Chapter 186

Wang Yang came to see the Prince of Badong for two reasons: one was to deal with Liu Yin's threat, the other was to defuse a bomb.

The second point will be set aside for now; let's first address the first.

Since the Prince of Badong still relies on him for silk, asking him to help handle Liu Yin is not unreasonable, is it?

But how to ask the Prince of Badong for this favor is actually quite delicate.

If pushed to the extreme, one could argue that Liu Yin is exploiting the situation: on the surface, he sends the Protector to inquire about Liu Cheng, but casually steers the conversation toward Wang Yang's silk business, causing the Prince of Badong to believe Liu Yin has uncovered something—that his questioning of Wang Yang is like Duke Duke Zhuang's sword dance, intended for Pei Gong!

This method seems to use another's blade to kill, but carries enormous hidden risks.

The Prince of Badong might have already planned to eliminate him; he's merely keeping Wang Yang alive for now because the silk business isn't finished. But if Wang Yang pulls this stunt and stirs up suspicion, the Prince of Badong might panic, abruptly terminate the silk operation, and eliminate him early to cut off future threats—then Wang Yang would have ruined himself.

To avoid this scenario entirely, one risks veering to the opposite extreme.

The extreme of pushing it too far is linking Liu Yin directly to the silk business.

The extreme of downplaying it is mentioning the silk business not at all.

The latter seems prudent, but has a fatal flaw.

Because in the Prince of Badong's eyes, Wang Yang doesn't know the silk business has serious problems—so there's no reason for him to avoid the subject. And Wang Yang has always been casual, even brazen in his dealings with the Prince, always ready to seize advantage. Now that he's come seeking help, why would he be so cautious, so afraid even to mention it?

Unless Wang Yang has guessed the secret behind the silk—and fears being silenced, so dares not make the Prince of Badong suspicious.

That would look like guilt!

Since both extremes are unacceptable, yet Wang Yang must both secure the Prince's help and avoid arousing suspicion, he needs a clever conversational strategy.

So Wang Yang began: "Your Highness, I offended Chief Secretary Liu because of the Guangyuan Inn incident. Now he's using the Liu Cheng case to retaliate against me. What should I do?"

"What incident at the Guangyuan Inn? And what does it have to do with Chief Secretary Liu?" The Prince of Badong feigned ignorance.

The act was poorly done. But Wang Yang was happy to explain the events, without elaborating too much—he merely said Du San had abducted people, and Wang Yang had outmaneuvered and captured him; Chief Secretary Liu had helped Du San escape punishment, and thus came to hate him. Before he finished, the Prince of Badong interrupted, asking sternly:

"Zhiyan, you say Chief Secretary Liu helped Du San escape punishment—do you have solid proof?"

"Not yet. But if we investigate carefully—"

The Prince of Badong sighed deliberately: "If you have no evidence, it's better not to speak rashly. Liu Yin enforces the law strictly—he wouldn't break it himself."

If someone else had said this, Wang Yang could easily guess their intent.

But the Prince of Badong was so erratic that Wang Yang couldn't tell whether this remark was meant to provoke, to stir trouble for amusement; or whether he genuinely wanted to undermine Liu Yin, and was nudging Wang Yang to find proof of Liu Yin's lawbreaking.

But it didn't matter—no matter his intent, the Prince had already stepped into the box Wang Yang had set.

Wang Yang continued his strategy, following the Prince's lead, and said angrily:

"That's not certain! Leaving aside Du San's case, yesterday he used the Liu Cheng affair to station troops at the Le family villa, and sent a clerk to interrogate me repeatedly—Your Highness, are you aware of this?"

"Stationing troops at the villa was to guard against lingering barbarian remnants and ensure safety. As for the clerk, I didn't know about it—but as Acting Governor of Nanzhong, investigating cases is his duty. Just tell him everything you know."

The Prince of Badong continued feigning ignorance.

In such situations, feigning ignorance usually serves two purposes.

One is to avoid involvement, pretending not to understand; the other is to deliberately provoke, pretending not to grasp the point in order to inflame the speaker's emotions.

Wang Yang suspected the Prince had both intentions—he wanted to stir trouble but didn't want to take responsibility.

Wang Yang feigned anger: "I'm innocent in this! I explained everything clearly at the time! Yet the Protector still won't let go—he's trying to drag me into this case! If Liu Yin isn't pulling the strings behind the scenes, how would he dare?!"

The Prince of Badong remained calm: "Not necessarily. Perhaps Chief Secretary Liu is simply diligent in his investigation, and his subordinates, unaware of the depth, messed things up."

Wang Yang almost laughed at the Prince's clumsy performance.

Of course, Wang Yang was a professional—he didn't laugh.

He looked at the Prince of Badong, his brow furrowed deeply: "Your Highness! Chief Secretary Liu wants to destroy me! Are you just going to stand by?"

The Prince of Badong sat up, waving his hand with righteous indignation: "Impossible! You're my man. If Liu Yin dares to use official power for personal revenge and slander you, I will defend you!"

Wang Yang's eyes gleamed: "What if Liu Yin issues a formal summons to bring me in for questioning?"

The Prince of Badong leaned back: "Then go. It won't hurt to answer questions."

Wang Yang:...

"What if he uses interrogation methods on me?"

"You mean torture? He wouldn't dare."

"What if he does?"

"Even then, don't worry—you're not an ordinary man."

So that's where you're leading me!

Wang Yang sighed: "If I go, I might truly be detained."

The Prince of Badong dismissed it lightly: "Stay there a few days—it's nothing. He has no evidence; he won't throw you in jail. Just treat it as a visit to the Chief Secretary's residence."

Wang Yang turned his head away: "I don't mind, but the silk business will have to pause until I'm free."

"Hahaha!"

The Prince of Badong suddenly laughed heartily, as if a barrier had instantly dissolved, scolding: "You dare threaten me?"

Wang Yang knew—he had successfully defused the bomb.

The southern barbarians kidnapped Liu Cheng and demanded ransom in brocade robes and crimson jackets—the same goods the Prince of Badong had tasked Wang Yang with producing. Logically, even if identical, no one would link the two. Even if linked, no one would absurdly suspect the Prince's silk was destined for the barbarians.

But one must think from the other's perspective, simulate his mindset.

The Prince of Badong himself was guilty and suspicious; seeing Wang Yang's testimony, he would inevitably wonder: Could Wang Yang be suspecting these brocades are connected to the barbarians?

Allowing such suspicion to grow harms Wang Yang and brings no benefit—it could even trigger unforeseen dangers. So Wang Yang had to defuse this bomb, force the Prince to help him, yet avoid sparking new suspicion.

How to do it?

Wang Yang's strategy was to first establish a framework for the Prince, temporarily called the "Personal Grudge Framework." He clearly laid out his conflict with Liu Yin, ensuring the Prince would interpret all of Wang Yang's and Liu Yin's present and future actions within this "Personal Grudge Framework," preventing any misdirection.

It's like a scholar's paper being rejected by a journal's editor. That's normal. But if you add the frame that "the scholar and editor are rivals for a woman," then others will interpret the rejection not as based on quality, but as personal spite.

Wang Yang did the same.

He first established the logic that Liu Yin held a grudge against him, so the Prince wouldn't wander into other suspicions. (This point is equally vital for the second trap Wang Yang will set for Liu Yin.)

Then, under this logic, he asked the Prince for help, openly invoking the silk business: plainly stating, if you don't help me, the business will stall.

For this petty "threat," the Prince of Badong wouldn't be angry—he'd feel relieved, convinced Wang Yang knew nothing of the silk secret, or else he wouldn't dare mention it so bluntly.

But without the prior framing of a personal grudge, if Wang Yang had directly invoked the silk business, the Prince might have misread it: thinking Wang Yang knew of the silk's illicit nature and was blackmailing him into acting against Liu Yin—then the nature of the act would change entirely.

The same threat: one is mischief, the other is suicide—utterly incomparable.

So now Wang Yang, languidly dragging his tone, openly "threatened": "How could I dare threaten Your Highness? But Your Highness, you don't want me distracted while serving you, do you?"

——————

Note: Regarding yesterday's editorial notice asking me to revise the text—I could have refused, but after thinking, I chose to revise. First, readers who've followed my writing for so long should know: disrespecting women is absolutely impossible for me or for Wang Yang. Everyone has parents; after his reincarnation, Wang Yang constantly thinks of his mother; my own mother was my literary inspiration, and her modern poetry utterly outshines mine—I could never harbor any intent to belittle or target women.

But ancient characters have good and bad, right and wrong actions; especially since I aim to create multidimensional characters, atmosphere, and era, and since events are layered and interconnected, it's inevitable that women will suffer harm. Just like yesterday, when the Prince of Badong harmed the maid—readers who carefully recall the entire novel will notice I rarely write dialogue in a dry, sterile state.

When do two people sit down and simply begin speaking in quotes, then end?

I'm writing "Life in the Southern Dynasties." Dialogue that merely advances plot without deep worldbuilding or character development is a waste to me.

When Wang Yang first visited the Prince of Badong privately, why did I have the Prince eating ox head? Couldn't I just have them begin talking directly?

The second time I wrote his meeting with Wang Yang, he was about to kill the maid. His actions toward her—including the bad ones, and the fact he didn't kill her but instead gave her money—serve to deepen the character, shape the atmosphere and externalize his mood, and also reflect his emotional shift from fury to sudden calm before Wang Yang entered.

Couldn't I just write the Prince of Badong smashing a vase to show anger? Or write him beating someone, then roaring helplessly? Isn't that easier?

But that's dull. Is anger only expressed by smashing teacups? Or writing the Prince of Badong being pecked by his hawk, then smashing it? Still insufficient. Directly beating the maid to vent rage? Feels wrong, the character doesn't come alive. Can't you see the logic? Or suppose this weren't written—what else could the Prince of Badong be doing to smoothly introduce the character, continue the story, deepen the character, enliven the plot, and reflect an aspect of the era?

After thinking, don't you agree my approach makes sense? For readers sensitive to language, subtle differences create perceptual gaps. Like Li Wang's wife adding one extra log when cooking pig's head, or Baoyu's sour bamboo shoot and chicken skin soup missing a spoonful of salt—the flavor is off!

The Prince of Badong's attitude toward women and emotion resembles Xiao Xiao Ziqing's in some ways, differs in others: the Prince is coarse and empty; Xiao Xiao Ziqing is refined but cold. The Prince lacks emotional depth—he treats women as objects. Xiao Xiao Ziqing has feelings for women, but his life's essence, like his childhood name (Bailiang), is frigid; so though his emotions are delicate, they're cold as a snake—he buries alive those he cherishes.

So when reviewers and readers see certain characters commit certain evil acts (yes, they truly are evil!), remember: it's them who are evil, not me. Writing is dancing with shackles, and time is limited; yet I strive within this narrow window to dance as skillfully as possible. I'm already tired—don't add more shackles.

But I'm still an optimistic person. More shackles mean more ways to dance with them. If I truly can't avoid them, I'll make the chains jingle melodiously, rhythmically, fitting the dance of Sanglin, harmonizing with the song of Yangchun. Even Soviet censorship was brutal, yet great masters still emerged.

Lastly, regarding my annotations: I only add them at the end of each chapter, and I never reduce word count in annotations (except for one special case in Volume One), so don't worry that annotations reduce the main text's word count.