CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The Banquet of Masks
Three days had passed since the morning Mingzhu discovered the peach blossoms, and the estate had been transformed. It was no longer just a house; it was a fortress of silent, watchful eyes. Every servant, from the scullery maids to the gatekeepers, moved with a newfound, singular purpose. They were no longer mourning the loss of Douhua; they were honoring her memory by becoming the guardians of the Wei legacy.
Mingzhu and Zhanyuan moved through these three days with a cold, iron-clad confidence. They had spent their evenings in the private study, not by candlelight, but by the light of the truth Douhua had left behind. They now knew exactly when the uncle had moved funds, which court officials he had bribed, and exactly where his loyalties truly lay. But they remained careful. They played the part of the grieving, broken couple, letting the uncle believe they were still wandering in the fog of their own misery.
When the morning of the Imperial Banquet arrived, the air in the capital felt thick with anticipation. The Grand Banquet was a mandatory event for all noble families, a stage where power was measured by the richness of one's silk and the sharpness of one's smile. Wei Jingshan had spent weeks planning this, intent on using the event to cement his control over the Wei estate. He wanted the world to see the "broken" Marquis and his "distraught" wife, and he wanted them to see it at his side.
Zhanyuan and Mingzhu arrived at the Great Hall of the Imperial Palace just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The hall was a cavernous space, draped in gold and lit by thousands of flickering candles that cast long, dancing shadows against the stone walls. It was a place designed to make men feel small, but as the couple walked through the massive double doors, they felt nothing but a calm, predatory strength.
Behind them walked Feng Baozi. He carried a heavy ceremonial tray filled with golden wine vessels, his head bowed low. He looked like a man who had lost his very soul. His shoulders were slumped, his eyes were dull and glassy, and his movements were erratic, as if he were constantly fighting the urge to fall to his knees.
Wei Jingshan stood near the center of the room, surrounded by a circle of smiling, sycophantic court officials. When he saw them approach, his face lit up with a practiced, fatherly joy that never quite reached his eyes. He broke away from his circle and walked toward them, his hands open.
"Zhanyuan! Mingzhu!" Jingshan called out, his voice echoing with fake warmth. "It warms my heart to see you both. You look much better than three days ago. Perhaps the air of the city is finally beginning to heal you?"
Zhanyuan stood tall, his face a mask of cold, polite grief. "We are here because the Emperor demands it, Uncle," he said, his voice flat. "But our hearts are still heavy."
Jingshan's smile flickered, a momentary glitch in his perfect mask. He turned his attention to Baozi, who had stopped a few steps behind the couple. "And poor Baozi. I heard you have been struggling to keep your senses. You look exhausted, my boy. Come, serve the wine. Perhaps a drink will steady your nerves."
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Baozi stepped forward, his body trembling so violently that the golden cups on his tray rattled with a sharp, metallic sound. He looked like a man standing on the very edge of a cliff, his mind frayed and snapping. He took a staggering step toward Jingshan, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
"My... my condolences, Lord Jingshan," Baozi whispered, his voice cracking and thick with raw, ugly emotion.
Jingshan chuckled, a low, patronizing sound. He reached out to take a cup, his fingers brushing against Baozi's shaking hand. "It is a tragedy for us all," Jingshan murmured, his eyes scanning the room to ensure the court was watching his display of "charity" toward a grieving servant.
But as Jingshan lifted the cup, Baozi did something he wasn't supposed to do. He didn't retreat. He didn't lower his head. He lunged forward, grabbing Jingshan's sleeve with a grip that was shockingly strong, his eyes wide and leaking hot, angry tears. The mask of the "broken servant" was gone, replaced by the terrifying, jagged instability of a man who had lost everything and no longer cared if he died.
"I found the letter, Uncle!" Baozi shouted, his voice cracking against the ceiling of the hall. "She told me everything before she left! I know about the missing grain, I know about the bribes in the northern provinces, and I know exactly who paid the men to burn the archives!"
The Great Hall suddenly went silent. The music seemed to grind to a halt. Jingshan froze, the golden cup hovering inches from his mouth. For one terrifying heartbeat, his face turned the color of ash. His eyes went wide, and a look of primal, raw panic flashed across his features. He stared at Baozi, desperate to push the man away, but Baozi clung to him like a desperate, drowning man.
"You speak madness!" Jingshan hissed, his smile turning into a jagged, ugly grimace. "Your grief has rotted your mind! You are hallucinating!"
"Am I?" Baozi sobbed, his voice rising in a frantic, unhinged pitch. "Or are you just afraid that the dead are finally coming back to collect their debts?"
Zhanyuan and Mingzhu stood perfectly still, their expressions carefully composed. They didn't intervene. They didn't look shocked. They watched the scene unfold with the cold, detached precision of two people who were observing the final, frantic struggle of a trapped animal. They knew what was coming. They knew the servants were watching, that the peach blossom network was recording every word, and that the uncle's own arrogance had just forced him to show his true colors in front of the most powerful people in the empire.
Jingshan finally managed to shove Baozi away, sending the man stumbling back into the arms of a confused guard. Jingshan's chest was heaving, his hands were shaking, and the "kind uncle" persona was shattered beyond repair. He looked around, seeing the faces of high-ranking court officials who were no longer smiling, but staring at him with eyes full of suspicion and sudden, sharp interest.
"This man is clearly unwell," Jingshan stammered, his voice straining to regain its composure. "He has been through so much. I... I apologize to you all. I will see him sent back to the estate at once."
"He will stay here, Uncle," Zhanyuan said, his voice calm and resonant, cutting through the murmuring crowd. "If he is unwell, he should be heard by the royal physician. We wouldn't want any truth to be lost in his delirium, would we?"
Jingshan looked at his nephew, and for the first time, he saw the predator he had been trying to create. He saw a man who was not broken, but sharpened. He looked at Mingzhu and saw the same cold, steady brilliance that had dismantled his ledgers and mapped his secrets. He realized then that the "grieving" couple had been waiting for this exact moment. He realized that the servant's outburst wasn't a mistake — it was the signal.
As the guards moved in to separate them, Jingshan's eyes darted toward the exits, but the doors were already guarded by men who now took their orders from the Marquis, not the uncle. The banquet had become a cage. Jingshan had come to this hall to celebrate his final triumph, but as he looked around at the cold, judging faces of the nobility, he realized he was standing at the edge of his own grave. The storm had finally arrived, and there was nowhere left to hide.