Speaking was like kissing: timing mattered above all.
The same kiss, bestowed at the right moment, could send the heart through a thousand turns, intoxicated by spring breezes; at the wrong moment, it could leave only awkwardness, distance, and a tasteless emptiness.
Speaking was no different. A remark made at a banquet might be a sparkling witticism that won applause from the whole room. Make it over breakfast instead, and one could hardly complain when the halberd snapped and sank into the sand, leaving every guest silent.
Wang Yang had chosen to offer this explanation now, rather than when the Prince of Badong first questioned him, precisely because of timing.
First, when the Prince of Badong had angrily interrogated him earlier, he had already assumed Wang Yang had betrayed him. He had spoken of life and death from the moment they met. Under those circumstances, any defense would have sounded to him like sophistry, evasion, and a dog wagging its tail for mercy.
Second, in the rhythm of an exchange, rushing to explain oneself often suggested a guilty conscience and a weak position. The Prince of Badong had been angry, guarded, and convinced he had been wronged. He was like a tightly compressed spring: the more urgently one pressed down, the harder he would recoil.
So Wang Yang deliberately withheld any explanation. More than that, he openly donned the Eastern Palace's hat. On the surface, he was admitting the prince's accusations; in truth, he was quietly dismantling the prince's defenses while reclaiming control.
Through this act, he first drove the Prince of Badong's expectations to their lowest point. Then, after the prince sentenced him to death, he accepted it calmly and shared one final supper. By then, he was no longer "a prisoner awaiting judgment," but "an old acquaintance about