By midmorning, the whole capital knew about the tea.
Not because anyone announced it. In a city built on whispers, information traveled through servant networks, market gossip, and the carefully careless remarks of officials' wives over breakfast.
The general's household sent mountain tea to the Minister of Finance.
On the surface, it was nothing. A courtesy. A formality between two households after a shared banquet.
Underneath, it was a earthquake.
Because Wang Xichen didn't send courtesy gifts. Not to anyone. His household was known for its military austerity—efficient, plain, correct. They acknowledged the emperor's gifts. They responded to the Empress Dowager's summons. Beyond that, their doors stayed shut like a barracks.
So when a box of northern mountain tea appeared at the Ling residence, wrapped in plain cloth with a card written in a secretary's hand, the city's calculation machines started running.
Why the Finance Minister?
Why now?
Why the morning after the banquet where the minister's notorious second son was seen—for the first time in living memory—not causing a disaster?
Ling Liyu learned all of this from Auntie Zhou, who learned it from the gate servants, who learned it from the market runners, who learned it from someone's cousin who worked in the magistrate's office.
Information in this world didn't flow through cables. It flowed through people.
"Second Young Master," Auntie Zhou said, voice tight with the particular anxiety of a woman who had survived decades by reading weather, "the household is… unsettled."
"Unsettled how?" Liyu asked, though he already suspected.
"The servants are talking. About the tea. About the banquet. About…" She hesitated. "About you."
Of course.
The old Ling Liyu had been the household's most reliable source of chaos. His sudden calmness was already suspicious. Now, a military household sending gifts the morning after he attended a banquet? The servants would connect dots that didn't exist simply because the pattern was too unusual not to try.
"What are they saying?" Liyu asked.
Auntie Zhou's lips thinned. "Some say the general is investigating the minister through courtesy. Some say the general noticed Second Young Master at the banquet and is… curious. Some say…"
She stopped.
"Say it," Liyu said.
"Some say Second Young Master has caught the general's eye."
The phrase landed in the room like a dropped bowl.
Caught the general's eye.
In ancient court language, that could mean anything from political interest to romantic interest, and the ambiguity was the weapon.
Liyu's stomach tightened. "That's dangerous talk."
"Yes," Auntie Zhou agreed, visibly relieved that he understood.
"Who started it?"
Auntie Zhou hesitated again. "This old one isn't certain. But the kitchen staff heard it from the east gate runner, who heard it from—"
"Outside the household," Liyu finished.
"Yes."
So the rumor hadn't grown organically from within the Ling residence. It had been introduced from outside, like a seed dropped into prepared soil.
Someone wanted the capital talking about Ling Liyu and Wang Xichen.
Liyu sat very still.
In his old life, he'd dealt with product launches that got derailed by planted negative reviews. The mechanism was identical: introduce a narrative early, let organic conversation amplify it, and by the time anyone tried to correct it, the story had already set.
"Auntie Zhou," he said, "I need you to do something."
"Yes?"
"Find out where the east gate runner heard it. Trace it one more step back. Don't be obvious."
Auntie Zhou's eyes widened slightly. "Second Young Master wants to… trace gossip?"
"I want to know who planted it," Liyu said simply.
Auntie Zhou stared at him for a moment. Then she bowed, deeper than usual.
"Understood," she said, and left.
Liyu turned to his desk.
He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote:
Tea arrived: morning after banquet.
Rumor appeared: same morning.
Source: external, entered through east gate runner.
Content: "Second Young Master caught the general's eye."
Cui bono?
He stared at the last phrase. Latin. Useless here. He crossed it out and wrote instead:
Who benefits?
If the rumor painted Ling Liyu as pursuing Wang Xichen, it served multiple purposes.
It embarrassed the Ling household—a bully's son chasing a war hero was scandalous.
It made Wang Xichen uncomfortable—being linked to the capital's most notorious young master was a stain on his austerity.
It gave the Minister of Ceremony ammunition—"improper conduct" was his favorite blade.
And it put pressure on the Empress Dowager—if her beloved grandnephew was being "targeted" by a disreputable household, she'd react.
Liyu set his brush down.
The timing was too clean. The tea and the rumor arriving on the same morning meant either someone had anticipated the gift, or someone had arranged it.
If anticipated: they had intelligence inside Wang Xichen's household.
If arranged: they had coordinated both the gift and the rumor, which was more complex but more devastating.
But who would—
He stopped.
The tea was real. Wang Xichen's household had genuinely sent it. The card was written in a secretary's hand, which meant it went through proper channels. You couldn't fake a delivery from a military household without enormous risk.
So the tea was real. The rumor was planted on top of it.
Someone had been watching the Ling residence gates this morning, seen the delivery, and immediately seeded a narrative.
Speed like that required preparation. Someone had been waiting for any connection between the Ling household and the Wang household, and the tea gave them the spark.
Liyu's pen moved again:
Prepared in advance. Waiting for trigger.
Likely source: someone with motive against Ling household AND Wang household.
Candidates: Minister of Ceremony's circle. Hua Shi. Crown Prince's faction.
He paused on the last name.
Would the Crown Prince move this fast? This subtly? Over a box of tea?
Yes. If the Crown Prince's strategists saw the Finance Minister potentially aligning with a military powerhouse through familial connection, they'd want to poison that alliance before it formed.
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
Not Auntie Zhou's careful tap. Not Lanhua's hesitant scratch.
A firm, measured knock.
"Second Young Master," a voice announced. "Young Master Ling requests your presence in the east study."
Moli.
Liyu folded his notes, tucked them into his sleeve, and stood.
The east study was a room Liyu hadn't entered before. It sat between the main hall and the private quarters, a transitional space used for household business that didn't require the minister's direct involvement.
When Liyu arrived, Moli was already there.
He wasn't sitting. He was standing by the window with his arms crossed, his expression carved from controlled fury.
"Close the door," Moli said.
Liyu closed it.
The room held its breath.
Moli turned. His eyes were sharp enough to cut paper.
"The tea," he said.
"I know," Liyu replied.
"The rumors."
"I know."
Moli's jaw worked. "Do you know what they're saying in the market right now? That the minister's second son seduced a general at a banquet."
The word "seduced" landed like a slap.
Liyu kept his voice even. "I spoke to him on the terrace. Briefly. Nothing improper."
Moli's gaze bored into him. "Briefly."
"Yes."
"On a terrace."
"Yes."
"Alone."
The silence after that word was heavy.
Liyu met his brother's eyes without flinching. "I went out for air. He was already there. We exchanged a few sentences. I came back inside."
Moli stared at him for five full seconds.
Then he exhaled through his nose—sharp, frustrated.
"It doesn't matter what happened," Moli said. "It matters what people think happened."
"I know," Liyu said.
"Then you know this is bad."
"Yes."
Moli began pacing. Three steps left. Three steps right. His robes moved with him, crisp and agitated.
"The tea is real," he said. "I confirmed with House Steward Ma. Wang household sent it. Standard courtesy wrapping. Secretary's handwriting. Nothing unusual."
"The rumor isn't from the tea," Liyu said. "It was planted."
Moli stopped pacing. His eyes snapped to Liyu.
"Planted," he repeated.
"The timing is too fast. The tea arrived at dawn. The rumor was circulating by breakfast. Someone was watching our gate."
Moli's expression shifted—from anger to something colder, more focused.
"You're sure," he said.
"I asked Auntie Zhou to trace the gossip chain back one step," Liyu said. "But even without confirmation, the speed alone is evidence."
Moli was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped, the anger replaced by tactical calculation.
"If someone's watching our gates, they've been watching since before the banquet."
Liyu nodded. "They were waiting for a trigger. Any connection between our household and the general's. The tea gave them one."
Moli's eyes narrowed. "Qinghe."
The name fell like a stone.
Liyu frowned. "What about him?"
Moli turned to the window, jaw tight. "Qinghe used to handle gate schedules. He knew which runners came and went, and when."
Liyu's pulse quickened. "You think he set up the watchers before—"
"Before you woke up strange," Moli finished. "Before any of this. Qinghe has been in our household for years. If he was planted, he wasn't planted last week."
The implication expanded in Liyu's mind like ink in water.
If Qinghe had been a spy for years, then the intelligence network around the Ling household wasn't new. It was established. Embedded. Running on routines that Qinghe had built into the household's own operations.
And even though Qinghe hadn't been caught yet—hadn't done the dramatic things that would come later—his infrastructure was already active.
"Ge," Liyu said slowly, "who assigned Qinghe to you?"
Moli's jaw tightened further. "House Steward Ma recommended him. Three years ago."
"And House Steward Ma got the recommendation from?"
Silence.
Moli turned from the window. His expression was dark.
"I'll find out," he said.
"Carefully," Liyu added.
Moli's glare could have peeled lacquer. "I don't need you to tell me to be careful."
"I know. I'm saying it anyway."
For a moment, Moli looked like he wanted to throw something. Then his shoulders dropped half an inch—the closest he came to admitting tension.
"You really spoke to the general," Moli said quietly. "On the terrace."
"Yes."
"And he spoke back."
"Yes."
Moli studied him with an expression Liyu couldn't fully read. Protective? Worried? Something else?
"What did he say?" Moli asked.
Liyu considered how much to share.
Everything, he decided. Moli was the only person in this house who would fight for him without calculating the cost first.
"He said my reputation travels farther than I do," Liyu said. "He said I was younger than he expected. And he said I was… interesting."
Moli's eyes widened a fraction.
Then his face went through a rapid series of expressions—alarm, irritation, deeper alarm—before settling into a fierce scowl.
"Interesting," Moli repeated flatly.
"That was his word."
"The emperor's nephew called you interesting."
"Yes."
Moli pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose like a man