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It was early winter. A light snow covered the Central Plains.
A total of 13 years had passed since the death of the Human Emperor. Yet in that short span of time, the imperial throne in the Central Capital had changed hands once again, and all the once-glorious flourish of the martial world had been scrubbed away.
A convoy of ox carts rolled along the road, surrounded by mounted guards. The carts jingled with hanging bells, hauling trade goods from distant lands. Pedestrians hurried aside, then gathered at a safe distance to whisper and point, speculating about the origins of the wares.
“Just mundane jewelry,” Meng Xingxian said from the driver’s seat, barely sparing the carts a glance.
Inside the carriage, Ying Zhuoyao tilted her head. “How can you tell?”
She was asking on behalf of Li Yuan.
After all, with her master present, it wouldn’t be proper for him to speak up for something so trivial. Even if he knew the answer, it made sense for her to ask. That was her role.
Ying Zhuoyao knew her place well. She was to be her master’s eyes, his voice, his hands,...
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