Wen Yanran kept a gentle smile on her face. She neither accepted nor rejected the ministers’ remonstrations. Her gaze swept slowly across the hall as she asked, “Then what do you, my lords, think?”
“…”
Reading the sovereign’s intent was a delicate art.
Lu Yuanguang thought that since Her Majesty was asking in this way, it must mean there was still some hesitation in her mind, and she wished to hear the opinions of others.
After all, the positions of Vice Minister and Attendant were lofty and prestigious. When the reasons presented were sound, even an emperor could not act entirely on personal will – especially one like Wen Yanran, whose reign had only just begun and whose foundation was not yet secure.
He Tingyun said, “The post of Commander of the Imperial Guards should not remain vacant for long. Since Vice Minister Wang has suggested selecting someone from outside the Imperial Guard, I suppose you already have certain candidates in mind?”
Wang Qishi replied, “I recommend Guo Xingdao, a field officer from the Border Camp, to serve as the Outer Guard Commander of the Imperial Guards, and Luo Yue as the Central Guard Commander. As for the Inner Guard, I would ask Your Majesty to decide personally.”
Hearing this, Wen Yanran showed little visible reaction – not because she had no opinion, but because she had no idea who the two men Wang Qishi had named actually were.
In the first few days after her transmigration, whenever she heard an unfamiliar name, Wen Yanran would secretly try calling upon her “system.” In her mind, even if that thing was useless for anything else, it should at least have the basic function of providing information. Unfortunately, no matter how she tried, the response was always the same – utter silence. In the end, she had to rely on her own efforts, memorizing the names of court officials and the genealogies of prominent clans across the realm. But since she had not been in this world for long, her learning progress was still limited, and at such times she had to rely on the considerate courtiers around her to clear up her confusion.
Wang Qishi did not leave the Emperor in confusion for long. He immediately began to elaborate on the two men’s backgrounds and explain the reasons for his recommendation.
Both generals, he said, were of border commandery origin, but their families had originally migrated there from the Central Plains and had always remained loyal to Jianping. They were known for their steadfast and decisive temperaments – particularly Guo Xingdao, who was exceedingly strict in commanding his subordinates, making him especially suited to restoring discipline in the Imperial Guard after the recent incident.
Everything Wang Qishi said was true. Yet, knowing Guo Xingdao’s character, he also knew the man’s severity verged on cruelty. He was the kind of person fit to serve as a deputy, not a commander. If the authority over the Outer Guard were handed to him, it would most likely lead to serious trouble.
As Wen Yanran listened to Wang Qishi’s words, a plan gradually began to take shape in her mind.
As the reigning sovereign, Wen Yanran did not wear the formal imperial crown when attending court. To bind her hair, she used only the simplest cloth headband – plain in appearance, without a single jewel or bead for adornment. Of course, the fabric itself was certainly of the finest and most expensive kind, but visually, its austerity made it far less ornate than the headpieces fashionable among the nobility.
Her close attendants had once tried to dissuade her, warning that wearing a mere cloth band as a crown was unbefitting the dignity of the Son of Heaven.
Wen Yanran lacked a deep understanding of Great Zhou’s customs, but since her attendants were so unanimous in insisting that such attire was “undignified,” she decisively followed her own inclinations and adopted the cloth crown instead.
In truth, she felt that wearing sumptuous robes and jeweled ornaments could also serve quite well to damage one’s public image – but since, in the eyes of her contemporaries, a cloth crown already carried the flaw of being unbefitting for a sovereign, Wen Yanran decided to choose the lighter, more comfortable option – one that wouldn’t harm her hairline. After all, to be a proper tyrant should begin with never compromising on one’s own comfort in clothing, food, or shelter.
What Wen Yanran did not realize, however, was that her attendants’ admonitions had largely been an attempt to give their ruler an excuse to indulge in luxury. The ministers in court, by contrast, would never look down on her because of this choice. Had it not been for the incidents of the funeral-hall execution and the palace rebellion she personally suppressed, they might have thought the new emperor timid and withdrawn, afraid to adorn herself too splendidly. But after those events, they could only feel from the depths of their hearts that – since she already held the empire firmly in her grasp – it made no difference at all whether the ornate crown was stored in the treasury or worn upon her head.
A similar thought crossed Wang Qishi’s mind. Though he was kneeling on the floor, he maintained the lofty posture of a loyal minister filled with righteous zeal, raising his head to gaze at the sovereign before him. Yet the longer he looked, the stronger his sense of dread grew. The ruler before him wore only plain court robes, yet seemed as distant and imposing as mountain peaks veiled in clouds – radiating an unfathomable authority.
Wen Yanran did not give a direct answer. Instead, she smiled and said, “Vice Minister Wang, rise and return to your seat.”
Even though Wang Qishi still had more to say, upon hearing this he had no choice but to obey. To remain kneeling without the Emperor’s leave was something ministers only did when the Son of Heaven had committed some grave offense against the Way and they were risking their lives to remonstrate. If he were to do such a thing now, without a fitting reason, the Minister of Justice, He Tingyun – seated just beside him – would certainly seize the chance to accuse him of disrespect, strip him of office, and throw him in prison, all to establish her own authority as a newly appointed official.
Wen Yanran had by now grown accustomed to being the center of every minister’s attention whenever she paused to think. As she pondered, she spoke slowly, “As Vice Minister Wang has said, Generals Guo and Luo are indeed men of talent.”
Hearing the sovereign’s words of approval, Wang Qishi had barely begun to feel pleased when another voice descended from above.
“In that case, appoint Luo Yue as Commander of the Central Guard. Captain Zhong Zhiwei, for her merits, shall be promoted to Commander of Martial Valor and elevated to Commander of the Inner Guard. Deputy General Yan Xiaolou shall continue to command the Outer Guard for now, without change in rank…”
Wen Yanran had not been studying statecraft for long, so her phrasing in decrees could sometimes sound a little rough – but the ministers never took issue with that. When the formal edict was drafted, the Assistant Secretary would polish the wording anyway.
Wang Qishi’s expression shifted slightly. He seemed as though he wanted to speak, opened his mouth – but in the end, forced himself to remain silent.
Wen Yanran glanced at him and smiled. “Just now, Vice Minister Wang mentioned that many of the senior officers in the Front Camp are elderly and muddle-headed, while General Guo is known for his upright and forthright nature. Then let General Guo take up a post in the Front Camp.”
Wang Qishi fell silent.
He had expected that he might not be able to fully steer the Emperor’s thinking, but he had not imagined that the outcome would veer so wildly from his intentions.
What made it even harder for Wang Qishi to accept was that he had no legitimate grounds to oppose the appointment. On the surface, the Emperor’s decree gave him considerable face – both officers he had named were promoted – only the specific assignments differed greatly from what he had planned.
Had Zhong Zhiwei been sent to the Front Camp, she would likely have faced subtle exclusion and suppression, fading quietly into obscurity. But with Guo Xingdao sent there instead – given his fiery temperament – the camp officers would not dare go too far. Even if they did not fear his temper, they would still have to respect the family standing behind him. Best of all, the Front Camp contained far fewer scions of noble families than the Imperial Guard, meaning far fewer entanglements.
Guo Xingdao had thus been placed exactly where he should be. As for Yan Xiaolou, with his loyal disposition, this turn of events would only make him all the more devoted to the Emperor – ready to sacrifice himself at a word. Zhong Zhiwei, for her part, had no powerful connections in Jianping; by both sentiment and necessity, she would have to align herself firmly with the Emperor’s cause.
Realizing all this, a chill crept through Wang Qishi’s heart.
Just moments ago, Wen Yanran’s unfamiliar reaction upon hearing the names of Guo Xingdao and the others had not seemed feigned – which meant that, based only on the scant information she had gleaned from him, she had nonetheless managed to assign each person to the most fitting position.
This young emperor, though plainly dressed, had leapt from obscurity to the throne without the slightest trace of extravagance. In selecting officials, she could discern a person’s character without even meeting them. Though deeply suspicious by nature, she was not without magnanimity, and understood well the principle of trusting those she employed. Even at her tender age, she already showed the makings of an enlightened ruler.
Wang Qishi thought to himself that, since the Emperor’s insight was so keen, he could no longer act entirely according to his teacher’s instructions. From what he observed, many of the high ministers held this sovereign in great esteem, eager for her to assume full personal rule so they might finally stretch their limbs and lead Great Zhou to a new era of restoration.
Although Grand Tutor Yuan held immense power, much of it stemmed from his public reputation as a loyal minister. His authority was rooted in that of the Emperor herself. Many courtiers obeyed him not out of personal allegiance, but because he was “the regent appointed by the late emperor” and one of the “Three Excellencies devotedly loyal to the Son of Heaven.”
While Wang Qishi’s thoughts raced, Wen Yanran continued outlining her decisions. After finishing the appointments concerning the Imperial Guard, she went on, “During the palace disturbance that day, many palace attendants and eunuchs rendered service, among whom two deserve the highest merit…” She glanced at Chi Yi and Zhang Luo standing nearby, and smiled. “Let Chi Yi be appointed Left Vice Commissioner of the City Bureau, and Zhang Luo the Right Vice Commissioner. Both are additionally granted the rank of Envoy Attendant, with a reward of two hundred thousand coins each. As for the other palace staff, distribute rewards according to merit.”
Many of the courtiers were momentarily stunned upon hearing the imperial decree. Envoy Attendant was a post close to the emperor, responsible for conveying edicts. Given the abilities of Chi Yi and Zhang Luo, it was only a matter of time before they were granted such a position – one convenient for handling errands between the inner and outer courts. But the appointments as Vice Commissioners of the City Bureau were entirely unexpected.
Several officials could not even recall what the City Bureau actually did. Grand Tutor Yuan, however, drawing on his vast reservoir of administrative knowledge, dimly remembered the origins of the posts of Left and Right Vice Commissioner.
Both offices fell under the Imperial Household Department. In the early years of Great Zhou, the Imperial Household Department oversaw both the public and private finances – managing the state coffers as well as the emperor’s personal treasury. Over time, its authority gradually diminished, and like the Palace Directorate, it became a department devoted solely to serving the emperor personally and managing the affairs of the imperial family.
The City Bureau had originally been responsible for handling the exchange of goods and funds between Great Zhou and neighboring states, with most foreign tribute items stored under its care. However, that function had long since been taken over by the later-established Bureau of the Four Quarters. In theory, the City Bureau still existed in law, but in practice it had been defunct for many years.
Grand Tutor Yuan had not intended to speak again, yet he could not help testing the waters. “Once these two are appointed as Left and Right Vice Commissioners of the City Bureau, they will naturally be expected to carry out the bureau’s duties, will they not?”
Wen Yanran smiled. “When I was young, I often heard that during festivals, the people of Jianping would play and make merry in the city markets. I have long wished to see such scenes for myself. I intend to send people to gather items from the marketplace, to observe the customs and fashions of the common folk – an expression, so to speak, of sharing in their joys. The City Bureau has always been responsible for managing the emperor’s private articles brought in from outside, so entrusting this matter to them may also be considered a restoration of their original duties.”
Had Wen Yanran revived the City Bureau purely for her own amusement, Grand Tutor Yuan would have felt obliged to admonish her out of bureaucratic duty – offering measured remonstrance, and even if he eventually agreed, doing so only with the air of reluctant submission, thereby highlighting the Emperor’s youthful indulgence against his own loyal rectitude.
But since the Emperor had deliberately invoked the people – speaking of understanding popular customs and sentiments – and since the City Bureau was hardly an important office, he swallowed his words instead.
Among all the courtiers qualified to attend deliberations in the front hall of the Western Yong Palace, only He Tingyun, who firmly believed Wen Yanran to be a resolute and farsighted sovereign, felt a faint, indistinct thought flicker through her mind. Yet when she tried to grasp it, she could not quite tell what it was she had been thinking.
After announcing the rewards for the palace attendants, Wen Yanran went on to inquire about the memorials that the regional lords and governors would soon be submitting for the New Year celebrations.
At once, the ministers straightened up, focusing their full attention on the matter. After all, this was the first year since the new emperor’s accession, and the local authorities’ congratulatory memorials would be both a formal tribute and a display of loyalty. Compared with such a matter, the appointment of two palace attendants was hardly worth mentioning.
Only Wen Yanran herself knew that, for her, appointing Zhong Zhiwei as Commander of the Inner Guards – and thereby tightening her control over the military – was merely a secondary goal. Her true purpose lay in those two City Bureau positions.
Given her current level of authority, establishing an entirely new institution of her own was practically impossible; even if she managed to create one by force of will, the court officials would quickly strip it of real power.
Thus, Wen Yanran adjusted her plan – to repurpose an existing, marginal office for “waste recycling.”
She intended to gradually reshape the City Bureau into something akin to the Embroidered Guard or the Eastern and Western Depots of later dynasties. Though she was a science major, her years of exposure to film and television dramas had taught her just how notorious such agencies were – the hallmark of corrupt ministers and tyrant rulers everywhere.
Thanks to TV dramas – and the online comment sections – she firmly believed that, by placing Chi Yi and Zhang Luo, those two promising “villain seedlings” so highly praised by the commentariat, into the most fertile soil for villainy imaginable, there would be absolutely no chance of them growing up straight again.
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