CHAPTER FIFTY‑SEVEN — A FOX WITH BURNING EYES
Although Tang Ke Xin's performance had astonished the entire hall, many still remembered the girl she had once been—simple, foolish, and easily deceived. She had only recently recovered from her illness; how could she possibly understand the subtleties of imperial politics?
The Empress, seated beside the Emperor, felt her heart tighten. She knew her niece's past all too well. Tang Ke Xin had never been taught the art of navigating imperial tempers. One wrong word now could bring disaster. Yet the Empress could not warn her—not here, not in front of the court.
The Prime Minister's expression grew grave. His daughter had been foolish for eighteen years; her sudden clarity was still new, fragile. Matters of imperial intention were treacherous even for seasoned officials. If Tang Ke Xin spoke rashly—if she demanded Liu Ruyue's execution—she might provoke the Emperor's displeasure.
Imperial Concubine Ming's lips curved into a cold, mocking smile.
A fool who has only just regained her wits—how could she possibly grasp His Majesty's true meaning?
She waited eagerly for Tang Ke Xin to embarrass herself… and drag the Empress down with her.
All eyes turned to Tang Ke Xin.
She stepped forward, bowed gracefully, and spoke with calm clarity.
"Your Majesty, this humble girl is but a weak woman. Matters of justice and statecraft are beyond my understanding. I place my trust entirely in Your Majesty's wisdom."
A ripple of shock swept through the hall.
Her answer was perfect.
It acknowledged her position, respected the Emperor's authority, and avoided contradicting his intentions. It was precisely what the Emperor wished to hear.
The Emperor's stern expression softened. A faint smile touched his lips.
"Very well. Since Xin'er entrusts this matter to me, I shall handle it on her behalf."
Relief washed over the Empress and the Prime Minister.
Imperial Concubine Ming's face drained of colour. Her eyes widened in disbelief.
How could this girl—this fool—answer so flawlessly?
Even Old General Li looked momentarily stunned.
"Guards," the Emperor commanded, "take Liu Ruyue to the prison. Tomorrow, the Ministry of Justice will interrogate her. Find her accomplices. Execute them together."
Liu Ruyue's knees buckled. Her face turned ashen, drained of all blood.
Tang Ke Xin's brows drew together. She knew what imperial interrogation meant. Liu Ruyue would suffer a fate far worse than death. In truth, killing her now would have been kinder.
But the Emperor had made his decision.
"Xin'er," the Emperor continued, "you have suffered greatly today and were nearly wronged. To compensate you, I shall reward you with the blood‑jade bracelets from the Northern Kingdom."
Gasps echoed through the hall.
The blood‑jade bracelets—rare treasures said to appear only once in a thousand years. Even Imperial Concubine Ming had begged for them repeatedly, yet the Emperor had never granted her one.
And now… he gave them to Tang Ke Xin.
Imperial Concubine Ming's face twisted with fury.
Even the Empress was taken aback. She had once refused the bracelets, and the Emperor had withdrawn them in displeasure. Why offer them now?
Ye Lan Chen stared, stunned.
Ye Lan Jue's dark eyes deepened, unreadable.
Tang Ke Xin bowed.
"This humble girl thanks Your Majesty for his gracious reward."
The banquet dissolved soon after. The Prime Minister was summoned to the imperial study, and Tang Ke Xin prepared to leave the palace.
But as she passed through the flower garden, she noticed a lone figure seated beneath a pavilion.
The Third Prince.
Tang Ke Xin paused.
Why is he still here? The banquet is over. Should he not have left?
Should she greet him?
He had helped her in the hall—but that did not necessarily mean anything. He had his own motives.
She turned to leave.
But the moment she stepped away, she felt his gaze—cold, sharp—fall upon her back.
She froze.
The Third Prince's gaze was not something one ignored.
Tang Ke Xin turned back, walked to the pavilion, and bowed.
"This humble girl greets Your Highness."
He did not look pleased.
His eyes swept over her—cool, assessing, faintly irritated.
"Are you satisfied?" he asked suddenly.
His voice was not the usual calm, icy monotone. There was something else beneath it—something darker, sharper.
Tang Ke Xin understood at once.
He was referring to the events in the hall.
She bowed again.
"This humble girl thanks Your Highness for his assistance."
He snorted softly.
"Hmph. You think highly of yourself."
Tang Ke Xin blinked.
What does that mean?
Was he implying she believed he helped her out of kindness?
Or that she was taking credit for something he orchestrated?
She studied him quietly.
Another trait of the Third Prince revealed itself—his arrogance was boundless.
"This king finds your abilities… unexpectedly impressive," he said at last, his tone unreadable.
"Is Your Highness praising this humble girl?" she asked cautiously.
He did not answer.
Instead, he asked, "Do you play chess?"
Tang Ke Xin stared at him.
Chess?
Now?
"Play with me," he said, his voice softening ever so slightly.
Tang Ke Xin hesitated.
"Your Highness, my father is waiting for me—"
"I have already sent word for the Prime Minister to return home."
Tang Ke Xin froze.
He had dismissed her father.
He had been waiting for her.
Her heart gave a small, startled jolt.
"Then… how am I to return?" she asked weakly.
The faintest curve touched his lips.
"You will return when I allow it."
Tang Ke Xin's mind spun.
He had waited for her.
He had dismissed her father.
He was now commanding her to stay.
Why?
She swallowed.
"This humble girl… does not know how to play."
"Yes," he replied simply.
A single word.
A command.
A refusal to let her leave.
Tang Ke Xin sighed inwardly and sat opposite him.
He began placing stones on the Go board—calm, precise, utterly focused.
She, meanwhile, was in chaos.
She could play Go—her adoptive commander had taught her well—but in this era, Tang Ke Xin was supposed to be a fool. If she played too well, she would expose herself.
So she played poorly.
Disastrously.
Yet the Third Prince did not react.
He continued the game with perfect composure, picking up her mistakes without a flicker of irritation.
His patience was unnerving.
Tang Ke Xin's lips twitched.
Only the Third Prince could remain so calm while playing against someone this terrible.
But then she realised something else.
He was not trying to win.
He was prolonging the game.
Every time she blundered, he adjusted the board subtly, ensuring the match continued.
If this went on…
They would be here all night.
A fox was always a fox—no matter how still it sat, no matter how serene its expression, its nature remained sly, calculating, and impossible to read. And Ye Lan Jue was the most dangerous fox of them all.
Tang Ke Xin realised, with a sinking feeling, that he was deliberately prolonging the game. Every move she made—no matter how disastrously foolish—was quietly corrected, absorbed, or redirected by him. He was not playing to win.
He was playing to watch her.
To corner her.
To force her into revealing something she did not wish to reveal.
If she continued like this, she would be trapped for hours. She needed to divert him—quickly and cleanly—before he saw through her pretence.
Her fingers tightened around the Go stone. She lifted her gaze, meeting his dark, unreadable eyes.
"Your Highness," she said lightly, as though making casual conversation, "did you know beforehand that the Princess intended to present the secret manual today?"
The question was simple.
The implication was not.
It was a deliberate shift—an attempt to steer the conversation away from the chessboard and back toward the earlier events in the hall.
For a heartbeat, the Third Prince's hand paused above the board.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then he placed his stone with quiet precision, the soft click echoing between them.
Slowly, he lifted his eyes to hers.
The faintest curve touched his lips—not quite a smile, not quite a warning.
A fox's expression.
One that said:
You think you can distract me?
You think you can escape?
Very well. Let us see how far you dare to go.