That night, in Lingzhou’s Qingshui Camp, all civil officials of the fourth rank and above, along with the frontier military generals, gathered in the fortress hall. Kneeling in unison, they faced the direction of the capital, listening to the imperial edict.
“…All officials beneath the three provincial commissions of Shaanxi shall be under your jurisdiction, subject to your discipline and appointments. By imperial decree, you are to uphold and enforce this order.”
Su Yan rolled up the edict and asked, “Gentlemen, have you heard clearly?”
The officials snapped out of their stunned silence, exchanging glances filled with alarm.
Rather than being solely shocked by Su Yan’s near-unprecedented authority over Shaanxi, they were even more astounded by the Emperor’s blatant favoritism—how could a newly appointed, young, unproven official be granted such sweeping power?
A wave of turbulent emotions followed—resentment, indignation, scorn, jealousy, and even sordid speculations regarding the true nature of the Emperor’s relationship with this youthful censor.
Yet no matter what they thought in their hearts, none dared to reveal even a flicker of dissent on their faces. In perfect unison, they lowered their heads and responded, “His Majesty is wise and enlightened.”
Su Yan chuckled coldly. “I know exactly what’s on your minds—you’re just dissatisfied. That’s fine. All I care about is that my orders are carried out to the letter. Whether you accept me or not, I couldn’t care less.”
“Rise, gentlemen,” he said as he tucked the imperial edict into his robes and strolled past rows of officials adorned with crimson and green beast insignias. “You’re free not to respect me. If you feel the urge to bad-mouth me behind my back, go ahead. While I do have the Embroidered Uniform Guard at my disposal, I won’t waste their efforts spying on your petty secrets. There’s only one thing I won’t tolerate: disobedience or feigned compliance.”
Su Yan’s voice was clear and measured, neither loud nor hurried. His steady tone matched his footsteps, each one seemingly pressing on the officials’ nerves. Though his youthful appearance still bore traces of a boyish charm, the weight of two lifetimes imbued him with a burgeoning aura of authority cultivated by power.
The officials exchanged uneasy glances, searching for allies under this newfound pressure. Murmurs rippled through the group.
A sixty-year-old civil servant, emboldened by his seniority, was the first to speak. “Censor Su, your youth seems to have made you overbearing. You should remember that water—”
“—If any esteemed official dares dismiss my actions as mere youthful posturing,” Su Yan interrupted without hesitation, “and thinks that dousing me with a metaphorical cold bucket of water will extinguish my resolve, or believes that conspiring behind my back can render me powerless and my orders unenforceable—well, perhaps you should first consider the fate of Lu Angao, who was once known as the ‘Iron-Blooded Censor.'”
Stopping before Yan Chengxue, Su Yan smiled and asked, “Minister Yan, you’re well-informed. Can you share Lu Angao’s current status?”
Yan Chengxue’s face darkened. He was loath to play into Su Yan’s hands and assist him in intimidating the officials. But under Su Yan’s unwavering gaze, which demanded an answer, he clenched his teeth and replied, “Lu Angao was dismissed and stripped of his rank by Censor Su. He no longer deserves the title of ‘official.’ Currently, the Ministry of Justice is investigating his crimes against the people.”
Su Yan nodded. “Let this serve as a warning: harbor your dissatisfaction quietly. Don’t make yourselves into rebellious troublemakers—remember, the bird that sticks its head out gets shot first.”
“Two pieces of advice for you all: first, since you proclaim ‘His Majesty’s wisdom,’ then trust His Majesty’s discernment in selecting his officials.
“Second, reflect on why you chose to become officials. If you truly serve the nation and its people, then you’re welcome to debate and challenge my policies. Convince me, and I’ll gladly follow your lead. But if you’re in it for power and wealth, then shut up and get your work done. At least that way, you’ll keep your black hats on your heads.”
Under the simmering resentment of the officials, Su Yan clapped his hands as if suddenly remembering something. “By the way, we have officials from the Imperial Stables and the Ministry of Horses here, don’t we? Hands up, please.”
Under his gaze, seven or eight hands slowly went up among the crowd.
Lingzhou’s Qingshui Camp was not originally the administrative base for the Ministry of Horse or the Imperial Stables. However, with the largest upcoming horse market about to open, a wide range of government offices were involved—not only these two bureaus but also the Tea and Horse Bureau, the Salt Tax Commission, and others. The imperial court placed great importance on the matter, so the heads of these various offices had no choice but to arrive early at Qingshui Camp to oversee the preparations in person.
As the Minister of the Imperial Stables, Yan Chengxue felt that raising his hand would be beneath his dignity, so he remained motionless, his expression dark.
In contrast, the Minister of the Imperial Stables, Li Rong, raised his hand the fastest. His plump belly protruded, and his round, full face beamed with a broad smile. After checking that all his subordinates had raised their hands, he turned to Yan Chengxue and called out, “Lord Yan, why aren’t you raising your hand? Come on, stop being stubborn! The imperial edict was crystal clear—we are all under Censor Su’s authority now. If you refuse to follow his orders, you’re questioning His Majesty’s wisdom. And doubting the Emperor—that’s a serious crime!”
He’s deliberately twisting the decree’s meaning to trap me! Su Yan inwardly scoffed at this “smiling tiger” but ignored his provocation and continued speaking.
“I’ll share some good news in advance—I intend to petition His Majesty to increase the salaries and status of officials in both the Imperial Stud and Imperial Stables, including their subordinate offices and personnel.”
He paused for effect before adding, “In short, both bureaus will receive across-the-board promotions and pay raises.”
The room fell into stunned silence.
Moments later, the officials from both bureaus broke into expressions of joy.
For centuries, the scholar-official class had valued central government positions over provincial ones, a long-standing bias. As a result, provincial officials were already ranked lower than their capital counterparts. Furthermore, the Imperial Stud and Imperial Stables held little actual authority and were often treated with disdain by other government offices. Over time, this led to the two bureaus becoming a dumping ground for underperforming officials—those with poor evaluations, those who had offended their superiors, and those tainted by controversy. The court treated them like unwanted debris, sweeping them into these bureaus, which only deepened their poor reputation.
Even Yan Chengxue and Li Rong, despite holding the rank of lower third rank, were only slightly below the upper third rank Provincial Administration Commissionerand Provincial Surveillance Commissioner. However, in reality, these two provincial offices held substantial administrative and judicial power—one overseeing governance and finance, the other handling official discipline and law enforcement—making them extremely influential. Even low-ranking clerks in those offices dared to show disdain toward Yan and Li.
Yan Chengxue, having a fiery temper, simply avoided the humiliation by spending ten months of the year away from the capital, assisting his close friend Huo Dun with military training instead.
Li Rong, on the other hand, had long since given up on governance. He frequently feigned illness to take leave, to the extent that some officials who had served under him for three years had never even seen his face.
With both ministers behaving like absentee landlords, morale in the two bureaus had plummeted. Officials became increasingly apathetic, neglecting their duties and muddling through their days. The more they slacked off, the more disdain they faced from other government offices—trapping them in a vicious cycle.
The decline of Shaanxi’s horse administration was directly tied to the low pay and lack of accountability in these two bureaus.
Having identified this root cause, Su Yan planned to reform the system by restructuring the officials and improving their salaries and status. To accomplish this, he dangled a tempting carrot in front of them.
—A carrot, yes. But also a peach.
A peach capable of killing three warriors.
Immediately, the expressions of the other government officials shifted as they looked at their counterparts from the two bureaus.
Many began to mutter privately: Why should they be the only ones getting promoted? The Imperial Stud and Imperial Stables were practically in shambles, filled with idle bureaucrats who did nothing all day—yet they were now receiving a salary increase? What does that make us, who work diligently year-round?
Some even began to suspect: Could Yan Chengxue and Li Rong have secretly bribed the new Censor to gain favor?
Unbelievable! These two—one feared as a grim executioner, the other known as a lazy, smiling Buddha—turned out to be the most cunning bootlickers of all! And now, thanks to their flattery, their entire bureaus are soaring to new heights!
No wonder earlier they worked as one to prop up Su Twelve, creating all that momentum for him!
Li Rong caught the unfriendly gazes from other department heads and felt a chill run down his spine. He knew he and Yan Chengxue were about to be ostracized from their tacitly acknowledged “Anti-Censor Alliance.” Now they truly were about to become luckless outcasts caught between two opposing forces.
Sweat glistened on Li Rong’s forehead as he nervously glanced at Yan Chengxue, silently pleading for the short-tempered and cunning colleague to step up and clear their names.
To his shock, Yan Chengxue mulled it over for a moment, then suddenly curved his lips into a faint smile. Bowing his head slightly, he said to Su Yan, “Thank you for the honor, Censor. The entire Shaanxi Administration of the Imperial Stud will heed your directives without question.”
He’s pledging allegiance! He’s distancing himself from the others… So devious, utterly devious! Li Rong cursed inwardly. This d*mn Yan knew he was never quite welcomed by the others; even if they banded together, they’d never truly accept him. So instead, he chose to take advantage of Su Yan’s olive branch and ride the wave of this new official’s fiery authority to grab as many benefits as possible.
The Imperial Stud and the Imperial Stables were closely tied, so now Li Rong had no choice but to follow suit. Any more hesitation, and he’d be left with no allies on either side.
Finally, Li Rong made his decision. With a face full of feigned gratitude, he bowed deeply to Su Yan and said, “The Censor not only shows great kindness in alleviating the dire straits of our two departments but also demonstrates far-reaching vision in striving for reform. Such talent for governing the heavens and saving the age, such wisdom and strategy, not even Guan Zhong or Yan Zi could compare!”
Su Yan’s skin crawled from this blatant flattery.
In his mind, every success he achieved was owed to the accumulated knowledge of his past life—historical insights, contemporary theories, and a sense of foresight. Sure, he added a little personal cleverness here and there, but to claim he surpassed figures like Guan Zhong and Yan Zi? That level of shamelessness was beyond belief.
Yet someone like Li Rong, capable of delivering such extreme sycophancy, could be considered a “talent” in his own right. It was like having a planted audience member in a TV studio—crying when needed, laughing on cue, clapping at pivotal moments to stir the crowd. When the taping ended, you handed them a box meal and sent them on their way. Cost-effective and practical.
Smiling warmly, Su Yan shot an encouraging look at Li Rong and said, “You flatter me too much, Lord Li. Your praise leaves me utterly abashed, utterly abashed.”
With Yan Chengxue and Li Rong taking their stances, the allegiance of Lingzhou Military Advisor Huo Dun was also secured on Su Yan’s side. The other department officials now had to reevaluate their positions, calculating the benefits of siding with this sharp-eyed newcomer.
After all, Su Twelve might have some nepotism going for him, but imperial favor was imperial favor. The case of Lu Angao stood as a stark warning. Perhaps it was best to observe for now—see if the emperor approved Su Yan’s reforms—before deciding on their own approach.
With everyone mulling things over, Su Yan decided there was no need to say more, and thus the first meeting between the inspectorate and local officials came to a close.
—
“Humans, whether in ancient times or now, don’t fear poverty—they fear inequality. This principle holds true everywhere,” Su Yan remarked.
As he spoke, he removed his censorial robe and handed it to Su Xiaojing, while Su Xiaobei brought over a freshly brewed bowl of rock sugar pear soup to soothe his throat.
The two young attendants, still red-eyed from their tearful reunion with him earlier, looked at Su Yan with lingering excitement.
Jinghong Zhui, cradling his sword, seemed deep in thought, his brows faintly furrowed.
Su Yan was preparing for a bath. Since the room was filled with trusted confidants, he saw no need for modesty. His hair was unbound, and he wore only a simple white silk undergarment as the two boys filled the tub with hot water.
Noticing Jinghong Zhui’s hesitant expression, he smiled and said, “If you’ve got something to say, just say it. Don’t tell me you’ve grown distant from me now?”
Jinghong Zhui finally spoke. “I don’t understand. From what we’ve seen on this journey—from Lingwu Bureau to Qingping Park, and now here in Qingshui Camp—it’s clear what sort of people those two departments are filled with, and what kind of individuals Yan Chengxue and Li Rong are. Why raise them up? Why accept their allegiance?”
Su Yan had anticipated this question.
Ah Zhui, though disinterested in state affairs, had a lingering sense of chivalry. A former assassin loyal only to coin, he now… well, Su Yan admitted shamelessly, he was now loyal only to him. Despite his aloof demeanor, he retained a sense of justice and likely found today’s scene distasteful.
Walking over to the tub, Su Yan tested the water temperature and instructed Su Xiaobei and Su Xiaojing, “That’s fine… No scented oils! No flower petals either! Just soap… Okay, towels go here. I’ll wash myself—no need for help. Go rest… Don’t argue! You’re young, staying up late stunts your growth.”
After two rounds of shooing, the boys reluctantly set down the towels and soap, then left the room.
Before leaving, Su Xiaobei shot Jinghong Zhui a glare, signaling him to follow them. Jinghong Zhui ignored him at first but then glanced at the semi-transparent screen behind which Su Yan had begun to disrobe. The soft glow of candlelight traced his youthful, elegant form onto the screen, casting a faintly flickering silhouette.
Suddenly, heat surged through him. His throat felt parched as if he had wandered the arid deserts beyond the Great Wall. He ordered himself to avert his gaze, but his eyes disobeyed, fixated on the shadow dancing behind the screen.
Suppressing his quickened breath, he gripped his sword tightly until the hilt bit into his palm. Summoning all his willpower, he managed to reclaim a shred of composure. Like a defeated soldier, he lowered her head and rasped, “Subordinate… will take his leave.”
“Wait,” came Su Yan’s voice from behind the screen, mingled with the gentle splash of water as he stepped into the tub. “Don’t you want to hear the answer?”
Jinghong Zhui clenched his fists. “Want…”
I want Lord Su.
The thought burned in his mind—hungry, consuming, searing. He wanted him with a desperation that bordered on madness, but fear rooted him to the spot. One wrong step, and he would tumble into a chasm from which there was no return. He could lose even the privilege of staying by his side, of stealing secret glances.
“If you want to know, then sit down and listen.”
His retreating steps faltered. He steadied herself against the table and slowly sank into a chair. The shadow behind the screen burned into his vision, searing his heart, but he could not tear his gaze away.
“I do intend to elevate the two bureaus, but I’m elevating positions, not people. The two bureaus, from top to bottom, indeed need a thorough cleansing. Those who need to be removed will be removed, those who need to be demoted will be demoted, and those who need to be replaced will be replaced, including Yan Chengxue. He is talented, but unfortunately misplaced. He might barely be teachable as a ruthless strategist, but as a civil affairs officer, he’s completely harmful to the people. During his tenure, the neglect of horse administration due to his dereliction of duty must be held accountable, but not immediately.”
“The horse market will open tomorrow. Over the next eight days, the Qingshui Camp in Lingzhou will become a massive trading hub. Foreigners, Central Plains people, officials, merchants, border troops, and settlers will flock here from all directions. At that time, it’ll be difficult to distinguish between good and bad actors, and the situation will be complex. Without local officials like Huo Dun and Yan Chengxue, who are highly familiar with the area, overseeing the situation, problems are bound to arise.”
“Considering the security and stability during the G20 Summit—” Su Yan suddenly cut himself off, snapping out of his drowsiness with a sheepish look. “I’ve mixed up my lines, sorry about that. I’ve written too many official documents before… Anyway, for the sake of border stability during the Qingshui Camp horse market, these corrupt and venomous officials, no matter how detestable, must be suppressed and appeased for now. Everything can be dealt with after the market.”
“Moreover, I’ve planned a little entertainment for this grand event.” He turned and leaned against the edge of the tub, smiling toward a faint silhouette behind the screen. “Ah Zhui, do you remember what I said? If I could retrieve the imperial edict, I’d host a no-loss, sure-win gambling game with me as the banker, inviting officials big and small from the Shaanxi Bureau to place their bets? By then, the 1,500 taels of silver for your sword will be accounted for here.”
Jinghong Zhui could almost picture Su Yan’s sly yet slightly smug smile at that moment. He imagined water droplets sliding gracefully off Su Yan’s bare shoulders and neck, his silky black hair floating on the water’s surface, half-concealing the misty allure beneath…
He abruptly turned away, using his sword sheath to cover his thighs.
“Hey, are you turning away to laugh?” Su Yan asked indignantly. “Do you think I’m making empty promises?”
“No, not at all!” Jinghong Zhui replied gruffly. “It’s just… my throat hurts. The weather’s too dry.”
“That’s true. Autumn is approaching, and the air in Lingzhou is dry and windy. Oh, by the way, Xiaobei made too much snow pear soup with rock sugar. I can’t finish it, so there’s a bowl on the table—drink it.”
Jinghong Zhui, one hand holding his sword sheath, grabbed the bowl with the other and downed the soup like medicine.
After placing the bowl down, he took a deep breath and said, “This subordinate will take his leave. Please rest well, my lord.” Without looking back, he left the room and shut the door tightly behind him.
The night wind carried a lingering summer heat. Jinghong Zhui looked down at the tented fabric of his trousers, gritted his teeth, and muttered, “Beast!”
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