Chapter 245: The Welcome Banquet (Part 2)

Ever since Le Wuya had been ambushed by those opium poppy growers in Xingtai, he had learned his lesson. Upon returning to his office, he crafted a wrist-mounted crossbow, its body wrapped in leather—lightweight and concealed, looking at first glance like an ordinary wrist guard or ornament.

From then on, whenever he went out, a bolt was always loaded in the crossbow's chamber, ready to fire at the press of a trigger.

The Liao people who had come to assassinate him had met their end on that very device.

Le Wuya knew that someone was still tailing him now, but it was no longer Qiu Sinian, the very man he had trained himself.

Qiu Sinian had the prison to manage, mountains of intelligence from all corners of the realm to compile into records, and the task of sifting truth from falsehood before presenting it to the throne—he was probably too busy to even grab a bite to eat.

The fact that Xiang Zheng could spare him to tail Le Wuya for a day or two was already a mark of special consideration.

The current tail was clearly far less skilled.

...At the very least, he couldn't get up on a roof.

Humming a tune, Le Wuya took Er Ya out for a stroll, leash in hand.

Just before leaving, he happened to spot Zhong Piaoping holding a small watering can, tending to a few pots of camellias in the hallway.

Le Wuya's eyes lit up: "Where'd you get this 'Endless Thought'?"

Seeing him approach, Zhong Piaoping stood up to answer: "After you left, Magistrate Sun Ru of Nanting sent it from Tongzhou—a new breed he cultivated, a gift for you to enjoy."

Sun Ru was a real people-person when it came to office politics.

Camellias bloom once a year, and he sent one every year—a reminder of his existence while quietly cozying up to a powerful patron. A win-win move.

Le Wuya tilted his head, sizing up the flowers, then suddenly reached out, snapped off the fullest bloom, and took off running.

Zhong Piaoping didn't even have time to yell. He stood there holding the watering can, staring blankly for a beat, then went back to his usual deadpan, moved the now-bald-stemmed pot aside, and continued watering the other flowers.

Before long, Yang Zheng walked by with a bag of the roasted melon seeds Le Wuya loved. He glanced over and did a double take: "Where'd one of the plants go?"

Ever since his family's tragedy, Zhong Piaoping had learned to keep his mouth shut.

His way of "keeping a tight lip" was to spout utter nonsense with a perfectly straight face: "A bird pecked it away."

This "Endless Thought" was now nearly impossible to get your hands on. The reason they'd hauled these delicate pots all the way from Tongzhou to the capital was so the lord could use them as gifts—classy and presentable.

Yang Zheng was still mourning the loss when he blinked in confusion: "A bird?"

Zhong Piaoping pointed vaguely at the sky: "Didn't get a clear look—seemed to be a crow."

Crows were indeed everywhere in the capital, and Zhong Piaoping was so unusually calm that Yang Zheng didn't suspect a thing. He could only sigh: "The capital really lives up to its name—even the crows are meaner here than anywhere else."

...

The Sixth Prince was known for his frugality. His residence had few servants, with wide courtyards and sparse crowds, and as dusk fell, it felt even more desolate.

Jiang He was sitting on the porch polishing his sword when he suddenly heard an odd rustle in the wind.

He put a hand on his sword and got up at once to check it out.

In the middle of the courtyard lay a crossbow bolt with the tip removed.

Tied to the shaft was a crimson camellia, its petals still wet with dew.

Jiang He picked it up out of curiosity, studied it for a moment, then stared at the far wall, lost in thought.

In this half-light, half-shadow gloom—exactly the "prime window for a kill" the young general had taught him about.

Unless you had eyesight that one in ten thousand could boast, you'd barely even see someone draw a bow in this light.

And a bolt without its tip—he'd fired one just recently himself.

So Jiang He looked down and carefully inspected the shaft.

And that's when he found something interesting.

The shaft was hollow—perfect for hiding a message inside.

In the Wuwu Hall, Zhi Jie had grown tired of reading Ministry of Revenue documents and wanted to open the window for some air. He spotted Jiang He standing alone in the middle of the courtyard, back to him, doing something or other.

Zhi Jie asked softly: "Guard Jiang, what are you looking at?"

Jiang He looked up, his tone firm: "Looking at the flower and letter Lord Wenren sent to the Sixth Prince."

Zhi Jie: "..."

In one fluid motion, he vaulted straight out the window.

Jiang He didn't think much of it, just noting: nice moves.

But when Zhi Jie unfolded the letter and read it, the warmth on his face slowly turned to a grim look.

After a long, silent pause, he said to Jiang He: "Guard Jiang, I need a favor."

...

Two days later, Le Wuya showed up at the banquet on time, bringing a pot of "Endless Thought" as a hostess gift.

The Right Censor-in-Chief was away inspecting the salt routes, so Le Wuya was the guest of honor. Seated with him were Right Assistant Censor-in-Chief Xu Yingrui, two surveillance commissioners from Yuzhou Circuit, and a recorder from the Records Office.

It was indeed a small banquet, and the mood was quite pleasant.

None of them were new to officialdom; their skills at empty pleasantries were already honed to perfection, and they could easily fake a scene of mutual delight.

It was only when they heard Le Wuya introduce the camellia's name that they couldn't quite hide the complicated looks on their faces.

Le Wuya pretended not to notice, cheerfully explaining the flower's origin: "This bloom was grown by County Princess Qi."

The censors laughed it off, suddenly getting it.

That made sense.

...Wait, how did County Princess Qi know this guy?

To that, Le Wuya explained: "County Princess Qi said I look a lot like an old friend of hers."

Everything Le Wuya said was true, and there was no need to hide it—anyone who cared could verify it with a quick check. Being cagey would only raise suspicion.

Seeing how relaxed he was and how he answered every question, the censors found him honest and straightforward—nothing like the scheming, calculating figure they'd imagined. His eyes smiled as he spoke, and his manner had a refreshing, lively youthfulness.

At least for now, this man only looked like Le Wuya—his temperament was a whole different story.

Gradually letting their guard down, the censors grew more jovial in their conversation.

Small dishes and wine kept arriving at the table one after another.

At the sight of the wine, Le Wuya's brow furrowed slightly, as if he was troubled, and he turned to look at Wang Su: "Sir, would you allow me to swap the wine for tea?"

Even at home, Wang Su was decked out in full formal regalia, looking every bit the stern official.

Even when he drank, he kept up that stiff, proper posture.

At that, he asked, "Why's that?"

Le Wuya replied frankly: "I've got a terrible tolerance for alcohol. If I got drunk and made a scene, how could I show my face to my colleagues tomorrow?"

His quip drew a round of good-natured chuckles from the room.

Wang Su mulled it over.

Le Wuya was renowned in the capital for his drinking prowess.

Per intel from Jiangnan, Nanting, and Tongzhou, this Wen Ren fellow had a rock-bottom tolerance and never touched a drop.

Wang Su fancied himself a sharp judge of character and had personally seen Le Wuya drink seven or eight officials right under the table, and he knew that being truly drunk was nearly impossible to fake.

This guy even had a mole on his lip that looked just like Le Wuya's—if he were really some ghost possessing a body, wouldn't he carry over some of his old habits?

If this guy was using the booze to fake being drunk, with all these eyes on him, he was bound to slip up.

And even if he was telling the truth about his low tolerance, then a drunk tongue spilling secrets would be even better.

"A touring censor should keep his dignity, but why be so stiff at a private dinner?" Wang Su said calmly. "One cup is fine."

Since the boss had spoken, everyone else naturally chimed in with agreement.

Le Wuya pursed his lips and raised his cup. "Well then, colleagues, don't laugh at my lousy drinking."

He downed the cup, smiled as he scanned the room, and then—thud—slid right under the table.

The censors were all: "..." His tolerance is seriously that bad?!

They all exchanged awkward looks, and Right Assistant Censor-in-Chief Xu Yingrui, stifling a laugh, went to haul him up: "Shou Yue's a real straight shooter. I figured he was just being modest, but he actually... actually..."

A drunk body is dead weight. Xu Yingrui, with his scrawny scholar's build, gritted his teeth and wrestled him back into his seat, not daring to let go halfway.

Once Le Wuya was settled, Xu Yingrui was drenched in a light sweat. As he fanned himself with his sleeve, he noticed Le Wuya's breathing was rapid, his face was flushed, and something was off about his neck.

He reached out to undo his collar for a closer look and nearly jumped out of his skin:

Le Wuya's neck and chest had broken out in huge red welts at some point!

The censors: "..."

Good heavens.

They'd just come for a dinner party—who'd have thought they'd stumble into a mess like this?

Surveillance Commissioner Wenren was young and full of promise—please, don't kick the bucket here!

In the end, it was Wang Su, with his worldly experience and a bit of medical know-how, who figured this was probably a bad reaction between the food and the wine, bringing on a case of hives. Realizing it was probably his own pushing that had caused this, he felt a twinge of guilt. He quickly sent a servant to fetch Le Wuya's aide and told the censors to spread out instead of crowding around, so he wouldn't get smothered.

Everyone felt awkward too, so they went to get water, admire the flowers, or find other things to keep busy.

Once the censors had obediently scattered, Wang Su looked down at Le Wuya, whose brow was furrowed and face was flushed, and asked in a low voice, "Who are you?"

His gaze was sharp, tracking every tiny twitch on Le Wuya's face, dead set on catching some tell.

"I'm..." Le Wuya slurred, half-asleep, "I..."

Wang Su leaned in, listening hard.

Le Wuya fought to focus his bleary eyes on Wang Su's face, then broke into a grin and crooked a finger at him.

Wang Su leaned in.

Le Wuya, with a sly look, whispered in his ear, "I'm your daddy."

Wang Su: "..."

He magnanimously let the cheeky remark slide and went on in a coaxing tone, "Are you Le Wuya?"

"Can't even remember your old man's name." Le Wuya, half teasing, half scolding, patted his head. "Unfilial son!"

A vein in Wang Su's forehead twitched twice.

But this guy had already said that when he got drunk, he tended to act out of line.

And he'd said himself that "no need for formalities at a private dinner," so it wouldn't look right to argue with a drunk now. He had no choice but to choke down his anger.

His face like stone, he asked quietly, "How did you end up in this body?"

That question was a knife.

Le Wuya stared back at him, all innocence, his lashes like crow feathers drooping low. He thought it over obediently for a moment, then said, "...I don't know either. Someone called me back. I didn't really want to come, but someone was missing me something fierce—like you, sir—"

Wang Su's heavy brows knitted together.

...He couldn't make heads or tails of it.

Because the man before him, Wen Ren Yue, was jabbering away in the Jing tribe tongue at lightning speed.

Wen Ren Yue was Jing tribe by birth, so slipping into the Jing language after a drink made perfect sense.

But not being able to catch a single word of it was maddening.

Le Wuya was a loose cannon when drunk, but that didn't mean he turned into a total idiot.

Around people he trusted, he'd whine, throw fits, and trust them completely, doing whatever he felt like.

So why didn't he sweet-talk and cozy up to Master Chen, who'd shown up with a fat bribe?

Le Wuya, staring at that clueless old coot, let it all out to his heart's content.

But looking at such an old face was truly off-putting.

Le Wuya suddenly reached out, yanked off his cap, and vomited into it.

...Leaving Wang Su stiff and livid.

Wang Su was getting on in years. His hair, never thick even in youth, had grown sparser with age, so he wore a cap at home, fitted with a carefully woven hairpiece inside.

Le Wuya lifted it with one hand, and his bald head was suddenly exposed for all to see.

A few strands of remaining hair fluttered in the wind atop his head—a truly pitiful sight.

His colleagues were all: “…”

There was really nothing left to say.

Surveillance Commissioner Wenren was indeed a man of his word—when he said he would make a spectacle of himself, he truly meant it.

Only, the spectacle came entirely at Lord Wang’s expense.

Hua Rong, who had been feeding the horses in the back courtyard, was shocked to hear that Le Wuya had broken out in hives. He hurried over, only to find the banquet had descended into utter chaos.

Xu Yingrui was fighting to hold back his laughter, his jaw sore from biting his cheeks. When he saw Le Wuya’s personal attendant arrive, he quickly waved him over: “Come check on your master—is he okay?”

Hua Rong supported the limp Le Wuya, skillfully getting him to drink hot water while offering sincere apologies: “Sorry to ruin Your Lordships’ fun. My master really can’t hold his drink…”

The master, of course, was perfectly fine.

It was just that he couldn’t drink goat’s milk—it always broke him out in hives. So before sitting down, he’d downed an entire cup of it.

After this stunt, no official in the capital would dare test Le Wuya with alcohol again.

What if the man dropped dead? Who’d be held responsible?

Wang Su had originally planned to keep him at his residence, summon a physician, and use the opportunity to dig deeper.

But having just been publicly humiliated, Wang Su was thrown into disarray. Forcing Le Wuya to stay would only look suspicious, so he put on a generous front and said: “Take your master home. It was my mistake—I’ve put Surveillance Commissioner Wenren in an awkward position. I’ll grant him two days’ leave. Tell your master what I said earlier: no formalities are needed at private banquets. We’re all colleagues here—he needn’t worry about it.”

Le Wuya, of course, wasn’t worried about it.

It wasn’t *his* wig that had been ripped off in public.

Wang Su, naturally, had no idea what was going through Le Wuya’s mind. He called out: “Bo Xin, lend a hand. Escort Surveillance Commissioner Wenren home safely, then report back to me.”

Bo Xin was one of Wang Su’s most trusted aides—highly capable. Upon receiving the order, he and Hua Rong each took an arm, supporting Le Wuya as they walked out. They helped him into the carriage, then spurred their horses and rushed toward the Wenren family’s new residence.

However, halfway there, Le Wuya’s breathing inside the carriage grew increasingly labored.

Hua Rong looked deeply worried: “Brother Bo, my master seems to be in great discomfort. He can’t tolerate the jostling of the carriage right now. Why don’t we find a nearby inn and settle him there first? I’ll ask you to watch over him while I go fetch a physician. What do you think?”

The request was entirely reasonable, so Bo Xin agreed without hesitation.

The carriage slowly came to a stop beneath the sign reading “Yuelai Inn.”

Hua Rong hurried off, and Bo Xin stayed behind to look after Le Wuya.

Sure enough, Hua Rong soon returned—with a physician carrying a medicine box on his back.

The physician was a young man dressed in simple blue robes; the four characters “Xuan Hu Ji Shi” (Healing the World) on his box were written in neat, precise strokes.

“Thank you so much for your help, Brother Bo,” Hua Rong said, gripping Bo Xin’s hands outside the door and thanking him profusely—his voice pitched just loud enough to carry into the room: “The doctor says my master shouldn’t be moved. He’ll stay here tonight.”

Hearing that Surveillance Commissioner Wenren would be staying the night, Bo Xin knew he couldn’t remain. So he exchanged a few polite pleasantries.

While the two exchanged empty courtesies just outside the door, Xiang Zhijie—in his physician’s disguise—scanned the room—and found the bed completely empty.

Suddenly, a pair of soft, warm arms wrapped around his waist from behind.

He glanced down.

And Le Wuya’s voice came from behind him: “Ha—got you!”

Xiang Zhijie laid his fingers on Le Wuya’s warm hand, stroking it twice with extraordinary gentleness, dropping his voice to the faintest whisper—as if afraid of startling him: “Didn’t Your Lordship call me… to rescue you from the Left Censor-in-Chief’s residence?”

“I fooled you.”

Le Wuya’s eyes sparkled brilliantly, as though starlight had fallen into them, his breath carrying a faint trace of wine.

“Since arriving in the capital, this humble official hasn’t had a proper chance to see His Highness the Sixth Prince. I’ve truly missed you.”

Le Wuya tilted his head and murmured softly: “…Your Highness—won’t you at least save me?”