The grand hall of the imperial palace hums with the low murmur of voices and the soft shuffle of silken robes against polished floors. Sunlight streams in through the high windows, casting long, golden beams across the room. Incense lingers in the air, thick and perfumed, its scent clinging to the ornate tapestries that line the walls. At the far end of the hall, the emperor sits on a raised dais, hidden behind a veil, surrounded by his closest advisors and officials. Among them is Hunan, his sharp eyes gleaming with pride and calculation, his hands folded calmly in his lap.
Kuan and Yile kneel before them, their heads bowed in perfect deference. They wear the finest robes, embroidered with gold and deep blue, their positions of honor evident in the intricate patterns adorning their sleeves. The weight of the moment presses down on them, but neither flinches. Kuan's eyes remain lowered, his face an unreadable mask, while beside him, Yile's lips are drawn into a subtle, composed smile, his fan resting closed in his hand.
The voice of the herald rings out, clear and ceremonial, cutting through the low murmur of the audience. "In recognition of their years of service and loyalty, the emperor and the Eastern Bureau promote Yile to the rank of Assistant Supervisor and Kuan to Section Head of the Eastern Bureau."
The room falls silent as Hunan rises from his seat beside the emperor. His movements are graceful, calculated, each step purposeful as he approaches the two young men kneeling before him. The soft clink of jade beads from his sash is the only sound as he stops in front of them. For a moment, the room seems to hold its breath.
Hunan first turns to Yile, his gaze lingering on his son. There's a flicker of pride in his eyes, though it's tempered by the ever-present control that defines him. "Yile," he begins, his voice smooth, deliberate. "You have shown great promise and dedication. Your loyalty to the Eastern Bureau has not gone unnoticed, and today, you take your first step into greater responsibilities. As Assistant Supervisor, you will oversee much of the Bureau's work, ensuring the empire's interests are protected and the empire's stability maintained."
Yile lifts his head slightly, his smile softening as he meets Hunan's gaze. "Thank you, Father. I will not fail you or the emperor."
Hunan's lips twitch into the barest hint of a smile before he turns his attention to Kuan. His eyes narrow just slightly, a calculating look passing over his features, though his voice remains as steady as ever. "Kuan," he says, his tone almost reflective. "You have always possessed a sharp mind, though it is your ability to navigate difficult circumstances with composure that sets you apart. As Section Head, you will be responsible for the daily operations of the Bureau. Your decisions will shape the empire's dealings with both allies and enemies."
Kuan's head remains bowed for a moment longer, absorbing the weight of Hunan's words, before he lifts his gaze. His eyes meet Hunan's, and for a brief second, there's an unspoken acknowledgment between them—a recognition of everything that has passed between them over the years, and everything that still lies ahead.
"I am honored, Father," Kuan replies, his voice steady, calm. "I will serve the Bureau and the empire with all that I have."
Hunan nods, his expression unreadable. He steps back, turning toward the emperor, who watches with a gaze as sharp as it is distant. The emperor's silence carries more weight than any words. Behind him, the officials murmur quietly, their faces a mix of curiosity and calculation, each one measuring the rise of these two young men in their own way.
As the herald's voice rises again to announce the official promotions, Kuan and Yile stand, their robes sweeping the floor in unison as they bow deeply to the emperor and then to Hunan. The ceremony is formal, precise, but beneath the surface, Kuan can feel the shifting currents. Yile stands beside him, his usual smile playing on his lips, but there's something different in his eyes—something sharper, more focused.
Kuan's gaze flickers to the officials watching them, noting the calculating expressions, the subtle glances exchanged. He knows what this ceremony represents. It's not just a promotion—it's the beginning of something far larger, a game of power and control that he and Yile are now fully entrenched in. The weight of their new roles presses against them, but Kuan feels nothing but calm.
As the officials begin to clap, a slow sound that echoes through the hall, Kuan glances at Yile, catching the faintest flicker of amusement in his brother's eyes. Yile leans in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Well, brother," Yile murmurs, his tone light but edged with something sharper, "it seems we've finally arrived."
Kuan doesn't respond, but his lips curl into a faint, knowing smile.
As the ceremony concludes, the clapping fades into the murmur of conversation. Hunan steps away to speak privately with the emperor, his figure receding into the shadows of the grand hall. Kuan and Yile remain at the center, the air thick with the weight of their new titles, the quiet hum of intrigue swirling around them.
The officials, who had been watching with sharp, calculating eyes, begin to move. Slowly, they approach Kuan and Yile, their robes rustling like whispers as they close the distance. These men—eunuchs, administrators, bureaucrats—are well-practiced in the art of politics, their faces masks of polite interest. But beneath the surface, Kuan can sense the real intent.
The first to speak is a thin man with hollow cheeks and deep-set eyes, his tone smooth, almost too pleasant. "Congratulations, Assistant Supervisor Yile, Section Head Kuan. Quite the achievement, especially at your age." His smile tightens at the edges. "Though I wonder, how do you plan to handle such weighty responsibilities? The Bureau is not... forgiving."
Yile is the first to respond, his smile as sharp as the cut of his silk robes. He inclines his head slightly, the gesture elegant but pointed. "I appreciate your concern, Lord Yan. But the Bureau is not unknown to me. My father has been generous with his wisdom, and I've learned well from his example." His voice is soft, measured, but there's a glint in his eyes. "I do believe the emperor will find our methods… refreshing."
Lord Yan's lips press into a thin line, his fingers twitching at the edge of his sleeves. "Indeed. Let's hope the emperor shares your confidence."
Kuan watches the exchange, his eyes half-lidded, taking in the way the officials shift around him like vultures circling a kill. Another official steps forward, this one older, his face marked by years of experience but softened with a false friendliness. "Section Head Kuan," he begins, his voice slow and deliberate. "The Eastern Bureau has a certain... reputation for handling delicate matters. We trust you'll change that, of course?"
Kuan tilts his head slightly, his expression neutral but his words edged with a faint smile. "Of course. Though I believe what some might call delicate, others might call... troublesome. But I'm certain I can handle the nuances."
The official's eyes narrow, just for a second, before he smooths his expression. "Nuances, yes. You'll find that they can become overwhelming, if not handled properly."
Yile's fan opens with a soft flick, drawing attention as he waves it lazily in front of his face. "It seems the imperial city is full of nuances these days," Yile murmurs, his smile never faltering. "But I'm sure my brother and I will manage. After all, we've been prepared for this moment, haven't we?"
The officials exchange glances, their discomfort palpable, though none of them dare speak it aloud. Lord Yan clears his throat, trying to regain control of the conversation. "And of your father's influence? I imagine Hunan's shadow must loom quite large over your positions. How do you intend to distinguish yourselves from him? Or is that even necessary?"
Yile's smile deepens, and he taps the fan lightly against his palm. "A shadow, you say? I would say it's more of a guide. A well-placed guide can keep one from stumbling in the dark." His gaze sharpens, though his tone remains light. "But I'm sure you, Lord Yan, have long mastered walking through shadows."
Kuan watches the subtle exchange, feeling the tension build as the eunuchs' thinly veiled questions grow sharper. He steps in, his voice cool and unbothered. "My father's presence in the Bureau is invaluable, but he's taught me something crucial—to see things for what they truly are, not what they appear to be." He pauses, letting his words settle. "That's a skill we'll use often."
There's an imperceptible tightening in the official's jaw. The officials around them shift uncomfortably, sensing the boys' subtle mockery, their well-placed words that could not be easily turned against them. The exchange has begun to feel like a duel of wit, and Kuan and Yile are holding their own with quiet, deadly precision.
Kuan's voice lowers just slightly, a faint laugh escaping his lips. "It seems you've all tested us enough for today."
The air grows thick with tension, but before the eunuchs can respond, Yile steps forward, smiling smoothly. "Come now, brothers, let's not stir the pot too much." He waves his fan lightly, his voice like honey. "We wouldn't want to leave a sour taste in the mouths of those who value appearances so much."
The eunuchs' faces darken, but none of them dares to speak up further. The game is over, for now. The officials exchange looks, the faintest hints of frustration visible in their eyes, but the conversation is done.
Hunan steps away from the emperor with the grace of a man who's never rushed a day in his life, yet every movement seems purposeful, every step carefully measured. His sharp eyes sweep over the gathered officials and eunuchs as he approaches Kuan and Yile, his presence commanding the room without a word. The officials, who had moments before been attempting their welcoming games of manipulation, now step aside at Hunan's silent, polite nod. His authority is undeniable, a quiet pressure that pushes them back with ease.
"Gentlemen," he says, his tone smooth but firm. "If you'll excuse us."
Without waiting for further protest, Hunan gestures for Kuan and Yile to follow him. The two brothers exchange a glance before falling into step behind their father, the weight of the moment hanging between them.
They make their way through the palace corridors, past servants and officials who part like waves before them. Soon, they arrive at the entrance to a new office building—larger, grander than any they had been in before. Inside, younger eunuchs move briskly, tidying shelves, dusting furniture, and arranging papers. The scent of fresh lacquer still clings to the walls, the floors gleaming underfoot. As they step inside, Kuan looks around with a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"The Bureau has grown a lot," Kuan comments, his voice casual but observant as he takes in the expansion. "Much more than it was a few years ago."
Hunan nods, his gaze following the activity of the eunuchs at work. "It was the previous emperor's decision to reduce the Bureau's size," he explains, his tone carrying a hint of satisfaction. "To save money, they said. But your education—both of yours—has shown the current emperor and the treasurer that the Eastern Bureau is an investment, not an expense. We're trusted once again."
Yile laughs softly, twirling his fan. "The officials were scared," he says, eyes gleaming with amusement. "That's why they wanted to kill it. Fear drives them more than any sense of duty."
Hunan's lips curve into the faintest of smiles. "Fear is a powerful motivator. And they're right to fear us."
The new office is expansive, its multiple rooms filled with assistant and subordinate eunuchs, each diligently working on scrolls, maps, and correspondence. The space hums with quiet efficiency, the sound of brushes against paper and the soft murmur of voices blending into the background. As they step into the Head Director's office, a more private and polished room at the far end, the door closes behind them, sealing them off from the rest of the world.
Hunan turns to face his sons, his gaze sharp as ever. "Now," he begins, his voice steady, "it's time to discuss your new roles in the Bureau." He moves behind the large, lacquered desk and takes his seat, the air in the room seeming to shift with the gravity of the conversation.
He leans forward slightly, his eyes settling on Kuan. "Kuan, do you remember, a few years ago, I told you why I sent such a significant portion of the treasure fleet's wealth to the Thirteen Provinces?"
Kuan's gaze sharpens, the memory flickering behind his eyes. He nods slowly but says nothing, waiting for Hunan to continue.
Hunan's expression remains unreadable. "Now, I want both of you to tell me why I truly did it. What was the real reason behind that decision?"
Yile, always quick to play the game, is the first to respond. He smirks, the answer clear in his mind. "The money will raise inflation in the Thirteen Provinces, which will indirectly weaken their economy. By flooding their markets with wealth, we make them more dependent on the empire, ensuring their reliance on us. Meanwhile, our trade power increases as we can sell the same goods to them at higher prices, profiting off their need."
Hunan nods slightly, his eyes drifting to Kuan.
Kuan laughs quietly, his voice taking on the sly, fox-like quality that has become second nature to him. "It's not just about weakening their economy, though," he says, his tone calm but laced with cunning. "The rulers of those states will start using this tributary relationship to amass wealth and power within their own courts. They'll manipulate the flow of funds and goods to benefit themselves personally. And knowing the emperor might provide more financial support if problems arise, they'll feel less responsible for managing their resources properly."
Hunan's eyes gleam, a faint flicker of approval passing across his features.
"With the wealth coming from an external source," Kuan continues, "the need to raise taxes from their own people diminishes. So, they become less reliant on local support. Officials will feel less pressure to serve the people and more inclined to serve their own interests. Corruption seeps in. Bribery becomes rampant, as those within the vassal state start paying off higher-ranking officials to gain access to that foreign wealth."
Kuan leans forward, his voice growing more intense, though still controlled. "It creates a cycle. Power and resources flow to those willing to engage in corruption, weakening the foundations of their own governance. And while they rot from within, we tighten our grip."
Hunan's gaze lingers on Kuan for a long moment, a slow nod following. He leans back in his chair, folding his hands on the desk. "Precisely. You both see the full picture now."
Yile twirls his fan again, his smirk deepening. "We're not just giving them money. We're giving them enough rope to hang themselves."
Kuan chuckles, the sound dark, almost playful. "And while they hang, we'll be the ones controlling the noose."
Hunan's smile is barely perceptible, but it's there, hidden beneath his composed exterior. "Exactly. This is the kind of thinking that will ensure the Bureau's—and the empire's—future. You're ready. The Eastern Bureau will now resume the full scope of its duties, as it once did. That means not just diplomacy... but espionage."
Kuan and Yile remain silent, but the atmosphere shifts. Kuan's eyes flicker with interest, though his expression stays calm, while Yile's hand tightens imperceptibly on his fan, his knuckles whitening. His face, however, remains a smooth mask, betraying nothing of his growing frustration.
Hunan's gaze shifts between them. "Yile," he says, "your talents have always leaned toward negotiation. You will focus on diplomacy, representing the Bureau in our dealings with the emperor's allies, the vassal states, and foreign dignitaries."
Yile bows his head slightly in acknowledgment, his fan lowering to hide the tightening of his jaw. Diplomacy. It's not that Yile wasn't suited for it—far from it, he excelled at the careful dance of words and power. But espionage was what he truly desired. The secrets, the webs of intrigue, the chance to pull strings from the shadows... that was where the real control lay. Yet, how could he protest? His rank was still higher than Kuan's. A victory, even if bittersweet. He holds his silence, his frustration buried deep.
"Kuan," Hunan continues, turning to his other son. "You will handle espionage. The Bureau's network of informants, spies, and shadow operations will be under your watch. It will be your task to ensure the empire knows more than its enemies and that we stay three steps ahead of those who seek to disrupt our balance."
A few years ago, this would have been a devastating blow to Kuan. A lower rank than Yile, consigned to what many might see as a more shadowy and less glamorous role. But now, Kuan only feels a calm acceptance, a quiet satisfaction that hums beneath his skin. He knows that Hunan understands him—understands what makes him tick. Espionage is not a demotion; it's freedom. The shadows have always suited him better than the spotlight.
He nods slowly, his eyes glinting with the same fox-like he had nurtured over the years. "I understand, Father."
Yile's fan flicks open again, a smooth motion meant to hide his expression as he watches Kuan out of the corner of his eye. ´Of course,´ he thinks, ´Kuan doesn't even care.´ The realization stings, though Yile would never admit it. Kuan's detachment from their childhood rivalry now feels like a quiet insult, as though Yile's superiority no longer mattered.
Hunan watches them both closely, his sharp gaze missing nothing. "You've both grown. A few years ago, I would have expected complaints. Now, I see two men ready to take on the true burden of leadership."
Kuan and Yile bow their heads in unison. "Thank you, Father," they say, their voices synchronized, though for different reasons.
Hunan's expression softens, but only slightly. "You may go for now. I'll give you both further instructions soon. Prepare yourselves."
Without another word, Kuan and Yile rise from their seats, bowing respectfully before turning to leave. As they step out of the office and into the bustling halls, Yile's fan remains up, hiding the faint curl of his lips, his mind already spinning with plans. He won't let espionage slip from his grasp entirely. There are always ways to stay informed.
Kuan, on the other hand, walks with an easy calm, his thoughts quieter but no less sharp. Espionage suits him, suits the way his mind works. He doesn't need a higher rank to feel powerful.
As they walk side by side, neither says a word, though the unspoken tension between them lingers, as always. Yile's grip tightens on his fan, but his voice remains light. "It seems we've both found our places, haven't we, brother?"
Kuan glances at him, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "I suppose we have."
They continue down the corridor, each carrying the weight of their new responsibilities, though in entirely different ways.
…
The first light of dawn barely touches the edges of the sky when the heavy thud of footsteps fills the quiet corridor outside Kuan and Yile's chambers. Both are still in the haze of sleep when the doors crash open, and the room is flooded with the presence of the Director of Ceremony, flanked by the Head of Guards and a swarm of guard eunuchs. The sharp sound of swords unsheathing snaps both Kuan and Yile awake.
Before they can react, rough hands are upon them. Eunuchs seize their belongings, tossing them aside with no care for rank or respect. Cold, iron-tight hands bind Kuan's wrists, the rope biting into his skin. He grits his teeth, his mind still sluggish from sleep but already racing, trying to understand what's happening.
Yile stirs beside him, blinking away the shock, his face pale but composed. "What is this?" His voice, though steady, carries a sharp edge of disbelief. "What's happening?"
The Director of Ceremony, a rigid man with a face carved from stone, steps forward, his voice carrying an air of practiced coldness. "Hunan of the Eastern Bureau has been found dead in his office."
The words slam into the room like a blade. Kuan's breath catches, his body freezing in place, the full weight of the words crashing over him. Hunan. Dead? His father, gone? It feels unreal, like the Director has spoken someone else's fate, not their father's.
Beside him, Yile's fingers tighten into fists, but his face remains composed, a mask of control slipping over his shock. "That's impossible," he breathes, but the tremor in his voice betrays him. "Who would dare—"
The Director interrupts, his eyes like cold flint. "You are both suspected of homicide and treason in the imperial court. You will be taken and interrogated by the secret police in the Western Bureau."
Kuan's heart hammers in his chest, the shock giving way to a rising panic. He looks at Yile, his brother's face taut with tension, and for the briefest moment, suspicion flickers between them, a silent accusation that neither can fully ignore. Did you...? It hangs there, unspoken but undeniable, as they stare at each other.
But almost as quickly as it comes, it fades. They both know. Killing Hunan would gain neither of them anything. In fact, it would destroy everything they'd built. The realization passes between them, wordless but certain.
Kuan's mind shifts gears, his instincts taking over. He's about to shout, to protest, to weave a story that might buy them time, but Yile catches his gaze—sharp, cold, and commanding. A single look stops him, warning him against rashness. This is bigger than they understand. They need to play this carefully.
The Head of Guards steps forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he regards the brothers with disdain. "You will not be allowed to see or speak to each other until the investigation is concluded. Any attempt to communicate will be seen as an admission of guilt."
Without waiting for a response, he gestures to his men. Two guard eunuchs move swiftly, yanking rough cloth bags over Kuan and Yile's heads. The world plunges into darkness. The heavy scent of sweat and the coarse fabric presses against Kuan's face, his breathing suddenly shallow, panic threatening to claw its way out. He feels the tug on his arms as they pull him forward, blind and powerless.
The sound of footsteps echoes around him, the shuffle of the guards' sandals on the stone floor blending with the pounding of his own heart. Yile is somewhere close, but now separated by the void of silence and the layers of suspicion that have suddenly been draped over them.
Kuan's fists tighten behind the restraints, his mind whirling. Their father, dead. Murdered.
As they are dragged into the cold, unforgiving hands of the Western Bureau, a singular thought pulses through his mind, cold and sharp like a blade: Who set this trap, and how deep does it run?
The days stretch into an endless cycle of questions, isolation, and the sterile walls of the Western Bureau's interrogation rooms. Kuan sits rigid, his wrists bound, the sweat beading along his temple as yet another question is thrown at him. He answers with the same precision every time: where he was, who saw him, and what time he returned. His alibi is tight, impeccable. Across the compound, Yile endures the same. The quiet flutter of his fan gone, his usual smirk replaced with cold calculation as he mirrors Kuan's responses in his own interrogation room.
Yet both brothers, though separated by walls of stone, ask the same question when the moment allows.
"Let me see my father's body."
The Western Bureau's response is the same each time—a cold, unflinching denial. Kuan's heart hardens with every refusal. Yile's fingers curl into fists beneath the table, knuckles pale. It's not just about mourning—it's about truth. They need to see Hunan, to understand how he fell, how a man so powerful, so unyielding, could have been taken.
"How was he killed?" Kuan's voice grows sharper with each round of questioning. "Was there blood? Poison? A struggle?"
Silence. A wall of blank faces. The answers they seek buried beneath layers of imperial secrecy.
Days blend into nights, the hours crawling forward with agonizing slowness. Then, at last, a verdict is handed down. The chains around their wrists are removed, the weight of imprisonment lifted with a word that sears into their minds.
Suicide.
The word slithers from the lips of their interrogators like venom, sinking deep. Kuan and Yile are released, no longer prisoners, but the shackles of disbelief and fury cling to them like shadows. Hunan, dead by his own hand? What was their imprisonment for? It reeks of something far darker, far more calculated.
The moment they are freed, they waste no time. They race to the Eastern Bureau's office, their footsteps heavy with desperation, with a need for answers. But what greets them there is nothing but emptiness. The once-bustling halls have been scrubbed clean, purged of any trace of Hunan's presence. His desk, once heavy with scrolls and ledgers, is bare. The scent of incense has long faded, replaced with the sterile cold of abandonment.
Kuan and Yile stand at the threshold, eyes scanning the desolation. Hunan—gone in a single day. The Bureau, which had been poised to rise from its ashes, is now decapitated, its future severed as swiftly as Hunan's life.
For a long, breathless moment, they simply stare at each other. And in that silence, a terrible truth settles over them, sinking deep into their bones.
He did it.
The emperor's name hovers in the air between them, unspoken but undeniable. The officials, the imperial court, all of them. They had conspired against Hunan, against the Eastern Bureau. Their father had been too powerful, too dangerous. His knowledge, his influence—it had terrified them. So they had cut the head from the serpent before it could strike.
Yile clenches his fists so tightly his nails bite into his palms, blood threatening to spill. Kuan's jaw tightens, a slow, dangerous laugh building in his throat, a laugh that sounds more like the roar of a beast preparing to strike. Their hearts pound with fury, with betrayal.
But they do not despair. Not for long. Despair is weakness, and weakness is something Hunan had taught them never to indulge in. Slowly, they turn to face each other, the flicker of something darker, more powerful, igniting behind their eyes.
"We'll make them pay," Yile whispers, his voice like ice, sharp and cutting.
Kuan's smile returns, but it's no longer the sly grin of a fox—it's something far more dangerous. "The empire will crumble," he breathes, each word laced with venom. "From within. Just as they hollowed it out for their own gain."
They stand there, two sons bound not by blood, but by an oath. Their father's legacy would not die with him. They would see to that. And the empire, the imperial court, those who sat in their silk-lined halls and plotted Hunan's fall—they would all feel the weight of the Eastern Bureau's vengeance.
Kuan and Yile embrace each other. An unbreakable bond forged in the fires of betrayal and blood. "We will tear it down," Yile says, his eyes burning with quiet rage. "Piece by piece."
"And we will use everything in our power," Kuan adds, his voice barely more than a whisper, but no less deadly. "We will become the rot beneath their feet, the shadows in their halls, the poison in their veins."
They release each other, their oath sealed. No ceremony, no grand declarations—just the quiet promise of destruction. In the place where Hunan once stood, they will rise. They will be the storm that tears apart the empire.
And nothing will stand in their way.