On July 12th, the day of the Yanying Hall meeting, Yan Xiaohan returned to the capital, bringing Fu Shen’s armor and official seal, and went directly to the palace. The hall fell silent, and without a single extra word, he slammed the iron armor onto the table, causing Xue Sheng’s teacup to shatter with a loud clang.
The armor still bore unmistakable bloodstains.
The court officials from the Northern Frontier’s four states burst into tears, while others lowered their eyes or remained silent. Xue Sheng’s face was dark as water, and the Emperor of Changzhi felt uneasy, involuntarily softening his tone: “Yan, you’ve worked hard. Please sit… Someone, bring tea.”
Yuan Zhen, the favored palace eunuch, quickly stepped forward to pour tea for Yan Xiaohan, respectfully saying, “Sir, please.”
Yan Xiaohan swept a cold glance at him, causing Yuan Zhen to shrink back and quickly retreat to the Emperor’s side.
“Jing Guogong has fought for the country for many years, with merits of supporting the state. He should be honored in the Golden Terrace and immortalized in the Qilin Hall,” said the new Minister of Rites, Chen Zhi, trembling.
“
“Precisely,” Yan Xiaohan suddenly interjected, “I heard the young Master Fu has not yet inherited his title. A few days ago, he was even missing. Has he been found, Minister Xue?”
Xue Sheng, looking exhausted with heavy dark circles, replied languidly: “How would I know about the Fu family’s affairs? Are you joking, Sir Yan?”
“Even in my grief over Jing Guogong’s death, I wouldn’t joke now,” Yan Xiaohan said coldly. “Minister Xue, do you know what rumors are spreading outside? I must ask: who pushed the court into this storm?”
His words were ambiguous but heavily implied, causing everyone to prick up their ears, anticipating a shocking revelation.
“Go back, I understand,” Yan Xiaohan said, “It’s just a few months. I can still wait.”
