Chapter 428 Back Already?

Chapter 428: Back?

This sudden, folksy display of affection clearly caught the checkpoint clerk off guard too.

He studied Cheng Ge's frank, slightly rough smile, then looked at the "woman's" embarrassed, almost shrinking posture. Much of the scrutiny and suspicion faded from his eyes.

They really did look like a pair of country folk—unsophisticated, rough around the edges, but clearly devoted to each other.

The clerk flipping through the ledger beside him also glanced up, the corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly, as if he found it amusing, before turning back to his ledger.

The clerk cleared his throat and waved a hand, his tone carrying a hint of impatience: "Enough, enough—out in public like this! What a spectacle! Hurry up and show me your travel permit!"

Only then did Cheng Ge seem to realize how inappropriate it looked. He let out an awkward chuckle and let go of Lin Nanshu's waist, but before pulling his hand away, he gave Lin Nanshu's stiff lower back two gentle, reassuring pats.

Lin Nanshu took the opportunity to quickly step back half a pace, still keeping his head lowered. Only at the roots of his ears, beneath the deliberately darkened makeup, did a faint, barely visible flush of real color rise—

Cheng Ge hastily produced the prepared travel pass from inside his robe and handed it over with both hands.

"Which relative are you going to? What's their name? Where do they live? Tell me everything—don't get anything wrong."

Cheng Ge was well prepared and answered without hesitation, offering a mix of truth and lies, naming a small grocery merchant in the southern city—the kind of small household that came and went often, making them hard to verify.

The questioning went on for a while. The clerk picked up the forged travel pass, held it up to the light to check the seal, then muttered something to his colleague.

The colleague tapped a spot in the ledger and shook his head.

"Open your luggage. We're checking it," the clerk said, setting the pass aside.

Two soldiers stepped forward and started searching their packs and saddlebags thoroughly.

Cheng Ge's face took on just the right amount of nervousness as he rubbed his hands together. Lin Nanshu kept his face half-hidden, turning slightly away as if he couldn't bear to watch the soldiers rifling through their meager belongings.

The soldiers searched meticulously—even breaking apart the dried rations to check inside and pouring out a few drops from the water skin to sniff.

In the end, they found nothing but a few old clothes, some loose copper coins, and dried provisions.

The clerk still seemed a bit unsatisfied, his gaze sweeping over Cheng Ge and Lin Nanshu again: "I see you two are carrying weapons?"

Cheng Ge immediately explained: "Your honor, the roads aren't safe. These two old knives are just for self-defense—they're dull as hell, barely good for chopping firewood. See, they're even chipped along the edge."

He gestured for the soldiers to inspect the two worn, unremarkable waist sabers.

After checking them, the soldiers nodded to the clerk.

Only then did the clerk pull a wooden stamp from under the table, press it firmly onto a rough slip of paper, and toss it to Cheng Ge:

"Keep this safe—it's your temporary entry permit. You've got three days to report your exact address to the Southern City Military Office.

Remember: the capital is under martial law. Curfew's been moved up—no lingering on the streets after the you hour. No gathering, no gossiping about sensitive matters. Violators will be severely punished!"

"Yes, yes—thank you, sir, thank you!" Cheng Ge took the slip, bowing over and over, then naturally reached out and gently took Lin Nanshu's arm, murmuring, "Wife, let's get going. Don't hold up the officials."

Lin Nanshu, still half-covering his face, obediently let himself be guided, nodding slightly. The two of them passed through the checkpoint with the few others who'd been cleared, heading toward the city gate tunnel.

Passing through the tunnel, the long street opened up before them—but it was like a painting drained of all life.

It was already broad daylight, but there were few pedestrians on the street, and every one of them walked quickly, eyes fixed straight ahead.

At this hour in the old days, the street would've been alive with peddlers hawking their goods and steaming breakfast stalls. Now there were only tightly shut doors and the occasional patrol of soldiers marching by.

The sound of horse hooves on the cobblestones was unusually clear. Cheng Ge and Lin Nanshu exchanged a quick, barely noticeable glance and both quickened their pace.

They wound through several narrow, cramped alleys, finally stopping at the back door of a small inn with a shabby storefront and a crooked sign.

Lin Nanshu knocked three times, in a pattern. The door creaked open from inside, revealing a lean, sharp-eyed middle-aged man.

He took in the people outside—and when his gaze landed on Lin Nanshu in particular, his pupils suddenly contracted. He quickly moved aside.

"Upstairs. The room at the end," he said in a barely audible voice.

The four of them slipped inside. The innkeeper poked his head out to quickly scan the alley, confirmed no one was following, then shut and barred the door with swift, decisive movements.

Upstairs, in the room, the innkeeper personally closed and latched the windows and door, then turned and walked straight to Lin Nanshu. He lifted the hem of his robe, half-bowed, and spoke in a voice trembling with long-suppressed excitement and relief: "Young Master! You're finally back!"

Lin Nanshu had already reached up to pull off the faded blue cloth from his head, letting his dark hair fall loose as he casually tucked it behind his ears.

The grime deliberately smeared on his face hadn't been washed off yet, but his bearing—calm and formidable—was already completely transformed.

He reached out slightly to wave him up, his voice steady: "No need for that. Fusheng, what's happened in the city?"

The innkeeper, Fusheng, straightened up, the joy on his face quickly giving way to a deeper worry.

He instinctively glanced toward the window again, though the thick paper over it showed nothing.

"Young Master," he said in a hushed voice, trembling, "you... you should return to the manor at once! The Patriarch... he went into the palace a few days ago and hasn't come out since!"

Lin Nanshu's fingers, resting on the edge of the table, suddenly tightened. He took a sharp step forward.

"What did you say?" Lin Nanshu's voice remained steady—too steady, like a deep pool beneath a layer of ice. "Grandfather... what happened to him?"

Cheng Ge stood to the side, clearly seeing Lin Nanshu's hand trembling.

He'd never seen Lin Nanshu lose his composure like this.

Fusheng didn't dare meet Lin Nanshu's eyes. He kept his head low and spoke quickly: "Six days ago, at the morning court, the Patriarch went into the palace for deliberations as usual. But that day... he never came out.

Seven or eight other officials were held in the palace along with him. Word from inside was that His Majesty was gravely ill and the officials were staying to discuss matters, but..."

He swallowed hard. "But that discussion has gone on for six days. The manor sent in requests for an audience—all of them were rejected. Last night, I managed to find out through connections..."

He paused, his voice nearly squeezed into a whisper by fear: "Of the officials who went into the palace that day, not one has been released. There are rumors going around that... that the heavens are about to change!"

A dull thud sounded as Lin Nanshu abruptly stood up, knocking over the teacup on the table, which shattered on the floor.

Cheng Ge stepped forward, about to say something, but saw Lin Nanshu's hand hanging at his side slowly clench into a fist.

"...What about the others in the manor?" Lin Nanshu spoke, his voice already back to normal—only deeper, heavier. "My father?"

Fusheng swallowed hard again, as if he had something difficult to say. Finally, keeping his head low, he said: "The Master... he's still at the manor, only..." He paused. "Only these past few days, the Master has taken two new concubines and spends his days feasting at the manor, saying... saying it adds a bit of festive cheer."

He finished, lowering his head even more, not daring to look at Lin Nanshu's face.

The room went silent for a beat.

Lin Nanshu didn't move. Didn't speak.

He just nodded slightly—as if he understood, or as if he were merely confirming an answer he'd long expected.

Cheng Ge stood to the side and clearly saw the hand at Lin Nanshu's side slowly clench into a fist.

“...Understood. You may go now. Keep an eye on the streets; if anything seems off, use the usual signal.”

“Yes.” Fusheng, as if granted a reprieve, bowed himself out, gently closing the door behind him.

Silence returned to the room. Cheng Ge watched Lin Nanshu's back.

He still stood there, motionless, shoulders squared, spine straight—no different from usual.

But the light filtering through the window fell on his profile, casting his already sallow face into deeper shadow.

“Yuli,” Cheng Ge called softly.

Lin Nanshu did not turn around, only closed his eyes briefly.

“Muyu,” he said, his voice very soft, “I need to go back to the estate.”

“I know,” Cheng Ge said.

The Lin clan is a sprawling, powerful house. The Grand Tutor had been held in the palace for six whole days, his fate unknown—by now, the entire household must be rife with anxiety. And that father of Lin Nanshu's, with his good-for-nothing disposition—taking concubines, feasting, deluding himself with talk of “boosting morale”—was hardly someone to rely on.

At a time like this, if the eldest grandson of the main line did not return to hold things together, chaos would surely follow.

He said no more, only walked to the table, set the knocked-over teacup upright, and swept the shards aside. His movements were gentle, making no sound.

Outside, the sky was a pale gray. The light that came through fell between them, like a thin, cold divide.

“The Grand Tutor is a statesman who served two dynasties, held in the esteem of the Emperor's tutor,” Cheng Ge said, speaking slowly. “On the late emperor's deathbed, it was the Grand Tutor who personally penned the edict of succession. No matter how bold those court officials are, they wouldn't dare move against him lightly.”

He did not say “which ones” or mention “treason.” He swallowed the words before they could be spoken. The walls have ears, even if it was just the two of them in this room. Lin Nanshu nodded, saying nothing more about his grandfather.

Lin Nanshu was silent for a moment. Outside, the wind whispered low; the broken porcelain still lay scattered on the floor, left unswept.

“...Muyu,” Lin Nanshu spoke again.

Cheng Ge looked up at him.

“Do you want to...” Lin Nanshu hesitated, “do you want to come back to the Lin estate with me?”

Cheng Ge froze for a beat, then said, “No, I need to return to the Prince Cui's residence as well.”

“...Alright.” No more words, no further questions. “If anything happens, come find me. Stay safe.”

...

Cheng Ge didn't use the front gate.

He could smell the street-walking spies outside the Prince Cui's residence from a whole street away.

He made his way to the base of the west wall, looked up at the old locust tree, took two steps back, ran, jumped—his fingertips dug into the eaves, gritting his teeth, he heaved himself up and over.

Straddling the wall, he caught his breath for a moment before dropping lightly into the courtyard.

The residence was even more deserted than when he'd left the capital.

No one under the eaves, no servants on the steps. He hugged the wall as he crept toward the main courtyard, passed through the ornamental gate, and saw the steward's back.

Steward Cui stood at the storeroom door, flipping through a ledger back and forth, his gray head bent so low it was almost touching the pages. His fingers crinkled the page corners with a soft rustle, mumbling under his breath—who knew what he was calculating.

Cheng Ge lightened his footsteps, crept up behind him, reached out—and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Cui——”

A cold glint flashed.

Cheng Ge saw the ledger go flying into the air as Steward Cui ducked low, spun on his heel, and a short dagger slipped out of his sleeve—driving it straight at Cheng Ge's heart!

The move was too fast for a man in his sixties; it was more like a startled old falcon defending its nest.

Cheng Ge: “!!!”

Almost purely on instinct, he dodged to the side. The dagger's tip grazed the cloth at his ribs—with a sharp ripping sound—slicing a three-inch gash through both outer and inner garments, cold air pouring in.

“Steward Cui, it's me!” he barked, retreating two steps until his back hit the corridor pillar.

The steward's dagger hand froze mid-air.

Those cloudy old eyes locked onto Cheng Ge's face for a couple of breaths, then turned a little misty. “Young Master Cheng has returned?”

Cheng Ge glanced down at the gash at his ribs and grinned broadly. “Steward Cui, it's been a while—your white hair has gotten even thicker...”

Steward Cui: “...”

Cheng Ge tore into a duck leg with gusto, grease almost splattering onto his eyebrows.

Steward Cui stood nearby, watching him wolf down his food like a starving dog, and felt his heart clench.

He thought to himself that Cheng Ge, out there for months, had probably not had a single proper hot meal.

Without a word, he turned and gestured to a servant waiting outside the door.

Before long, another steaming bowl of braised pork knuckle was set before him.

Cheng Ge's eyes lit up; the duck leg was barely finished before his chopsticks were already reaching for the knuckle.

“Steward Cui, you always know what I need!”

The steward said nothing, only ladled another spoonful of meat juice into his bowl.

He watched Cheng Ge bury his head in his food, hesitated for a long time, and finally could not hold back.

“Young Master Cheng,” he said in a low voice, “how... how is His Highness? This old servant heard that His Highness was gravely wounded some days ago.”

Cheng Ge's chopsticks paused.

He looked up, half a piece of meat still in his mouth, chewed twice, and swallowed.

“Don't worry, nothing serious now,” he said, his tone light. “He's already up and about.”

The steward looked at him, a bitter ache in his chest.

He had served in this household for so many years—from Cui Ji's father's generation to now—and had seen too many of these “nothing serious”s.

He didn't press further, just turned toward the door and said, "Reheat that bowl of chicken soup."

Cheng Ge buried his head in his food, and by the time the soup arrived, he'd demolished most of it in a flash before finally slowing down.

He set down his chopsticks, picked up his teacup, chugged a mouthful, and let out a long breath.

Then he looked up at the steward.

"Uncle Cui," his voice suddenly dropped, the ravenous, wolf-down-everything attitude from moments ago fading, "do you know what's happened in the palace lately?"

The steward wasn't too surprised. He glanced toward the door.

The corridor was empty, only wind and snow beating against the window paper with a faint rustle.

He rose, pushed the already-ajar door tighter, and listened for a beat.

Satisfied no one was there, he turned back and sat down on the stool across from Cheng Ge—a rare breach of decorum.

"As for what exactly happened, this old servant doesn't know," he said in a low voice, rough as sandpaper on wood, "but a few days ago..."

He trailed off.

Cheng Ge didn't press him, just set his teacup back on the table.

"Beauty Chen is dead," the steward said. Cheng Ge's hand froze for a moment.