In the gilded, sternly majestic palace, Emperor Wen’s voice rang like a thunderous gong, stripped of warmth:

“I hear Marquis Anwu has neglected you these years, even siring a younger brother in the East Wilderness—do you bear resentment?”

Xia Chen’s form quivered faintly, his face flickering with a storm of emotions in a heartbeat.

Fury sparked like embers in his eyes, swiftly veiled by a shroud of sorrow—yet he reined it in. His trembling lips morphed into a choked voice:

“To Your Majesty—I… do indeed harbor resentment!”

Emperor Wen’s tone sharpened, a chill wind over frozen lakes:

“Are you aware that our Dawu, eight hundred years rooted, governs through filial devotion? He’s your father—how dare a son bear grievances!”

Xia Chen dropped to his knees, forehead thudding against the floor, voice resolute yet earnest:

“Our Dawu reigns by filial piety—lords rule, vassals serve, fathers command, sons obey; lords and vassals precede fathers and sons.

“Your Majesty is my sovereign father—how could I dare deceive You when You ask!”

Emperor Wen’s eyes flared golden, like the sun piercing clouds.

A tidal wave of pressure crashed over Xia Chen—a millennial beast stirring. His heart jolted:

“Emperor Wen’s a sorcerer too? His realm’s this profound!”

This towering aura seemed beyond mortal bounds—surely above Third-Rank, perhaps a Second-Rank peerless master.

Xia Chen couldn’t help but ponder: with Emperor Wen so formidable, how did the Third Prince slay him five years hence?

Even against an army, Emperor Wen could retreat—unless a peer or greater struck during the coup.

Thoughts raced; his face stayed pure. His acting hit its peak.

“Fine words—lords rule, vassals serve, fathers command, sons obey! Were Dawu filled with more like you, grasping this order, I’d shed many woes.”

Emperor Wen turned, eyes blazing, sizing up the kneeling youth.

“Lift your head—let me see!”

Xia Chen obeyed, noting Emperor Wen’s casual “I” over the regal “We.”

“A handsome face—fit for my daughter Yaoguang!” Emperor Wen nodded faintly, approving.

His gaze pierced deep, white hair framing a youthful vigor—sunrise vitality.

Though Emperor Wen often cloaks himself in the guise of monk and Daoist before ministers, none can dispute that he is an emperor of unparalleled cunning.

First hearing this, he grasped its weight for political bedrock—bolstering imperial sway, enforcing hierarchy, demanding absolute fealty.

Emperor Wen adored it.

“Did someone teach you that?” he probed.

“No, Your Majesty—it’s my own thought!” Xia Chen replied crisp.

“Splendid, splendid, splendid! They say Zhendong Marquis thrives in martial prowess—yet who’d have thought this generation would yield a budding scholar like you, no less than those grand Confucians!”

Emperor Wen’s rare smile stunned the maids and eunuchs in the shadows.

Years serving him—never this ripple, not even with cabinet elders.

“Know why I summoned you today?” Emperor Wen shifted gears.

“No, Your Majesty—I don’t!” Xia Chen stayed deferential.

He’d earned a sliver of trust—this “lords and vassals, fathers and sons” was his ace.

To a feudal king, it was an invincible tool—ruling’s ultimate aegis.

“You cracked the defense map case, nabbed heaps of Inspectorate spies in the capital.

“By that merit, you’d climb to commandant. Yet I won’t grant it now—any resentment?”

“None—thunder or dew, all flow from imperial favor. I trust Your Majesty’s deeper intent, so I yield to Your will!” Xia Chen’s words rang true.

“Fine words—thunder or dew, all flow from imperial favor! Were every courtier as enlightened, what discord could roil the halls!”

Xia Chen’s line struck a chord—Emperor Wen’s gaze transformed.

A casual pawn, yielding such delight.

“Had you studied young, taken the scholar’s path to Hanlin Academy, you’d have prime minister potential!”

Emperor Wen’s calm words echoed, jolting the shadowed servants.

From another, prime minister talk was flattery—Emperor Wen’s lips made it weighty, even if offhand. Who dared guess his mind?

“My life’s aim is to shield home and realm.

“If Your Majesty calls, I’d be Your sharpest blade—blood on the sands, shrouded in horsehide, no regrets!”

Xia Chen’s voice boomed—his acting soared, nearly fooling himself.

“Shrouded in horsehide…”

Emperor Wen murmured, savoring the grim valor.

“Wasted on martial arts!”

Finally, he declared:

“You’re right—I’ve plans for you. This wit’s too grand for the guard—I want you in the Lamplighters!”

Their exchange convinced Emperor Wen: this son-in-law was loyal, estranged from Zhendong, especially that father, Marquis Andong—perfect for his designs.

“Lamplighters?” Xia Chen feigned puzzlement.

“Unwilling?” Emperor Wen pressed.

“No, Your Majesty—wherever You send me, I yearn to serve!”

Xia Chen’s face lit with zeal—a hot-blooded youth, itching to shine for his lord.

Emperor Wen nodded, pleased: “The Lamplighters’ Nine Divisions lack one chief—you’ll stand in as division head!”

“Your Majesty, that post—I fear my rank’s too thin…”

Xia Chen hesitated. A Ninth Division Chief was Fourth-Rank—leaping from Seventh-Rank broke all norms.

“I send you—no one dares object! It’s temporary—I’ve a task for you there!”

Emperor Wen’s words brimmed with dominion, turning somber at the end.

“What task, Your Majesty? Be it blades or flames, I’ll die to see it done!”

Xia Chen’s tone surged, cheeks flushed—his acting Oscar-worthy.