The stench of blood from the great victory in the northern frontier still clung to Lu Tingyuan's armor when he was summoned to the capital for being “too powerful for the emperor's comfort.” As he stood at a roadside pavilion outside the city, assassins struck, a poisoned dagger aimed straight for his back. Suddenly, a figure in fine robes threw himself in front of the blade: the capital's laughingstock, the “useless” Sixth Prince, Murong Qing.
With a dull thud, the blade sank into flesh. The young man collapsed into his arms, his robes soaked in blood, yet he forced himself to look up. “General... Are you all right?” Lu Tingyuan took him to a private residence. As he gave him medicine, his fingertips brushed the boy's pale lips, and he glimpsed a light in those usually lowered phoenix eyes that did not look like fear. In a secret chamber, Murong Qing spread out a confidential report, pressing his finger to the corruption in the grain transport system. The hand he clasped was cold, but firm.
Yet the perfectly timed way Murong Qing had stepped in front of the blade, and the perfectly timed tearful plea before the emperor that had saved Lu Tingyuan from trouble, kept him suspicious. He thought they were allies relying on each other. But had he been made a pawn from the moment they met at the pavilion? In this game that could shake the realm, who is the hunter, and who is the bait?
