Li Fan stopped trying to look like a minister. In the kitchens, the laundries, and the servant's halls, he looked like what he was: a man in slightly-too-nice robes who was curious and didn't look down on you.
He started in the main kitchens, a cavern of steam and clatter and glorious, chaotic smells. He didn't barge in. He lingered at the edge, watching the organized frenzy. He saw an elderly cook, her face flushed, constantly shifting between three cutting boards in a frustrating dance.
After her shift, as she sat on a stool wiping her brow, Li Fan approached. He held a cup of cool water. "A busy day," he said, offering it.
She eyed him warily but took the cup. "Every day is busy. The court eats like a thousand horses."
"I was watching your knife work. Impressive," he said, nodding to the stations. "But you have to walk ten paces between each board. If you put the vegetable station here," he pointed to a vacant spot near the central fire, "and the meat board here, you'd turn twenty steps into two. Save your old legs."
She stared at him, then at the layout, her tired eyes calculating. A slow grin spread across her face. "Huh. You're not just a pretty robe." The next day, the station was rearranged. She gave him a hefty meat pie, "for the smart advice." She also told him which nobles sent back dishes for being "too plain" (the ones drowning in debt) and which ones always over-tipped (the ones with new, secret revenue streams).
In the laundry yard, he "gifted" a young worker straining with a heavy wet sheet a simple tip about using a twisted rope as a lever to wring it out. In return, he learned which junior officials' robes often smelled of a particular, expensive perfume from the Pleasure Quarter, and which guards' uniforms had hidden tears repaired poorly—men likely skipping patrols.
He traded efficiency for empathy, respect for rumors. The information was fragmented, petty, human. Who was sleeping with whom. Who gambled. Who had a sick child needing expensive medicine. Who was rude, and who was secretly kind.
He collected these scraps like a beggar collecting bits of string, weaving them together on a mental loom at night in his room. He cross-referenced the gossip with the dry, technical data from the vein logs and his own Seal-augmented maps of energy loss.
The pattern emerged slowly, then with stunning clarity.
The territories overseen by Minister Hao were suffering severe energy drains. Minister Hao was currently rumored to be having a disastrous affair with the wife of a prominent merchant, a scandal Liu's faction was "helping him manage."
The western granary lands, supervised by Commander Fen, were also hit hard. Commander Fen was deeply in debt from gambling, and was frequently seen at "private poetry readings" hosted by Elder Liu's grand-nephew.
Every single official whose territories were being bled dry by the "vein crisis" had a major, exploitable vulnerability. And every single one had recently been in close, private contact with Liu's network.
It wasn't random. It wasn't just sabotage for power.
It was a coordinated, political squeeze play.
The energy wasn't just being stolen. It was being used as a weapon to weaken specific rivals. The "crisis" created a pretext for Liu to offer "assistance"—loans, political cover, dispute mediation—to these vulnerable officials. They were being cornered, their territories weakened, their secrets known, and their only lifeline was the very faction orchestrating their distress. Liu wasn't just aiming for the throne; he was systematically acquiring the court, one indebted, compromised official at a time.
Li Fan sat back, the mosaic of gossip and data complete before his mind's eye. The sheer, elegant ruthlessness of it took his breath away. This was politics of a higher, more vicious order. This was using the literal lifeblood of the land as leverage in a silent takeover.
He had the motive now. Not just power, but total, quiet dominion.
The information was a treasure map. It was also a live bomb. If Liu knew he had pieced this together, the next arrow wouldn't miss. The next cave-in would have no gaps.
He looked at the rough notes he'd scrawled—just meaningless names and numbers to anyone else. To him, it was the blueprint of a conspiracy.
He had built a network of whispers. And the whispers had just shouted a devastating truth. Now he had to decide what to do with a weapon he couldn't afford to fire, and a truth he couldn't afford to speak.