Part 1: The Dissection of a Crude Plot
This vulgar display of "entertainment" left the three men shaking their heads with wry smiles. To be fair, had the poisoned wine killed all three of them in one swoop, the assailant would have scored a monumental victory.
"Who do you suppose this poisoned wine was intended to kill?"
The Dipper Aureus Duke continued his lunch, beginning the post-mortem with his two friends.
"All of us are possible. It would be best for them if all three of us died; that would solve all their current problems."
The Raven Lord also resumed eating. For Mont Mentiel, it was merely a dead cat; he could eat calmly even if the backdrop were a mountain of corpses and a sea of blood.
"It couldn't possibly be me, could it? I am the least valuable target."
Li Junce, the former Chancellor of Tiger Wing and father of the first-in-line heir, felt he should be excluded.
"Not necessarily. Perhaps this poisoning was aimed precisely at you. Who can guarantee this bottle of wine wasn't sent by Xi Min?" Mont Mentiel offered an alternative perspective, and the Dipper Aureus Duke nodded in agreement.
"When the method is so crude it defies belief, it might, conversely, point to a different truth. Thus, the Fox's judgment is sound."
"If we judge the mastermind by who benefits most from the conspiracy, the most tragic figure is Su Wang, who holds the Wild Card. He is the most likely person to be framed and is, in fact, the greatest victim."
"And we are merely the swords being guided to eliminate Su Wang." The Dipper Aureus Duke precisely saw through the layer of deception.
"Therefore, the best approach is to stop guessing. Excessive speculation will only cause us to miss the crucial message being sent to us." Mont Mentiel nodded, agreeing with the Duke's view, and added:
"What we should be considering now is how to use this vulgar cup of poisoned wine to achieve our own goals."
As each man had his own way of maximizing benefit, the post-mortem of the poisoning ended here.
Part 2: The Confrontation on the Long Street
Yet, the storm of this poisoning incident had only just begun. Bao Zhen, the Commander of the Imperial Guard, led a hundred-man detachment, carrying the poisoned wine as evidence, directly to the residence of the Marquis Su Wang.
Following them was the Grand Judge of the Royal Tribunal, an old man with a full head of white hair, draped in the Imperial Judicial Robe, symbolizing the authority of Imperial law. Led by the Grand Judge, the procession marched from the Palace with great fanfare toward the Marquis's residence.
This was tantamount to publicly displaying the political assassination attempt before the people of the Empire. The massive event immediately spread throughout all of Prime Lake City.
The long street of the capital instantly became the Empire's largest stage.
The Imperial Guard marched in synchronized, armor-clanging steps, like a torrent of steel, escorting the deadly bottle of wine as they proceeded toward the Marquis's residence. The white-haired Grand Judge walked at the head, his judicial robe blindingly white in the sparse winter sunlight.
Windows of buildings lining the street flew open. Merchants, residents, travelers—every head craned out. Whispers spread like a tide.
"See that? That's Commander Bao! He's going straight to the Marquis Su Wang's residence!"
"My heavens, that bottle… Could it be the evidence for poisoning the Dipper Aureus Duke?"
"What Dipper Aureus Duke? I heard they poisoned an Imperial Cat!"
"Idiot! That was a test! The real target was likely…"
"Shhh! Watch your words! But this is going to be a good show. Marquis Su has likely hit a steel plate this time."
The news twisted, warped, and fermented rapidly as it passed from mouth to mouth. Some said the Duke had barely survived. Some claimed the Raven Lord had been struck. Others swore that this was the Dipper Aureus Duke purging dissidents to clear his path to the throne.
Regardless, a single consensus formed in the minds of the populace: the Empire's heaven was about to change.
This was no longer a conspiracy in a dark room but an open trial held under the sun.
Just as the buzz of chatter reached a crescendo, a heavy, dense drumming of horse hooves, like muffled thunder on the cobblestones, echoed from the far end of the long street, ahead of the procession.
The crowd stirred, everyone craning their necks to look.
Another contingent, bearing the banner of the Dragon Fang, streaked in like an ink-green blade, precisely blocking the main intersection leading to the Marquis's residence. The Dragon Fang soldiers were less finely equipped than the Imperial Guard, but every man had the fierce gaze and frontier-military aura of a veteran. They lined up in silence, their weapons sheathed, but the invisible pressure they exerted caused the air to nearly solidify.
The Dragon Fang commander at the front rode forward a few paces. He cupped his hands toward the Imperial Guard, his voice loud but devoid of warmth.
"Commander Bao, Grand Judge! I am here under the orders of my National Lord to maintain order, lest villains use the chaos to attack the Marquis's residence and disturb the Marquis and the Grand Princess Consort!"
Maintain order? Everyone knew this was armed intervention, an unconcealed threat and a stand-off.
Imperial Guard Commander Bao Zhen raised his hand. The steel torrent behind him instantly halted, their movements sharp and unified. His icy gaze swept over the Dragon Fang formation, finally settling on the commander.
The noisy street fell into an immediate, deathly silence.
The sunlight remained pale, yet it seemed to carry a cold weight, pressing down on the hearts of every bystander. On one side stood the Imperial Guard and the Judge, representing the Empire's legal authority; on the other, the private elite troops of a vassal state.
The bottle of poisoned wine, held aloft on the silver platter, shone with an increasingly eerie luster amidst the tense standoff.
"The Imperial Royal Tribunal is enforcing the law! Obstructers! Execute without mercy!"
Bao Zhen's furious shout echoed down the street, every word like an iron nail hammered onto the stone pavement. The hundred-man Imperial Guard detachment moved in response. The sound of metal scraping as blades were drawn was ear-piercing; the creak of bows being drawn taut made the air tremble. Arrowheads gleamed coldly in the winter sun, all aimed at the ink-green human wall opposite.
The Dragon Fang army responded with silence. They did not shout; they merely tilted their shields slightly, leveled their long spears, and deployed into a perfect defensive half-arc. Every action was precise and restrained, as if to say: We will not strike first, but we will absolutely not retreat.
A standstill had been reached. Neither commander could shoulder the responsibility of firing the first shot.
The Imperial Guard archers' knuckles were white from strain, but their bowstrings were never pulled to the full-moon draw—the true killing force. They were waiting: waiting for an accident, or waiting for an out.
The Dragon Fang commander's hand remained on his sword hilt, but his eyes constantly flicked toward the direction of the Imperial Palace. He was calculating the exact moment for the "perfectly timed" mediation to appear.
This was not an arrest; it was a meticulously choreographed political drama.
Both commanders, without communicating, had reached a tacit understanding. This situation demanded mediation, and they would maintain the standoff only until a graceful retreat was possible for both sides.
Bao Zhen was crystal clear: if the Dipper Aureus Duke truly wanted to arrest Su Wang, the men he led would not be a conspicuously arrayed Imperial Guard but covert internal security forces who would slip in through a side entrance. The grand parade from the Palace, designed for maximum visibility, was intended to do one thing: to publicly cement the charge of "Marquis Su Wang suspected of poisoning" onto the wall of Imperial public opinion.
So, he was not in a hurry. He even subtly gestured for the front-row soldiers to slightly loosen their stance—maintaining deterrence without triggering an accidental discharge due to excessive tension.
The Dragon Fang commander also understood the play. His orders were to "display strength and prevent the arrest," not to "go to war with the Imperial Guard." Hence, he chose the most conservative defensive formation, adopting a defiant posture but leaving ample room for maneuver.
The sun slowly shifted, glancing off the blades of both sides. The onlookers held their breath, waiting for the first drop of blood.
But that blood would not be shed today.
Because everyone understood: this was just a performance—a political performance for the citizens, for all factions, and for the history books.
The true victory was never about whether the swords drew blood, but who could better utilize this spectacle afterward to achieve their goals. The deadlock continued. Both sides were waiting for the "perfectly timed" mediator to appear and offer a dignified exit.
After all, in the Empire's power game, knowing when to leave the stage was more important than knowing how to enter it.