Pei Tan’s words left the men of the Ministry of Judicial Review standing in the desolate graveyard, silent, chilled to the bone by the cold wind sweeping through the tombs.
“My lord… if this is true, then doesn’t it mean—?” one attendant asked, his eyes filled with dread.
If true, it meant that Zong Huo, who was supposed to have been executed, had not died at all. Instead, his body had been swapped with that of an unknown corpse.
A condemned prisoner replaced by another—such a scandal was unheard of in Chang’an, even in the Tang dynasty. And the case of Zong Huo’s reckless riding that killed a man was the very first trial Pei Tan had presided over after becoming Minister of Judicial Review. Without Pei Tan’s determination and the influence of the Pei clan, the death sentence would never have been passed. Yet now, the very case Pei Tan had overseen, personally sending Zong Huo to the executioner’s block, had unraveled into this shocking twist.
Pei Tan slowly clenched the silk handkerchief in his palm and ordered coldly: “Take the body back to the Ministry. Have the coroner examine it.”
When the coroner finished, the truth was clear: the dead man was a substitute. By law, every executed criminal was to be verified by palace physicians before burial. If this corpse was false, then even the imperial physicians had been bribed.
“Were we noticed on the way here?” Pei Tan asked his attendant.
The man’s face was grave: “We left through the main gate of the Ministry. Along the way, it would have been hard not to be seen.”
Their exchange revealed the heart of the matter. If the body was a fake, then someone in Chang’an had long been plotting this. Pei Tan’s journey from the Ministry to the palace graveyard should never have been known—yet now secrecy was impossible.
“Take the body back first,” Pei Tan commanded.
In the carriage, his attendant Pei Xian asked: “If all this is true, then who would most likely be behind it?”
Pei Tan’s gaze was icy: “Of course, the one who least wanted Zong Huo dead.”
Zong Huo was a notorious bully. In Chang’an, those who wished him dead far outnumbered those who wanted him alive. The only person who would fight to save him was his father, the Minister of War, Zong Chuke.
Zong Chuke, already aged, cherished his late-born son beyond measure. Even if Zong Huo killed a man in the streets, to Zong Chuke, preserving his son’s life mattered more than anything.
Pei Xian added: “Zong Chuke has stormed to our master’s residence many times. Only after his son was executed outside the Meridian Gate did he finally stay home. If he truly dared to use another man as a substitute, wouldn’t that be outright defiance of the imperial decree?”
Pei Tan said nothing. The “master” was Pei Dongsu, his own father, who had served as Grand Commandant under two emperors.
For a man who loved his son as his very life, defying the throne was nothing. If it meant saving Zong Huo, Zong Chuke would risk everything.
Now, the strip of tattooed human skin had become the key.
Back at the Ministry, Pei Tan summoned the coroner again. When shown the tattooed skin, the coroner’s face changed.
Pei Tan dismissed everyone else, leaving only his trusted attendant Pei Xian and the coroner.
“My lord, that tattoo is not something ordinary people would bear,” the coroner explained. “Years ago, a group of northern criminals fled south. They were captured and assigned as slaves to noble families in Chang’an by the Court of State Ceremonials. To prevent escape, each was branded with a unique mark belonging to the household they served.”
Like a family crest on a carriage, each mark represented a different clan.
Pei Tan studied the tattoo. If it was a crest, it was not one of the great clans—he knew all the emblems of the Five Surnames and Seven Clans.
The coroner then said: “My lord, do you recall the Jing family of the Protectorate General, five years ago?”
Pei Tan’s eyes flickered.
“This mark,” the coroner continued, “belonged to the Jing family.”
The Jing family? Pei Tan searched his memory. The Protectorate General was a second-rank aristocratic house in Chang’an—not the most powerful, but still a notable clan.
“Though not a great clan, Jing Zheren, the Protector General, was a scholar who rose through the imperial examinations. His Majesty once highly valued him.”
To rise from humble origins through the exams was proof of imperial favor. Jing Zheren’s appointment as a second-rank official showed the emperor’s trust. Yet despite this, he later offended Empress Wei’s faction and was stripped of office and exiled from court. Born a commoner, his foundation was too fragile.
The Liu family, who had also offended the Wei faction, survived with only a fine of several months’ salary. But the Jing family was destroyed.
Pei Tan remembered the case well. And remembering, he realized: today’s discovery was far from simple.
For example, the Liu family also offended the Wei faction, yet they remained standing—merely fined a few months’ salary, their foundation untouched. That was because the Liu clan’s roots ran deep; they had nothing to fear.
But when disaster fell upon the Jing family, it was annihilation.
Pei Tan still remembered the events of that time. Precisely because he remembered, he knew today’s matter was far from simple.
The Jing clan had been exiled. Could any of them still remain in Chang’an?
“At the time, were all members of the Jing family exiled to Hanta? Was there any exception?” Pei Tan asked.
Ordinarily, when a family was sentenced to exile in its entirety, none remained behind. Yet exceptions were always possible.
The coroner replied: “My lord, there was indeed one exception.”
Pei Tan fixed his gaze on him.
“Jing Zheren had a single daughter, barely ten years old. Because of her youth, she was taken by the execution officer and sent into the palace.”
Sending girls of suitable beauty into the palace was a custom then, as it is now.
“And this daughter… is she still in the palace?” Pei Tan asked.
That afternoon, Jing Wan’er felt restless, much like the night she first sensed calamity would befall her family. The unease came unbidden, leaving her unable to sit still.
The strip of human skin—the little palace maid had already delivered it. The very piece she herself had cut from a corpse.
Her strangeness did not escape the eyes of the other palace maids, who delighted in finding fault with her.
“I’d love to teach that wretch a lesson,” one maid muttered through clenched teeth.
Her rival Qiao’er hated her even more: “If only the madam would throw her into Taihu to feed the fish, as she did with Ying’er years ago—that would be true justice.”
But that was impossible. They hated Jing Wan’er, yet feared her as well. For if Jing Wan’er died, one of them would be forced to handle the stinking, rotting corpses she alone dealt with.
Jing Wan’er saw their malice. Her lips curved faintly as she walked forward. One maid slyly stretched out her foot to trip her.
Jing Wan’er deliberately stamped down hard. The maid shrieked, glaring at her in impotent rage.
In this man-eating palace, only those more ruthless than others survived longer.
Without glancing aside, Jing Wan’er passed them. For five years, one disobedient maid after another had died in the service quarters—and Jing Wan’er had handled every corpse. That fact alone filled the others with terror: anyone could die, except her.
That fear ruled them all.
“You have never disappointed me,” said the Palace Madam, her wrinkled face fixed on Jing Wan’er’s youthful features.
Jing Wan’er looked at Palace Madam Cui. Whenever she summoned her, it was never without reason.
“I have heard a rumor,” Palace Madam Cui said, narrowing her sharp old eyes.
Jing Wan’er stood still. The Palace Madam was not one to speak idle words.
“The rumor is… His Majesty intends to reopen the case of the Jing family.”
The words struck Jing Wan’er’s ears like a drumbeat. It took all her strength to remain standing.
But Palace Madam Cui’s shrewd eyes searched her face, finding nothing. “Are you not… even a little pleased?”
Few families destroyed by confiscation ever saw their cases retried. Most died in exile, their descendants condemned to slavery for generations. If fortune truly favored the Jing clan, it would mean that today’s Jing Wan’er—an obscure palace maid, despised and oppressed—might tomorrow become a noble lady of Chang’an.
Such dreams were beyond even the wildest hopes of palace women.
Jing Wan’er lifted her weary eyes to meet Palace Madam Cui’s: “The palace is full of idle rumors. Why trouble yourself with them, Mistress?”
Seeing her so calm, Palace Madam Cui’s eyes gleamed slyly, like a fox:
“Jing Wan’er, I do not believe you take this as mere gossip. You have been obedient these five years, but I do not believe your heart is as meek as you appear.”
Jing Wan’er lowered her head, seeming harmless.
But Palace Madam Cui’s gaze betrayed no trust.
Jing Wan’er slowly raised her eyes, her expression unreadable: “I understand your meaning, Madam. I understand why you say this to me. But the Jing family was never among the Seven Great Clans of Chang’an. Would His Majesty even remember such a fallen house? Even if he did, would he truly stir the court to retry their case? And even if the case were retried, even if the Jing clan were pardoned—what would that have to do with me?”
Palace Madam Cui’s eyes narrowed further: “…After the retrial, you would be the Jing family’s daughter once more.”
Jing Wan’er stood silently in the hall for a long moment. “After the retrial… I would be nothing more than another corpse buried in the palace.”