The Peacock Palace is a haven of tranquility, its corridors a labyrinth of silence broken only by the faint rustle of robes brushing against the polished stone floors. Kuan walks diligently behind his father, Hunan, his small footsteps echoing lightly against the walls adorned with intricate murals of phoenixes and peonies. The air is cool and crisp, carrying with it the subtle fragrance of jasmine from the gardens that surround the palace like a protective embrace.

Through the large, arched windows, Kuan glimpses the expansive gardens beyond. The morning sun casts a golden hue over the meticulously manicured lawns, where cherry blossoms in full bloom rain down pink petals with each gentle breeze. The koi ponds, serene and still, reflect the vibrant colors of the trees and the ornate stone bridges that arch gracefully over the water. In the distance, a pair of cranes glide silently across the sky, their wings barely stirring the air. It is a place of serenity, where the troubles of the empire seem distant and insignificant.

As they walk, Hunan’s presence is commanding despite his delicate frame. His pace is measured, his expression calm. Kuan’s eyes flicker with curiosity as they approach a group of officials clustered together like crows, their conversation abruptly halting as they spot Hunan.

"Minister Hunan," one of them greets, his tone laced with thinly veiled disdain. "A moment of your time, if you please."

Hunan pauses, inclining his head slightly, acknowledging the man without breaking his stride. Kuan stays close, his eyes wide as he observes the exchange, absorbing the tension that crackles in the air.

"We have concerns regarding your latest directive at the Eastern Bureau," another official begins, his voice dripping with reproach. "Using a portion of the treasure fleet’s income to bribe the Thirteen Provinces—surely, you understand the treasurer's outrage? The Southern Bureau has already voiced their disapproval. This is an egregious waste of the empire’s resources."

Hunan stops, turning slowly to face the group. His expression remains impassive, his eyes as calm as the still waters of the koi pond. "There is no greater waste of money than war," he replies evenly, his voice smooth, each word deliberate. "And there is no greater way to make money than through trade. The Thirteen Provinces are not just vassals; they are the gateway to riches far beyond our borders. Ensuring their loyalty, especially in uncertain times, is an investment, not a waste."

The officials exchange glances, their brows furrowed in frustration. "But the treasurer—"

"The treasurer’s vision is limited to numbers on a scroll," Hunan interrupts, his tone sharpening like the edge of a blade. "He sees coins spent but fails to see the wealth that flows when peace is maintained and trade flourishes. The Thirteen Provinces are prosperous, and their allegiance is worth far more than the gold we send. A few coins now prevent the rivers of blood later."

Kuan watches as his father speaks, the calm authority in Hunan's voice mesmerizing. He can see the subtle shift in the officials’ posture, the way their arguments falter under the weight of Hunan’s logic.

"The Southern Bureau agrees with the treasurer," one of them insists, though his voice lacks the conviction it held moments before. "They say this sets a dangerous precedent—"

"The Southern Bureau," Hunan cuts in, his gaze piercing, "should concern itself with the low seas and leave matters of diplomacy to those who understand that sometimes, to gain much, one must give a little. I trust they will find other ways to fill their coffers."

The officials bristle, but they are clearly outmatched, their arguments unraveling in the face of Hunan’s unyielding composure. After a moment of silence, they exchange weary looks and, one by one, bow slightly, muttering their farewells before continuing down the corridor.

Hunan watches them go, his face unreadable, before turning back to his path. Kuan falls into step beside him, his young mind buzzing with the exchange he has just witnessed. He glances up at his father, who seems as serene as the palace around them, as if the confrontation had never occurred.

As they continue down the corridors, Kuan's thoughts simmer beneath his calm exterior. The boy, though young, possesses a mind that is constantly questioning, analyzing, and probing the world around him. He finally voices the thought that has been brewing since their encounter with the officials.

"Father," Kuan begins, his tone respectful yet curious, "how does giving more money to the Thirteen Provinces ensure their loyalty? Couldn’t it also make them stronger and more arrogant, believing they can use our own silver to take us on?"

Hunan slows his pace, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He looks down at Kuan, silently admiring the sharpness of the boy’s intellect. This was why he had chosen Kuan, despite his youth, to be his heir. The child possessed a mind that grasped complexities far beyond his years, a mind worthy of shaping into a powerful advisor.

"You ask the right questions, Kuan," Hunan replies, his voice measured. "It’s true that we benefit more from a weak vassal than a strong one. But the best vassal, the one we must strive to create, is a strong vassal who believes themselves weak before their overlord."

"By sending a significant portion of our wealth," Hunan continues, "we are not just providing them with silver. We are showcasing our immense resources, our strength. They see the wealth we offer and understand that if we can afford to give them so much, our reserves must be vast. It is a subtle reminder of their place beneath us, even as they grow stronger."

Kuan nods, his mind racing to grasp the full implications of his father’s words. The Thirteen Provinces, rich in their own right, are now more tightly bound to the empire, not by force, but by the allure of prosperity.

"Moreover," Hunan adds, his voice dropping to a softer, almost conspiratorial tone, "the market of the Thirteen Provinces is worth infinitely more than the silver we send them. By ensuring their loyalty, we secure a foothold in a region brimming with wealth, trade routes, and resources. This share of silver is the key that opens the gates to a far richer treasure."

Kuan’s expression remains unchanged, but inside, he feels a surge of satisfaction. The thrill of learning, of understanding the intricacies of empire and diplomacy, fills him with a quiet happiness. He relishes these moments, even though he keeps his emotions carefully hidden, as he has been taught.

Hunan, too, keeps his expression neutral, but he feels a swell of pride. This child, so young yet so perceptive, is already beginning to see what the officials—men many times his age—fail to grasp. Kuan’s questions had pierced the heart of the matter, and though Hunan doesn’t voice it, he knows he has chosen his heir well.

They walk in silence for a time, the peaceful ambiance of the palace enveloping them once more. Eventually, they reach the inner courtyard, a space of quiet beauty tucked away within the palace’s heart. The courtyard is a square of lush greenery, surrounded by tall, elegant walls of white stone. Delicate stone lanterns line the pathways, their light soft and warm even in the daytime. The air is fragrant with the scent of blooming orchids, and the gentle trickle of water from a small fountain adds to the serenity.

Father and son cross the courtyard in silence, their footsteps quiet on the stone path. They pass through a wooden gate at the far end, entering the eastern bureau's office—a stark contrast to the tranquility they have just left behind.

The walls are lined with tall, dark wooden shelves, each filled with scrolls, maps, and ledgers meticulously organized. The air is thick with the scent of ink and parchment. A large wooden table occupies the center of the room, its surface covered with documents, inkstones, and brushes, all neatly arranged. The table is flanked by high-backed chairs, each carved with intricate designs of dragons and phoenixes, symbols of power and authority.

On one side of the room, a large map of the empire is pinned to the wall, its borders marked with tiny flags representing various regions and territories. A window behind the desk allows sunlight to pour into the room, casting long shadows across the floor, where a richly woven rug depicting a scene of a dragon chasing a pearl lies.

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Hunan moves toward the table, his expression focused as he surveys the documents spread before him. Kuan follows, his eyes scanning the room. He knows that this is where decisions that shape the empire are made.

Hunan picks up a scroll from the table, his eyes scanning the finely written characters with the precision of a seasoned reader. The room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of parchment as he flips through the document. Kuan watches his father closely, observing the subtle shift in his expression, the way his brow furrows ever so slightly. Then, without looking up, Hunan asks, "Kuan, why do you think the offices of the Four Gates are located so close to the walls of the imperial city?"

The question is one Kuan has pondered many times since Hunan first brought him to the Eastern Bureau. It has lingered in his thoughts, a puzzle waiting to be solved. He steps forward, moving closer to his father's desk, feeling the weight of the question as much as the authority it carries.

"There must be a trapdoor," Kuan begins, his voice steady and thoughtful. "A connection between the city and the world outside. Considering the risks—fire, epidemics—there must be tunnels beneath the walls, hidden passages for the imperial family to escape unseen and safely."

Hunan's gaze shifts to his son, a flicker of pride lighting his eyes. The boy's mind is as sharp as ever, dissecting the complexities of the empire’s defenses with the curiosity and precision of a scholar. Yet, there is more to this lesson.

"Or," Hunan adds, his tone grave, "in case of a siege."

The words hang heavy in the air. For a boy like Kuan, who has only ever known the empire’s strength and the safety of Pezijil’s walls, the thought of an enemy army reaching those very walls is nearly inconceivable. But Hunan knows better. History is a relentless teacher, reminding him that the empire’s glory, though formidable, is not invincible.

Kuan doesn’t flinch at the severity in his father’s voice. He has learned to expect the weight behind his father’s lessons, to understand that knowledge is not always a source of comfort, but of preparation.

Hunan, satisfied with Kuan’s response, pushes the heavy wooden desk aside with a strength that belies his slender frame. Beneath it, hidden from sight, is a trapdoor, its edges worn smooth by years of careful concealment. Hunan reaches into his sleeve and retrieves a small, intricately carved key, which he uses to unlock the trapdoor. The lock clicks open with a sound that seems to echo in the silence of the room.

He lifts the trapdoor, revealing a dark, narrow corridor that descends into the earth. Without hesitation, Hunan steps down into the passage, the dim light from the office casting long shadows as he moves.

"Follow me, Kuan," Hunan instructs, his voice calm but firm.

Kuan steps forward, glancing briefly at the darkness below before he follows his father into the corridor. As he descends, the smell hits him—a thick, fetid odor that clings to the air, unlike anything he has ever encountered. Instinctively, he raises a sleeve to cover his nose, but Hunan’s voice halts him.

"Remove your sleeve," Hunan commands softly. "You need to use all your senses to appreciate what is to come."

Kuan hesitates, but he obeys, lowering his sleeve and allowing the full force of the stench to assault his senses. It is overwhelming, a miasma of decay and rot that seems to seep into his very being.

"The brightest light," Hunan continues, his voice echoing slightly in the confined space, "casts the darkest shadow. And in our case, even the most prosperous city, bathed in rays of gold, hides a putrescence that is only as great."

The words strike Kuan deeply. The empire, his home, the very heart of civilization, harbors this darkness beneath its surface—hidden, but always present. It is a truth that Hunan wants him to see, to smell, to understand fully.

They continue down the corridor, the light from above fading as they move deeper into the underground passage. The walls are damp, slick with the moisture of the earth and the filth that flows through the city’s sewers. Kuan’s footsteps are careful, his senses heightened as he follows Hunan through the darkness. The smell, now inescapable, seems to thicken the air, but Kuan breathes it in.

They reach the end of the corridor, where it opens into a wider tunnel. The sound of trickling water can be heard, faint but constant, as the city’s waste is carried away beneath the streets. Hunan pauses, turning to face Kuan, his expression stern but not unkind.

"This, Kuan, is the shadow of the light above," Hunan says, his voice low. "It is the rot that grows alongside prosperity, the darkness that lurks beneath the surface. You must understand that this is as much a part of the empire as the palaces and the markets. Ignore it, and it will consume you. Acknowledge it, and you can control it."

Kuan nods, the lesson sinking in. Hunan turns, leading the way further into the tunnel. Kuan follows, no longer trying to shield himself from reality.

As they walk through the sewers, the air thick with the stench of decay, Hunan’s voice cuts through the darkness like a blade. “This path must remain a secret, Kuan,” he says, his tone firm and unwavering. “In the shadows it lies, so in the shadows it shall remain. The existence of these tunnels is known only to a few, and that is how it must stay. When their purpose is fulfilled, they must be destroyed—especially during a siege. Our first priority will be to ensure the imperial family’s safety, and then to flood these tunnels, so no one else can use them.”

Kuan nods, the gravity of his father’s words sinking in. He can feel the weight of responsibility pressing down on him, a burden that grows heavier with every step they take.

Finally, they reach the end of the tunnel, where a faint light filters through a narrow opening. Hunan steps through it first, and Kuan follows closely behind. The sudden brightness of the outside world assaults his eyes, and he blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the light. It feels as though an eternity has passed since they descended into the sewers, yet it has only been an hour. Kuan glances back at the dark passage they have just emerged from, a shiver running down his spine as he imagines getting lost in the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the city.

Hunan continues walking, not pausing to take in the surroundings, so Kuan quickly runs to catch up with him. “Father,” Kuan asks, his voice betraying a hint of unease, “where are we going now?”

“I have a business around there,” Hunan replies, not breaking his stride. Kuan swallows hard, his unease growing. This is the first time he has left the city since he was brought to it years ago, and the idea of being so far from its protective walls fills him with apprehension.

They walk for hours, the sun climbing higher in the sky. As they pass through the countryside, the few villagers they encounter notice their rank and nod politely. Kuan observes the way they react to Hunan—respectful, but not overly surprised, as if his father’s presence here is not unusual. It dawns on Kuan that Hunan must have made this journey several times before, though for what purpose, he cannot guess.

Finally, they reach a small town, modest but bustling with life. The houses are simple, made of wood and stone, with thatched roofs and small gardens. Hunan leads Kuan to a large house on the outskirts of the town. The house is well-kept, with flowers blooming in the garden and a fresh coat of paint on the walls. Hunan approaches the door and knocks firmly.

A moment later, the door creaks open to reveal a woman of middle age, her face lined with the worries of life but softened by a warm smile. “Minister Hunan,” she says, her voice filled with gratitude, “thank you for coming.”

Hunan nods, offering a brief but respectful bow. “I came as soon as I read your letter.”

The woman steps aside, gesturing for them to enter. “Please, come in.”

Inside, the house is cozy and well-lived, with simple furnishings that speak of a life of modest comfort. The scent of freshly brewed tea wafts through the air, and Kuan’s mouth waters, but he keeps his composure, following Hunan into the main room.

A young boy, a couple of years younger than Kuan, sits on the floor, playing quietly with a set of wooden toys. He looks up as they enter, his eyes wide with curiosity but not fear. The woman thanks Hunan again, her voice trembling slightly. “I’m so grateful you came so quickly.”

Hunan approaches the boy, squatting down to meet him at eye level. The boy’s gaze meets his, unflinching, and Hunan can’t help but notice the sharpness in those young eyes—a sharpness that reminds him of Kuan’s when he had first brought him to the palace.

The woman offers tea, her hands shaking slightly as she pours it. Kuan’s instinct is to accept—it has been a long journey, and the idea of a warm drink is inviting—but he quickly catches the glance from his father and remembers his place. Hunan declines politely, and Kuan follows suit, stifling his disappointment.

“What is the child’s name?” Hunan asks, his voice softening as he addresses the woman.

“His name is Yile,” she replies, her tone a mix of pride and sorrow. “It was his mother’s first child, and she gave him that name. My sister… passed during the last winter.” The woman’s voice falters for a moment, but she steadies herself. “I would have kept him, but with my own children, I just… I can’t. But I’ve heard that people from the palace are always looking for children to shape into officials. And Yile—he’s the sharpest child I’ve ever seen. He would make an amazing advisor, or even a diplomat one day.”

Hunan nods, his gaze never leaving Yile’s face. “Yile,” he says, as though testing the name on his tongue. “It is a fine name.” He pauses, then adds, “Your mother was a dear friend to me. I owed her a debt. From now on, I will be in charge of your upbringing.”

Hunan stands, his decision made, and turns to the woman. “Thank you for caring for him,” he says simply. There is a finality in his tone, one that brooks no argument. The woman bows her head, relieved and perhaps a little sad, but she nods, accepting the arrangement.

The boy, Yile, looks at Kuan with wide, questioning eyes. There is no fear there, only curiosity and perhaps a glimmer of understanding that his life is about to change in ways he cannot yet comprehend. Hunan’s words are both a promise and a command, and Kuan can sense the weight of them. He looks at Yile, recognizing something of himself in the younger boy—something he deeply hates, something he cannot tolerate in anyone but himself.