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Chapter 40 - Chapter 40 · Crisis Returns

New Year's Eve at last.

On the thirtieth night of the twelfth month, firecrackers rippled across Muyun Town, the curfew lifted; children, lanterns in hand, poured into the streets under their elders' watch.

In Willow Alley's little courtyard, a few lanterns hung from the doors. Couplets and "Fortune" charms were pasted on both the main house and Qingshui's room. The main house bore crisp, powerful strokes in a stately hand. Qingshui's door… was another story: slanted, hairy lines, broken tips— even the big "Fu" in the center looked more like "pig." On closer look, a broad smear of soup stained the red paper.

Three figures were at the gate hanging a lantern. Teetering on a stool, Qingshui stretched up on tiptoe.

"Hey—hey—don't wobble! It'll fall!"

She managed to hook the lantern and hopped down. Bihua was pasting couplets; Layne was "helping" by getting in his own way with a chair.

"You trying to kill me?!" Qingshui swatted Layne on the head; he yelped and swatted back—until Bihua came over and tapped both of them.

"Enough. Go see if the dumplings are done."

Grumbling and tripping each other, the two shuffled into the house.

Bihua looked over the lanterns and the freshly pasted couplets:

"Broth rich as fire drives back the snow;

Year after year, we guard this door together."

Qingshui had written them—preening for praise afterward. Layne had jeered that even couplets made her think of food. But Bihua knew where the weight was: the last line, "year after year, we guard this door together."

She's started to think of this as home… Bihua smiled, lifted the chair, and swung the courtyard gate shut.

The New Year's table wasn't lavish, but it brimmed: neat slices of soy-braised beef on a blue-rim plate, a tureen of white-soup dumplings steaming hot. Stir-fried greens slick with oil, a red-braised fish, roasted pig's trotters. Even the Youzhen specialties the lads had brought were set out. Abundance enough to fill a table.

Layne cradled a bowl, cheeks puffed like a stuffed apple, humming to show he could eat three dumplings in a bite. Bihua thumped his back to help him swallow—then heard another muffled "mmph" beside her.

Qingshui had crammed in even more and was rolling her eyes.

Exasperated and amused, Bihua grabbed chopsticks and fished dumplings out of Qingshui's mouth.

"You're a grown woman, still competing with Layne? Pig-brained? Want to choke yourself stupid?"

"Hah…" Qingshui wiped her mouth, gulped air. "That look on your son's face—like I'd lose if I didn't stuff in a few more. How could I not?"

Bihua bit into a dumpling, chewing slowly, eyes bright. They'd all made them together: skins rolled by Qingshui, dough kneaded by Layne, Bihua wrapping and boiling.

By then, Qingshui was gnawing a trotter, the other hand fencing with Layne over red-braised pork, still finding breath to quip:

"Don't you start crying. I'm not like your hometown folk who comfort you—I'll laugh."

"Shut it," Bihua said, smiling despite herself.

Qingshui sniffed, said nothing, and reached her chopsticks into Layne's bowl. "Hand over that big one. Let me try."

"Hey—don't steal mine!"

"Give. Or I'll smack you."

"Mom! Look at her!"

"There's plenty. No fighting."

Outside, wind rushed the eaves; lanterns swayed. Inside was warm enough to sweat, the heat pushing winter back out the door.

Chewing, Qingshui glanced at the window and grumbled, "What a disaster of calligraphy—and you have to paste it on my door. I die laughing every time I walk in."

Layne, a strand of greens hanging from his mouth, oil dripping: "You wouldn't let me write! And you spilled soup on the paper. Don't you dare tear it down—or I'll never share snacks again!"

"It looks good," Bihua laughed behind her hand. "At a glance, you know it's your room."

Qingshui huffed, raised her bowl to hide her face.

That same night, the Crown Capital blazed with red lanterns. From palace gates to the imperial way, lights strung in lines made red walls and yellow tiles glow as if slick with blood.

After the second beat of drum and gong, a few fireworks bloomed and died, crackling into darkness. Unlike the festive din of the capital outside, the palace's bright halls were airless, a grand and lifeless tomb.

In the cabinet's warm chamber, the brazier roared, charcoal in the bronze belly burning like molten gold.

A man sat behind the desk, ramrod straight yet bowed over the papers—like a black nail driven through the room.

He wore a robe embroidered with strange beasts, hair bound high and grey: the Grand Chancellor, one of two who stood just below the throne.

He had neither drunk nor changed into festival robes, still in what he'd worn for morning court. Wide sleeves looped around his forearms; fingers pressed the desktop pale.

An array of letters and dossiers lay open; by firelight, their words and stacked shadows coiled like vipers. Off to the side sat one sealed letter by itself, black wax stamped with the sigil of the Water Ward.

He stood in the quiet, as if listening to music drifting from the palace feasts—banquets hosted by the man on the throne. He had not gone. When he finally spoke, it was a low murmur, like talking to himself:

"Qiyuan has already been to Muyun Town. Why am I only hearing this now?"

A faint sound came from the corner—there was a second person in the room.

That person bowed but did not answer.

The Chancellor lifted his head, gaze cold.

"He has been running the Hanhai circuit near a year, hounding those of the Earth Ward—yet he still traced his way to Muyun?"

"…Yes."

The Chancellor raised a knuckle and tapped the desk. The blunt thud dulled the wood.

"Mu Wanhua."

The name fell, and the temperature seemed to drop.

"Qiyuan went through the Muyun yamen. With his wits and the scraps he's gleaned, he must have deduced that the woman registered as 'Bihua' is Mu Wanhua."

"But he didn't meet her or reveal anything. Maybe he was busy cleaning up the plague your people made. Or maybe he saw your plant at her side, and judged it unwise to appear."

The figure remained bowed, voice hard and cold. "Understood."

"Understand, my ass. They must not meet."

His eyes dropped to the sealed letter. He rubbed the wax's edge with his thumb until friction rasped.

"Half a year."

Soft words, shaped like indictment.

"Half a year since Qiyuan passed through Muyun—and none of you reported it. Can I not even control the blades in my own hands? Do you not know what their meeting would unleash?"

He never looked at the man—only at the shadow of himself in the black wax.

"Fortunately, the Earth Ward and the Cersei hags keep tugging Qiyuan across Hanhai's breadth. He has no hand free to see Mu Wanhua."

"Settle it. Use the one you embedded at her side—Water 'Li'."

The bow deepened. "As you command."

At last the Chancellor pushed the letter across, like offering a cup of poison.

"And the child. Send this tonight."

He let out a long breath, as if emptying the last warmth from his lungs.

"Root and branch—cut clean. Then even Qiyuan cannot turn the heavens back."

The other did not rise. Head still bowed, voice drained of all feeling: "Yes."

Outside, wind shook the trees; lanterns pulsed, red going dim and bright. Far-off firecrackers sputtered, thin and scattered, smoke drifting like blood in the night.

On the desk, the letter looked black and hard under the candleflame; the cold sheen of the seal was a blade. Death, bound for a hand a thousand li away, was about to be delivered.

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