***
The road to Xuanjing took eight days by ox cart, winding through Jiangnan's rice terraces and silk production villages before climbing into the hills that cradled the capital like a pearl in dragon's claws.
Castor rode in the back with their supplies while Mei Ling sat up front with the carter—a taciturn man who'd been paid extra to ask no questions about why a young scholar traveled with only his "aunt" as chaperone.
The arrangement looked respectable enough to avoid scandal while remaining convenient for Castor's purposes.
On the third night, at an inn halfway between Suzhou and the capital, he summoned Mei Ling to his room.
She came without protest now, six months of conditioning having taught her that resistance only prolonged the inevitable. She undressed mechanically, folded her hanfu with the precision of ritual, and knelt on the rough wooden floor without being told.
Castor barely looked at her while she serviced his cock. His mind was already in Xuanjing, calculating which officials to target first, which families held real power versus apparent power, which women could provide the most valuable intelligence. Mei Ling's mouth was warm and practiced, but he felt nothing beyond physical release.
When he came down her throat, she swallowed without gagging—another learned behavior. Six months ago she would have choked and wept. Now she simply cleaned him with her tongue and waited for dismissal.
"In the capital, you'll be my housekeeper," he said, adjusting his robes. "Respectable. Proper. No one can suspect our arrangement. Understand?"
"Yes, master." Her voice was flat, dead. Something essential had broken in her during these months, and Castor recognized it as the same emptiness he felt himself. They were both hollow now, going through motions in service of a larger plan that only he understood.
"Return to your room."
She dressed and left silently. Through the thin walls, Castor heard her crying—quiet, helpless sobs that she only allowed herself in private. He listened for a moment, analyzing the sound clinically. Still some spirit left, then. Not completely broken.
Good. Completely broken tools lose their usefulness. She needs just enough will to function, but not enough to resist.
He fell asleep calculating the layout of Xuanjing's administrative districts from memory.
***
Xuanjing revealed itself gradually as they crested the final hill on the eighth day.
The city sprawled across the river valley like a sleeping dragon made of rooftops and walls.
The Imperial Palace dominated the northern district, its golden tiles catching afternoon sun.
The Grand Temple's seven-story pagoda rose in the east. Markets, administrative compounds, noble estates, and the examination grounds formed distinct quarters divided by broad avenues.
Two hundred thousand souls. The largest concentration of humanity Castor had seen in either of his lives here. And in fifty years, two cultivators would reduce it all to ash and corpses in a single moment of divine petulance.
But that's fifty years away, he reminded himself. Time enough to extract every useful resource, then abandon it before the apocalypse.
They entered through the South Gate after paying the entry tax—two copper coins per person, cheap enough to encourage commerce but sufficient to fund the gate guard's salaries. The guards barely glanced at Castor's provincial scholar credentials before waving them through.
Inside, Xuanjing was noise and smell and overwhelming humanity. Street vendors hawking steamed buns and roasted chestnuts. Sedan chairs carrying painted courtesans. Officials in silk robes stepping carefully around mud and beggars. Monks chanting sutras for donations. Children playing in the gutters. The entire spectrum of urban life compressed into streets barely wide enough for two carts to pass.
Mei Ling pressed close to him, overwhelmed. She'd never left their village before. The scale of the capital, the press of bodies, the sensory assault—it reduced her to a frightened villager clinging to familiar authority.
Castor navigated with the confidence of someone who'd lived here fifty years. The boarding house he'd selected was in the Scholar's Quarter, three streets from the examination grounds. Cheap but respectable, popular with provincial candidates preparing for metropolitan exams.
The landlady was a widow in her fifties named Madam Chen. She looked them over with the practiced assessment of someone who'd housed hundreds of scholars and could spot troublemakers at a glance.
"Scholar quarters are two silver taels per month," she said. "Includes two meals daily. Your... aunt will need separate lodging. We don't allow—"
"She's my housekeeper," Castor interrupted smoothly. "I'll pay an additional tael for adjoining rooms. My studies require privacy, but I need someone to manage domestic affairs."
Madam Chen's eyes narrowed. She'd heard that excuse before and knew exactly what it meant. But three taels monthly was excellent income, and she'd learned not to ask questions as long as tenants were quiet and paid on time.
"Adjoining rooms on the second floor. No visitors after curfew. No noise complaints. Break house rules and you're out immediately."
"Understood." Castor paid a month in advance—Merchant Qiao's investment in the saltpeter operation had provided ample capital. "We'll move in immediately."
The rooms were small but adequate. Castor's had a desk, a bed, and a small window overlooking the street. Mei Ling's was barely larger than a closet, containing only a sleeping mat and a trunk for belongings. The connecting door between them had no lock—Castor made sure of that.
"Unpack and rest," he told Mei Ling. "Tomorrow I begin cultivating connections. You'll stay here and maintain appearances."
She nodded obediently. The eight-day journey had exhausted her, and the city's overwhelming presence had drained what little energy remained. She looked older than forty-three now—worn down, used up, a tool nearing the end of its usefulness.
I'll need to replace her eventually, Castor thought dispassionately. But not yet. Familiar tools have value.
***
The metropolitan examination was four months away, giving Castor ample time to establish himself in the capital's social networks. He spent the first week simply observing—attending tea houses where scholars gathered, watching the morning court proceedings from the public gallery, mapping out which officials held genuine power versus ceremonial positions.
His memories from the second life provided a framework, but details had changed. Minister Zhao was younger here, not yet addicted to gambling. The Prince of Langya hadn't yet distinguished himself in any way that would make him the obvious imperial successor. The current Emperor was childless but healthy—no succession crisis yet.
*Good. That means I can shape events rather than simply react to them.*
The key was starting small. Grand gestures attracted attention. Subtle infiltration was safer.
His first target was Scholar Liu, a metropolitan examination veteran who'd failed three times but remained in the capital working as a tutor for noble families. Liu haunted the tea houses, offering advice to provincial scholars for the price of wine and an audience for his complaints about corrupt examiners.
Castor bought him wine and listened.
"The examiners favor candidates with connections," Liu complained, already drunk despite the early hour. "Doesn't matter how brilliant your essays are if no one knows your name. Need recommendations. Need family backing. Need bribes, essentially."
"Surely merit counts for something?" Castor played the naive provincial scholar perfectly.
"Merit." Liu laughed bitterly. "You know who passes? Sons of officials. Nephews of ministers. Candidates who've paid for private tutoring from the examiners themselves. The system is rotten from the foundation up."
Castor absorbed this while appearing sympathetic. His second-life memories confirmed Liu's assessment, but hearing it articulated helped identify specific weaknesses to exploit.
"So how does someone like me—no connections, no family backing—even have a chance?" He let frustration color his voice, the emotion calculated to bond them.
Liu studied him blearily. "You don't. Unless..." He leaned closer, wine-breath hot. "Unless you're willing to do what's necessary. Make the right friends. Offer the right incentives. Use whatever advantages you have."
"What advantages would a provincial scholar have?"
"Youth. Looks. Flexibility." Liu's eyes dropped meaningfully. "There are officials whose... tastes... run toward young men. Examiners' wives get lonely. If you're willing to debase yourself, doors open. But most scholars have too much pride." He laughed. "Pride. The most expensive luxury."
Castor smiled inwardly. *If you only knew how little pride means to me.*
"I'll consider my options," he said mildly. "Thank you for the advice."
Over the following weeks, Castor used Liu as a source of intelligence while cultivating other connections. He attended poetry gatherings where scholars competed to compose verses on assigned themes—easy victories given his photographic memory and fifty years of accumulated culture. His poems impressed without being too brilliant, establishing him as talented but not threatening.
He visited temples and donated generously, gaining the favorable attention of monks who advised various officials. He helped other scholars with their studies, building a reputation for generosity while identifying who might be useful later.
And he watched the noble families, cataloguing their movements, their relationships, their vulnerabilities.
The Vice Minister of Personnel had a daughter, Su Yan, seventeen years old and marriageable. She occasionally appeared in public during temple festivals, always heavily chaperoned. Beautiful in the classical sense—pale skin, delicate features, modestly dressed. According to gossip, her father was considering marriage proposals from several families seeking political alliance.
She'll be my wife within the year, Castor thought, watching her from across a temple courtyard. Not because I love her. Because her father's position is useful.
***
Two months into his residence in Xuanjing, Castor received an invitation that changed everything.
Madam Chen delivered it with unusual deference—the paper was expensive, the calligraphy professional. An invitation to a poetry gathering at the estate of Minister Shen, whose wife was known for hosting cultural salons.
"This is unusual for a provincial scholar," Madam Chen noted. "Minister Shen's gatherings are typically restricted to established capital scholars and low-ranking officials. Someone recommended you."
Scholar Liu, probably. Castor had continued buying him wine and listening to his complaints, establishing himself as a sympathetic ear. Liu must have mentioned him to someone who passed the name along.
"I'm honored," Castor said, already planning what to wear, what poems to prepare, what impression to cultivate.
The gathering was in three days. Time enough to research Minister Shen thoroughly.
From his second-life memories, Castor knew Shen was relatively clean as officials went—not corrupt exactly, but willing to bend rules for family advantage. His wife, Lady Shen, was the real power in the household. Forty-two years old, educated, sharp-minded, and frustrated that social conventions prevented her from holding office herself. She hosted salons partly from genuine cultural interest, partly to exercise influence indirectly through the scholars and junior officials she patronized.
Castor saw the opportunity immediately. Not the husband. The wife.
***
Minister Shen's estate was smaller than the Grand Preceptor's residence Castor remembered from his second life, but still impressive by provincial standards. The gathering took place in a garden pavilion overlooking an ornamental pond where fat carp swam lazily.
Twenty people attended—mostly scholars in their twenties and thirties, plus a handful of junior officials and one Buddhist abbot known for his calligraphy. Lady Shen presided from a carved chair, dressed in elegant but not ostentatious robes, her hair styled in the married woman's fashion.
She was beautiful in the way intelligent women often were—not flashy prettiness but compelling presence. Her eyes missed nothing, tracking conversations, noting who deferred to whom, cataloguing social dynamics with the skill of someone who'd spent decades navigating court politics from behind the scenes.
When Castor entered and presented his credentials, her gaze lingered on him fractionally longer than necessary.
She's intrigued.
Good.
The gathering proceeded through conventional stages. Poetry composition on assigned themes. Discussion of classical literature. Polite debate about administrative reforms.
Castor participated carefully—contributing enough to seem engaged, but not dominating conversation. Showing competence without arrogance. The goal wasn't to impress everyone, just one person.
When Lady Shen assigned the theme "separation and longing" for impromptu poetry composition, Castor wrote:
Autumn drifts in whispered gold,
Each leaf a day too cruelly sold.
The scholar reads by lonely flame,
While his wife's bed knows no name.
Not brilliant.
But melancholic and subtly suggestive. The image of a wife alone while her husband studied late implied loneliness, potential availability, emotional vulnerability.
Lady Shen read it aloud with the others, her expression neutral. But Castor caught the slight tightening around her eyes. The poem had landed exactly as intended.
After the formal gathering concluded, guests mingled while servants brought wine and fruit. Castor positioned himself near the pond, studying the carp, waiting.
Lady Shen approached within minutes.
"Your poem was... interesting, Scholar Castor." She stood beside him, close enough to suggest private conversation without impropriety. "Melancholic. Do you speak from personal experience?"
"I'm unmarried, Lady Shen. But I understand loneliness." He turned to face her. "Sometimes proximity doesn't prevent isolation. A husband and wife can share a bed and still be profoundly alone."
Her expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. Recognition, perhaps. Or warning.
"A bold observation from someone so young."
"Age and wisdom don't always correlate. I've found that suffering teaches quickly."
"And have you suffered much, Scholar Castor?"
"In my own way." He held her gaze. "Enough to recognize it in others."
The moment stretched between them, laden with subtext. Lady Shen was testing him, deciding whether he was clever or simply presumptuous. Whether the poem had been calculated seduction or innocent melancholy.
"You're from Jiangnan," she said finally, changing the subject away from dangerous territory. "The provincial examination results were quite impressive this year. Thirty-seventh place—respectable for a first attempt."
"I was fortunate."
"Fortune favors the prepared." She smiled slightly. "Minister Shen is always interested in promising young scholars. Perhaps you might visit again? Our library is extensive. You'd be welcome to study there while preparing for the metropolitan examination."
The door opens.
"I would be deeply honored, Lady Shen."
"Then we'll expect you. Shall we say... three afternoons weekly? When Minister Shen is attending court sessions. The library is quieter then."
The invitation was explicit in its implications. Three afternoons when her husband would be absent. Private access to the estate. Just the scholar and the lady, with only servants as witnesses.
"That would be most convenient for my studies," Castor agreed, matching her careful phrasing.
"Excellent." She turned to rejoin other guests, then paused. "Your poem mentioned a wife's cold bed. Perhaps you should consider that sometimes, a cold bed is preferable to one that offers no warmth despite being shared."
Then she was gone, gliding across the garden to attend to other guests.
Castor remained by the pond, watching carp circle beneath lily pads. His cock was half-hard already, anticipating the conquest. Lady Shen would be a challenge—intelligent, cautious, socially aware. Not like Liu Yiniang's desperate submission or Mei Ling's forced compliance.
This will require patience, he thought. Seduction, not violation. Making her believe it's her choice, her desire, her decision to betray her husband.
The game was beginning in earnest now.
***
CHAPTER END