At Prosperity Hall, the air was thick with unspoken tension. The once-bustling trading house, known for its caravans and gleaming merchandise, now stood like a fortress. Guards posted at the entrances gripped their spears and swords, shifting restlessly in their armor. Some mercenaries adjusted their leather bracers, exchanging uneasy glances with each other.

Zhao Ming strode into the main hall with a calm, deliberate pace, his deep blue cloak trailing behind him. There, near the central stairwell where maps and ledgers once hung, stood Murong De, arms crossed over his chest, his face grim yet steady.

"How are the preparations?" Zhao Ming asked, his voice low but clear.

Murong De turned to him with a slight nod. "We've evacuated the employees’ families inside the hall. Most of the inner chambers have been reinforced—furniture stacked, doors barred. If it comes to it, they’ll have places to hide." He paused, before adding, "I've also pulled more guards back to the Murong estate. Right now, we've done everything we can."

Zhao Ming exhaled slowly, surveying the room. He knew Murong De spoke the truth. It was all they could do. After all, they were not facing a trained army—these were desperate, starving refugees, pushed to the brink by neglect and cruelty.

Still, the weight of it pressed on his heart.

His eyes drifted toward the gathered guards and mercenaries. Their faces were taut with apprehension, their movements stiff. This was not the kind of battle they were trained for. They were not fighting invaders or bandits. Today, they might be forced to strike down helpless men, women, even teenagers—people who might, under different circumstances, have been customers, workers, neighbors.

Zhao Ming's gaze sharpened slightly. He turned back to Murong De. "Did you prepare what I asked for? To hinder or capture, not slaughter?"

Murong De gave a grim smile, as if appreciating Zhao Ming's efforts to maintain some humanity in the coming chaos. "Yes. We've readied nets to entangle them. Buckets of oil—mostly for slicking the streets, not burning. And we've built makeshift blockades at key alleys to slow their movements. If it comes to a clash, we’ll try to trap and subdue rather than kill."

"Good." Zhao Ming nodded, relieved. "Let's hope the sight of barriers and armed men will frighten them back—or at least deter them enough to change their course."

His hand lightly tapped the hilt of the sword at his waist—not out of aggression, but in habit, a silent readiness.

"I'd rather they head straight for the Governor's banquet," Zhao Ming muttered, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Let the ones responsible for their suffering taste the consequences firsthand."

Murong De gave a curt nod, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Agreed. It's better that the banquet falls into chaos. They built those camps like pens for animals and thought the people would simply endure forever. If there must be a reckoning, let it fall on their heads."

Together, the two men walked to the balcony at the front of the hall, gazing out over the awakening city.

The first rays of dawn crested the horizon, casting a pale golden glow over the streets. In the distance, festive banners fluttered lazily in the breeze. Soon, noble carriages would roll toward the Governor’s mansion, heavy with laughter and pride, utterly oblivious to the storm gathering just beyond the walls.

Zhao Ming’s hand tightened slightly over the balcony rail.
The banquet would begin soon.
And the riot would not be far behind.

At the grand banquet hall of the Governor’s Mansion, the atmosphere was thick with the scent of roasted meats, rare wines, and the underlying current of ambition. Servants scurried like well-trained ants, their silk uniforms spotless, as they made final adjustments to the long tables and glittering decorations. The heavy red draperies swayed gently in the winter breeze, framing the grandeur of the occasion.

Near the entrance, Aide Chen stood at attention, his face a mask of polite servility. As soon as he caught sight of the honored guest approaching, he stepped forward with a low bow.

"Young Master Zhao," Aide Chen said smoothly, his voice carrying just enough deference to please without sounding weak. "Welcome. The Governor is honored by your presence."

Zhao Feng strutted into the hall with a haughty air, his richly embroidered robe sweeping behind him. His thin lips curved into a self-satisfied smile as his eyes swept over the lavish preparations—the golden lanterns, the meticulously arranged feast, the rows of finely dressed nobles awaiting him.

"Hmph," Zhao Feng snorted approvingly. "Kong Rong finally understands how to show proper respect to someone of my stature."

"Naturally, Young Master," Aide Chen said, keeping pace beside him. "Please, allow me to guide you to your seat."

As Zhao Feng made his way through the hall, nobles and minor officials practically fell over themselves to greet him. Some bowed low, others offered sycophantic compliments—about his wisdom, his family’s illustrious ties, his future greatness. Zhao Feng lapped up the attention like a thirsty man at a spring. Every smile, every bow, seemed to inflate him further, until he practically floated toward the main table.

Feeling magnanimous in his triumph, Zhao Feng chuckled and said in a voice loud enough for those around him to hear, "Tonight, I shall invite a few of you to my manor. I’ll ensure you're well entertained—with some very special services."

Aide Chen, catching the meaning without missing a beat, leaned in and said smoothly, "Rest assured, Young Master. I have already prepared a new selection. Some fresh flowers, well-tamed and trained, awaiting your pleasure."

Zhao Feng gave a smug nod, though he clicked his tongue in dissatisfaction. "Make sure they're top-notch this time. The last batch was... a disappointment."

Aide Chen bowed his head respectfully. "This humble one understands."

Finally reaching the main table, Zhao Feng sank into the seat reserved for him, lounging comfortably like a king surveying his court. The seat was at Kong Rong’s right hand—a place of prominence that made it clear to all exactly where the power in the room now leaned.

The majority of the guests had arrived, their laughter and clinking cups filling the vast hall. It was time to officially begin.

With a sweep of his flowing official robes, Kong Rong emerged from behind the ornate screen at the head of the hall, climbing the short steps to the raised platform. He lifted a jade goblet high in greeting, his face adorned with a wide, welcoming smile.

"Honored guests, friends, esteemed nobles," he proclaimed, his voice carrying easily across the hall. "On this joyous occasion of the new year, let us give thanks for the blessings we have received—and for the prosperity yet to come!"

A polite chorus of applause echoed through the chamber.

Kong Rong turned slightly toward Zhao Feng, his tone growing warmer, almost oily. "We are especially honored by the presence of Young Master Zhao Feng, representative of the illustrious eunuch faction. His attendance blesses us all with opportunity and renewed strength for the future!"

The nobles turned their heads toward Zhao Feng, some raising their goblets, others nodding in respect. Zhao Feng, basking in the attention, barely suppressed a smug grin. He lifted his own goblet lazily in acknowledgment, letting the admiration wash over him.

Kong Rong, sensing the crowd’s mood, continued, "Let this banquet be a symbol of new beginnings—a brighter tomorrow for Beihai and all those who gather here!"

He ended with a theatrical flourish, prompting another wave of applause.

Satisfied, Kong Rong descended from the platform and took his seat next to Zhao Feng. At his signal, the festivities properly began.

Servants flooded the hall like a well-rehearsed army, carrying platters piled high with steaming delicacies—roast duck glazed in honey, spicy beef strips, delicate pastries shaped like flowers. Silver goblets brimmed with sweet wine.

And then, as the musicians struck up a lively tune, a troupe of dancers swept into the center of the hall. Their clothing was scandalously thin, their painted faces smiling seductively. With every twirl and sway, their revealing garments fluttered like petals in the wind, drawing appreciative whistles and hungry stares from the assembled nobles.

The music, the wine, the laughter—it all flowed together into a heady river of indulgence.

As music floated through the air and servants bustled about presenting steaming dishes, the female side of the banquet hall unfolded into a more subdued but no less intricate affair.

Here, the atmosphere was one of delicate propriety. Women were seated according to strict hierarchy—wives of magistrates and officials arranged according to their husbands' ranks, with the most honored guests positioned nearest the host.

At the head of this refined gathering sat Lady Kong, wife of Governor Kong Rong. Dressed in elegant but modest silks embroidered with peonies and cranes, she held court with a graceful air, her every movement measured and dignified. Beside her sat the highest-ranking madams, daintily sampling platters of sweet fruits, golden pastries, and lightly seasoned meats, carefully prepared to suit a lady's tastes.

Low conversation hummed among them—soft laughter, the clink of porcelain cups, and whispered exchanges over marriage prospects for unmarried daughters. As a young girl in flowing white robes plucked the strings of a qin and another accompanied her with the soft trill of a flute, the matriarchs of Beihai exchanged knowing smiles.

"My second daughter is of age this spring," murmured one Madam in lilting tones, "and quite accomplished in poetry, if I may say so."

"Indeed," another chimed in, fanning herself leisurely. "Perhaps a match can be made before summer. These times are too uncertain to delay."

Meanwhile, the younger misses gathered in small, giggling groups at the edge of the hall, adjusting their hair ornaments, rehearsing their performances, or murmuring lines of poetry. Each girl hoped to leave a favorable impression tonight—whether through a song, a painting, or a recited verse. Their excitement was palpable, a stark contrast to the tense undercurrent that ran through the gathering like an invisible thread.

Yet, not all present shared in the youthful anticipation.

One figure sat apart, noticeably isolated at a side table draped in white silk.

A slender young miss, clad in a light blue dress embroidered with modest silver threads, sat quietly between two maids. Her head was slightly lowered, her delicate fingers listlessly tracing the rim of her teacup. Her face was pale, her small mouth pressed into a thin, resigned line.

The two maids flanking her—both wearing the Kong family's emblem—stood stiffly, their expressions void of sympathy, their eyes cool and detached. They occasionally leaned down, murmuring perfunctory reminders.

"Young Miss, you should partake in some fruits," one said in a soft but insistent tone.
"Or at least drink some tea," urged the other.

The girl gave a slight nod but did not reach for the dishes laid before her. She lifted her tea cup slowly, as if it weighed more than she could bear, and merely sipped without tasting.

Her presence had not gone unnoticed.

Several of the seated madams, curious about the solitary young lady, leaned in and whispered discreetly to Lady Kong. One of them, a sharp-eyed Madam dressed in plum-colored silk, asked in a voice low enough to escape casual ears, "Who is that child sitting alone, Lady Kong?"

Lady Kong, smiling with the practiced ease of a hostess accustomed to political intrigue, responded with quiet poise. "That is Lu Qianyi, daughter of Inspector Lu Zhi. She will be entering Young Master Zhao Feng’s manor tonight."

At her words, a ripple of understanding passed through the group. A few of the madams exchanged meaningful glances, lips curling into polite but knowing smiles.

"Ah, what a brilliant move," one Madam praised, her voice dripping with veiled admiration.
"Truly, the Governor’s wisdom is unmatched," another added, raising her cup in a subtle toast.

They knew well enough—marrying or gifting daughters to powerful figures was an age-old method to secure favor. With the eunuch faction rising, this was nothing less than a strategic sacrifice.

Meanwhile, Lu Qianyi sat in silence, each polite whisper and knowing glance hammering into her heart like cold nails.

She lowered her eyes, trying to shut out the reality around her. Her mind drifted—anxiously wondering if the secret letter she had sent had reached Luoyang, if her father had even received her desperate warning.

And then, unbidden, another image entered her mind.

A young man’s face. Calm, composed, with eyes that had shown a rare trace of kindness toward her—Zhao Ming.

She had barely spoken to him, had scarcely exchanged more than a few words. And yet, for a girl so sheltered and inexperienced with men, that small moment of courtesy had etched itself into her memory.

It doesn’t matter now, she thought bitterly, her slender fingers tightening around the warm porcelain cup. Tonight, I will belong to Zhao Feng.

Her chest tightened with a mix of helplessness and dread. She turned her head slightly to look out through the open windows.

The sky above was clouded, an ominous shade of gray tinged faintly with red—a strange, unnatural hue for a day not yet at noon.

It was as if the heavens themselves reflected her despair.

Unseen by the guests still basking in music and wine, the world outside was beginning to shift.

And somewhere beyond the gilded walls, chaos was stirring. One that would turn this night of revelry into a nightmare.