Song Jin favored bold, vivid colors—even her green robes were the most striking bamboo in the grove.
Her brows arched high, her expression free and unrestrained, she stepped through the grass with swagger, strolling out amid Jiang Qian's shouts.
From a distance, she spotted a familiar group of people. Her eyes went first to the tallest one, that cold bamboo pole, then swept over—
Oh ho, that swollen-faced, bruised ugly mug was the bastard, wasn't it?
Song Jin lifted her chin and continued striding forward, not a trace of guilt in her step.
No need to rush—she had a plan.
She'd already rehearsed her retort, the words poised on her lips, when she saw Song Xingzhi stumble and crash to the ground, his voice cracking as he cried out.
"Father?"
She immediately brightened. Grabbing the coward Jiang Qian as he stumbled over, she ignored his words and his pleading eyes, tossed him aside, dusted off her hands, and swaggered toward the front.
"Oh, who's this? So polite? I can't be your daddy, you know."
Everyone: …
Not giving them a chance to speak, she turned to look at Jiang Qian, pointing at him with righteous indignation.
"What kind of heinous thing did this guy do for you to beat him like that? No matter what he did, you can't go around doing this. We should report to the authorities—no vigilante justice. And you brought him to the tea garden—what, planning to secretly sell the tea garden to smooth things over for you?"
One sentence stunned both parties.
"What? I hit him?" Jiang Qian shrieked. How would he know about that? No wait—he immediately waved his hands, flustered, explaining, "It wasn't me, definitely not me. I wouldn't even dare kill a chicken, how could I beat someone?"
Song Jin nodded knowingly: "I always said it was your wife who killed your chickens. With that cowardly look of yours, there's no way you could slaughter one."
Jiang Qian instinctively retorted: "How am I not brave enough to kill one? I just couldn't bear it—couldn't bear it. Song Jin, don't slander me."
Song Jin raised an eyebrow: "Slander? You're overestimating yourself."
…
As the two veered further off track, Song Xingzhi, who had been sprawled on the ground, struggled to his feet with a grimace. The shock on his bruised and swollen face was unmistakable. He couldn't help but rub his eyes, hissing in pain a few times.
"Impossible," Song Xingzhi murmured, stepping forward a few more paces to get a better look.
Those eyes, that nose, that face—
The more Song Xingzhi looked, the more a creeping horror took hold. So much so that even amid Song Jin and Jiang Qian's chaotic bickering, he took a step back, as if he'd seen a ghost.
Everyone watched, utterly bewildered.
After all, just moments ago, he'd been vowing to grind someone's bones to dust and tear them apart by five horses.
Li Qingshan stood to the side, watching the woman who'd appeared. The corner of his mouth twitched. He remembered—hadn't he blocked her outside in the cold? How did she get in?
But what drew his attention more now was Song Xingzhi's strange behavior. Scratching his head in confusion, he asked, "My lord, what's wrong with him?"
Could it be—dazzled by beauty again?
But from what Li Qingshan had observed these past days, this man favored the delicate, gentle type of beauty. This woman before them—bright, bold, free-spirited—clearly wasn't someone to be trifled with.
Didn't quite seem right.
Qi Zheng stood off to the side, his face cold and stern, and asked in return: "In all your years in the capital, have you ever seen Grand Secretary Song?"
Li Qingshan was even more confused, but he honestly shook his head: "I'm just a minor military officer—how would I have the honor of meeting Lord Song?"
Qi Zheng's expression grew inscrutable. He studied Li Qingshan, this old acquaintance, with heavy deliberation. He remembered how, back in their escort agency days, this man had been full of vigor and ambition, even wanting to roam the jianghu with him.
Who would've thought that when they met again, this man would be as dull as a block of wood?
The court, truly, was unfathomable.
Qi Zheng's expression was unreadable as he said gravely: "Lord Song is exceptionally handsome, dignified in bearing—a model of the literati."
Li Qingshan: …
He might not be clever, but he wasn't stupid either.
Even if he'd never seen the man, he'd heard of him.
Words like ruthless, merciless, devoid of family ties, treacherous minister—those were what the literati most often used to describe him.
Seeing Li Qingshan silent, Qi Zheng continued: "One who resembles him by three parts stands above ordinary men; one who resembles him by seven parts—"
Li Qingshan chimed in: "What of one who resembles him by seven parts?"
Qi Zheng looked toward the bold, unrestrained woman in the distance, his expression unreadable, and said heavily: "One who resembles her by seven parts—counts herself unlucky."
Li Qingshan was baffled: "Huh?"
He didn't understand at all.
But he didn't need to understand—Qi Zheng had simply said it aloud.
He hadn't expected to see Song Jin here either. Earlier, when he'd encountered her at Wenyuan Academy, he'd noticed she bore a striking resemblance to the current Grand Secretary, Song Shang.
However, though their features were seven parts similar, their demeanor and temperament were completely different, which pulled the resemblance down to five parts—making it hard for those unfamiliar with either to make the connection.
Especially in this remote little county, where those who had traveled to the capital and seen Song Shang were few and far between. And the rare few who had seen him harbored goodwill, thinking it mere coincidence, never suspecting anything more—never imagining how sinister the world could be, or what sordid deeds people might commit.
In his early years, Qi Zheng had heard many tales of Song Shang's reputation in the jianghu. He hadn't taken them seriously at the time—jianghu folk turned wind into rain, a mere snake by the lake could become a flood dragon in their tales. He'd always assumed those words were exaggerations.
It wasn't until later, when Song Shang came looking for him after a single chance encounter and brought him back to the capital to verify his identity, that he began to understand the man.
Through their time together on the road, he'd formed a rough picture of him: outwardly refined and elegant, inwardly iron-willed and ruthless, yet striking without ever drawing blood—a truly terrifying person.
Otherwise, how could he have held the position of Grand Secretary for eighteen years since the founding of the dynasty, second only to the emperor himself, above all others? Even though most people hated him, they also feared and dreaded him, not daring to utter a single word to his face.
The one thing that gave his enemies the most satisfaction was this: past forty, he had no biological children, his household empty of wives or concubines, with only a few adopted sons by his side.
The Dayan dynasty placed great weight on blood lineage—adopted sons were far removed from biological ones. To outsiders, he stood utterly alone, a solitary figure, and they clapped their hands in gleeful satisfaction.
But now, it seemed a small wrinkle had appeared.
Qi Zheng had originally planned to investigate further later, but now that he'd run into this situation, he glanced at the utterly shocked and disbelieving Song Xingzhi and knew he wouldn't be needed here.
Though the imperial family was rife with infighting and fraught with danger, it was still the imperial family—everyone had to show you at least five parts respect, not to mention the gold and silver that flowed freely.
Qi Zheng had been back in the imperial household for less than a year, and his fortunes had already gone from destitute to rivaling a local tycoon. His annual salary was two thousand taels, not counting the income from his estates and farmlands.
So whatever Song Shang's motives, he owed the man a debt of gratitude.
…
Song Xingzhi, on the other hand, had no mental preparation whatsoever. Seeing someone who looked so much like his biological father sent a chill down his spine. All thoughts of beatings and thieves flew out the window—his mind simply couldn't turn the corner.
He asked in shock: "You… you're surnamed Song?"
Song Jin stood with her arms crossed, one foot propped on a stone, chin raised: "What, is that not allowed?"
Song Xingzhi's shock gradually faded. Looking at her sloppy, arrogant stance, he opened his mouth as if to speak, then swallowed it all down into caution.
"Your father—"
Song Jin's phoenix eyes narrowed slightly. She thought of her mother's earlier odd behavior—a flash of insight passed through her mind, quickly suppressed.
The details would need further examination, but she was certain this matter was settled for today.
She curled her lips, growing even more insolent: "My father? He died long ago. What, did he owe you money? Every grievance has its source, every debt its debtor—if you've got business with him, go down there and talk it out yourself."
Her manner said it all: posture? She had a face for it. Politeness? A face for it. Culture? A face for it. Utterly wild and untamed.
Song Xingzhi, who preferred gentle, soft-spoken women, felt a lump in his throat. He cautioned: "Young lady, mind your words."
Song Jin snorted: "Big man, if you can't talk properly, shut up."
With that, she picked up the skewer she'd kept at her side, shoved it into her mouth with complete disregard for appearances, and began crunching away.
Song Jin chewed as she sized up the group, acting as if she knew nothing, and asked with irritation:
"This is my family's tea plantation. What are you people barging in here for? And dragging our steward around—jokes are jokes, but calling him a thief? He hasn't got the spine for that kind of work. You folks from the big city can't just go around slandering people."
Song Xingzhi no longer cared about any of that. His attention had first been drawn by Song Jin's face, but now his gaze was locked firmly on her mouth.
On the skewer.
The skewer was half an arm's length, strung with bamboo worms, grasshoppers, wasp pupae, and bees.
Song Xingzhi spotted the big bee with its round head, round body, and round belly in an instant. He let out a piercing scream, charged over, snatched the skewer, and stared in anguish at his Thousand-Mile Bee.
"How are you here—ahhh—how, how… I'm sorry, Xiao Jin! You died so tragically…"
Song Jin just stood there, lips glistening with oil and spices, watching Song Xingzhi's misery with relish—until the name "Xiao Jin" came out. Her smile vanished, and she stared at the man with a blank expression.
Then she snatched the skewer back, scraped everything off it with her bare hand, shoved the rest into her mouth, and pinched the one dainty Dull-headed Bee corpse between her fingers.
Chewing, she threatened: "If you don't want it going down my gullet, pick a different name."
Everyone: …