The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis-Chapter 326: The West Gate

"Your Majesty—news from the west gate—Ren himself—he’s trying to leave the city with a sealed cart and a priest’s banner—"

The runner barely finished before my cup was already back on the table. "How many men," I asked.

"Two guards," he stammered. "Dressed plain. The banner carries a shrine’s seal. They claim the cart holds offerings."

"Offerings don’t have wheels strong enough to bear coin," Mingyu said beside me, voice quiet as ice.

I stood. The porridge had gone cold, but hunger had gone colder. "Intercept. Not at the gate. At the turn before it. If the banner is real, the shrine can fetch it. If it’s false, I want Ren and his priest untangled before their wheels touch daylight."

Yaozu was already moving, his shadow cutting the air.

He didn’t wait for permission; he never did. Deming went with him, snapping orders low to the two guards outside. Longzi’s jaw set—he didn’t ask, he followed. That left Mingyu, me, and Yizhen, the three of us still in the narrow chamber where ledgers bled ink like open wounds.

"Your Majesty," the clerk whispered, eyes darting between us, "should the Censor—"

"The Censor will have ink to chew on while we fetch meat," I interrupted. "Stay here. Copy the pages twice. If you leave before the second copy is finished, I’ll use your quill to pin your feet to the floor."

The man swallowed and bent over the desk like it was an altar.

Mingyu touched two fingers to my sleeve, not to stop me—never that—but to anchor the moment. "Careful," he murmured.

"Always," I lied, because he knew I meant "never."

We reached the outer courtyard fast.

The sound of hoofbeats clattered somewhere beyond, and the cold carried the tang of panic the way it carries smoke.

By the time we reached the turn near the west wall, Yaozu had already melted into one corner, his blade hidden in plain sight. Deming’s guards formed a cordon without a sound. Longzi stood in the center of the road, hands behind his back, the picture of casual denial.

The cart rattled toward him, banner stiff in the wind. Ren sat on the driver’s bench, his priest beside him, both too calm for men hauling offerings.

"Captain," Ren greeted, as if Longzi were a tavern acquaintance. "The gods don’t wait for your walls."

"The gods don’t smuggle ledgers in boxes," Longzi answered. He didn’t move. The ox snorted and slowed under his stance.

I stepped forward then, silver hem trailing dust. "Ren," I said, and his name cut through the pretense like a nail through silk.

His eyes flicked to me, widened, then narrowed. "Empress," he allowed, bow shallow, voice oily. "We are but servants of Heaven. The shrine asked for offerings, I provide. Who am I to deny the gods their due?"

"The same man who thought numbers only spoke to him," I returned. "Open it."

The priest clutched his beads, feigned outrage. "Your Majesty, to question a shrine’s chest is sacrilege—"

"To sell rope for coin is sacrilege," I snapped. "Open it or I’ll open your throat first."

The guards hesitated. Deming moved closer. That ended the hesitation.

The lid cracked. The stench of copper rolled out—not offerings, not incense. Coin. Stacks of it.

Silver weighed into neat bars, wrapped as if to survive a river crossing. Underneath, not cloth or bowls but sealed slips of parchment with temple seals forged too clean.

Ren didn’t blink. He had practiced this look—calm, unbothered, righteous in his own mouth. "Donations," he claimed.

"To your purse," Yaozu murmured from the shadows.

I bent, plucked one slip, snapped the seal.

Numbers lined it in the same hand that had filled Zhao Hengyuan’s false ledgers. "Curious," I said softly, "how the gods write with the Left Prime Minister’s clerk’s hand."

The priest paled. Ren’s jaw flexed once, the only crack.

"Bind him," Mingyu said, stepping forward at last. He hadn’t raised his voice, but the command carried. "And burn the banner. If the shrine wants offerings, they can pray louder."

The guards moved. Rope bit Ren’s wrists. He didn’t resist—too proud, or too certain silence would still buy him escape later. The priest whimpered until Deming’s stare turned it to silence.

Longzi nudged one of the bars with his boot. "Enough to buy a regiment," he observed.

"Or enough to bury one," I added.

We walked the cart back through the gate ourselves, not trusting it to hands that bent easy. By the time the wheels touched palace stone, the story had already run faster than us.

Ministers were waiting in the gallery watched with eyes like owls. Servants whispered before the ox had stopped.

In the narrow court, I let the cart halt before the desk still covered in ledgers. The coins glinted in torchlight like teeth.

"Minister Zhao," I said, voice carrying through the chamber though he was not yet present. "Bring him."

Two guards fetched the Left Prime Minister. He arrived with his dignity still patched together, but the stitches showed. Meiling trailed him, her face carefully schooled into pity that didn’t hide her calculation.

When Zhao Hengyuan saw the cart, he went still. Not out of outrage. Not out of shock. But rather out of calculation.

He was already trying to figure out how to deny it.

"Ren tried to leave," I told him, calm. "With coin enough to drown your house. With slips your clerk signed. With a priest who prays to your purse."

Zhao Hengyuan dropped to his knees before the Emperor, not me. "Majesty, I swear this man acts alone. He tarnishes my name with his thievery. He deserves death, not lenience. Allow me to pronounce it—"

Mingyu didn’t blink. "Curious, Zhao Hengyuan, how the thief’s hand matches your own accounts. Curious too how his cart carries more than silver—it carries your ambition, wrapped neat and labeled."

Meiling tried to soften it, stepping forward, voice trembling at the right edges. "Elder Sister, Father cannot control every merchant. A man as low as Ren—"

"Ren is low enough to reach your halls with his coin," I cut. "And high enough to carry your seal." I let the slip fall back onto the pile. "One cart of coin isn’t the problem. It’s the road it built. A road that ends at your door."

Zhao Hengyu’s knuckles pressed white into the stone. "You mistake me. I have only ever served."

"You have only ever served yourself," Mingyu corrected. His voice was cold now, each word a sentence. "The question is no longer whether you stole. The question is whether you aimed higher than coin. Did you intend to steal the throne?"

The chamber breathed in as one. The word echoed—treason.

Prime Minister Zhao’s head snapped up, horror painted quick across his face. "Majesty—no. Never. My loyalty—"

"Your loyalty," I interrupted, "bought rope, fed priests, fattened accounts, and built exits. Don’t dress it in finer cloth."

Meiling’s lips parted, desperation finally cracking her poise. "You will ruin us—"

"You ruined yourselves," I told her.

The phoenix wings of my throne caught the torchlight, silver bright as a blade. I let the silence stretch, let the ministers choke on it. Then I gave the word.

"File it," I said to the clerk. "As evidence."

Ren dropped his head at last, pride cracked open. Zhao Hengyuan’s face drained to ash. Meiling’s ambition trembled but did not break—she was already stitching her next mask.

And the court knew, from that morning on, that the rope Zhao Hengyuan had pulled so tight was finally around his own neck.