Chapter 14: Breach the Mansion, Disrupt the Banquet

Inside the Duan Prince’s mansion, red lanterns hung everywhere, illuminating the surroundings with brilliant hues; nearby pavilions and painted eaves were exquisitely elegant, magnificent beyond words, and a path of white goose pebbles stretched straight ahead.

At the sound, patrol soldiers inside the mansion rushed over, shouting: “Who dares intrude into the Prince’s mansion? Do you not wish to live?!”

Su Da revealed his identity; the soldiers were stunned and replied: “Even the Yan Prince would not dare such a thing. Let us report first!”

Su Da paid no heed and pressed forward; the soldiers blocked him. Zhao Ti behind him said: “Aren’t you a warrior?”

Su Da roared and charged forward; Bai Zhan and Yu Er behind him lent aid; in an instant they seized weapons and knocked the soldiers to the ground.

Su Da grabbed the soldier captain by the collar: “Where is the Duan Prince?”

The captain spat out two teeth and wept: “The Duan Prince is hosting guests in the Jade Dew Hall ahead.”

“Hosting guests?” Zhao Ti nodded from behind. “Nightly revelry, drunken luxury—truly a splendid life.”

Su Da tossed the captain aside: “Don’t follow us, or you’ll get more beating.”

The group walked forward and saw, in the distance, a grand hall glowing with light, like a brilliant pearl beneath the night sky.

At that moment, a young maid approached, about fifteen, her hair tied in twin buns with a cute fringe, her features as delicate as a painting, her skin as white as jade, dressed in a pale green skirt, carrying a red-lacquered tray, stepping lightly like a lotus.

She stepped into the path and looked at them in surprise: “Gentlemen, are you also here for the Prince’s banquet?”

Su Da grinned, showing his molars: “We’re all warriors—doubt the Duan Prince would find us worthy.”

The maid’s bright eyes flickered, landed on Zhao Ti, circled once, then whispered: “One who can govern with culture and secure the realm with martial skill—what’s wrong with being a warrior?”

With that, she walked straight down a side path—not toward the Jade Dew Hall.

“Interesting…” Zhao Ti’s lips curled slightly as he glanced at Zhou Dong.

Zhou Dong understood and lowered his voice: “Your Majesty observes well—she truly knows martial arts!”

“But I wonder which faction planted her.” Zhao Ti shook his head.

He had once caught spies sent by other factions into his own mansion—deliberately placed by outsiders.

Dongjing was not as peaceful as it appeared: besides the bitter feuds between old and new court factions, mutual spying, ruthless schemes, and covert agents, even the imperial clan was riddled with them, mostly orchestrated behind the scenes by the Grand Office of Clan Affairs.

The Grand Office of Clan Affairs was a quiet post; though its director held high rank, his power was limited, merely managing clan affairs—but what was there to manage in a clan?

Everyone in the clan were relatives; when disputes arose, each side clung to ancestral lineage, took sides, and more and more people gathered to cheer, making it impossible to judge right from wrong. Evidence? Don’t even think of it—no court proceedings like in Kaifeng Prefecture.

Thus, over time, someone behind the Grand Office of Clan Affairs gave advice: they began secretly planting spies in the mansions of imperial princes, gathering evidence of misconduct, then boldly showing up to extort.

Such schemes were easy to pull off: only one side held the evidence, so the other had no choice but to submit—or face impeachment before the court with irrefutable proof of wrongdoing, resulting in house arrest, salary cuts, or demotion. The imperial clan, calculating the cost, could only meekly pay up—after all, they themselves held the damning evidence.

Zhao Ti’s own mansion had once caught a spy sent by the Grand Office of Clan Affairs; they shaved his hair and eyebrows, tied him into a bundle at midnight, and dumped him inside the Grand Office’s courtyard wall—but nothing followed. Perhaps they deemed him too powerful a prince to handle, and gave up.

Beyond these, Liao, Western Xia, and even southern factions with rebellious intentions had planted numerous spies in Dongjing, waiting for their chance.

These were state matters; the Military Secretariat’s Intelligence Division couldn’t block them all, and the Secretariat’s Rapid Response Office lacked the capacity to root out every spy in the capital—so Dongjing seemed calm, but beneath the surface, the situation was extremely complex.

Zhao Ti paid no mind to the maid’s origins—whether planted by any faction or simply a servant of the Duan Prince himself—it was irrelevant to the matter at hand. The group walked straight toward the Jade Dew Hall and arrived moments later.

It was early summer: days were hot, nights cool. The hall’s three gates stood wide open, windows unshuttered; the dancing and music had just ended, tables lined both sides, filled with guests drinking and reveling, flattery echoing endlessly, stale, pretentious words filling the air.

At the entrance, guards moved to question them; Su Da and Yu Er stepped forward and knocked them unconscious, then walked straight into the hall.

The guests, drunk and oblivious, gradually fell silent, their expressions turning confused as more intruders entered.

Zhao Ti walked to the center of the hall, looked inside, and clapped lightly: “Eleventh Brother, you’re in high spirits—hosting a night banquet with so many guests. Why not invite the Imperial Painting Academy to paint a ‘Night Banquet of the Duan Prince,’ emulating Han Xizai’s Night Banquet?”

At the farthest carved table sat a young man, his golden crown binding his hair, dressed in a pale blue robe, his features refined; his face had carried a smug smile, now replaced by shock and fury—it was Emperor Shenzong’s eleventh son, Zhao Ji.

He leapt to his feet with a “bang!”: “Yan Prince, what do you want in my mansion?!”

Zhao Ti shook his head: “I forgot—you’re a master painter yourself. No need to summon the Imperial Painting Academy; you can paint it yourself. Where is your painting? Let me admire it.”

“Yan Prince, you’re going too far!” Zhao Ji’s face turned ashen—he never imagined his enemy would retaliate so swiftly: barely had the fight ended, and here he came.

Zhao Ti glanced at the guests, who wore the attire of idle literati from the capital, then frowned: “I must settle some family matters. Bring these gentlemen out of the mansion!”

The literati, already intimidated by his aura and now learning he was the Yan Prince, dared not move; as soon as Zhao Ti spoke, they didn’t wait for Su Da and Yu Er to “escort” them—they rose at once and fled toward the exit.

“This is my mansion—you have no right to command! Everyone, don’t—” Zhao Ji cried urgently, but the guests paid no heed; they clearly recognized it as an imperial family matter and dared not even glance, fearing trouble would cling to them.

“Yan Prince, you humiliate me too much…” Zhao Ji’s eyes flashed, furious.

“Not humiliating—not at all,” Zhao Ti smiled. “When you strutted before my mansion, didn’t you call me a mere warrior? Now I’ve come to show you exactly what a warrior is.”

As he spoke, his men drew their weapons; the clash of metal echoed loudly, reflecting the candlelight and pearl glimmers, cold shadows flashing, chilling air surging with deadly intent.

“Ah…” Zhao Ji’s expression shattered; he trembled, then suddenly turned and bolted for the back door of the hall…

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