Chapter Eleven: The Qin Family’s Council—Sinister Intentions!

Qin Manor stood grand and imposing, exuding noble splendor. In all of Dingxing, there were but a handful of households whose grandeur could rival the Qins. Their status was evident for all to see, making it difficult for them to keep a low profile. Of course, the Zhou family was no less impressive. Though the rear courtyard offered only seven residences, beyond them lay a Buddhist garden as expansive as those seven courtyards combined.

At this moment, the Qin family had assembled in the main hall. Present were Duke Qin Ping of Sui, his eldest son Qin Weizhong, second son Qin Weiren, third son Qin Weitai, and his only daughter, Qin Zhaoning.

“Han Fu is a man of humble origins, deluded enough to think he could climb the social ladder with a mere marriage contract. Such wishful thinking! On that day, I was merciful and refrained from ending him quietly. Who would have thought the fool would be so ungrateful as to publicly challenge us for marriage, ruining the great affairs of our Qin family!” Qin Weizhong’s disdain was obvious, and his words overflowed with anger.

Even after Han Fu’s astonishing display of talent today, in Qin Weizhong’s eyes, Han Fu remained nothing but a trivial figure. Besides, Han Fu was to become a live-in son-in-law, forever despised by the world.

Yet it was precisely such a trivial man who made him gnash his teeth in hatred.

Still, no one hated Han Fu more than Qin Weiren. Had Han Fu not mounted the stage to compete, he would have surely won the day and the beauty. By all rights, this was a stolen bride, an unforgivable enmity. Since returning home, Qin Weiren’s demeanor had been dark and sullen, showing no sign of improvement. He now spoke in a cold voice: “This grievance must be avenged, or my heart will know no peace.”

As the patriarch, Qin Ping was determined to maintain his composure. He sat upright on the high seat, his gaze lowered, speaking slowly, “If we do not employ certain means, the world may believe the Qin family is easily bullied. However, this Han Fu is no longer the poor youth he once was. Every detail must be considered carefully.”

Qin Zhaoning’s brows knit ever so slightly. She wore a fitted military outfit, her bearing spirited and heroic. Having just returned from the army, she still held her silver-shining spear at her side. She had no interest in the sordid schemes her father and brothers discussed.

The Qin family had prepared for three months, yet still paled before Han Fu’s brilliance. Such talent was truly deserving of victory. Had the Qins honored their agreement, Han Fu would have been her betrothed by right. A man of such extraordinary talent—if she were to marry him... Qin Zhaoning’s thoughts drifted for a fleeting moment before she forced herself to stop.

In her view, the Qins’ breaking of the engagement and Han Fu’s seeking another path through competition were understandable. But there was one thing she could not accept.

“In his eyes, am I worth only three coins?” Qin Zhaoning spoke at last, her voice cool and detached.

The ties of fate had grown thin, and she no longer cared what sort of man Han Fu was. Yet one thing still stirred her heart—Han Fu’s deliberate gesture.

He returned a thousand taels but took only three coins, claiming with pride, “A marriage contract is but a piece of paper—three coins suffice.”

But whose marriage contract was it? It was hers, Qin Zhaoning’s.

In other words, to Han Fu, she—once the most sought-after noblewoman in Dingxing, now avoided by would-be suitors—was worth only three coins.

What woman could endure such a slight?

She could not swallow this humiliation; indignation smoldered in her heart.

“Sister, that brat Han Fu insulted you so grievously. Should I go beat him up to vent your anger?” Qin Weitai said furiously, swinging his pair of massive copper hammers.

Qin Weitai was a concubine’s son. His mother had been a maid at Qin Manor and died when he was just three. Blessed with prodigious strength, he had been specially favored from childhood—of course, only after his strength was discovered.

He was a simple soul, caring for little besides fighting. Still, even the dullest mind remembers who was kind before his strengths were known.

The eldest brother was arrogant and often bullied him. The second brother was haughty and ignored him. Only his sister, Qin Zhaoning, though not born of the same mother, had always shown him true concern—asking after his well-being, making sure he was fed, seeing that servants did not mistreat him.

Now, seeing his sister insulted, how could he not be angry? If Qin Zhaoning so much as nodded, he would storm the Zhou household and thrash Han Fu then and there.

“This is not your concern,” Qin Zhaoning said, her phoenix eyes slightly widened, her tone commanding. “My affairs, I will settle myself.”

Respectful as a son to his mother, Qin Weitai dared not disobey his sister. Still, his face flushed with frustration, and he finally sighed in defeat, setting his left hammer heavily on the floor and his right one on the table near Qin Ping.

With a loud crack, the table splintered, startling Qin Ping from his reverie.

Dishes and tea cups clattered as startled serving maids dropped their trays, sending tea and water splashing everywhere.

“Scoundrel!” Qin Ping bellowed, trembling with rage as he pointed accusingly at Qin Weitai. “That was made of huanghuali wood! You… you…”

Qin Weitai cowered in silence.

The maids blanched, fell to their knees, and knocked their foreheads to the floor, pleading desperately, “Spare us, master! Have mercy!”

Qin Ping fumed for a long moment, unable to find words. Looking at the maids kowtowing like pounding garlic, his mood soured further. “Drag this wretch out and flog her to death!” he barked.

“Spare us, master! Have mercy!” the maid sobbed, tears streaming down her face.

Qin Ping’s face remained cold and unmoved. To him, a servant’s life was beneath notice—a single word could spell life or death.

A burly servant entered to drag the maid away.

“Wait,” Qin Zhaoning interjected. “Father, fortune has not favored our household recently. Another death would only bring more misfortune. Better to let Weitai discipline her as he sees fit.”

Qin Ping found reason in her words and, glowering at Qin Weitai, grunted, “Take her away and do as you see fit.”

“Rest assured, Father,” said Qin Weitai, relieved, casting a wicked grin at the maid.

She dared not meet his gaze, relief quickly turning to despair. Though she had escaped immediate death, her heart was heavy with dread.

All in the household knew the third young master’s temper was violent and his punishments harsh. The maids serving in his courtyard were forever covered in bruises that never faded.

But to live, even under such fear, was preferable to certain death, no matter when his wrath might fall.

Qin Weitai hefted his hammer in one hand and seized the maid by the back of her collar with the other, dragging her away as one might haul a dead dog. She dared not resist, her feet scraping the ground as silent tears fell.

Soon, shrieks of pain and desperate pleas echoed from Qin Weitai’s quarters—cries not only from the newly punished maid, but others as well. No doubt, Qin Weitai, driven by his fury, took the opportunity to vent his anger on all his maids.

In the hall, however, the remaining family paid no mind, even seeming to take some pleasure in it, their spirits somewhat lifted.

Qin Zhaoning blinked, then said, “Father, your daughter will take her leave.”

She had no interest in the vengeful plans her father and brothers were sure to discuss next, nor any wish to be involved.

“Very well,” Qin Ping nodded.

Once Qin Zhaoning had gone, Qin Ping turned to his two sons. “Have you thought of a plan?”

Han Fu is now the live-in son-in-law of the Zhou family; to kill him would be too risky. The best course is to ruin his reputation, so the world scorns him even more,” Qin Weizhong replied.

“Big brother is right,” Qin Weiren agreed, pausing before he smiled slyly. “If his name is ruined, he’ll wish he were dead.”

Seeing that Qin Weiren had a scheme in mind, Qin Ping and Qin Weizhong waited in silence.

Qin Weiren smiled meaningfully. “Today, Han Fu composed seven poems on the competition stage, each one a marvel. But he is merely from humble origins—how could he produce such works? He must have plagiarized the masterpieces of another. Otherwise, why would he so readily accept becoming a son-in-law, without resistance or the backbone of a true scholar?”

Steal his literary fame, destroy his honor!

Qin Ping and Qin Weizhong understood at once, their eyes lighting up with anticipation.

“In that case, who should we say is the true author of these seven poems?” asked Qin Ping.

“Zhao Ziqian,” Qin Weiren replied, naming the renowned scholar with a chuckle. “Though celebrated, he is a man hungry for fame and reputation. I suspect he would be delighted for these seven poems to be credited to him.”

“Excellent,” Qin Ping nodded slowly. “A clever plan. See to it, and make sure there are no mistakes.”

“Rest assured, Father,” Qin Weiren promised, leaving with a cold smile.

Qin Ping exhaled deeply, his mood greatly improved. “Weizhong,” he called.

“Yes, Father?” Qin Weizhong bowed.

Qin Ping gestured at the splintered wood on the floor. “Gather it up and find a craftsman—have it made into prayer beads.”

“At once.”