The Prime Minister’s residence sat in the heart of the capital like a fortress carved from silence. Stone lions guarded the gates, and its high walls held back not only the outside world—but also the secrets and grudges of those who lived within.
It was near midnight when Jin Zhenyu returned.
No servants greeted him. No lanterns were lit in his name. He passed through the side entrance, his boots echoing faintly on the cold marble floor. It had always been like this—quiet, shadowed, and watchful.
He reached the outer study, only to find Jin Yuanzhao already waiting there, a cup of warm wine in hand, posture relaxed—too relaxed.
“So,” Yuanzhao said, not bothering to look up, “our little bastard returns home, cloaked in silence as always.”
Zhenyu said nothing, removing his sword and placing it on the low table between them.
Yuanzhao's eyes flicked to it, then back to his brother.
“You’ve made quite an impression tonight,” he continued. “Even managed to get Lady Xu to speak for you. A rare thing, for someone with no title, no future, and no legitimate blood.”
Zhenyu looked at him steadily. “You embarrassed yourself. That had nothing to do with me.”
“Oh, don’t be modest,” Yuanzhao sneered. “The court sees what it wants. A pretty face. A war hero. The mysterious son no one can touch. You act as if you don’t want power, yet you steal it every time you breathe.”
Zhenyu’s voice was low. “You’re jealous.”
Yuanzhao slammed his cup down.
“Don’t confuse contempt with jealousy, Zhenyu. You were born from a maid who died nameless, and yet you walk around as if the blood in your veins matches mine. Father gave you a place here out of guilt. Nothing more.”
Zhenyu leaned forward slowly.
“If that’s true,” he said, “then why do you fear me?”
The words settled like snow—silent, but cold to the bone.
Yuanzhao’s jaw clenched. “You think one clever girl’s pity will make you a prince? You’re still nothing. And if you dare speak to her again—”
“I’ll speak to whomever I wish,” Zhenyu interrupted, his voice like drawn steel.
There was no emotion in it. No rage. That was what unsettled Yuanzhao the most.
“She saw you,” Yuanzhao hissed. “But she doesn’t know you. She doesn’t know the stench of the border camps, the mud you crawled through, or the weight of being unclaimed. And when she finds out, she’ll do what all nobles do—look away.”
Zhenyu didn’t flinch. “Then let her. I don’t need her to stay. But I won’t let you shame her for having the spine to speak.”
For a moment, the two brothers stared at each other—one with fury boiling beneath silk robes, the other calm, unreadable, immovable.
Then came the slow clap of footsteps.
From the inner hall, Prime Minister Jin appeared—draped in black and silver, his expression a mask of frost. He had heard everything.
“Enough,” the Prime Minister said.
Both sons bowed immediately. Yuanzhao stiffly. Zhenyu without emotion.
The old man looked from one to the other. “My walls are thin, but my patience is thinner.”
He turned to Yuanzhao first. “You bring shame to this house by drawing your sword with words at an imperial banquet. Your tongue is sharper than your judgment.”
Yuanzhao’s jaw twitched, but he said nothing.
Then the Prime Minister turned to Zhenyu. “And you…”
A pause. Heavy.
“…stir ripples in still water.”
Zhenyu met his gaze, silent.
“You do not belong to the court,” the Prime Minister continued. “You do not carry the family seal, and yet you draw attention. From the wrong people.”
“Lady Xu is not the wrong people,” Zhenyu said quietly.
“No woman who speaks against her betters in public is ever the right kind,” the Prime Minister snapped. “She is trouble if....”
“Then perhaps,” Zhenyu said, “I am trouble too.”
A long silence.
Finally, the Prime Minister stepped closer to Zhenyu, lowering his voice.
“You are a shadow in my household, Zhenyu. A sword without a sheath. I’ve allowed you to remain because you keep to your place. But if you step beyond it again… if you drag my family into scandal…”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
He didn’t need to.
The threat hung in the air like incense—sweet, poisonous, lingering.
Zhenyu bowed wordlessly, then turned and left the room.
Behind him, his brother and father stood in a house made of stone and silence—where blood mattered more than truth, and names carved your fate.
But as he stepped into the night air, the scent of plum blossoms drifted faintly from the courtyard trees, and one thought anchored itself in his mind:
She had spoken for him.
In front of everyone.
And now, whether she meant to or not, Xu Qingyan was now part of his story.
---
End of Chapter Four
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