In the late autumn of the twenty-eighth year of Jiajing, I received a secret order from Yan Shifan.
There are three names on the list: two insignificant officials, and the last one is my mentor Xu Jie.
"If you capture Xu Jie, you will be the next Minister of Rites." The secret letter was burned to ashes under the candlelight.
The autumn rain outside the window was like weaving, and I recalled the policy discussion in the palace three years ago. Xu Jiezhu commented that "this boy has the wind of Hai Rui".
The door to the check-in room was pushed open, and the shadows of Yan's minions were cast on the blue bricks: "Shen Xiuzhuan, Mr. Yan Ge is waiting for your reply."
I picked up the pen and dipped it in ink, and the ink spread on the rice paper, like a ball of blood that couldn't be dissolved.
