Breaking the Engagement

Evening, inside Mo Yun Zhai.

Li Dagang frowned deeply, hunched over his desk as he wrote swiftly.

He was following Zhang Yu's instructions, peeling away and transferring all the industries tied to the Marquis Estate.

Soon enough, the people of the Marquis Estate would realize the entire household was nothing but an empty shell.

Since his persona had already served its purpose, Zhang Yu had no intention of indulging those leeches at the Marquis Estate any longer.

Beside Li Dagang, a young man in black form-fitting clothes was sprawled without a shred of dignity in a grand armchair, one leg hooked over the armrest, a gourd of wine in his hand, tilting his head back for a swig every now and then.

This was Mo Zhai, Zhang Yu's top fighter and one of the earliest trusted followers to join him. At just twenty years old, his cultivation had already reached the Sixth Rank Peak.

In truth, with Zhang Yu's wealth, hiring a Ninth Rank Master or even an Innate Master was well within his means.

But his own cultivation was too low, and he dared not rashly recruit anyone too powerful, fearing he might be overthrown by his own subordinates.

So he chose to carefully nurture loyal men, then operate under the banner of the Marquis Estate.

Suddenly, Li Dagang's Message Jade Pendant lit up.

He glanced down, and his expression immediately turned odd—his mouth even twitched.

"What's wrong?"

Mo Zhai keenly caught the shift in Li Dagang's face and asked lazily, though his eyes sharpened.

Li Dagang's expression was complicated as he handed the slip of paper to Mo Zhai, his tone laced with absurdity: "See for yourself... Someone's got their eye on the boss's 'chrysanthemum.'"

"Chrysanthemum?"

Mo Zhai blinked, took the jade token, and read it. A grin curled across his lips, brimming with menace: "Interesting. Since the boss's little brother wants the boss's chrysanthemum withered, we might as well let him experience scattered wounds himself first."

"Old Li, here's what you do..."

Mo Zhai whispered a plan in his ear, and Li Dagang hesitated: "Isn't that a bit much?"

The next day, Dali Temple Prison.

This place mostly held serious offenders, major criminals, or innocents caught up in big cases.

But inside the prison, it wasn't a uniform sea of suffering.

Here, money and power could still carve out a crack, letting in a sliver of "human" comfort.

The area where Zhang Yu was kept was the "paradise" side of this "ice and fire" divide.

Thanks to the massive sum of silver Li Dagang had greased palms with in advance, he hadn't been tossed into the stinking, cramped bunk rooms packed with a dozen or even dozens of prisoners like most inmates.

He had a private cell all to himself.

Though barely ten feet square, compared to the filthy, crowded cells outside, this was already "VIP treatment."

The cell held a reasonably clean wooden bed, covered with fresh bedding Li Dagang had sent in, and even a small wooden table and a stool.

Right now, Zhang Yu was lounging leisurely on the padded wooden bed, hands behind his head, legs crossed, a blade of grass dangling from his lips—who knew where he'd gotten it.

"Food's here!"

A lazy shout from the jailer rang out beyond the cell door, accompanied by the clank of chains and the drag of wooden buckets.

Zhang Yu sat up at the sound.

Before long, a jailer with a fairly kind face came over carrying two food boxes.

Instead of roughly shoving the food through the bars like he did with other prisoners, he pulled out a key, opened the small hatch in the cell door, and handed the two boxes in one by one.

"Master Zhang, your meal."

The jailer lowered his voice, a hint of fawning in it, "As you requested—light and tasty, fresh out of the pot."

Zhang Yu nodded and took the boxes.

Opening them, the top layer held a bowl of gleaming white rice; below, a plate of stir-fried vegetables, a dish of braised pork, and a bowl of chicken soup with golden oil droplets and a rich aroma.

This was the fifty-tael "home-style private meal."

In Dali Temple Prison, as long as you paid enough and had enough backing, you could still enjoy food nearly as good as outside.

Zhang Yu ate slowly and deliberately, the sounds of cursing and scuffling from nearby cells—over a bit of moldy thin gruel—forming a jarring contrast.

His gaze occasionally drifted to another identical private cell diagonally across.

That was the Jing Prince's only son, said to be a regular here.

That cell was even roomier than Zhang Yu's, with not just a bed and table, but a bookshelf and a tea set.

Right now, that young prince was lounging on a silk-padded couch, with two pretty maids dressed as servants beside him—one fanning him, the other peeling grapes.

The curtain was half-drawn, blocking most of the view, but the occasional laughter and certain ambiguous sounds made it easy to guess what was going on inside.

With power and influence, even in chains, you could still drown in pleasure.

Zhang Yu ate his fifty-tael "prison meal" at a leisurely pace. He picked up the last piece of meat, but his chopsticks paused slightly—there seemed to be something at the bottom of the bowl.

Without changing his expression, he nudged the rice aside with his chopsticks, his fingertips brushing a small piece of oil paper—Li Dagang's message.

"I'm already in the prison, and my good little brother still won't let me go."