Ze Ning was mute. As the term suggests, he could not speak.

  But how could a man who could not speak possibly hold military authority over the capital of the Great Song, sharing command of the imperial guards with Shang Xuan?

  It was well known that the position of Commander of the Pace Guards entailed overseeing thirty-seven cavalry battalions and twenty-six infantry battalions, managing the records of the imperial troops, and taking charge of their command, training, rotations, garrison duties, promotions, and disciplinary actions. The commander also accompanied the emperor on his journeys, stood guard at the imperial pace, and, during grand ceremonies, organized and led the ceremonial guard of the Ministry of Rites.

  Simply put, anyone who saw Ze Ning would instinctively forgive him.

  This was the ancestral hall of Yan Wang. Shang Xuan was the eldest son of Yan Wang, Zhao Dezhao, the emperor's grandnephew. Ze Ning, on the other hand, was the third son of Qin Wang, Zhao Defang—also of imperial blood, a royal kinsman.

  Though he could not speak, he could listen and write, rendering his muteness insignificant. Some even saw it as an advantage. If he could speak, his brilliance might have been too conspicuous—so much so that, rather than securing the prestigious seat of Commander of the Pace Guards, he might have instead invited jealousy and become the target of widespread resentment.

  No matter what others said, Ze Ning always looked at people with those sharp, piercing eyes—steadily, silently. He never spoke a word. He was always quiet, always cold. And no one could ever truly know what thoughts y behind that silent gaze.

  Currently, Ze Ning was writing.

  There was an elegance in the way he wrote.

  Before him stood a sacrificial altar of agarwood, with incense and candles burning atop it. He tilted his head slightly, one hand resting behind his back, while the other held the brush, carefully tracing each stroke. His lips were pressed together, carrying a subtle, effortless grace—not the kind of refinement born from nobility, for there was no air of superiority in his demeanor. Instead, there was a calm, almost detached serenity, a quietness devoid of expression. It made one feel that though he was physically present, his thoughts had long since drifted elsewhere—perhaps to a pce no one could ever reach.

  "The war between Song and Liao must not continue. If it does, defeat is inevitable."

  Ze Ning wrote each character with meticulous precision, every stroke deliberate and cautious. When he finished, he lifted his gaze to the man seated nearby in the sandalwood chair.

  His eyes were incomparably clear. To be looked at by him, even for just a moment, was an experience in itself.

  The man sitting in the chair clearly did not share Ze Ning's view. He did not even look at him. Instead, he gave a slight wave of his hand toward the paper on the table. With a soft rustling sound, the sheet lifted into the air and nded in his grasp.

  After a cursory gnce, he let out a cold ugh.

  "When it comes to waging war, the emperor always listens to Rong Yin. The Grand Chancellor of the Privy Council holds the military power—if he says fight, we fight; if he says stop, we stop. What business is it of ours to interfere? Whether the Great Song wins or loses, what does that have to do with you or me?

  Ze Ning, oh, Ze Ning, don't you think you're meddling too much? The emperor won't thank you for worrying about his empire. He'll only think you're scheming for his throne, trying to douse his ambitions with cold water. He's at the height of his campaign to recim Yan and Yun, and you go telling him ‘defeat is inevitable’? I'd say you're only asking to be dragged off and beheaded."

  The speaker had sharp, striking features, and his expression was bold and arrogant—mocking, disdainful, with an untamed wildness that refused to be subdued. He was Shang Xuan, the eldest son of the Yan Wang and, nominally, the foremost among the Four Powers.

  Of course, in reality, who led and who followed among them was not so easily determined. Shang Xuan's position at the top was merely a matter of circumstance:

  First, Ze Ning could not speak.

  Second, Liu Yin was always preoccupied.

  Third, Tong Wei despised trouble.

  That was all.

  Ze Ning met his gaze, his eyes unwavering—unblinking, unchanged, completely unreadable.

  It was his way of saying, I disagree.

  Yet he was not angry, despite having written only a single sentence while Shang Xuan had thrown back more than ten.

  "I know you think I'm wrong. In fact, it seems like you've never once thought I was right." Shang Xuan's voice was sharp, almost venomous. "You and I are different, Ze Ning. You only care about what is best for the Great Song. But what I care about is—"

  Before he could finish, Ze Ning abruptly smmed his brush against the table with a sharp pa!

  Shang Xuan froze for a moment, then chuckled. "Are you trying to silence me?" He leaned back, unbothered. "Let me tell you something—I, Shang Xuan, have never done anything in the dark that I wouldn't dare say aloud. Yes, these words may be treasonous, but I don't care. You know that."

  His ughter was cold, almost mocking. "The only thing I care about is when Zhao Jiong will die. He took an axe and killed Emperor Taizu—that was how he seized the throne. If he hadn′t murdered his own brother, my father would be emperor right now—"

  Before Shang Xuan could go on, Ze Ning swiftly lifted a sheet of paper.

  "—And you would be the Crown Prince, the next emperor?" The words on the paper were concise and sharp. Ze Ning's gaze was steady. "Shang Xuan, do you truly care about that?"

  Shang Xuan had no time to respond before Ze Ning picked up another sheet.

  "You don't. You simply refuse to accept it. You can't accept that your father, once destined for the throne, was reduced to a mere Wugong Wang, forced to bow before the emperor. You just—"

  The sentence was left unfinished.

  With a flick of his wrist, Ze Ning sent the half-written paper fluttering toward Shang Xuan—only for it to disintegrate into fragments midair. In one swift motion, he swept his sleeve across the table, destroying every slip of paper he had just written, leaving no trace behind.

  Shang Xuan immediately became alert—Ze Ning could not speak, but his hearing was sharp. He must have heard something.

  Almost as soon as the shredded paper touched the ground, footsteps echoed outside the door.