Just as Shen Qingfeng had expected, the West Rong envoys’ intrusion set the hall into chaos. Several figures in black-collared white cloaks rushed straight into Shanhe Hall. The leader moved like water—one palm parting the palace guards who tried to stop him with fluid, effortless force. Shen Qingfeng glanced sideways; the movement wasn’t of any ordinary school. A cloak hid most of the leader’s face, leaving only a pale jaw and a boyish profile visible.
“How dare you! The West Rong are barbaric indeed—so rude! Seize them all!” Xia Yonglin snapped, supporting the coughing King Xia Jie with one arm.
The cloaked men, led by that same figure, pressed on as if nobody stood in their way and quickly reached the foot of the throne. Tian Che, who’d been belatedly bringing troops, cursed himself for holding back out of diplomatic nicety and rushed to have his men subdue them.
But the moment the palace guards closed in, the leader halted. Then, with a crisp, coordinated thud, he and his men dropped to their knees.
The clatter of bodies hitting stone filled the hall. Xia Yonglin opened his mouth to bawl, but the leader’s voice cut across the room in a steady, deep tone: “We, humble vassals of West Rong, pay respects to King Xia! Long live the king—long live, long live!”
The obsequiousness stunned everyone into silence. Xia Yonglin’s outrage evaporated into awkwardness; he found himself rooted to the spot, the hot words stuck behind his teeth.
Shen Shiqiu stepped forward with his retinue and shouted, “Petty West Rong, don’t get cocky! How dare you barge into the palace of our Xia king! You think small size excuses insolence? Are you trying to invite your own destruction?”
The cloaked leader lifted his head. He wasn’t more than a teenager—barely more than a boy—but his voice carried a cold steadiness. “We did not come to fight. We came to entreat King Xia to reopen the trade routes.” His eyes flicked up to the throne where the king sat, coughing and trembling. For an instant a flash like a predatory light crossed his gaze—barely detectable, but enough to make Shen Qingfeng’s hand tremble around his teacup. He felt, inexplicably, a thread of lethal intent coiled in those eyes.
Qi Shuhuan, standing beside Shen Shiqiu, snorted. “Absurd! You come here acting so arrogant and expect to plead for peace? I’ve never heard the like.”
The boy sneered at Qi Shuhuan, then returned his attention to the ailing king. Kneeling on the steps of the hall, he locked eyes with Xia Jie as if every syllable were a blade. “The trade ceased without cause. The people of West Rong are starving—every day you delay, more will die. What do I have to lose in setting aside ceremony when my country’s very life is at stake?” He produced from his chest a rolled piece of oiled parchment, bound with a thin cord.
It was the very thing Yu Shuang had found—a treaty between West Rong and the Eastern Hu. Simple wording. Courteous on the surface, but the message beneath was clear: if Xia refused to reopen the trade, West Rong and Dong Hu would immediately activate their alliance. Xia would face a military pressure sweeping from the southwest up through much of its northern frontier.
Xia Yonglin snatched the parchment from Chen Qi, read it at a glance, and went white with rage. He opened his mouth to explode—but the feverish coughing from the throne grew worse. The court physicians hurried forward and bore King Xia Jie from the hall.
With the king gone, protocol dictated the crown prince should preside. But Xia Yonglin, favored by the ailing king and already gloating in unofficial authority, took on the role in everything but name. The ministers, well aware of the king’s partiality and his dislike of the prince, accepted Xia Yonglin’s command—no one challenged him except the chancellor’s house.
Xia Chuli, the crown prince, turned his head slightly and watched Xia Yonglin’s handling of the procession with a hard, personal hatred that flashed across his features and vanished too quickly for anyone but Shen Qingfeng to catch. Shen Qingfeng, meanwhile, had his attention on a few men in eunuch disguises from the Tingfeng Pavilion, who had slipped into the hall trailing the king.
The young envoy watched the commotion with a small, inscrutable smile. When Xia Yonglin finished and marched toward him, the boy’s expression smoothed. “Prince,” he said, glancing at Xia Chuli, “are you willing to accept the terms?”
The hall murmured. Heads turned to the prince at Shen Qingfeng’s side. Xia Chuli paused with his teacup halfway to his lips; a few drops trembled and spilled. Xia Yonglin’s face looked as though it had been struck by lightning.
The envoy’s tone carried a cool contempt as if to say, ‘You only just noticed who really holds power here.’ Then he bowed low to Xia Chuli. “I pay my respects to His Highness the Crown Prince of Xia.”
Xia Chuli’s face drained of color, rage making his lips tremble and his eyes shine red. The boy’s deliberate obsequiousness felt like slaps in public. Xia Yonglin, unable to bear the humiliation, erupted. “You—Guards! Seize him!”
But the envoy did nothing to flinch. He raised his head slowly, eyes sweeping past Shen Qingfeng and Xia Chuli before settling on the latter with a faint, amused curl to his mouth.
“Fascinating,” Shen Qingfeng thought. The boy’s behavior wasn’t mere insolence—there was design. He was goading the two of them, perhaps in answer to Shen Qingfeng’s earlier ploy involving Yu Shuang.
“And your noble country,” the boy went on, voice loud enough for all to hear, “I didn’t expect even the Second Lord of… your kingdom to step on the prince’s head to issue commands.” He meant to humiliate—again.
Xia Yonglin snapped. He drew a guard’s blade, anger blazing, and charged. Qi Shuhuan, mindful of Xia’s diplomatic reputation despite his inner fury, held back the mob and had the treaty handed to Xia Chuli.
Xia Chuli’s hand whitened on his teacup. “This isn’t an agreement,” he said coldly. “It reads like a threat.”
The boy bowed and replied with mock humility, “Your Highness mistakes us.”
“What is your name?” Xia Chuli demanded.
“Feng Que.”
At that moment Shen Qingfeng gave a quiet cough, covering his mouth, and whispered so only Xia Chuli could hear, “Have them arrested.”
Xia Chuli blinked. “Why—?”
“Trust me. I have a plan.” Shen Qingfeng’s voice was low, measured.
The envoys’ brazen entry into the palace made their arrest almost inevitable. Feng Que didn’t seem surprised. As the palace guards led him away, he turned his head and looked straight at Xia Chuli. “Crown Prince,” he said, plainly, “one month from now—if I have not returned, or if you refuse to reopen trade—the pact takes effect. Think carefully.”
With Feng Que and his retinue taken away, the banquet collapsed into clamor. Ministers argued, each pushing their own counsel, demanding Xia Chuli decide. Yet with the king still ill, such a grave policy could not be imposed by the prince alone; everyone agreed that the final decision must wait for King Xia Jie’s presence. Frustrated, they surrounded the king’s bedchamber instead.
Xia Yonglin had intended to use this moment to curry favor with the king. Instead, he’d been humiliated by a minor state and by a bold envoy. He left the hall spitting venom and shot Xia Chuli a venomous, hateful glare before striding with Qi Shuhuan toward the king’s chamber.
Xia Chuli rose slowly to leave as well. Shen Qingfeng caught his shoulder and halted him. “Not yet,” he said softly.
Xia Chuli frowned. “Why?”
“You promised to let me in on a good show. Your father isn’t up to it yet—no curtain call until the king wakes.”