Lin Jianxi gently raised her hand.
It was an extremely simple gesture, her fingertips barely lifting, as light as brushing away a fallen blossom from the page of a book.
Yet with that understated motion, the intent to kill that had stretched tight within the pavilion vanished in an instant.
From atop the pavilion came two faint rustles of wind through robes as the saber-wielding and sword-wielding assassins silently retreated into the depths of the maple forest, as though they had never been there at all.
The thread-wielding assassin standing in front of Lin Jianxi closed his fingers, and those hair-thin strands flashed one last time in the dusk before disappearing into his sleeves.
He bowed slightly to Chen Zui and stepped outside the pavilion, leaning against a stone pillar while maintaining a measured distance.
From deadly intention to utter calm, it took only the blink of an eye.
Witnessing this scene with his own eyes, Chen Zui felt a subtle pang of surprise.
Lin Jianxi reached out, lifted the teapot from the red-clay stove, and filled the empty cup before Chen Zui.
The tea was an amber hue, steam curling gently upward as the fragrance filled the pavilion.
She topped off her own cup, then set the pot back onto the stove with unhurried grace.
“Please do not mind them, Young Hero Chen.”
She lifted her teacup.
“My subordinates were simply overprotective and lack proper decorum.
I came south this time merely passing through Furnace-Listening Pavilion.
Hearing that you were a guest here, Young Hero Chen, I waited at the foot of the mountain for two extra days.”
She gently blew the foam from the surface of her tea and looked up at Chen Zui, a faint smile gracing her lips.
“I am not foolish enough to act recklessly under Immortal Qi’s very nose.”
Chen Zui did not touch the cup of tea.
He looked at Lin Jianxi, remained silent for a breath, and then slowly spoke.
“I certainly didn't expect that the Ghost Gate Chamber, known as the world's premier assassin organization, would actually be answering to a female scholar.”
At his words, Lin Jianxi’s hand holding the teacup paused slightly before she gently shook her head.
“You misunderstand, Young Hero Chen. Ghost Gate Chamber is not mine.”
She placed her teacup back on the stone table, the bottom making a soft, crisp clink against the surface.
“Ghost Gate Chamber was originally established by Song Jinhe, the Grand Chancellor of the current dynasty.”
Chen Zui’s brow twitched slightly.
Song Jinhe.
He had heard this name before.
The Prime Minister of Grand Zhao, Grand Chancellor of the realm, and head of all civil officials.
“Song Jinhe’s original intention in founding Ghost Gate Chamber was to create a convenient tool to handle unsavory, hidden dealings on his behalf,” Lin Jianxi added, her voice calm as still water.
“Now that a new sovereign has ascended the throne, although Song Jinhe remains Grand Chancellor, Her Majesty does not trust him.
Before long, I expect I will be replacing him in that position.”
She set down her cup and looked at Chen Zui with an open, clear gaze.
“Though Ghost Gate Chamber is a blade hidden in the shadows, its edge is sharp nonetheless.
Disbanding it now would be a waste.
These people are highly capable. To use such talent merely to kill for silver is a squandering of potential.
It is far better to put them to work for the imperial court, making full use of their skills.
There are matters the imperial court cannot openly touch, and matters the martial world refuses to get involved in.
Yet someone must do them.”
Chen Zui listened to her words, remaining silent for a long moment.
Outside the pavilion, the mountain stream bubbled softly, and a flock of roosting birds fluttered up from the maple forest, disappearing into the western sky dyed orange by the setting sun.
“I remember when we first met.”
Chen Zui finally picked up the now-lukewarm tea, turning the cup between his fingers.
“You were merely an ordinary teacher.”
He took a sip of tea and looked up at Lin Jianxi.
“In less than a year, you went from a common scholar to a position second only to one and above tens of thousands.
For such capability, I truly admire you.”
Hearing this, the smile on Lin Jianxi’s lips deepened.
She reached out, picked up the open book on the stone table, and gently closed it.
It was a copy of 《Comprehensive Records of Grand Zhao》, its pages yellowed and edges slightly curled, clearly having been read many times over.
“Why be so modest, Young Hero Chen?”
She set the book beside her hand and looked at Chen Zui, her gaze carrying a hint of scrutiny, but also genuine admiration.
“When we met at the border, you were only a minor warrior of the First Rank.
Now, in less than a year, you comprehended the Dao from the duel between two Earthly Sword Immortals, broke through two realms in succession, and became a world-renowned Wind-Riding Realm Grandmaster.
My rise from a common scholar to Grand Chancellor was at least supported by my late master's strategies and old acquaintances in the court.
You, however, started empty-handed, carving your way up from the very bottom of the martial world to where you stand today.
If we speak of impressive feats, I am afraid I still lag behind you.”
The words were sincere, but Chen Zui merely shook his head and put down his teacup.
He knew the truth in his heart all too well.
His breakthroughs had relied on the System's rewards, the favorable conditions in Jinyang City, and the sheer coincidence of witnessing two Sword Immortals duel.
Those things were three parts effort, seven parts luck.
He knew where he truly stood.
Lin Jianxi, on the other hand, had to plan every single step meticulously, leaving no margin for error.
That ability to strategize and act only after meticulous calculation was true capability.
He raised his cup and finished the remaining half-cup of tea in a single gulp.
The tea was lukewarm, slightly bitter at first sip, leaving a sweet aftertaste.
He set the teacup back on the stone table, choosing not to pursue the subject further.
Lin Jianxi did not press him either; she simply picked up the teapot again and refilled his cup with steaming tea.
As the liquid poured into the cup, steam rose between them, forming a thin veil of white mist.
...
Meanwhile, in the western suburbs of Grand Zhao’s capital.
Dusk was settling over the land as a large sedan chair moved slowly down the imperial tomb avenue.
The person sitting inside was the Prime Minister of Grand Zhao and current Grand Chancellor, Song Jinhe.
He was fifty-six years old this year, but well-preserved, appearing no older than his early forties.
At this moment, he leaned back against the soft cushions of the sedan chair, resting with his eyes closed, his fingers tapping out a gentle rhythm on his knee.
The sedan chair swayed lightly as twilight seeped through the gaps of the curtain, casting long, thin spots of light inside the dim interior.
He was still thinking about court affairs.
A few days ago, that slip of a girl sitting on the Dragon Throne had appointed him as the Imperial Tomb Director in front of the entire court, assigning him oversight of the late emperor's mausoleum construction.
“Imperial Tomb Director... What a splendid Imperial Tomb Director.”
Song Jinhe sneered inwardly.
Managing the late emperor's tomb sounded supremely honorable, but in reality, it was a move to shift him away from the center of power out into the wilderness to deal with stones and dirt.
That girl wanted to use the post of Imperial Tomb Director to sideline him; her method was hardly sophisticated, yet it was thoroughly justified and official.
Yet the deeper implications within this arrangement could only be understood by those who had truly weathered the storms of the imperial court.
Throughout Grand Zhao’s history, there was an unwritten rule for anyone appointed as Imperial Tomb Director.
Once the mausoleum work was finished, one resigned.
This was an unwritten tradition of Grand Zhao’s court.
The day the imperial tomb reached completion would be the day Song Jinhe tendered his resignation.
When that time came, whether citing "exhausted health" or "avoiding suspicion," it would be nothing more than a matter of submitting a memorial.
What was more dangerous was that constructing an imperial tomb allowed for zero mistakes.
The construction timeline, dimensions, feng shui, ritual propriety...
If a flaw occurred in any single detail, it would be considered a capital offense of gross disrespect.
As Song Jinhe thought of this, the curl of his lips deepened instead.
She was still far too green after all.
Did she really think that sitting on the Dragon Throne made her the emperor?
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