Chapter 349

Chen Guanlou put down his wine cup, wiped his lips gently, and said, "The Crown Prince has been deposed!"

"So what! This isn't the end. As long as the new emperor hasn't ascended, anything is still possible," Zhao Jinming said, furious yet resolute.

Chen Guanlou gazed deeply at him. "Does Prince Zhong know you're all willing to die for him?"

"Does it matter if he knows or not? Upholding orthodoxy is our sacred duty."

"Prince Zhong's deposition means he's lost his orthodox status, his right of succession. Why are you all so blinded? Even going so far as to kill your own kin and betray your masters? Zhao Jinming, you've lost your way—you're possessed. Court politics isn't played this way."

Chen Guanlou was heartbroken.

Such fine, passionate youths—society needs this kind of fiery drive, or else it'll rot into lifeless stagnation. But this isn't how passion should be channeled. You've taken the wrong path. You've gone down a dark road.

Yet Zhao Jinming remained unmoved.

He said firmly, "Chen brother, you're right—in the past, court politics wasn't played this way. But what did they achieve? The court grew worse, the realm grew worse. The old ways no longer fit the current situation. A new order, new power is needed—and we are that new power."

His words rang like thunder.

But was he truly right?

Chen Guanlou roared:

"You're reversing history. You think your orthodoxy is new thought, new power—but a thousand years ago, they already tried every trick under the sun. True new power must be rooted in the people, in the realm, in the common folk—not clinging to some hollow notion of orthodoxy.

Your so-called orthodoxy cares only for titles. Even if the man beneath the title is a cat or a dog, he's still orthodox. You care only for appearances, not substance. What kind of new thought is that? You're nothing but ancient corpses in rotting coffins, a relic force reviving dead ideas."

With this scathing tirade, Chen Guanlou expelled every ounce of bitterness in his chest.

Passion is good. But passion gone mad kills.

Lu Mingchuan was the first unlucky soul sacrificed to these passionate youths.

If this continues, how many more will die? It's clear: in the end, all of you will face extermination of your nine clans.

A bloody end—heartbreaking.

Chen Guanlou downed a cup of wine. Though it was low-alcohol yellow wine, it burned like fifty-two-proof baijiu.

Human hearts—

Nothing in this world is more complex than the human heart. From hearts come thoughts; from thoughts come influence.

With Zhao Jinming's unwavering will and his seductive words, how many have already fallen into the pit he dug, following him in rebellion against heaven, walking the razor's edge?

He'll fall sooner or later.

They'll all be caught in one net.

The old wolves in court won't sit idle while these passionate youths run amok. The Heavenly Prison and the Imperial Detention Center will be their final resting places. The execution ground, their end.

"Are you, Chen brother, pleading for the likes of Lu Mingchuan—those opportunists who feast on the rewards of supporting the Crown Prince and orthodoxy, yet secretly stab him in the back like fence-sitters? Don't they deserve to die?"

Zhao Jinming was outraged.

"You're right—I'm betraying kin, betraying my masters. But I don't regret it. For those with weak wills who betray, only blood can cleanse."

Fire burned in Zhao Jinming's eyes—a fire called revenge.

Chen Guanlou pointed at him, laughing bitterly. "First, you speak only for your own group. Second, you're not the law, not a judicial officer—you have no right to judge who lives or dies, let alone carry out executions.

The world is indeed corrupt, and the court's system is corrupt. But this fragile peace we now enjoy is maintained by those very corrupt systems—even if only superficially, at least most ordinary people live in peace, not fleeing in chaos.

If you play by your rules, the whole realm will be dragged down. There'll be no peace. Without peace, how will ordinary people, so weak against natural disasters and human calamities, survive?

You're satisfied, but have you thought of the innocent bystanders you drag into this? If you lack the strength to play such a game, stay humble. Bide your time. Build your power. When you have real strength and voice, then talk about changing the system, changing ideas.

I won't stop you from killing—but don't dress it up in righteous rhetoric. Don't pretend it's justice.

Admitting you have selfish motives, dark corners—it's not shameful. Face your desires. Face your flaws. Only then is there a future. Relying only on hype, denying everything, clinging stubbornly to your own self-righteousness—whether right or wrong—only brings destruction, never construction. It leads only to ruin, never success.

If you succeed, I guarantee it'll be a catastrophe for all under heaven. The people cannot bear your extreme methods.

An organization that starts down a crooked path, that indulges in assassination and covert killings from the beginning—no matter how much strength you later pour into correcting it, you'll never fix it. The initial conduct defines the organization's nature. Even after decades or centuries, the inertia remains powerful. That's why every dynasty must rely on its founding emperor to lay the foundation, to establish the rules."

He hadn't given such a long lecture in years. His throat was dry.

It felt like slipping back into his trainer's role, spouting nonsense—yet there was still some real substance in it.

He poured himself a cup of tea, glanced at Zhao Jinming, who sat silent, and refused to look again.

He wanted more people to stir things up, to kill the old emperor sooner. But not like Zhao Jinming's way—this was pure chaos. It had to be like Yu Zhaoan's way: pushing hard within the court's rules, whether they won or lost, the state wouldn't collapse, and innocents wouldn't be dragged down.

Or like the Great Ming Prince: if you have the strength, raise an army, rebel, let ten thousand bones pile up for one general's glory—success or failure, history will judge.

Zhao Jinming's eyes had always been bright, resolute. Until tonight, for the first time, they showed confusion.

"Chen brother, do you think I'm wrong? Doesn't Lu Mingchuan deserve to die?"

"Lu Mingchuan may deserve to die—but not like this," Chen Guanlou said firmly. "You're not playing a personal vendetta game, not a tit-for-tat killing game. You can't use bandit tactics.

I can play that way—seeking swift revenge, settling scores. But you can't. You're playing politics. You're playing with organizations, with shared ideals. You need a manifesto, a code of conduct, rules and foundations. Using bandit tactics, personal grudges, to play an organizational game—you're courting your own destruction.

Bandits are fundamentally individualists. Are you sure you want to keep playing this way? Have you thought what happens when others follow your lead? Tomorrow, someone else sees someone they dislike and poisons them too. Will you still control them? Will your loose organization survive?"