In the early spring, the cold lingered as the ice and snow had just begun to melt.
Under the dark, water-like night sky, a faint light still flickered in the study of Wei Mansion. The steward knocked on the door and reported from outside, "Prime Minister, the young master is having nightmares again, crying and fussing uncontrollably..."
The study was cold and quiet. Beside the huanghuali desk stood a bronze crane candlestick, its tray already filled with layers of melted wax. The dim yellow glow of the half-burned candle cast a somber light. Wei Yan sat behind the desk, his lean jawline appearing even more rigid in the warm candlelight.
He seemed to be reading, but at the sound of the steward’s voice, he lifted his gaze from the pages and stared absently at the nearly spent candle in the bronze crane candlestick. After a long pause, he finally spoke coldly, "What are the servants doing? Can’t even soothe a child?"
The steward hesitated before replying, "The young master was crying for his mother, but when he remembered that she had passed away with his father, he started crying for his uncle... That’s why this old servant dared to disturb the Prime Minister."
At the mention of "uncle," a flicker of anguish and pain crossed Wei Yan’s face. He closed his eyes, taking a long moment to compose himself before standing and pulling open the study door. His expression was now devoid of any emotion. "Let’s go see him."
The Great General Xie Linshan and the Chengde Crown Prince had died in battle at Jinzhou. Not long after, Madam Xie, unable to bear the loss of her husband, chose to "follow him in death," entrusting her four-year-old son to her elder brother, Wei Yan.
The young master of the Xie family had been brought to Wei Mansion to be cared for, residing in Linxuan Pavilion.
As soon as Wei Yan stepped into the courtyard, he heard the sound of a child’s sobbing from inside the room: "Uncle... I want Uncle..."
The cries were intermittent, the voice already hoarse, like a young beast wailing in despair.
Hearing the child’s cries, even the steward’s eyes dimmed with sorrow and pity.
Yet Wei Yan’s face remained cold, his profile bathed in the pale moonlight as if covered in frost.
He pushed open the door. Inside, the child—still round with baby fat—stopped crying the moment he saw him, stretching out his arms in desperate reliance. "Uncle..."
The maids attending to him quickly bowed to Wei Yan. "Prime Minister."
Each of them kept their heads lowered, their expressions anxious and hurried, as if fearing Wei Yan would blame them for failing to care for the young master properly.
Wei Yan’s cold gaze fell on his nephew, whose eyes were swollen from crying. His first words were a stern rebuke: "A man does not cry. What is this behavior?"
Xie Zheng seemed startled by his uncle’s harsh tone. The hand he had stretched out withdrew, clutching the quilt beneath him instead. His large, dark eyes, brimming with tears, stared blankly at the cold-faced man before him. His lips pressed tightly together, afraid to let out another sob, but fat teardrops still rolled uncontrollably down his cheeks, leaving damp stains on the bedding.
Fearing further reprimand, he quickly lowered his head, using his chubby little arm to clumsily wipe his eyes.
His father was dead. His mother had abandoned him. And now, even his uncle—who had once doted on him—no longer seemed to care for him...
One of the maids, unable to bear the sight, whispered softly, "The young master had a nightmare... He was frightened..."
A sharp glance from Wei Yan silenced her instantly. She bowed her head, not daring to speak another word.
His voice was icy as he commanded, "Replace all the female servants in Linxuan Pavilion with male attendants. A boy raised among women will never amount to anything."Several maids in the room quickly knelt down to beg for mercy. Little Xie Zheng, sensing something, forgot his fear and clutched at the corner of Wei Yan’s sleeve, sobbing, “Uncle… please don’t send the nannies away… Zheng promises not to cry anymore…”
Wei Yan looked down at his nephew, his gaze as cold as ice: “You cry half the night over a mere nightmare—how do you expect to avenge your father, who was gutted by the Northern Turks and hung from the city walls? The Xie family breeds no cowards, and neither does the Wei family!”
His piercing stare bore into the child: “If you remain this spineless your whole life, the court can raise you like a pig or a dog on the military merits your father left behind. You’ll never want for anything.”
With that, he slammed the door and left.
Even the steward frowned at these words. Glancing at Wei Yan’s retreating figure, then at the child sitting frozen on the bed as if stunned by the scolding, he sighed softly and said to Xie Zheng, “Young Master, don’t take it to heart. The Prime Minister… he’s just grieving after the young lady’s passing. He only wishes for you to grow strong quickly, to march north and reclaim Jinzhou, to avenge General Xie.”
The four-year-old child hung his head, his frail shoulders trembling with sobs like a bow made of tender branches, nearly snapping under sudden strain.
“Uncle… hates me…”
His voice was young yet hoarse, as if weeping blood: “If I hadn’t gone out to eat Osmanthus cake and left Mother… she wouldn’t have… taken her own life alone in the room…”
His sobs grew heavier: “I didn’t watch over her… Uncle hates me…”
The steward’s expression grew even more complicated. “The young lady chose this path herself. It’s not your fault, Young Master. The Prime Minister… doesn’t blame you either.”
Little Xie Zheng only shook his head, curling into a ball on the bed, his small, fragile frame heartbreaking to behold.
The steward sighed, tucked the blankets around him, and left the room with heavy steps.
At the end of the covered corridor, a solitary figure stood with hands clasped behind his back, buffeted by the cold wind.
The steward approached and said, “The young master is still so young. Your harshness only wounds him further. He blames himself for not watching over the young lady that day… and believes you hate him for it…”
Wei Yan gazed at the bamboo shadows swaying in the night breeze and replied indifferently, “Then let him believe it.”
The steward looked pained. “Why must you do this?”
The lanterns under the eaves swayed in the wind, casting flickering yellow light. Wei Yan’s dark robes billowed like sails, accentuating his tall, lean frame. He spoke slowly: “The imperial court is a murky pool—full of pitfalls, deceit, and undercurrents. If he only wishes to live a life of idle luxury, I could indulge him. But he seeks the battlefield and the court. If I don’t temper him, I’d only be sending him to the slaughter.”
“Wei Quan, if he lacks ruthlessness, he’ll never sit in my seat.”
“Even if I yield it to him, will others do the same?”
The steward understood his master’s painstaking intentions and fell silent. After a long pause, he said sorrowfully, “So you’ll let the young master resent you like this?”
Wei Yan gave a faint smile. “It’s better if he hates and resents me.”
The steward stared at him in surprise.
Then, in a voice almost too soft to hear, Wei Yan murmured, “One day, he’ll uncover the truth.”Those crimes, one after another, pinned on him by the Late Emperor—sins he could never erase no matter how hard he tried for the rest of his life.
The steward thought of Wei Wan's death, and his eyes dimmed with sorrow.
The young mistress died resenting the Prime Minister, convinced he was the mastermind behind the deaths of General Xie and the Crown Prince...
By the fourth watch, a fierce wind had risen, rattling the loosely shut window shutters against the frames. The child on the bed seemed to have fallen into another nightmare, clutching at the blankets unconsciously, murmuring incoherently for "Father, Mother."
The man who had been sitting in the Grand Tutor chair in the corner for who knew how long stood up. He walked to the window and closed it, then turned to gaze silently at the child on the bed, whose forehead was now drenched in cold sweat, illuminated by the faint glow of an oil lamp outside the canopy bed.
He took a handkerchief as if to wipe away the sweat, but the child let out a sharp cry and suddenly sat up, gasping for breath.
Wei Yan withdrew the hand holding the handkerchief behind his back and stood by the bed, his expression cold as he watched his nephew, drenched in sweat like a drowning victim.
The small child looked at him, lips parting as if to call out, but upon seeing his expression, fell silent.
The gaze directed at him held only bewildered wariness and awe—none of the former dependence remained.
Like a young beast driven from its den.
Wei Yan's voice was icy: "I've found you a martial arts instructor. You'll start training at the Martial Arts Academy tomorrow."
As he stepped out of the room, his personal guard handed him a cloak and asked softly, "Your Excellency stayed up half the night watching over the young master. Would you like to rest for a while?"
Wei Yan glanced at the sky. "Prepare my court robes. It's time to go to the palace."
At the moon gate, the leader of the Martial Assassins, Wei Sheng, hurried over to report: "Your Excellency, we caught several intruder attempting to break into the residence last night—all remnants of the Xie faction. Should we throw them into the dungeon as well?"
A sharp glint flashed in Wei Yan's eyes. "Weren't the Xie remnants all sent back to Huizhou by A'Wan?"
Wei Sheng clasped his fists. "These are from the Xie branch families. Somehow they got wind of things. After being captured, they cursed Your Excellency, saying... they'd never let the young master recognize a thief as his father..."
Wei Yan paused slightly in adjusting his cloak, his expression growing even colder. "Interrogate them to find out who leaked the information. Once you have the answer, there's no need to keep them alive."
Wei Sheng was momentarily taken aback. Previously, his master had always ordered such captives imprisoned—why the sudden command to eliminate them?
Then he recalled that these people had sought to approach the young master. It was after learning the "truth" from them, coupled with the Jia family's spies pushing the young master into the lotus pond to frame Wei Yan for the attempted murder, that the young mistress had been forced to leave a suicide note and hang herself to protect both the young master and the uninformed Xie remnants. In that moment, Wei Sheng understood his master's hatred.
His master loathed the Sui and Jia families for inciting the Xie remnants, and despised those remnants who had used the "truth" to corner the young mistress.
With the young mistress gone, his master would never allow them near the young master again.
The core Xie remnants had already been sent back to their ancestral home in Huizhou by the young mistress before her death—her final act to preserve what remained of the Xie forces and pave the way for the young master's future.
Now these Xie branch family members had come knocking, walking straight into the jaws of their master's wrath.Wei Sheng withdrew after receiving his orders, and Wei Yan strode toward the mansion gate. The steward came to see him off, and as Wei Yan stepped into the official sedan chair, he suddenly added another command: "Have the child from Osmanthus Garden moved to Linxuan Pavilion."
The steward nodded in acknowledgment, understanding Wei Yan's intent, and said with a smile, "Young Master Xuan is usually quite lively. With his cousin having just lost both parents, having a companion might help him become more cheerful and avoid nightly nightmares."
Wei Yan remained silent, lowering the sedan curtain. The bearers, former Martial Assassins, lifted the sedan chair with steady steps onto the still dimly lit street.
Flanking the sedan were over a dozen mansion guards, each with a longsword at their waist, their breaths steady and stances firm—elite warriors meticulously selected from the ranks of Martial Assassins.
With the young emperor on the throne, Wei Yan held the Son of Heaven to command the nobles. The war south of Jinzhou was intensifying. Though the Sui family led troops to block the Northern Turks' advance south, they seized the opportunity to make exorbitant demands for money and grain from the court. Meanwhile, in the capital, the Jia family—a centipede that refused to die—lay in wait, ready to strike at Wei Yan and seize power from him.
Since ascending to the position of prime minister and acting as regent, Wei Yan had already survived over a dozen assassination attempts.
Everyone sought his weaknesses, his fatal flaws. One misstep, and the entire Wei and Xie clans would face eternal damnation.
As the sedan chair reached Bronze Sparrow Street, cold arrows and a gust of wind struck simultaneously toward the sedan.
Dozens of black-clad figures leaped down from the buildings on either side, their blades reflecting a chilling gleam under the sedan's lanterns.
The guards surrounding the sedan drew their swords, weaving an impenetrable net of steel that blocked all the poison-tipped arrows before clashing head-on with the descending assassins.
Splattered blood stained the frost-covered bluestone tiles of Bronze Sparrow Street.
One assassin, taking advantage of the Martial Assassins being occupied, lunged at the sedan with his blade. The fierce wind from his strike tore through the embroidered curtain, but the blade could advance no further.
The veins on the assassin's temples bulged from the strain, yet the man inside the sedan merely twisted his wrist, forcing the assassin into a midair flip. The blade snapped with a metallic clang , and as the assassin landed, the broken half of the blade hurled from the sedan ended his life.
Outside, the Martial Assassins dispatched the last of the attackers, their blood splashing across half the sedan curtain.
Wei Yan pushed aside the curtain and stepped out, his brocade boots sinking into the thick, dark-red blood. The rising sun in the east burst forth in a crimson struggle through the gray clouds, casting a golden glow over the distant palace towers.
Against the radiant dawn, Wei Yan's handsome face was cold and ruthless.
He stepped forward, treading through the blood-stained morning light, striding toward the towering imperial palace.
This journey would last eighteen years.
The grudges of old were repaid, one by one.
He stabilized the realm, purged the unworthy, and forged the sharpest blade in the world—one even he could not break. Thus, no one else could ever challenge its wielder.
Meeting old acquaintances now, he felt no shame.
Whether his destination was the Jade Terrace or the depths of hell, his heart was at peace.
The merits and faults, the glory and disgrace of this life—let posterity judge, condemn, curse, or lament. Once dust returns to earth and bones lie silent, what concern was it of his?
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