Posuo City was ablaze.
The fire surged like a furious tide toward the heavens, its flaming waves shrouding the night and eclipsing the moon. Cinders and ash drifted lightly for over a mile, accompanied by a crackling sound that mimicked the bursting of charred skin and searing flesh. The acrid tang of lamp oil and the heavy, scorched scent of a deep burn lunged at the senses.
Cheng Wei’s stomach churned violently. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, yet he forced himself to remain upright, not daring to show even a flicker of his desire to vomit. He feared that if he leaked even a shred of cowardice, he would lose his life before the King of Hell.
Fortunately, the King of Hell did not look back. His well-defined, slender fingers were pressed atop a teacup, as if pinning down a bout of hearty, dripping terror.
The tea in the cup had been cold for half the night, yet no one dared to refresh it.
Cheng Wei opened his mouth, only to realize with a start that he had lost his voice. His hands and feet were trembling minutely. When he finally managed to produce a sound, it came out like the squawk of a rooster.
"M-My Lord."
That single trembling word made his legs go weak with fright first. His voice shook even more as he said, "P-P-Prince Ping has been executed. W-W-Why don't we stop the... in the city..." The word "the" wound around the tip of his tongue, vague and indistinct, before vanishing into thin air the moment the King of Hell lightly tapped the teacup down. Cheng Wei collapsed to his knees with a thud.
A soft chuckle rang out.
The King of Hell smoothed the fabric of his dark blue, cross-collared, narrow-sleeved robe with his fingertips. The garment accentuated the pale, cold skin of his exposed nape, just as his chuckle accentuated the chilling frost of the air. He remained with his back to Cheng Wei, murmuring lowly, "Lord Cheng."
Cheng Wei hurriedly crawled forward a few inches on his knees.
"How do you think Xin Zhenxiao died?"
The man dared to address Prince Ping by his given name so directly; Cheng Wei wouldn't have dared even if he were beaten to death. Cold sweat poured down Cheng Wei’s forehead. He didn't dare answer recklessly, yet he dared even less to remain silent. He could only brace himself and stammer, "T-T-Treason is a grave crime. Prince P-Ping... went a b-bit too easily..."
"So, he died poorly?"
Cheng Wei was nearly driven to tears. "N-N-No! Well! He died well! A good death!"
The King of Hell gave a soft hiss of breath. He tossed the teacup from his fingers onto the small side table; it clattered and rolled off, falling by Cheng Wei’s knees. He said, "A good death, perhaps, but not the one I intended. I had only just reached the city outskirts when he set the fire, without so much as a glance at His Majesty’s imperial decree. I hadn't even finished my countdown. This death doesn't count."
"Then, th-that..." Cheng Wei was sweating like rain, at a total loss for how to respond. This man was notoriously temperamental in court; Cheng Wei would never dare to brush him off with idle words.
"How about this," the King of Hell suggested with a smile. "Lord Cheng, why don't you pull him out of that fire, and we shall kill him once more."
Cheng Wei’s entire body went limp, his face turning ashen with terror. He cried out in shock, "M-My Lord! Prince Ping was, after all, of the i-i-imperial bloodline! If His Majesty investigates..."
The Brocade-Clad Guards on either side hoisted Cheng Wei’s round, obese frame and marched toward the fire. He was so terrified that his layers of fat quivered uncontrollably. Tears and snot streamed down his face as he begged urgently, "M-My Lord! My Lord is right! M-My Lord, spare me! Spare me..."
The King of Hell remained deaf to the pleas, staring instead at his own clean fingertips. He sighed, "Lord Cheng, as a favored guest of Prince Ping, how could you abandon your master and flee?"
Cheng Wei was dragged away and his mouth gagged. A Prefect of Posuo City, a formal official of the fourth rank, was actually frightened into incontinence and unconsciousness. Xie Jingsheng frowned and waved his hand, signaling the men to drag him further away, lest he offend his own eyes or the Lord’s nose.
The King of Hell sat there, perhaps reminded of something. He turned his head to look at Xie Jingsheng. His cold, narrow eyes were slightly raised, and a smile lingered at the corners of his lips as he asked, "Where is the person?"
Xie Jingsheng bowed his waist and replied, "Inside the tent." Prince Ping had set fire to himself and Posuo City; they could not enter the city and had instead set up camp outside.
The King of Hell stood up. His tall frame, wrapped in the dark blue satin robe, appeared even more long-legged as he rose. He wore the seven-beamed crown of a first-rank official, his hair perfectly set. His features were of an exceptionally striking cast, though a hint of cold cruelty was hidden within his lush, elegant eyes, projecting an aura of pure danger.
Xie Jingsheng knew the Lord intended to go and see for himself, so he led the way with steady steps. He had originally hailed from the Brocade-Clad Guard and was now a formal Provincial Administration Commissioner, yet before this man, he was as lowly as the dust.
They arrived before the tent, which was guarded on all sides by men wearing the flying-fish pattern. Xie Jingsheng did not dare enter with him; he merely stepped forward to lift the tent flap, waiting for the Lord to enter before stepping back several paces to stand at solemn attention outside.
The man entered the tent. He lifted his gaze and swept the room, immediately spotting the youth curled up and sleeping soundly by the footstool.
The youth was curled almost into the shape of a shrimp—small, thin, and dressed in ragged, coarse clothes. His exposed arms were crisscrossed with whip marks, and he was so emaciated he was little more than skin and bone.
The man walked to the edge of the couch and sat down, watching the youth at his feet for a long while. His eyes remained unruffled, showing none of the shock one might expect upon seeing a descendant of the imperial line in such a wretched state. He merely tapped his finger against the edge of the couch. The youth woke with a start, his dark, bright eyes darting around in panic as he curled himself into an even tighter ball.
"Come up to the couch," the King of Hell said, looking down at him.
The youth only hugged himself tighter, shrinking into the shadows.
The King of Hell watched him in silence before saying slowly, "You are the Heir of Prince Yan."
The youth’s dark eyes were veiled by long lashes. He did not look at the man, staring instead at the ground beneath his bare feet. He did not offer a vocal reply.
The King of Hell did not need him to answer.
Because the Heir of Prince Yan was a mute—this was a fact known to the entire Great Lan Empire.
"I am the one who has come to take you home." The man’s voice was not deep, but rather a calm, rippleless chill. It stood in stark contrast to the smile that occasionally graced his lips, yet at this moment, it was strangely reliable.
The youth’s shoulders shifted, as if he had heard something incredible. His gaze fell upon the man’s jaw, dazzled by the pale luster of his skin. Moving upward, his gaze traveled past the man’s straight nose and settled on his narrow, profound eyes.
The King of Hell leaned forward slightly, his eyes locked onto the boy's face, taking in his features clearly. Finally, an inscrutable smile touched his lips, one that made people feel cold.
"You are the Little Yama. We share a destiny."
In the autumn of the 58th year of the Hongxing era, Prince Ping rose in rebellion with his troops. From his fiefdom in Shanyin Lihe, he swept across Great Lan, and the fires of war spread everywhere. In the spring of the 59th year of Hongxing, Prince Ping pressed toward Posuo, intending to use it as a passage to the south. On the twenty-sixth day of summer, he was intercepted and forced back to Posuo by the Right Prime Minister. Prince Ping set fire to the city, and his entire clan was executed.
From then on, the Right Prime Minister’s name resounded throughout Great Lan.
On the thirtieth day, he returned to the capital. The Right Prime Minister was further enfeoffed as the Prince of Pacification, granted the gold and silver scrolls, the silver-treasure crown, and the robes of the first rank. Thus, this man possessed the combined honors of a prince of a different surname, the administrative power of the Right Prime Minister, and the concurrent post of Commander of the Brocade-Clad Guard.
For a time, the court and the commoners were in an uproar. Liu Sheng, the Minister of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices, was the first to submit a memorial based on the impropriety of such power. He was followed by He Anchang, the Participant in Determining Governmental Matters, and Zuo Kai, the Minister of the Court of Judicial Review. However, the Emperor did not respond to any of them.
At this very time, Xin Yi, the orphan of Prince Yan and the sixteen-year-old "Little Prince Yan," returned to the capital simultaneously. The people of the capital calculated on their fingers—this was the first time the mute heir had returned to the capital in four years, ever since the lineage of Prince Yan had died in battle at Beiyang.
Four years ago, the Prince Yan’s line had guarded the Beiyang border. After Prince Yan died in battle, the heir was young and was taken in by Prince Ping to be raised and disciplined. Now that Prince Ping had been executed, as a member of the imperial nobility, it was only right for him to return to the capital to be presented to the Emperor.
However...
"It is a pity that His Highness Prince Yan was loyal his entire life, yet left behind only a mute."
In a teahouse in the capital, an old man stroking his beard while sipping tea laughed upon hearing this. He swayed his head as he listened to the opera performance on stage and said:
"What do you know? A mute is still the son of Prince Yan. As long as the people of Beiyang still call him the Little Prince Yan, then he is the master of the Three Fords of Beiyang. Besides, things are different now." The old man fished a few copper coins from his robe and lined them up neatly on the table. "Since Bai Jiu brought him back, he won't allow anyone else to lay a hand on him. If nothing goes wrong, you’ll have to change your tune and call him the 'Little Yama.' The Big Yama bringing along the Little Yama—interesting, truly interesting." He clapped his hands and laughed heartily.
The young man across from the old man shook his head and sighed, "A tyrannical official... I fear he will be difficult to deal with."
Indeed.
Bai Jiu’s power now eclipsed the court; even the Emperor would find it difficult to restrain him. To call him a tyrannical and lawless official was no exaggeration.
But why would such a man suddenly, on a whim, bring back a mute heir?
To do what?
***
