The morning after the disastrous reception, the Imperial Household Department's accounting offices were no longer a place of mere anxiety; they were a chamber of mortal terror. The usual chaotic symphony of clicking abacuses and rustling paper was gone, replaced by a suffocating, dead silence. The air was cold, and it carried the metallic tang of fear.
The doors had been thrown open not by junior clerks, but by a detachment of the Palace Guard. These were not the ceremonial sentries who stood like statues at the main gates. These were Cixi's handpicked men, hard-faced veterans of the Manchu banners whose loyalty was absolute and whose methods were brutal. They moved with grim efficiency, their armor clinking ominously as they began seizing ledgers, sealing document chests, and blocking all exits.
Liang Wen stood frozen by his small desk in the corner, his blood turning to ice in his veins. A cold dread, slick and oily, washed over him, making his knees weak. This was it. The investigation had begun, just as he knew it would. Prince Gong's public accusation required a source, and Cixi's fury required a sacrifice. He was the source. He would be the sacrifice. He pictured the torture chambers beneath the Board of Punishments, the instruments designed to extract confessions from the most resolute of men. He was a scholar, not a soldier. He feared he would break. He feared he would betray the strange, compelling child Emperor who had placed a sliver of impossible hope in his heart.
At the center of the room, Prince Su, the portly, sweating supervisor of the department, was already prostrated on the floor, his forehead pressed against the dusty flagstones. He was blubbering, begging for mercy, swearing his undying loyalty and his complete ignorance of any wrongdoing. His pleas were ignored.
Cixi's personal eunuchs, led by a tall, thin man named Yao, a particularly cruel subordinate of Li Lianying known for his inventive punishments, began the interrogation on the spot. They strode through the room, their silk robes whispering across the floor, their faces masks of cold contempt. They started with the senior clerks, dragging them from their desks, their questions sharp and venomous.
"Who has had access to these ledgers?" Eunuch Yao's voice was a high-pitched hiss. "Who speaks with the aides of Prince Gong? Who among you has a loose tongue and a traitor's heart?"
From his distant chambers in the Palace of Mental Cultivation, Ying Zheng was acutely aware of the unfolding crisis. He had received a terrified, one-word message from his contact, Little An, delivered with his morning tea: Guards. He needed no more detail. He knew Cixi's methods. She would tear the entire department apart, piece by piece, until she found the leak. He could not allow that. Liang Wen was his first true asset, a valuable and loyal tool. He could not be sacrificed.
Ying Zheng knew he had to act. He had to create a plausible alternative. He needed a scapegoat.
He sat cross-legged on his bed, his eyes closed. He reached out with his consciousness, his will soaring over the rooftops of the Forbidden City. He could not see into the accounting office, but he had a clear memory of its layout from his "tour." He remembered every detail, including the large, ornate bronze brazier used to warm the vast, drafty room in the colder months. It was early morning, and he knew the brazier would be unlit, filled with the cold, gray ash from the previous day.
He focused his will, gathering his internal power. This time he did not summon a raging inferno. He needed precision. He targeted a single point deep within the pile of cold charcoal ash at the bottom of the heavy bronze vessel. He sent a tiny, intense needle of pure heat into that spot, nurturing it for a moment, letting the residual charcoal dust around it begin to smolder invisibly. Then, with a final mental push, he made it erupt.
Back in the accounting office, as Eunuch Yao was screaming in the face of a terrified old clerk, the "unlit" brazier in the corner of the room burst into flame with a sudden, violent WHOOSH. A pillar of bright orange fire shot upwards, startling everyone in the room. The guards instinctively drew their swords. The eunuchs shrieked and leaped back.
In the ensuing chaos, a sheaf of loose accounting papers, which had been placed on a small table right beside the brazier just an hour earlier by a "careless" junior clerk—another one of Little An's terrified but obedient recruits—caught fire. The dry paper ignited instantly.
"The records! Put it out, you fools!" Eunuch Yao screamed, his investigation momentarily forgotten in the face of destroying imperial documents, a crime in itself.
Guards and clerks rushed forward, stamping on the flames and throwing sand from decorative urns onto the brazier. When the smoke finally cleared, the fire was out. But the evidence had been transformed. Eunuch Yao stalked over and examined the charred, blackened remains of the papers. Through the soot, he could still make out columns of figures. They were copies of internal transaction records, and they showed a series of minor, but clear, discrepancies—small sums of money moved without proper authorization, numbers fudged on supply requisitions. They were the records of petty, everyday corruption, and they were all traceable directly to the oversight of the department head, Prince Su.
The narrative snapped into place with perfect, damning clarity. It was obvious. The fire was no accident. The fat, sweating Prince Su, fearing that a random audit might uncover his own minor embezzlements, had tried to destroy the evidence. And to create a distraction big enough to hide his crime, he must have been the one who leaked the far larger, more explosive pearl scandal to Prince Gong. It was a desperate, foolish gambit by a cornered, guilty man.
Eunuch Yao's lips curled into a cruel, satisfied smile. He had found his culprit.
"Seize him," he commanded, pointing a long, pale finger at Prince Su. "The Empress Dowager will be most interested to hear of his treachery."
Prince Su was hauled to his feet and dragged away in chains, his screams of innocence and confusion echoing through the silent, terrified hall.
Liang Wen, watching from his corner, felt his knees go weak with a feeling that was no longer fear. He had been certain of his own doom. He had watched the guards come, had heard the screams, and had braced for the inevitable. And then, a fire had burst from a dead brazier. He had seen the papers catch flame, papers he knew hadn't been there the day before. He understood, with a clarity that shook his very soul, what had just happened. He had just witnessed another impossible event, a miracle of fire and smoke that had saved his life and perfectly framed his corrupt, incompetent superior.
His fear dissolved, burned away by the impossible fire. It was replaced by an awe so profound, so deep, it was almost religious. The Emperor was not just a clever child. He was not just a symbol of hope. He was a master of fire and fate. He was a power unlike any this world had ever known. Liang Wen was no longer just a conspirator, bound by a shared secret. He was now a true believer, a disciple bound by faith.