Those old foxes in court—which of them hadn't fed on the spoils alongside Song Jinhe for over a decade?
As long as he managed the imperial tomb assignment without a single flaw, the day the late emperor's mausoleum was completed, the officials belonging to his faction would flood the throne with a mountain of memorials requesting his return to direct the court's grand affairs.
That girl’s foundation was unstable, and she was a woman to boot. How many among the civil and military court officials truly respected her?
When the time came, she would never be able to withstand that pressure.
And he estimated that within three years at most, he would return to court and hold absolute power once more.
“When that day comes, it won't be too late to settle this account with her slowly.”
At that thought, his mind suddenly drifted to Wen Zhuo.
That name hadn't been mentioned in a long time.
Wen Zhuo, the World's Number One Strategist. Entering court as a mere commoner, he had presented thirty-six brilliant strategies within three years, turning the tide and saving Grand Zhao from the brink of collapse.
Back then, Wen Zhuo’s brilliance was too overwhelming—so bright that even Song Jinhe had no choice but to step back and yield the spotlight.
Had Wen Zhuo still been in court, he might have felt a few shreds of caution.
That man’s mind truly was exceptional.
When it came to strategy, grand planning, and reading human nature, Song Jinhe admitted he was no match for Wen Zhuo.
However, Wen Zhuo had one fatal flaw.
He did not form factions.
“Naive. Absurdly naive.”
Song Jinhe let out a cold sneer inside the sedan chair.
Back then, it had taken him only three moves to completely eradicate Wen Zhuo from the center of power.
He heard that not too long ago, the man had even died.
The curve of Song Jinhe's lips deepened slightly.
With Wen Zhuo dead, looking across the entire court of Grand Zhao, who else could possibly take his place?
Those younger civil officials were either bookworms who only knew how to recite texts by rote, or scholars from humble backgrounds who lacked any foundation whatsoever.
Who among them could mature enough in just a few short years to rival Song Jinhe?
No one.
Not a single soul.
Even if that girl wanted a replacement, she had no one to turn to.
The only thing that made him slightly uncomfortable was the female teacher who had suddenly emerged—a woman named Lin Jianxi.
Supposedly, she had been quite active in court recently and enjoyed the new emperor's deep trust.
He had tried to investigate her identity, but his efforts had yielded no results.
Even so, Song Jinhe did not take her seriously.
What could a mere woman accomplish?
Even Wen Zhuo, the self-proclaimed number one strategist, had been no match for him.
What kind of waves could an obscure female teacher possibly make?
Reaching this conclusion, he opened his eyes with deep satisfaction and called out toward the curtain of the sedan chair, “How much longer until we reach the imperial tomb?”
“In reply to Your Excellency, we have arrived.”
The voice of the sedan bearer came from outside, muffled as though filtered through something.
Song Jinhe frowned slightly.
By his calculations, the journey from the western gate of the capital to the imperial tomb should have taken at least another half-hour. How had they arrived so fast?
He reached out and pulled open the sedan curtain.
Outside was not the imperial tomb.
In the twilight, four sedan bearers had set down the poles and stood lined up before the chair.
They wore the most ordinary coarse cloth tunics, looking no different from common bearers.
But Song Jinhe saw their eyes.
They were eyes completely devoid of emotion.
At this moment, they stared at him like four long-dried wells, incapable of reflecting even the sunset's light.
Looking into those eerie eyes, Song Jinhe suddenly realized a terrifying possibility.
“You...”
Before he could finish his sentence, a flash of cold light erupted in the dusk.
Song Jinhe felt a sudden chill across his neck.
A rush of coldness spread through his entire body in an instant.
Then he heard the sound of wind.
The wind leaked out from his neck, accompanied by a gurgling sound like popping bubbles.
That was his blood.
He looked down and saw a dark red stain rapidly spreading across his chest.
He wanted to speak, but only muffled, bubbling sounds came from his throat.
Song Jinhe tumbled out of the sedan chair, falling face-first onto the dirt road and stirring up a cloud of dust.
His eyes remained wide open, his pupils reflecting the final streak of evening glow in the capital's western outskirts.
The color of that evening glow was almost identical to the spreading blood across his chest.
Even in death, he could not understand.
Why would Ghost Gate Chamber—the very organization he had founded with his own hands—turn its blades against him?
He had created Ghost Gate Chamber.
He was the one who had gathered batch after batch of orphans from the martial world.
He was the one who had established its rules: Ask no questions of right or wrong; acknowledge only the transaction.
He was the one who had spent silver to raise these assassins, giving them the means to make a living and the blades to kill.
For decades, Ghost Gate Chamber had obeyed only his commands.
They had never failed, nor had they ever betrayed him.
They were his blades—Song Jinhe’s blades.
In front of the sedan chair, the assassin who had struck was wiping blood from his dagger with a piece of white cloth.
His movements were slow and meticulous, wiping from the spine to the edge, even clearing off every drop of blood spattered on the hilt.
A companion beside him teased, “Fourth, that trick of yours really works every time. Last time you killed Cao Zhengchun, you disguised yourself as a sedan bearer, and here you are doing it again. Were you a bearer in your past life?”
The assassin named Fourth ignored him, simply sheathing the clean dagger into the leather scabbard at his waist.
Then he squatted down and began disposing of the body.
He retrieved a small porcelain bottle from his robes and dripped a colorless, odorless liquid onto Song Jinhe’s corpse.
It was Corpse-Melting Water, a specialty of Ghost Gate Chamber. Within the time it took to drink a cup of tea, it could turn a corpse into a pool of clear water, leaving not even a fragment of bone behind.
Another assassin stood to the side, looking at the body gradually losing its warmth, and suddenly sighed.
“He was the founder of Ghost Gate Chamber, after all. Without him, none of us brothers would be where we are today. Killing him like this... isn't it returning kindness with ingratitude?”
“Don't forget, we are assassins,” Fourth finally spoke.
“He raised us so we could kill. We kill because he raised us. This isn't kindness—it's a transaction. Now that the buyer has changed, we follow the rules. This isn't betrayal.”
He evenly sprinkled the Corpse-Melting Water over the body as a faint wisp of white smoke drifted upward.
“After all, this is what he taught us.”
...
Inside the pavilion, the tea had been steeped for a third time.
Chen Zui’s fingers rested on the rim of his teacup for a long time.
The tea inside had long grown cold, the amber liquid reflecting the withered wisteria vines on the pavilion roof, while a few remaining leaves shivered in the dusk.
He finally looked up, gazing at the woman opposite him who had remained composed from start to finish.
“Sir, your waiting for me here isn't merely to catch up, is it?”
Lin Jianxi had traveled thousands of miles south from the capital, bringing Ghost Gate Chamber’s top assassins to wait along the only path down the mountain. It was impossible that her sole intention was to offer him a cup of tea.
Hearing his words, Lin Jianxi set her cup back onto the stone table. She folded her hands over her lap, sitting up straight. In the blink of an eye, her demeanor shifted from that of an unhurried tea drinker to an upright strategist in the imperial court.
“You are correct, Young Hero Chen. My waiting here is indeed for official business.”
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