The words “hired murderer” seemed to hover above Mama Jiao’s head like a sword about to fall.
Madam Wei, catching the flicker of panic in her eyes, immediately understood that if Mama Jiao remained here, she might expose herself. Composing her expression into one of concern, she said softly,
“I told you to rest, yet you wouldn’t listen. You’ve had a fever several times these past days, and still you insist on attending to matters. Go down and rest, quickly—otherwise outsiders might say that we of the Duke’s Mansion mistreat our servants.”
Understanding the hidden meaning perfectly, Mama Jiao bowed low. Her voice was tight.
“Thank you, Madam, for your concern.”
She performed a respectful salute [(a formal curtsey of both hands folded in front of the chest)] and hastily withdrew.
As her footsteps faded beyond the courtyard, Du Jingyi’s soft voice rose—whether by chance or intention, none could tell.
“Everyone in our East Garden has fallen ill these few days. Could it be that something… unclean has entered the Duke’s Mansion?”
At those words, Mama Jiao—who had not yet stepped past the threshold—stumbled slightly. A shiver rippled through her body as a dreadful realization flashed in her mind. Yet she dared not look back. She lowered her head, bent at the waist, and fled the hall as if chased by ghosts.
All eyes turned then toward the man bound and groaning on the floor. The air inside the hall grew heavy. Though Madam Wei knew every truth behind the assassination, she forced her expression into calm civility. Showing weakness now would be fatal.
She took a delicate breath, composed her voice, and addressed the commander of the Jingji Division [(the Imperial Capital Security Bureau responsible for criminal and political cases)].
“Commander, thank you for rescuing His Grace. Our household is still in chaos. I shall send a proper gift to your residence tomorrow to express our gratitude for handling this case.”
The commander’s face brightened. A favor from the Duke’s family was not something one refused. Bowing deeply, he clasped his fists.
“You are too kind, Madam.”
Without another word, he signaled his men and withdrew. The heavy boots of the Jingji Division soldiers soon faded down the corridor, leaving the Yunjin Courtyard steeped once more in uneasy quiet.
Madam Wei exhaled softly, then turned toward Madam Xing with a thin, practiced smile.
“There are still matters at home that require my attention. Madam Xing, might I trouble you to step aside for now?”
Madam Xing arched a brow, her voice carrying a hint of mockery.
“Oh? You’ve barely held the household keys for a few days, and already you no longer wish to acknowledge me as a relative of the Gu family? After all, His Grace the Duke is my cousin by marriage. It’s only natural for me to express concern when such a grave event occurs.”
“That is true,” Madam Wei replied coolly, her tone sharp as the edge of a jade hairpin. “But this is an internal matter of the Shang family. I must ask Madam Xing to give way.”
Her words were carefully measured, yet each syllable drew a clear boundary. Years in the Inner Court [(the women’s quarters where noble ladies learned restraint and intrigue)] had taught Madam Wei how to wound without raising her voice.
Isolated and unwelcomed, Madam Xing’s presence now seemed inappropriate.
Before the atmosphere grew tenser, Du Jingyi interjected gently, her tone light and courteous.
“Eldest Sister-in-law and Eighth Sister have been unwell these days. They’ve been missing Aunt dearly. Why not visit them? I’m sure your presence will lift their spirits.”
Madam Xing hesitated for a heartbeat, then nodded, unwilling to linger further.
“Very well. I shall go see them.”
Gathering her son Xing Zhao, she left the Yunjin Courtyard in silence.
When the footsteps faded, only four masters remained within the hall:
Madam Wei and her son Shang Silang;
Shang Ji and his wife Du Jingyi.
Two factions within one family—east wind and west wind—each contending for dominance. Sometimes one prevailed, sometimes the other. But rarely did the two stand face to face like this, with no outsiders to soften the blows.
Madam Wei wished to bring this confrontation to an end.
Shang Ji, however, desired the opposite. He wanted a reckoning.
His cold eyes shifted toward the bound assassin.
“Will you confess on your own,” he asked, his tone calm yet chilling, “or must I make you speak?”
The man on the floor had heard of General Shang Ji’s fearsome reputation. But hearing stories and standing before the man himself were worlds apart.
For a moment, he grit his teeth, trying to feign courage.
Without even raising his eyes, Shang Ji waved a hand.
Luo Yuan, his trusted aide, stepped forward and with one brutal motion—crack!—snapped the man’s right leg.
The sound of bone breaking echoed through the hall.
The prisoner’s muffled cry was strangled by the cloth gag in his mouth. As sweat began to roll down his temples like rain.
“What now?” Shang Ji asked softly, his voice cutting through the air like frost. “Will you confess, or shall I continue?”
The assassin’s body trembled violently. He nodded again and again, desperate, pleading.
Luo Yuan crouched down, pulling the gag from his mouth and murmured close to his ear,
“Don’t even think of dying yet. I have ten thousand ways to make sure you cannot.”
The words were spoken to the assassin—but their true meaning was not lost on those watching.
Madam Wei’s fingers tightened around her embroidered handkerchief [(a token of propriety for noblewomen, often used to mask expression)] until it nearly tore apart. Regret coursed through her. What folly—what fatal mistake she had made!
If he could be this merciless to an outsider, what would he do if he discovered who had truly ordered the killing?
Across from her, Shang Silang merely looked on, pale and shaken, his mind too dull to grasp the layered warning hidden in Luo Yuan’s tone.
The assassin’s agony rose to a breaking point.
“I confess! I confess!”
Shang Ji’s voice was like steel. “Speak.”
“It—it was a woman,” the man gasped, trembling. “Medium build. She paid me to shoot the man in the carriage. If I’d known he was the Duke himself, I swear I’d never have accepted!”
His voice cracked with despair. He had thought it merely a family feud. The woman had insisted the target not be killed—only wounded—so he had not hesitated. How could he have known the victim was the Duke of the capital’s most powerful mansion?
Regret now consumed him.
“Medium build?” Shang Ji’s tone was deceptively calm. “How old? Did you see her face?”
Du Jingyi, graceful even in silence, asked gently, “And did she speak with any accent? Or wear anything distinctive?”
Her questions were precise and measured. But each word made Madam Wei’s heart pound faster.
“She looked to be in her forties,” the man stammered. “When I saw her, there was a screen between us. I… I didn’t get a clear look at her face.”
He gasped for air, his face pale as paper. The pain of his shattered leg made him tremble uncontrollably.
Madam Wei seized the moment to twist the narrative.
“The master has always been kind and has never made enemies. A woman in her forties, wealthy enough to hire a killer—surely not an ordinary person. Perhaps,” she said, turning toward Shang Ji, “someone from another family holds a grudge against you, Liu Lang, and could not strike you directly—so they vented their hatred on your father instead.”
[(Note: “Liu Lang” is Shang Ji’s courtesy name, used within the family by elders or equals.)]
Her words were smooth and seemingly reasonable—a perfect attempt to deflect suspicion.
Shang Silang, ever the fool, nodded eagerly.
“Mother is right! It must be so. Father suffered misfortune because of Sixth Brother.”
At that, Du Jingyi could no longer restrain a soft laugh.
Only now did she truly grasp how hopelessly naïve Shang Silang was.
Same father, different mothers—yet how vast the difference between them. Her husband, Shang Ji, could command troops, strategize in war, and manage the entire household with precision. But this so-called Fourth Brother? He could be led astray by a few casual words.
How ridiculous.
The delicate sound of her laughter drifted through the tense hall. Madam Wei’s eyes darkened at once.
How could she bear to see her son ridiculed? Her tone sharpened like a whip.
“Did the Du family never teach you decorum? What do you mean by laughing?”
Du Jingyi lifted her gaze, unflinching.
“Fourth Brother is already in his thirties,” she replied softly but firmly. “Should he not think before he speaks? You, Madam, have only made guesses. Yet he takes them as truth and throws blame upon the General without hesitation. If I laugh, it is only because he acts before thinking.”
Her voice was calm, her words impeccable—neither insolent nor submissive, yet cutting through pretense like a blade wrapped in silk.
The hall fell utterly silent.