Chapter Thirty-Nine: The Pug and the Turtle

“To give you a beating…” Peng Liang replied, somewhat speechless.

If it were him, he’d only be thinking about giving Lord Di a good thrashing right now too.

A wide, white-toothed grin spread across Di Ying’s face.

But Peng Liang’s curiosity was piqued.

He pressed further: “My lord, do you really want him to beat you up? Just so you can use that to deal with him? But think about it—he’s from the Wu family. If this gets to His Majesty, His Majesty will just see it as a personal scuffle between the two of you, nothing worth meddling in. Wouldn’t you be taking a beating for nothing?”

Di Ying simply smiled at the question, saying nothing as he continued walking at an unhurried pace.

As they walked on, he turned his head slightly, his eyes flicking toward Wu Jianhui, who was following a short distance behind.

There, one of Wu Jianhui’s attendants was murmuring to his master.

“Master, the steward said to leave the horseshoe prints by the South City Gate. If we wait too long, the tracks will get trampled by passersby and disappear.”

Reminded, Wu Jianhui’s mind cleared a little, though he felt more conflicted.

If he went up to walk side by side with Di Ying, wouldn’t that be giving the other too much face? If he walked ahead, wouldn’t that make him look like a lackey showing the way? But if he kept trailing along at this slow pace…

Wu Jianhui slapped his thigh and barked at his attendant, “Useless fool, can’t you see your master is walking here? Go fetch a horse!”

After scolding, he glanced again at Di Ying, then simply turned and headed back toward his own residence.

His estate wasn’t far from here. If he rode back home now and mounted his horse, he could easily reach the villa ahead of Di Ying.

Was he out of his mind, following behind Di Ying like some lapdog?

Watching Wu Jianhui leave, Di Ying’s smile deepened. He called to Peng Liang and made his way toward the Jingzhao Prefecture Office.

The Assistant Prefect of Jingzhao, Song Wen, a fourth-rank official just past thirty-two, was at that moment being reprimanded by Prefect Wu Desen.

“With the case at the Deputy Minister of Personnel’s villa, you shouldn’t have just brushed it off in court. Those manors and estates are at least within the capital’s outskirts—how could you tell His Majesty you have no authority there? What does that make us? A lawless land? Is that really the impression you want His Majesty to have?”

Song Wen didn’t dare respond directly. He quickly bowed and apologized, “I was suddenly accused out of nowhere and lost my head for a moment, speaking out of turn…”

“Enough!” Wu Desen waved a dismissive hand, his tone carrying a warning. He continued, “You’re capable and diligent in your duties, but you never can control your mouth. If it happens again, you’d better think hard about your future.”

Song Wen lowered his head and answered, “Yes, sir.”

Wu Desen shot him a glance, then waved him away. “Go on, go see about the Deputy Minister’s villa. His Majesty may have handed the case to Assistant Minister Di, but he’s a newcomer from out of town—what does he know? Since those hot spring villas fall under our Jingzhao Prefecture’s jurisdiction, go keep an eye on Assistant Minister Di. Don’t just wash your hands of it—His Majesty won’t stand for that, understand?”

“I understand,” Song Wen replied, quietly withdrawing.

As he walked back to his office, Song Wen let out a cold, silent snort.

In that villa and the surrounding hills, he wasn’t allowed to meddle in the tiniest affair—so much for jurisdiction! How was he supposed to manage anything? Even the most menial servant or maid from those households would bark orders at him, a fourth-rank official—how was he supposed to do his job? Wu Desen’s meaning was clear: he wanted Song Wen to keep an eye on Di Ying, to make sure this new official’s zeal didn’t burn out of control. He was also supposed to make sure Di Ying didn’t stir up anything that would reach the Emperor’s ears.

Song Wen was just a man with a piece of paper, sent around to clean up other people’s messes.

But Di Ying…

Song Wen was thinking this when he looked up and saw the man himself.

Song Wen narrowed his eyes.

Di Ying, from his behavior at court, seemed upright enough. Yet instead of heading straight to the villa to investigate, he had come to see Song Wen first…

Was this shrewdness? Did he know he couldn’t bypass Song Wen, so he came to pay his respects? Or was he just pulling someone down with him before the job had even begun?

These thoughts left Song Wen ill at ease, and he remained where he was, making no move to greet his visitor.

Seeing this, Di Ying approached with a bright, open smile. “My lord, regarding the case at the Deputy Minister’s villa, I’d like you to accompany me. You needn’t say or do anything—just bring a few men and come along. Whatever happens, I’ll take responsibility. How does that sound?”

Song Wen was taken aback.

Di Ying’s tone, his attitude, his way of handling things…

Song Wen forced a smile, cupped his hands, and gave a slight bow. “I’ll follow your lead in all things, Assistant Minister Di.”

Di Ying raised his hand, catching the other’s arms, and with a gentle pull, moved to stand at his side. Then, in a conspiratorial tone, he whispered, “Did you get a scolding?”

When Song Wen remained silent, Di Ying walked alongside him and sighed, “I think the hardest job in the whole country is yours. This is the capital, after all—a single breath of wind and you’re to blame, yet your rank isn’t that high. Tsk, what a mountain of pressure. In this place, if a stone falls from the sky, it’ll hit several officials—at least one of them first rank. And all these people bustling about—if they’re not the servants of one noble house, they’re the followers of another—how do you manage? But you can’t leave it alone, either. Today the east neighbor loses a chicken, tomorrow the west neighbor’s duck vanishes—all of it comes to you. Petty, trivial matters, yet you still have to keep things in balance. And as for real, significant affairs—they almost always bypass you entirely, and only when things get out of hand do they throw you in to take the blame. No credit, only blame. It’s too difficult.”

Hearing this, Song Wen suddenly felt his eyes sting. He gripped Di Ying’s wrist in return, his throat working as he struggled to speak, but in the end, he swallowed his words.

Song Wen was not a particularly assertive man; he was always cautious in both life and work. To put it bluntly, he had something of a turtle’s temperament. Perhaps it was precisely this that led to his promotion, placing him in the office of Assistant Prefect of Jingzhao, where he became even more careful.

Whenever there was a task, he’d send his subordinates to handle it. If things went well, his superiors got the credit; if they didn’t, and he was scolded, he’d just hunch his shoulders and take it.

No matter the issue, his first thought was to keep his own hands clean—not to overreach, but not to shirk either, always cautiously withdrawing behind the scenes, as pliant as wet clay.

After all, his superiors wanted just such a person in just such a position; nothing would happen to him.

And so Song Wen muddled through the days, sitting in this seat for five years, so long he’d forgotten to check where his own heart had drifted.

But he was still young, after all—he’d once had ambition too.

What man wants to live so stifled? Who doesn’t wish to advance?

Was he really to sit on this fine thread of a position until he grew old and died?