Chapter 372: Lord Yan, Protect Me

After Zhu Ping’an took the initiative to raise his cup in a toast, the mood at the banquet table shifted ever so subtly. The invisible currents of tension, which moments before had been pressing upon him, now swirled away to other corners of the hall—for the time being, the storm no longer centered on him.

The air was heavy with the heady fragrance of wine, the soft clatter of cups, and the hum of boisterous voices. Faces glowed crimson beneath the lantern light; laughter burst forth in full-throated waves. Among the gathered officials, Yan Shifan’s arrogance had grown only more pronounced. His smugness radiated like heat from a brazier, intensified by the endless string of subordinates who, one by one, rose to offer him their toasts.

Regardless of a man’s rank or his age, Yan Shifan received each gesture with the same insufferable air of superiority. His every movement—the lazy tilt of his chin, the imperious flick of his wrist—declared that he sat above them all. Even those senior members of the Yan faction, men with grey at their temples, were offered no respect from him.

The only person at the table who dared to ignore Yan Shifan’s swagger was Shen Lian. Though Shen Lian’s official title was but Jinyiwei jingli—a modest rank within the Imperial Secret Police—he had one thing others lacked: a powerful backer. He was favored by none other than Lu Bing, the formidable Commander of the Jinyiwei, a man whose approval could make or break careers with a word.

Yan Shifan, though arrogant, was no fool. He feared Lu Bing’s shadow, and thus, by extension, he tread carefully around Shen Lian. But that wasn’t all. Shen Lian’s own reputation preceded him—a man of upright bearing, incorruptible, neither greedy nor indulgent, his conduct left no weakness for others to exploit. His fierce sense of justice made him a dangerous opponent, one who spoke out against wrongdoing even within his own ranks. His heart, many said, belonged more to the yan guan—the outspoken moral officials—than to the secretive world of the Jinyiwei.

Ordinarily, such a man would have found survival within the Jinyiwei impossible. The corps was a nest of serpents; meddling in court memorials and denouncing corruption only invited enemies. Yet Shen Lian not only endured—he thrived. His integrity and ability had caught Lu Bing’s discerning eye, and the Commander had taken him under his wing, shielding him from retribution and grooming him for greater responsibilities. Even this private banquet, this so-called Small Grace and Honor Feast, was part of Shen Lian’s subtle tutelage under Lu Bing’s watchful gaze.

Yan Shifan, sharp as he was conceited, understood Lu Bing’s intentions all too well. Thus, when it came to Shen Lian, he adopted a different attitude—tolerating his aloofness, overlooking his occasional defiance. Better to give Lu Bing a token of respect than make an enemy of his favorite.

But that courtesy extended to Shen Lian alone. For others—even his supposed allies—Yan Shifan’s magnanimity had its limits. And that included Zhu Ping’an.

After several more rounds of drink, Yan Shifan, feeling his pleasure dull and irritation rise, gestured impatiently for the attendants. “Bring out the great goblets,” he ordered.

A moment later, the serving girls appeared, balancing several immense vessels upon lacquered trays. Zhu Ping’an’s brows lifted slightly as his eyes fell upon them. The goblets were cast entirely from gold, each fashioned in the shape of a three-legged jue—an ancient ritual wine vessel. But these were monstrously oversized, at least twice the volume of an ordinary cup. Just one of these brimming with wine would fell any ordinary man. Even imagining himself attempting it, Zhu Ping’an felt his stomach tighten.

“Ha ha ha! Now this,” Yan Shifan bellowed, his plump face flushed and gleaming, “this is how men should drink!”

His single eye, sharp and gleaming like a predator’s, swept across the table as he laughed loudly enough to rattle the porcelain. The subtle fear in the others’ gazes delighted him. To a man like Yan Shifan, nothing in the world was sweeter than the sight of others trembling under his gaze.

His one eye roved, seeking a target—a victim to inaugurate this cruel little game. Wherever his gaze landed, men straightened or looked away as if scorched.

“Zi Hou,” he said at last, his lips curling into a smirk. “You took the top spot in the Imperial Examination, first among all scholars under heaven. By reason and by right, the first of these cups should be yours.”

He fixed his hawk-like stare upon Zhu Ping’an.

Before Zhu could reply, Luo Longwen leaned forward with a laugh. “Indeed, indeed! A fine horse deserves a fine saddle, and the best wine should be drunk by the top scholar himself!” His tone was oily, mocking, eyes glinting with mischief as he watched Zhu Ping’an—waiting to see how the young man would wriggle out of this.

Everyone at the table turned toward him. They, too, were curious.

Zhu Ping’an, however, felt no surprise. He had expected as much. From the very moment he’d received the invitation to this Little Grace Feast at the Yan residence, he had known that the host’s goodwill would come laced with venom. Yan Shifan had schemed for months to secure the top scholar’s title for his favored protégé, Ouyang Zishi. He had pulled every string—from influencing examiners to predicting the Emperor’s whims and study habits. And in the end, despite all his preparations, the laurels had fallen upon Zhu Ping’an instead.

It was not hard to guess how much that humiliation still burned.

From the chronicles and unofficial histories Zhu Ping’an had read, he knew Yan Shifan’s character well—an egotistical, vainglorious man intoxicated with his own power. Moments ago, he had been bragging about how half the empire’s affairs rested upon his shoulders, laughing as though the words were gospel truth.

Such a man could not abide contradiction—still less defiance.

Thus, Zhu Ping’an knew he had only two options: drink the cup in one bold swallow, or refuse with some excuse—only to be shamed and forced to drink anyway, perhaps with added punishment.

The choice was simple.

He rose slowly, taking the golden goblet from the servant girl’s hands, and smiled faintly. “My capacity for wine is poor,” he said lightly, “so if I drink too much and act improperly, I beg you all, esteemed seniors, to correct me. As for you, Lord Yan, I trust you’ll protect me.”

For a heartbeat, the table was silent. Then laughter erupted all around. His words were so disarmingly earnest, so ingenuously phrased, that even the seasoned officials chuckled. He had managed to both humble himself and flatter Yan Shifan in one breath, and that last phrase—“Lord Yan, protect me”—was the perfect touch of irony.

Yan Shifan threw back his head and laughed, pointing a thick finger toward Zhu Ping’an. “You’re honest, I’ll give you that! Drink without fear—if the heavens fall, I’ll hold them up for you!”

“Many thanks, Lord Yan,” Zhu Ping’an replied, bowing slightly. He lifted the cup to his lips—then paused, as though struck by a sudden thought.

“What now?” Luo Longwen muttered irritably.

Zhu Ping’an cleared his throat, feigning embarrassment. “Ah, might I perhaps have a share of that caviar? Ahem… I come from the countryside and have never tasted such a delicacy before.”

For an instant, there was silence. Then laughter broke again, louder than before.

Ha! So the rice bucket title he’d earned during the Southern Examinations was true after all! They remembered the story of how Zhu Ping’an, despite his brilliance, was rumored to have an appetite rivaling ten men. Luo Longwen laughed so hard his eyes watered.

“Zi Hou, ever so simple and sincere,” Yan Shifan chuckled, waving a pudgy hand. “Very well—give him the caviar.”

“Many thanks for your generosity, Lord Yan.”

As the attendants stepped forward to fetch the dish, the crowd’s attention drifted momentarily toward the delicacy being brought forth. And in that fleeting moment, Zhu Ping’an moved.

He raised the heavy goblet once more, his wide sleeve draping elegantly over the cup. With a deft twist of the wrist—hidden by the flowing silk—he tilted the vessel just enough for the wine to pour silently down into the folds of his robe, trickling unseen into the depths of his sleeve.

By the time the serving girl placed the silver dish of caviar before him and the onlookers turned back, Zhu Ping’an had already lifted the empty cup to his lips, pretending to finish the last drop. With a small, contented sigh, he wiped his mouth, flipped the goblet upside down to show it empty, and sat down as though nothing at all were amiss.

Not a single drop had touched his tongue.