Chapter Eighteen: Stirring the Grass to Startle the Snake

“To hell with that damned bald thief, filthy scum between his legs, never accomplishing anything but always ruining my plans!”

At Lijing Gate, Hou Sizhi, still clad in his usual white garments, could no longer maintain his calm and dignified composure. He cursed loudly, pacing and circling the office restlessly. Everyone at the Lijing Gate prison, from top to bottom, was as silent as mice.

Ever since he had flogged to death the two sons of the former Crown Prince Li Xian, Lijing Gate had been under tremendous pressure. The list of impeachment charges weighing on Hou Sizhi’s back was as long as the bamboo forests. Serving the Empress, he feared no impeachment, but his opponents’ persistence was astonishing—day after day, their accusations came in endless, ever-changing forms, leaving him jumpy and sleepless. Even in his dreams, he often suffered torment and torture, wishing for death over such a life.

Under such pressure, his nerves were taut as bowstrings. He mobilized all his resources to investigate the Li family’s conspiracy, snapping at them like a mad dog—his very survival depended on it.

Recently, the new imperial son-in-law, Quan Yi, who had just arrived in the Eastern Capital, entered his sights. After a period of surveillance, Quan Yi did not disappoint; he had visited General Qu Chongyu of the Left Guard several times. Hou Sizhi was just about to build a solid case and seek merit from the Empress, when, unexpectedly, trouble arose. The head monk from White Horse Temple, rather than minding his own business, brazenly intervened—sending his own men to watch over things. Their skills were abysmal; Qu Chongyu immediately noticed and from then on commuted strictly between his mansion and the barracks, seeing no one. Quan Yi himself hadn’t noticed, but no single hand can clap alone.

“Hmph! You lot, tell me—do you have any concrete evidence that Quan Yi is colluding with Qu Chongyu in treason?” Lijing Gate, much like the Embroidered Uniform Guard, could arrest and investigate at will, sometimes even seizing suspects before reporting to higher authorities. Hou Sizhi, unable to restrain himself, intended to strike first.

“Your Excellency, our surveillance period has been short. Quan Yi has met with Qu Chongyu three times. We have no solid evidence yet, but, in our line of work at Lijing Gate, evidence always turns up after the arrest,” a subordinate suggested darkly.

A wide grin broke over Hou Sizhi’s face. “Not bad. You dog, you’re finally learning. Heh heh heh! Guards!” His smile slowly faded as two black-clad officers materialized like specters. “Take him away.”

“Beat him to death! To death!” Hou Sizhi shrieked in a piercing voice, hoarse with rage. Times had changed; to act rashly now was suicide. If the man was simply foolish, he deserved to die for stupidity; if he was deliberately dragging him down, he was venomous—death was deserved either way.

The place of execution was not far from the office. The subordinate’s miserable screams shifted from shrill to low and finally faded away, calming Hou Sizhi’s agitation. He could not afford to provoke Xue Huaiyi, nor could he arrest Quan Yi. He could only shrink into his shell and wait for his chance. Slumping onto his couch in defeat, he muttered, “In times like these, finding a way to live is no easy thing.”

Quan Yi’s carriage traveled through the streets of Luoyang, heading for Jingfu Gate, headquarters of the Left Guard. Next door was Xuanren Gate, where the Imperial Stallion Guard, his son’s command, was stationed.

He found the orders and arrangements from Chang’an increasingly baffling. Qu Chongyu’s stance was obviously ambiguous, yet his superiors insisted he was now a viable ally, urging him repeatedly to make contact. Today, having called at Qu’s residence only to find him absent, supposedly at the barracks, Quan Yi hurried there.

“Master, we’re being followed—by quite a few people,” his bodyguard whispered, trembling with fear. Quan Yi lifted the curtain and was shocked by what he saw. This wasn’t covert surveillance—it was overt. A dozen roughnecks trailed them openly, not bothering to hide.

“Master, the Left Guard is just ahead. If we hurry, we can take shelter,” the bodyguard said, his legs trembling with anxiety.

Quan Yi’s lips quivered, his eyes darting. He waved his hands. “Quickly! To Xuanren Gate!”

The bodyguard, relieved, shouted to the driver and attendants, “Hurry, go to the Imperial Stallion Guard, seek out the young master!”

Hearing this from inside the carriage, Quan Yi frowned deeply and began considering replacing his bodyguard. Was it really necessary for a father to make such a spectacle of seeking his son’s help?

Disheveled, they reached Xuanren Gate, but the sentries refused them entry—they had neither the Guard’s token nor the palace pass.

At this, the bodyguard straightened his back and barked, “How dare you! Look closer—this is the Commandant-Consort and the Magistrate of Luoyang, your commander’s own father. We are going in—try to stop us!”

He puffed out his chest and strode forward, but the sentry, equally hot-tempered, drew his sword with a clang. “Take two more steps, and you’ll see what I’ll do!”

The bodyguard, undaunted, took two steps, crossing a vermilion line painted on the ground.

With a flash of cold steel, the sentry swung his blade. The bodyguard’s legs gave out in terror, and he collapsed to the ground. His sudden cowering saved his life; the sword, meant for his neck, sailed over his lowered head, shaving off the topknot from his scalp.

A chill ran over his head and, now utterly terrified, the once-arrogant bodyguard howled, his voice echoing far and wide, as a puddle of yellow-brown fluid spread beneath him.

“What is this commotion?” came a cold inquiry. The sentries snapped to attention, replying loudly, “Reporting, sir! Someone tried to force entry into the forbidden zone.”

“Greetings, uncle.” The one who emerged was Zheng Zhong, whom Quan Yi had met at Princess Yiyang’s palace. He bowed deeply. “Uncle, please wait here. I will fetch the General to receive you.”

“No need, I can go in myself.” Quan Yi waved for his attendants to remove the bodyguard, unwilling to make any further spectacle.

Zheng Zhong bowed, gesturing, “After you, uncle.”

Once inside Xuanren Gate, the cold wind vanished, replaced by a wave of heat. Had he not seen it himself, Quan Yi would never have believed his eldest son was the shirtless, rough young man crawling across the gravel in training. Judging by his speed, he was not in first place, yet his subordinates had cleared a wide area around him, encircling him as he went.

Upon hearing the commotion, Quan Ce, his son, stopped training, took a cold shower, changed into casual clothes, and came to greet his father, while his men continued their drills as usual.

Learning of his father’s ordeal, Quan Ce flew into a rage and vowed to report this to the Empress. He himself was also a victim; every day, someone tailed him when he left the camp.

Hearing this made Quan Yi relax, and he adopted a loftier tone. “Your threshold is getting higher by the day.”

After inquiring and learning the details, Quan Ce summoned the sentry responsible and made a pronouncement that caused Quan Yi to frown.

“You did nothing wrong. I failed to make proper arrangements, causing you to offend my father and put our men in a difficult position. The fault is mine. Twenty strokes with the rod—for me, and you will carry out the sentence.”

Quan Yi leapt up in shock, wanting to protest but holding his tongue.

“General, let me take the punishment in your stead…” The sentry threw down the rod and dropped to his knees.

“There are rules and laws in the army. You cannot bear another’s punishment just because you wish to. Carry out the orders.” Quan Ce lay face-down on the bench, not bothering to remove his trousers.

“Yes, sir.” The sentry, raising his voice, obeyed, swinging the rod with all his might. Each blow landed solidly, echoing through the room. Quan Ce’s face flushed, his lips pressed tight as he stifled his groans, sweat dripping from his brow, mingling with the tears that fell from the sentry. Reflected in those droplets was Quan Yi’s face—part concern, part pride.

Quan Ce smiled; after this beating, he felt much better.

In Shanglin Ward, at the new residence of Princess Yiyang, the advisor Xiao Song dug out a piece of paper from a crack in the brick wall of his quarters. After reading it, his face turned deathly pale. He immediately packed his bags, requested a horse, and hurriedly departed.

Xiao Song rode through the night, slowing only after he had left Luoyang. When he reached the borders of Yanshi County, he found a village to lodge in. That night, a black smoke filled his room, and several black-clad men slipped inside, bundled him into a sack, and carried him away.

The next day, at the gates of Luoyang, a wagon with deep ruts drew the attention of the guards.

“What’s in there?” a soldier demanded.

“Sir, it’s a stone slab, inscribed with characters, being delivered to the master,” the leader replied with a simple smile.

Unconvinced, the soldier opened the sack and felt inside about a foot deep. It was indeed a massive stone. With a wave, he allowed them to pass.