.”
“Eh?”
He narrowed his eyes, studying the articulate Alpha on screen: “If something had truly happened to the Empire, the Marshal would never allow his Alpha to make public appearances during a time like this.”
The Imperial Marshal((Imperial Marshal: A high-ranking military commander. Commands the military or oversees the empire’s armed forces. had never publicly revealed his partner’s identity, though public speculation held that he was a male Alpha.
Chen Ke wanted to pry further, but quickly shut his mouth, exchanging a subtle look with the other assistants, who also remained silent. Looking at the golden pupils of the game producer on screen, Chen Ke suddenly remembered that when Chu Yanyi went to the Empire to personally submit his application, he had stayed far longer than originally scheduled.
That period coincided precisely with the death of the previous Imperial Marshal and the old Emperor’s announcement that a successor had been secretly designated.
A chill ran down Chen Ke’s spine.
Sure enough, shortly after they returned to the office, the Imperial Royal Family issued an official statement debunking the rumors, declaring that His Majesty suffered from no health issues whatsoever and issuing a stern condemnation of the rumor-mongers.
In an instant, media outlets large and small scrambled to re-share the official statement.
Chu Yanyi glanced at the reply “2” sent by the blank account, rubbed his temples, put on his glasses, and began reviewing records on another interface. His movements were steady, though his fingers paused for a moment when he reached the third page.
“Chen Ke?” He narrowed his eyes, zooming in on the verification signature and timestamp.
Opening the backend logs, he checked the creation time and let out a cold laugh.
“Mr. Chu, you called for me?” Chen Ke walked into the office holding a file. Seeing the screen, he leaned in and froze as well.
“That day… I was with you in the First District in place of Xiao Liu. What is the deal with the authorization on this form?”
“Look into it,” Chu Yanyi took a calm sip of coffee, a faint, ambiguous smile on his lips. “This is quite interesting. Even you failed to catch it.”
Chen Ke’s face went pale. Avoiding Chu Yanyi’s eyes, he stammered for a long moment before squeezing out: “It was my oversight… I should have… should have double-checked…”
Chu Yanyi toyed with the ornamentation on his cane with a playful air: “It’s no major issue. Just double-check everything next time before handing it to me. You’ve all been working hard for a while now. Remember how I mentioned giving you a proper break? Your vacation starts tomorrow.”
“Va… vacation?” Chen Ke stood frozen on the spot, cold sweat dripping from his forehead. Was this a subtle way of dismissing the entire assistant team?
Chu Yanyi’s expression remained detached. Resting his head on one hand, he took off his glasses and tossed them onto the desk: “I’ve been feeling a bit tired lately myself.”
“Then… roughly when should we return to work?” Chen Ke swallowed nervously, testing the waters.
“It will be a long break this time,” Chu Yanyi scanned the items on his desk, opened a file, and pulled out several pages. “If something truly urgent comes up, have them contact the housekeeper at the manor.”
“The… the housekeeper?” Chen Ke asked back in disbelief.
“None of you would want your vacation interrupted by trivial matters either, right?” A cold gleam flashed in Chu Yanyi’s eyes. “Besides, I recently acquired a rather fine slave. It’s about time I went over to relax properly.”
Chu Yanyi closed his eyes and waved his hand. Chen Ke said no more and hurriedly retreated from the room.
The following day, after delegating all pending matters, Chu Yanyi returned to the manor that belonged to him in name.
He wasn’t so bored as to monitor Zhou Yi’s every move around the clock, though he did notice that Zhou Yi had searched for the name “Ying Yu.”
As a former key figure in the black market, Ying Yu had kept an unnaturally low profile, leaving behind sparse records online. Zhou Yi appeared to have only browsed through a few speculations regarding the true cause of Ying Yu’s death before dropping the search entirely.
The midday sunlight filtered through the carved window frames, scattering across the back of the chair. The accumulated snow had begun to melt, reflecting bright, scattered glints of light.
Chu Yanyi reclined in a lounger, half of his face bathed in golden sunlight.
Setting down the book he had picked up to pass the time, he reviewed the summary generated by the smart assistant regarding Zhou Yi’s recent activity. Aside from searching his own name when he first received the terminal, followed by looking up Ying Yu’s profile and the question “cause of Ying Yu’s death,” Zhou Yi had truly only searched for learning materials on sign language.
He was even more obedient than anticipated.
At least on the surface.
Chu Yanyi was in no hurry to see Zhou Yi, nor did he bother asking the housekeeper what tasks had been assigned to him. He ate a lunch that wasn’t quite to his taste, read in the study for a bit, and then picked up his cane to wander around the grounds alone, instructing no one to follow.
The surrounding area was framed by rolling hills, which exposed patches of bare, grayish-yellow soil as the snow thawed.
Chu Yanyi walked slowly. Most of the flowers in the garden had frozen to death due to a lack of care and the harsh season, leaving dry leaves scattered everywhere. As the cold wind swept past, he spotted a figure in the distance by the edge of an artificial lake that had not yet fully thawed.
Zhou Yi was kneeling by the lakeside, his overly long gray hair obscuring his eyes. Dressed in the standard servant uniform, he leaned his upper body forward, straining his twisted right hand as far as it would go, seemingly trying to touch something in the water.
Shadows of dry, crisscrossing branches swayed across his back. An insect slowly crawled up the hem of his clothes.
He seemed to merge completely into the surrounding snowy landscape—a desolate, clean white.
Chu Yanyi stroked the beast-head handle of his cane unhurriedly. Just as he was about to step forward, a sharp reprimand rang out nearby.
“Xiao Yi, why are you slacking off here again?!”
Chu Yanyi’s eyebrow twitched slightly. Taking a step back, he retreated into the shadows of the thicket.