After Jiang Zhizhou left the palace, he spent his days in the company of wine. Wherever he went, a heavy reek of alcohol hung about him.
Yang Qing, meanwhile, had shut himself away again, and the smell of medicine occasionally drifted from his little courtyard.
It seemed his old ailment had flared up again.
Business at the Rare Treasures Pavilion was no longer as brisk as before. To make caring for Yang Qing easier, Bu Er simply closed the establishment.
For a time, this place whose doors had once been crowded with visitors grew steadily quieter, until it finally fell into desolation.
Yet neither Jiang Zhizhou nor Yang Qing seemed to care.
Or rather, even if they wanted to care, there was nothing they could do.
After all, they were already tangled in troubles.
Meanwhile, in a private residence less than a hundred meters from the Rare Treasures Pavilion, a man sat upright in the main hall.
A black Veil Hat concealed his face, making it impossible to discern his true appearance.
Another man knelt before him, reporting, "Our inquiries indicate that Yang Chengming's old ailment has returned, and he remains confined to his sickbed. Heir Apparent Jiang has not stepped outside either."
"May I ask what we should do next, young master?"
The man wearing the Veil Hat asked, "Have you investigated thoroughly?"
The kneeling man replied, "We have planted plenty of eyes around the Rare Treasures Pavilion. Nothing that happens inside can escape them."
The man rose, clasped his hands behind his back, and said, "I thought Yang Chengming was a man of considerable ability. Yet a few trifling setbacks have reduced him to this state. He truly puts his reputation to shame."
The man kneeling on the floor said, "However formidable he may be, he is still