I threaded my way through the grounds like a darting shadow—light as a startled swan, busy as a dragon in full flight. Over here I got smacked on the head by a flagpole; over there a bucket of medicinal brew smoked me into a fit of sneezing. I finally made it down to the steps, only to nearly get plowed over by a crate being hauled past.
And yet I still had questions. I asked everyone I ran into.
“Lian,” I said first, flashing a polite smile as I hurried up beside him. “With the Western Altar being reorganized, what’s the one thing people really need to watch out for? You know—so I can keep it in mind.”
He didn’t even look at me. “People’s hearts,” he said flatly.
I blinked. “Huh?”
He cast a sideways glance down the steps. “Tools can be replaced. Storehouses can be sealed. But once people’s hearts scatter, reorganization is nothing but empty talk.”
With that, he flicked his sleeve and headed under the corridor, leaving me behind.
I shrank my neck sheepishly and slid along the wall to Hua’s table, putting on my best ingratiating grin. “Brother Hua, about this reorganization—there must be some key points, right? Maybe three or five handy rules? Something I can memorize?”
Hua pushed a thick stack of ledgers toward me and said unhurriedly, “Rules? Sure. First: where the silver goes, the hearts follow. Second: keep your mouth shut, and you live longer. Third: lines must stay flexible, routes must stay clear.”
He saw the blank look on my face and chuckled. “If you don’t get it, no matter. Copy these seventeen volumes twice. You’ll understand everything.”
Se–seventeen?
Clutching the ledgers, my knees nearly gave out. I fled like a man escaping for his life, bolting toward the storehouse and shouting at Shangguan Fengliu, “Brother Shangguan—Altar Master—about reorganizing the Western Altar, what do you think—”
“Watch where you’re walking first.”
He didn’t even look up. He was stuffing a wisp of straw into the seam of a burlap sack. Only then did he glance back at me, grinning broadly.
“Seriously though—supplies matter. Medicine matters. Fire prevention and poison control matter even more. People can riot all they want, but as long as there’s porridge on the stove, medicine for the wounded, and blades in hand, their hearts won’t scatter. Got it?”
I nodded like a bobblehead, though the only thought in my head was: Got what, exactly?
Left with no choice, I went to find the deputy envoy.
He was lifting a bowstring and plucking it lightly with his fingertip—the sound rang clear as silver taels falling onto a jade plate. When he saw me, he pointed to the weapon rack. “Everything needs oiling.”
Then he pointed at the courtyard gate. “Set two more trip-lines at night.”
Then he pointed at me. “Don’t lose the ledgers.”
Me: “……”
I spun in place three times, hugging the ledgers, my clothes dusted with rice chaff, mugwort, and ash. My heart felt hollow.
The “things to watch out for” I’d been asking about were supposed to be secrets—hidden vaults, forbidden chambers, ancestral little black rooms—anything that might lead me by the nose to this so-called secret item. Instead, the four of them gave me “people’s hearts,” “silver,” “porridge,” and “oil.”
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
A full stew of answers—and not a single whiff of “secret item” anywhere.
I quietly tried to tuck the ledgers back under Hua’s table leg. Without even looking, he nudged them straight back into my arms. His fan snapped shut softly.
“Little Gong, reorganization hates haste. If you really want to help, copy these seventeen volumes first. When you’re done, I’ll teach you the fourth rule. How about that?”
My vision went black. I nearly fainted on the spot. Copy all seventeen? That would turn this ‘soaring dragon’ into a dead worm.
Just then, Lian finished issuing orders and swept me with a glance. That look was like a fine silver needle, running straight down my spine to my heels. I snapped upright at once.
“I—I’ll go… copy them.”
From afar, Shangguan Fengliu laughed so hard his shoulders shook. “If copying feels miserable, come lift altar jars in the storehouse. Ten trips, and you’ll think copying books is pure bliss.”
The deputy envoy set his sharpened blade gently back on the rack and added dryly, “Writing makes you warm. Lifting jars makes you pant. Warm and panting—you won’t fall asleep.”
Clutching the ledgers, my steps felt like I was walking on cotton. Inside, I grumbled nonstop: every one of you is capable and lofty—and my miserable little life is scheduled down to the last breath.
And the thing I actually wanted to know—where the secret item was, how it worked, which hidden passage led to it—I hadn’t learned a thing.
I dropped my forehead onto the ledger with a dull thump, making the desk shudder slightly. The steward nearby thought I’d passed out from exhaustion and nearly jumped out of his skin.
I let out a long sigh. “That’s it. My ‘startled swan, roaming dragon’ routine is dying on paper today.”
But that dull thump felt like a reminder.
—What if the clue to the “secret item” was hidden right here, in these dense ledgers?
My heart jolted. I straightened at once, rolled up my sleeves, grabbed the brush, ground ink with water, and started copying in earnest.
Then, suddenly, my gaze froze. My head buzzed like it had been struck by thunder.
“Monthly Crimson.”
The two characters seemed to leap straight off the page and into my eyes.
My heart went cold by half. Wasn’t that the poison the Eighth Prince had used on my brother and me?
The name sounded elegant, almost poetic—but the poison itself was vicious. Just yesterday my brother said he’d visit apothecaries to investigate Monthly Crimson. I’d assumed it was some secret medicinal compound.
And yet here it was—in the Western Altar’s account books.
Holding my breath, I read on. The ledger recorded it plainly:
“Inbound this month: Monthly Crimson, thirty qian (Unit of Weight).
Outbound: sixteen qian (Unit of Weight).”
The handwriting was neat and calm, as casual as listing rice or salt. To me, it rolled through my chest like a thunderclap.
“Good heavens… don’t tell me this poison is being traded openly?”
Fear prickled my scalp as I clutched the ledger and hurried outside.
The Western Altar bustled with people. I weaved my way into the main hall and found Hua flicking an abacus. Without a word, I slapped the ledger open in front of him.
“Brother Hua—look, look! This Monthly Crimson—what on earth is it?”
Hua looked up, one eyebrow lifting. His fingers paused on the abacus.
“…Why are you asking about it?”
Under the chill of his gaze, my chest went tight. I laughed awkwardly, scratching at the tabletop with my fingers.
“Well, you see… I was just browsing. Pure curiosity! You know me—learned, wide-ranging interests. Medicine, flowers, that sort of thing. The name ‘Monthly Crimson’ sounded elegant, so I couldn’t help myself and—well—ask.”
Even I thought it sounded flimsy.
Hua studied me for a moment. Then the corner of his mouth curved. The abacus rattled crisply as he said lightly,
“What—are you thinking of using it on our sect leader… or rather, ‘your partner’?”
I nearly bit my tongue clean through. I waved my hands frantically. “Hey—no, no, no! I’m naturally kindhearted and morally upright—how could I do something so rotten? I was just—just—”
Before I could finish, a cold snort sounded behind me.
My back stiffened. Slowly, I turned.
Lian stood in the doorway, eyes and brows steeped in frost.
He walked in at an unhurried pace, but every word was bitten off sharply.
“Call me that again,” he said evenly, “and I’ll tear your mouth apart.”
The air froze solid. My mind blanked, and I almost shouted on reflex, “Yes, my—”
Halfway through, I swallowed hard and corrected myself.
“…Yes, Sect Leader!”
Lian’s gaze swept over me coolly. He didn’t seem particularly pleased even with “Sect Leader.” And yet, the tips of his ears had turned faintly red—an unmistakably stubborn, tsundere refusal to acknowledge anything at all.
