August 20th, Qingshui Camp.
On the final day of the eight-day-long horse market, business was booming. Many merchants, eager to clear out their remaining stock, lowered their prices, sparking a final buying frenzy.
This year, however, an unexpected spectacle had been added—the Horse Racing Tournament. Organized and overseen by the newly appointed Censorate Officer, the event attracted numerous horse administration officials. Even the three highest-ranking provincial bodies—the Command, Administration, and Judiciary Divisions of Shaanxi—sent officials of fourth-rank or higher to attend. The Governor of Shaanxi, Lord Wei, even made a personal appearance.
Lord Wei’s full name was Wei Quan, courtesy name Tangyuan. Around forty years old, he had a square jaw, broad forehead, and a refined, scholarly demeanor, exuding the presence of a high-ranking official. He was a legitimate two-list Jinshi scholar—undoubtedly talented. However, Su Yan’s only impression of him came from a memorial requesting the closure of two temples, which made him feel that Wei Quan’s perspective on military development was somewhat short-sighted.
Before attending the event, Su Yan had inquired about Wei Quan from the Embroidered Uniform Guard officers accompanying him.
According to the intelligence gathered by the Embroidered Uniform Guard covert outposts, Wei Quan was relatively clean in his governance—no embezzlement, no bribery. He was skilled in managing household registers and financial affairs and had a knack for mediating between the Inspector-General and various county officials. Aside from his frequent visits to brothels, there was nothing particularly scandalous about him.
Su Yan mentally gave Governor Wei a professional competency rating—“B-grade.”
Inspector-General Wei, on the other hand, had no idea what kind of personality or methods the new Censorate Officer had. But the moment he saw Su Yan in person, he instinctively made his own evaluation—“A+ in looks.”
Gao Shuo, harboring some not-so-pure thoughts, subtly nudged Su Yan and whispered, “My lord, be careful. Wei Quan is known to be a lover of beauty—men and women alike.”
Oh, got it. Inspector-General Wei swings both ways. Gao Shuo, you’re such a gossip, Su Yan thought, his face indifferent.
By now, he had grown almost numb to the prevalence of male-male relationships in the Great Ming Dynasty. In some ways, the era was even more open-minded than modern times. The sheer sophistication of its erotic culture could be glimpsed in books like The Plum in the Golden Vase.
What was even more astonishing was that, while still somewhat unmentionable in official settings, male love was shockingly accepted by common folk.
In this strange era, longyang (male love) was nearly regarded as a normal and widespread preference. Aside from a few die-hard moralists, the general populace didn’t see it as a reflection of a person’s character or virtue.
As a result, the boundary between “friendship” and “romance” was blurry. Things like “repaying kindness with one’s body” or “mutual admiration” were often seen as natural extensions of deep friendship.
The key was “loyalty.” As long as the love was pure and devoted—unlike certain princes who changed male lovers as often as they changed clothes—two close friends expressing their affection physically was no big deal.
And what defined “loyalty”?
In this era, people believed that the heart mattered most. Even if one’s body indulged in worldly pleasures, as long as they held their beloved in their heart and were willing to live and die for them, that was loyalty. And their lover would agree.
If the individuals involved were of noble character and their romance was wrapped in a moral halo of “steadfastness and loyalty,” not only would they not be looked down upon, but they would also earn admiration and praise from the public.
Even after spending a full year in this era, Su Yan still found his worldview somewhat shattered by this prevailing attitude.
Rolling his eyes at Gao Shuo’s wariness, he replied, “You’re overthinking it.”
As it turned out, Gao Shuo really was overthinking it, having become overly jumpy after spending too much time guarding the gates for his superior.
No matter how much Inspector-General Wei indulged in affairs—whether with men or women—at most, he would engage in some shady favoritism with his own protégés. It was hardly conceivable that he would go so far as to target an imperial censor sent by the court. However, since this young censor happened to align perfectly with his aesthetic preferences, he wasn’t shy about taking a few extra appreciative glances or exchanging a few more words.
Of course, the main reason for his courteous behavior was that Censor Su was highly favored by the emperor. Not long ago, when Su Yan was caught in a bandit raid while inspecting a prison in Yanan, the incident actually reached the imperial ears. A secret message was sent via carrier pigeon, ordering a thousand elite soldiers to be dispatched specifically for his protection. This scared him into a cold sweat—he feared that if anything happened to Su Yan in Shaanxi, the emperor would hold him accountable.
Clearly, this Su Twelve was a close confidant of the throne, and since he was here on imperial orders to investigate the very matters he had reported, what else could he do? He had to tread carefully.
When they took their seats, Su Yan and Wei Quan exchanged a few polite refusals before finally sitting side by side in the front row of the viewing platform.
Surveying the racecourse, the uniformed judges and overseers, as well as the merchant banners advertising on both sides, Wei Quan found the setup quite novel. Stroking his small mustache, he remarked to Su Yan, “In ancient times, there was Tian Ji’s horse race—where Sun Bin used military strategy to help him win a bet, earning the favor of King Qiwei and later leading to the Battle of Maling, which dealt a devastating blow to the Wei state. Does Censor Su intend to follow in the footsteps of these historical figures today?”
Su Yan thought guiltily to himself: I just want to put these people through the wringer, establish my authority, and make some extra money to buy my family’s guard a decent sword.
He replied with a smile, “How could I dare compare myself to Sun Bin? I wouldn’t even call this borrowing from the wisdom of others. I simply wish to liven up the atmosphere and bring some attention to the Qingshui Camp’s horse market.”
Seeing Su Yan’s humility, Wei Quan found him much more approachable than the rumors suggested. It seemed that gossip was misleading, and his attitude became even warmer.
The participating officials had just completed roll call. Aside from a few who were sick or unable to make the journey in time, everyone had arrived. Each of them wore lightweight military attire, held a horsewhip in hand, and forced themselves to stay alert as they waited in the designated preparation area.
Because of the vast differences in their height, weight, and age, the group looked like a chaotic stew—a mix of long radishes and squat potatoes, an utterly mismatched bunch.
With a cheerful squint, Su Yan swept his gaze across them before instructing the announcer to explain the race rules.
The announcer was a young man with a voice like a lion’s roar, loud and resonant as if amplified by a modern-day speaker. This was his first time standing in the spotlight in front of such a massive audience, and he was so nervous he wanted to burp. Clutching his script tightly, he began his announcement.
The rules were simple. The participants were divided into six teams based on their respective departments. The horse race would also be divided into six rounds. Each team’s leader would draw lots to determine which horses their team would ride. The riders would then race ten laps around a circular track, with the fastest team winning.
The first part was an individual competition, where each team selected three representatives. Their total times would be combined to determine their team’s overall ranking, awarding first, second, and third place with generous prizes.
The second part was a collective race, also called a friendship match. Riders could gallop at their own pace, and as long as they reached the finish line within the set time, they would receive a reward.
It all sounded very harmonious, emphasizing participation over competition—eerily reminiscent of a modern-day office team-building event.
Hearing the rules, the officials collectively exhaled in relief. They assumed Censor Su was just using the race as a bonding exercise and a way to redistribute the evaluation fees they had paid. If only he had said so earlier—many of them had rushed over in a panic, anxious and uncertain about what to expect.
With six teams in total, selecting the three competitors for the individual race was quickly settled. All of them were young, strong, and skilled riders. Then, it was time to draw lots for the horses.
The lots were unusual. Instead of listing horse breeds or numbers, they bore names: “Kaicheng,” “Guanning,” “Anding,” “Qingping,” “Wanan,” and “Heishui.”
“…What do these two words mean?” The participants whispered among themselves.
One official immediately recognized them. “These are the names of the six royal horse farms!”
The six breeding grounds for imperial horses, managed under the Lingwu and Changle supervisory offices, which in turn fell under the jurisdiction of the Imperial Stables and Imperial Studs.
At the far end of the racetrack, the gates of the holding pens slowly opened, and six groups of horses were herded out.
The officials stared, eyes wide—
There were horses with broken skin and exposed spines, horses with protruding bones and patchy fur, horses that trembled with every step, horses with hunched necks foaming at the mouth… Not a single one was in good condition. Their ribs jutted out sharply, their hooves were cracked, and they were so emaciated that calling them “skin and bones” would be a kindness. They were more like walking corpses than racehorses.
These weren’t horses! They weren’t even as sturdy as the average watchdog!
The officials were still in shock. How was anyone supposed to ride these things? They could barely stand! Wouldn’t they collapse before anyone even got in the saddle? And they were expected to race ten laps?
The Qingshui Camp’s horse market was at its peak, brimming with fine steeds from the Northern Steppes. They could have chosen any batch, yet they had selected these decrepit government-owned horses for the race. Had the organizers lost their minds?!
Smiling faintly, the “insane” Censor Su gave a slight nod to the announcer. The already-nervous young man gulped and stammered, “P-Please… Please have the team captains draw their lots immediately to determine their team’s… their team’s racing horses!”
Did it even matter which lot they drew? They were all disasters…
The team leader for the Imperial Stables, Minister Li Rong, was the first to receive the lot box. He drew a slip and read it aloud: “Qingping.”
He held up the lot and asked his teammates, “Horses from Qingping Farm. How’s my luck?”
The Qingping Farm’s manager, Yan Chang, broke into a cold sweat and hurriedly whispered, “Terrible, Minister Li! Our farm… was scammed by some fake horse traders not long ago, and then raided by Commander Zhang of the Ningxia Guard. The only horses left are the absolute worst! We can’t use them!”
Minister Li’s round face immediately darkened.
The others quickly offered suggestions. “Draw again!”
Puffing out his chest, Minister Li walked over and formally requested a redraw. The Embroidered Uniform Guard holding the lot box ignored him completely and turned to the next team.
This team was from the Minister of the Imperial Studs. Since their leader, Minister Yan Chengxue, was under house arrest, his deputy, Xue Shaoqing, stepped in to draw the lot.
Xue Shaoqing drew the lot marked “Anding.”
Wang Jianzheng of Lingwu Bureau immediately turned pale. He had picked through, sold off, and practically skinned the horses from Anding Stable down to the bone. He knew all too well the sorry state of what was left. He immediately called out, “This won’t do either! Lord Xue, quickly, exchange it for another!”
Xue Shaoqing had also heard of the dismal quality of the government horses from the stables, so he quickly went along with the suggestion. He turned to the Tea Horse Bureau’s team on the adjacent racetrack and said, “Shall we swap? ‘Anding’ is a fine lot, at least better than the ‘Kaicheng’ you’ve got!”
Pah! The Tea Horse Bureau’s envoy scoffed inwardly. Who didn’t know the deplorable state of the horses raised by the two bureaus and six stables? ‘Anding’ and ‘Kaicheng’ were just as bad as each other. If they made the swap, they’d only be dragging themselves down as well. Their Tea Horse Bureau might not have many horses, but at least theirs came from trade with the Northern Barbarians and the Western Tribes. Even if they only got the rejects from those places, they were still leagues ahead of the government horses from the stables!
Envoy Xu glared and spat, “No swap! ‘Kaicheng’ it is!”
Xue Shaoqing made the rounds trying to trade his lot, but no one would take it. Eventually, he came back to where he started, looking miserable as he said to Minister Li, “Lord Li, I see you’re troubled as well. How about we exchange lots?”
Li Siqing hesitated, eyeing the lot in Xue’s hand. He still held on to a sliver of hope and asked his subordinates, “Anyone know how the ‘Anding’ horses are?”
His subordinate hesitated for a moment before finally confessing, “All the same, my lord. To put it bluntly, the mounted troops have a song about it: ‘Ride a donkey, ride a cow, ride a wild boar—just never ride a horse from the six stables…’”
At that moment, the announcer’s booming voice rang out: “Attention, all teams! The race requires both rider and horse to reach the finish line together. If the horse can’t run, dismount and lead it. If it can’t walk, drag it. If even that fails, then carry it—either the horse carries the rider, or the rider carries the horse! No matter what, both must cross the finish line. Anyone who abandons their horse and flees will be punished with the Imperial Guards’ court rods!”
Li Siqing’s grip loosened, and the lot slipped from his fingers, landing on the ground with a soft plop.
