Chapter Twenty: The Overbearing Zhou Fulin

“General, are you suggesting you suspect me? Fang Zhongzheng and I are close friends. We both enjoy riding and archery, so we agreed to meet in the woods outside Lecheng for some horseback shooting. But that day, I waited and waited, and Fang never showed up. I simply assumed he was detained by some matter. The next day, however, news came that Fang had gone outside Lecheng to recuperate from an injury to his waist and abdomen. As for this handwritten letter, I have it as well—it’s a note Fang wrote to me at the time. I was deeply moved that he would write personally despite his injury. I intended to visit him, but the letter made it clear: since he could not attend this round of examinations, he felt deep regret, moved outside the city, and insisted I need not concern myself with visiting, lest it increase his sense of guilt.”

Zhou Fulin spoke with utmost sincerity, his words painting a vivid picture of camaraderie, yet, in every line, he neatly distanced himself from the affair. This man’s cunning runs deep.

Such was Li Zisheng’s first assessment. The supervisor, after General Deng’s probing words, had already grown flustered, but Zhou Fulin remained unmoved, composed, revealing a depth of scheming that was truly alarming.

“Oh? So you claim Fang Zhongzheng arranged this with you? Are there any witnesses?” General Deng narrowed his eyes dangerously at Zhou Fulin.

“Of course. All eight of us here know of this,” Zhou Fulin gestured to the eight men beside him.

Indeed, all eight replied in unison, confirming the story.

“And you say Fang wrote a personal letter to explain his embarrassment at missing the appointment. Where is this letter?” General Deng toyed with the white jade cup in his hand, his fingers gripping it tightly.

“I anticipated your doubts, General, and have already sent someone to fetch the letter from my home. It will arrive shortly. I ask for your patience.”

“Very well.”

No one in the dining hall spoke; all waited silently for the letter.

“Master, here is Young Master Fang’s letter.”

After about the time it takes to drink a cup of tea, a servant brought the letter to Zhou Fulin.

“General Deng, this is the letter Fang sent me. Please examine it.” Zhou snapped his fan shut and indicated Deng Qing on the main seat, signaling the servant to hand it over.

Deng took the letter, opened it, and found its contents matched Zhou Fulin’s account exactly. He passed it directly to Mr. Lin.

“General, this is indeed Fang Zhongzheng’s handwriting, unmistakably so.” Mr. Lin found it hard to believe, but he nonetheless told General Deng the truth.

“Hmm, I understand,” General Deng replied, somewhat at a loss. He had privately investigated and found Zhou Fulin had always despised Fang Zhongzheng, often hurling insults and even resorting to blows—facts well known throughout the academy.

The reason was clear: Zhou had repeatedly extended an olive branch to Fang, hoping to recruit him, but Fang, stubborn by nature, always refused to bend, ignoring threats. This earned him Zhou’s contempt; he was largely ostracized in the academy, though his martial skills and strategic knowledge were widely admired.

Thus, those familiar with the situation could not believe Fang would willingly invite Zhou to ride and hunt. Yet the letter was now in his hands—no matter how much he doubted, he could not deny its authenticity.

Fang Zhongzheng was a distant relative of Mr. Lin, who knew his handwriting intimately.

“How many days ago did you receive this letter?” General Deng asked.

“General, I received it five days ago. Do you have any further questions? If you doubt me, you may call Fang here and we can settle the matter face-to-face,” Zhou Fulin replied, his composure undisturbed. Even the supervisor’s earlier panic had faded.

“And since then, has Fang contacted you?” General Deng’s tiger eyes widened, fixed on Zhou and the supervisor.

“No, I haven’t visited him again. Regardless of one’s talents, people value their reputation. If my visit would cause Fang embarrassment, I’d rather not trouble him.”

Zhou Fulin spoke with even greater calm.

“You...” General Deng looked at Zhou Fulin, helpless. With Zhou’s request for a face-to-face confrontation and the letter in hand, he was in an invulnerable position—there was nothing Deng could do.

General Deng sat quietly in his seat. He had hoped to intimidate the two men into submission, ideally, but seeing no way forward, he would have to devise another plan to resolve the issue.

“General Deng, may I take a look at the letter?” Li Zisheng suddenly spoke, startling everyone with the clarity of his voice in the silent hall.

“Oh? What insight do you have, Zisheng?” General Deng was puzzled, but more than that, he felt anticipation for some unknown reason.

“Mr. Lin, please hand the letter to me,” Deng Qing said, his tone expectant.

“Yes, General.”

Li Zisheng took the letter from Mr. Lin, read it carefully, then held it up against the light.

Very quickly, Li Zisheng put the letter away, turned to General Deng, and bowed solemnly.

“General, this letter is a forgery; it is not the author’s true handwriting.” Li Zisheng’s gaze was unwavering as he spoke.

Everyone was stunned, especially Zhou Fulin, the supervisor, Mr. Zhong, and General Deng.

The claim was shocking—hard to fathom.

“Oh? What makes you say so, Zisheng? How did you determine the letter’s authenticity? Mr. Lin is an old acquaintance of Fang Zhongzheng and knows his handwriting well. He has already verified it as genuine, so your assertion is rather surprising.”

General Deng looked at Li Zisheng, his confusion matched by the shock of everyone else.