These words left the entire court gasping in shock.

The Minister of Revenue, a second-rank official, managed the empire’s grain and finances, standing as a true core of the Six Ministries. Bestowed with the title of Junior Guardian of the Crown Prince and granted the privilege of riding a horse within the Forbidden City, this was the pinnacle of imperial favor!

Xu Qing had laid low for five years, and now, with a single burst, he had ascended to the peak!

Yet, on Xu Qing’s face, there was no trace of ecstatic joy.

He still wore that expression of being unmoved by honor or disgrace, performing the grand ritual with flawless precision:

"Your humble servant thanks Your Majesty for your boundless grace. Long live the Emperor, ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand years."

His heart was as calm as still water. He knew that behind this seemingly splendid reward lurked the Emperor’s deeper scrutiny, along with countless eyes fixed on him, waiting for him to stumble. But so what? He was ready to measure the breadth of the Great Xing nation in his own way.

In the evening.

Xu Qing finished handling the complicated handover affairs at the Ministry of Revenue and returned to his residence under the glow of the setting sun.

At the gate, craftsmen from the Imperial Household Department had already hung the imperial plaque inscribed with "Upright and Incorruptible" high above, its dazzling gleam shining in the sunset’s rays.

Xu Qing merely glanced up at it before walking straight into the manor.

He declined all visiting officials and congratulatory cards, heading directly back to his study.

Pushing open the door, the study’s furnishings remained unchanged, yet the air seemed a little less oppressive than in days past.

He walked to the desk and personally ground the ink.

Then, he lifted the goat-hair brush, its handle worn smooth from use.

His gaze once again fell on the scroll inscribed with "Self-Examination in Solitude" hanging on the wall.

He dipped the brush deep in the thick ink, suspended his wrist, and beside those two forceful characters, on the large expanse of blank space, he added a line of small, highly meticulous handwriting.

The script was delicate yet carried a calmness born of weathering countless storms.

"A gift from Brother Su, to be cherished forever."

After writing the final stroke, Xu Qing gently set the brush down on the brush rest.

He leaned down and softly blew out the candle flame on the table.

"Puff—"

A wisp of blue smoke curled upward, vanishing into the darkness.

Xu Qing turned around, pushed open the door, and walked out of the study.

The bright moonlight poured over him like water, casting a long, slender shadow across the bluestone slabs.

His steps were steady and resolute.

Under that chilly moonlight, his figure no longer seemed as lonely and hunched as it had over the past five years. Instead, it radiated a sense of complete release—a calm and composure that came from having seen all the splendor and decline of the world.

A new day had truly begun.

.......

The morning mist had not yet fully dissipated.

Su Ming, dressed in an inconspicuous gray cloth coat, wearing a bamboo hat pulled down extremely low, slowly walked to an old house at the end of a secluded alley in the southwest corner of the capital.

The vermilion gate was peeling and mottled, the copper rings covered in green rust, and there was not even a plaque on the lintel. This was the residence of Liu Wenyuan, the Vice Director of the Imperial College. This great Confucian scholar, who had once had students and protégés scattered across both court and countryside, had been marginalized to this state after offending those in power.

Su Ming stood before the gate, quietly watching the few strands of weeds poking through the crack in the door. He took a deep breath of the cold morning air, then raised his hand, bent his index and middle fingers, and lightly knocked three times on the wooden door.

Thud, thud, thud.

After a long while, an extremely slow, dragging footstep came from inside, accompanied by a suppressed cough.

Creak—the heavy old wooden door cracked open a sliver.

The person opening the door was a stooped old servant. He wore a coarse cloth coat full of patches and held a half-worn broom in his hand. The old man’s eyes were extremely cloudy, his face covered in deep furrows, as if each wrinkle was filled with the years of hardship.

He squinted slightly, sizing up the stranger in the bamboo hat outside the door, and asked in a hoarse voice: "Our master has closed his doors to visitors for a long time and does not see outsiders."

Su Ming said nothing, slowly took off his bamboo hat, and revealed his clean yet steady face.

The old servant’s cloudy eyes lingered on Su Ming’s face for a moment, initially confused. But gradually, an incredible glimmer of light flashed through those hazy eyes, and his dry lips began to tremble uncontrollably.

The broom that had accompanied him for many years clattered onto the bluestone steps.

"Is… is it Young Master Su?"

The old servant’s voice was thick with disbelief. Five years ago, that young man who had been put in shackles and exiled to the bitter Northern Frontier—that figure growing distant in the wind and snow—now stood alive before him.

"It’s me, Uncle Fu. I hope all is well with you." Su Ming nodded slightly, his voice warm.

Uncle Fu hurriedly pulled the gate wide open, forgetting even to pick up the broom. As he wiped the tears welling up in his cloudy eyes, he stammered: "Good, good. It’s good to be alive. Please, come in. When the master hears this, he will surely be overjoyed…"

Following Uncle Fu into the Liu residence, the scene in the courtyard was even more desolate than outside the gate. The flowerbeds that should have been full of exotic plants and rare flowers now held only some withered yellow weeds. A few old trees shivered in the autumn wind, their fallen leaves covering most of the yard, clearly not having been fully swept in a long time.

Crossing the front yard, they arrived before the Warm Pavilion in the back hall.

Uncle Fu gently pushed open the door, and a thick smell of bitter medicine rushed at them.

The Warm Pavilion’s window was only cracked open a sliver, making the light dim. By the window, a white-haired old man sat in a wheelchair. His hair and beard were snow-white, his body as thin as skin and bones, with his left side limp and sagging—clearly the aftermath of a stroke.

But even though his physical body had decayed to this state, the old man’s eyes still held a sharpness that pierced through worldly affairs.

Hearing the door open, Liu Wenyuan turned his head with difficulty.

When he saw the gray figure stepping into the Warm Pavilion, those sharp eyes suddenly contracted. His right hand, already weak, gripped the wheelchair’s armrest so tightly that veins bulged on the back. His gaunt chest heaved violently, a hoarse rattle escaping his throat. He even tried to use his remaining strength to support himself as he stood up.

"Lord Liu!"

Su Ming quickly stepped forward, firmly pressing down on Liu Wenyuan’s trembling shoulder and easing him back into the wheelchair.

Then, Su Ming stepped back, lifted the hem of his robe, knelt on both knees, kept his back straight as an arrow, and with utmost solemnity, he bowed his head to the floor before this old man on the verge of death.

A dull thud echoed off the bluestone floor.

"I, Su Ming, your junior, bow in thanks for Lord Liu’s life-saving grace back then. Without your secret maneuvering at the time, I would already be nothing but bones."

Back then, without Liu Wenyuan secretly passing on information and pulling strings at the Ministry of Justice, Su Ming would never have made it to the Northern Frontier. The Yongchang Marquis’s men would have staged his death halfway. Su Ming had always remembered this debt of gratitude.

Liu Wenyuan’s lips trembled violently. He tried to calm his agitated emotions, but the moisture at the corners of his eyes was impossible to hide. He extended his only working hand, tremblingly making a faint gesture of assistance.