“Did you hear? That incident in the palace—it happened during the Lantern Festival night…”
“So tragic! There were bodies everywhere—blood all over the plaza. They say lots of little palace maids died with their clothes torn to shreds…”
“It’s completely true. My cousin’s nephew works in the palace—he said it himself. That Crown Prince, still young, but so hot-tempered—kills at the slightest disagreement. Absolutely tyrannical!”
“And not just tyrannical—he’s totally unruly. Doesn’t study the classics, just fools around all day with palace maids, eunuchs, sparring partners. If he becomes emperor someday, can ordinary folks like us live in peace?”
“His Majesty is so wise—how did he end up with a son like that…”
“Even a good bamboo can produce a bad shoot. And besides, not all his sons are like that. Isn’t there a Second Prince? He might be better than this one.”
“Better for sure! I mean, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone more violent and debauched than this. Xia Jie, King Zhou of Shang, King Li of Zhou, the Second Emperor of Qin, throw in Zhao King Shi Hu—that’s one hand’s count, no more.”
“Shh, shh, keep it down, do you have a death wish? Aren’t you afraid of the officials hearing? Or the secret agents of the Embroidered Uniform Guard?”
“We’re just commoners who eat what the heavens allow. Whether wind, rain, or thunder, we endure it. Talking more won’t change a thing. Let’s disperse, let’s go.”
Rumors like these floated through the streets and alleys, passed from mouth to ear in hushed whispers, becoming popular gossip among the people during meals and idle times.
Within just two or three days, the rumors had spread across the entire capital. Even servants in the homes of officials couldn’t help but gossip among themselves.
Many court officials began to feel uneasy, especially the censors—those responsible for monitoring and admonishing all officials, including the emperor.
Censorate officials, also known as “fengxian officials” or “kedaos”, were selected from among civil officials for their upright character, eloquence, outstanding knowledge, and familiarity with government affairs. They served as Censorate Censors in the Ducha Yuan and Geishis in the Six Ministries.
These men held low-ranking positions with pitifully small stipends, but they were born with iron mouths and copper teeth, upholding the creed of “forgetting family for the nation, forgetting self for loyalty,” and pursuing the ideal of “if my words are heeded, then death holds no regrets.” From central to local governments, from the Emperor and royal family down to officials and commoners, from national matters to societal life—all fell within their jurisdiction to supervise and speak out about.
When the Kunning Palace fire broke out, and the Crown Prince killed three palace staff, the patrolling censors learned of it the next day. Even as they were still investigating the details, public opinion in the city was already boiling.
If they didn’t take action now, wouldn’t that make them seem slower than common folk? So, on the 17th day of the first month, at the first court assembly of the new year, Jia Gongji, Right Assistant Censor-in-Chief of the Censorate, fired the first shot against the Crown Prince.
—Yes, this was the same Censor Jia who once exposed the Crown Prince for privately collecting erotic books, and who had once added insult to injury by impeaching former Embroidered Uniform Guard Commander Feng Que’e. Though his true aim was to gain fame and secure a place in history, his actions objectively did aid Su Yan.
But if anyone thought that past favor would make Censor Jia go easy on Su Yan in court politics, they’d be gravely mistaken. On the contrary, he was hoping Su Yan—and even more officials—would get dragged into this incident so he could widen the scope of his attack.
That’s why Su Yan never even considered reaching out to him in private.
Censor Jia submitted a memorial that directly targeted the Crown Prince, accusing him of being unruly and neglecting his studies, behaving violently, and taking lives recklessly, lacking even the basic virtue of cherishing life.
Several censors immediately echoed his stance, urging the Crown Prince’s Grand Tutor to strictly discipline him, and the Zhanshi Residence to supervise his studies diligently. They petitioned the Emperor to punish and admonish the Prince according to the law, to calm the public.
Emperor Jinglong did not respond right away.
As Crown Prince Grand Tutor and Shangshu of the Ministry of Rites, Yan Xing stepped forward, along with Grand Secretary Yang Ting, and defended the Crown Prince. They argued that it was due to the negligence of the palace staff that Kunning Palace was reduced to ashes, which according to law merited execution. The Crown Prince had flown into a rage upon seeing the late Empress’s palace and relics burned—killing them wasn’t reckless, but justified by his grief. As for unruliness and laziness in studies, that may have been true in the past, but he had improved significantly in the past half-year. Why focus only on the past and ignore the present?
Yet another official stepped forward with a memorial, claiming that the Crown Prince acted without restraint, disregarded court protocol and ancestral rites, causing a wave of criticism among the people and tarnishing the Emperor’s name. He must write a self-admonishing memorial to apologize to the world.
The shangshu of the Ministry of Personnel Li Chengfeng retorted: throughout history, self-admonishing edicts by rulers stemmed from only three situations—misalignment between ruler and ministers, natural disasters, or threats to the regime. If the Crown Prince, as heir apparent, were to write one, then which of the three had he actually committed?
The two sides clashed fiercely in a verbal battle.
—
“…All of this, this servant heard firsthand at Fengtian Gate. As soon as court ended, I rushed here to report to Young Master.”
Inside the central hall of the Imperial Ancestral Temple, Fu Bao panted as he relayed the situation to Zhu Helin.
Kneeling on a cushion, Zhu Helin looked up at the ancestral tablet of the late Empress. Hearing Fu Bao recount the officials’ attacks on him in court—especially the censors—he did not react with the usual rage, but murmured, “Qinghe was right.”
“What?”
“Qinghe said, don’t be fooled by how fiercely Minister Li and Minister Yan scold me on the surface. When it matters, it’s still them who’ll step forward to shield me.”
Fu Bao scratched his temple. “That’s actually true. I’ve also sent people to gather rumors from the streets. Just like Lord Su predicted, the gossip is getting more and more outrageous. Even I couldn’t bear to listen anymore, let alone repeat it to Young Master—I feared it would sully your ears. Please forgive me.”
Zhu Helin snorted coldly: “With someone stirring the pot behind the scenes, of course the rumors will spiral out of control.”
“Then what should we do? We can’t just let them ruin your name!” Fu Bao said anxiously.
Zhu Helin didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “With all the back-and-forth in court, how did Royal Father handle it?”
Fu Bao thought for a moment and replied, “His Majesty remained calm. No matter who spoke, he gave no opinion. In the end, he just gathered all the submitted memorials without comment.”
“No discussion, no written response—held in the palace without issuing,” Zhu Helin pressed his lips together. “That’s how Royal Father handled those old memorials impeaching the Four Royal Uncles too.”
“If Royal Father can stay calm, so can I.”
He took out an envelope and handed it to Fu Bao. “Go to the Su residence and give this to Qinghe. Just tell him Young Master didn’t need a ghostwriter—he wrote it himself.”
Fu Bao asked no questions. He solemnly tucked the envelope into his robes and withdrew.
Zhu Helin turned his gaze to the small table beside him. On it were calligraphy brushes, a thick stack of xuan paper, a dish of cinnabar, a dish of gold powder, and an inkstone—but no ink stick.
After a brief daze, he pulled a dagger from his sleeve and pricked the tip of his left finger.
Blood welled up immediately. Pressing hard, he let it drip steadily into the inkstone.
Once the inkstone was more than half-filled with blood, Zhu Helin stopped squeezing, wrapped his finger with a thin strip of gauze, then mixed in the cinnabar and gold powder until it became a smooth, vivid red.
He dipped his brush into the mixture and neatly wrote the first line on the xuan paper:
“Thus have I heard. Once, the Buddha was in the Trayastriṃsa Heaven, preaching to his mother.”
This line comes from the Sutra of the Fundamental Vows of Kṣitigarbha, which records how Shakyamuni Buddha preached the Dharma to his mother, Lady Maya, and praised Kṣitigarbha Bodhisattva for his great vow: “Not to attain Buddhahood until all h*lls are emptied, not to achieve enlightenment until all beings are saved.”
The late Empress had been a devout Buddhist and had left behind a copy of the Kṣitigarbha Sutra written in Sanskrit, which was reduced to ashes in the great fire.
Zhu Helin may not truly believe in Buddhism, but in emulation of his mother, he had taught himself Sanskrit and mastered it no less than monks who translated scriptures from India.
Using blood from his tongue and fingertips, mixed with cinnabar and gold dust to make ink. Since blood dries quickly, he had to prick and write repeatedly, leaving layers of wounds. To prevent the ink from darkening, he had to abstain from meat, fish, and salt—purifying both body and mind.
Such painstaking and heartfelt effort, written with utmost sincerity.
This was a Blood Sutra.
—
In the study, Su Yan received the envelope and said to Fu Bao, “You’ve worked hard, Gonggong. Go back and take care of the young master. Leave the rest to me.”
Fu Bao was quite curious about the contents of the envelope. Though he didn’t voice it, the thought was written all over his face.
Su Yan chuckled and said, “You’ll know in a day or two—not just you, everyone will see it.”
After Fu Bao left, Su Yan opened the envelope and carefully unfolded the three sheets inside. After reading them, he sighed, “Every word pierces the heart and bleeds sorrow. Truly, no amount of flowery rhetoric can compare to heartfelt sincerity in moving people.”
He went to his desk and shredded the drafts he had slaved over the night before—ones that had referenced countless famous texts and drained his mental energy.
Funeral eulogies were typically written in strict rhythmic and tonal patterns, adorned with elegant diction. The kind used by scholar-officials to be read in court were all like this.
But only when grief was so deep that it defied words would one abandon all forms and write in scattered prose—its tone choked with sobs and broken-hearted gasps, devoid of embellishment.
Among thousands of words, it is sincerity that moves the most.
No matter how refined or parallel the phrasing, it could never surpass a line like: “There is a loquat tree in the courtyard, planted by my wife the year she died. Now it grows tall and full.”
Su Yan couldn’t help but reread the Crown Prince’s eulogy to the late Empress. Every word dripped with blood and tears, deeply moving, capturing the anxiety of losing his mother at a young age and the endless grief and longing that followed.
Especially the section where he dreamt of returning to the burning Kunning Palace and conversed with his mother’s spirit—half-speaking, half-crying, choked with sorrow, guilt, and regret—overflowing with emotional force. More impressively, the entire text used simple and direct language, free from obscure words, making it easily understandable even for ordinary folk.
—It was simply too good!
Su Yan, finally breaking free from his emotional immersion, slapped the table in admiration: “Student Zhu Helin, you dare say you don’t know how to read or write? You’ve just never put your heart into it before!”
He folded the eulogy, tucked it into his robe, and immediately set out to visit his fellow classmate, Cui Jinping.
After placing first in the imperial exam, Cui Jinping, per tradition, took a position as a Xiuzhuan in the Hanlin Academy. The Xiuzhuan rank was sixth-grade and mainly involved compiling official histories, lecturing on the classics, and drafting ceremonial documents.
He fancied himself a literary genius and found this bureaucratic scribe work beneath him. He had long been looking for a way out.
Su Yan, during the final imperial exam, had once caught the emperor’s eye due to a clever couplet. Coupled with his closeness to the Crown Prince, he was promoted to a fifth-rank Xima. Later, after taking down Feng Que’e, he rose to the fourth-rank Shaoqing of the Dali Temple. Cui, envious of this, had even asked him for advice on advancing his career.
Su Yan had told him to find a good “antenna.”
That tip had been a revelation—like a dry tree blooming or a dull stone suddenly enlightened. Cui Jinping first befriended Scholar Wei from the Hanlin Academy, who had praised his policy essays. Then, leveraging his connection as Wei’s student, he climbed aboard the ship of the Minister of Personnel, Li Chengfeng, and finally secured a recommendation as a Censorship Councilor in the Ministry of Communications—a fifth-rank post.
While less prestigious than the Hanlin Academy, the Ministry of Communications held real power: responsible for managing memorials to the throne, sealed petitions, and reports from officials and civilians.
Simply put, it had the power to consolidate all memorials from the provinces and capital officials, organize them, and present them collectively to the emperor at morning court.
It was a critical node for political information in the court—in modern terms, a central political communications hub.
Likewise, all approved memorials—after being reviewed by the Grand Secretariat and endorsed by the emperor—would be publicly distributed by the Ministry of Communications and the Six Ministries.
They’d extract the important bits—imperial edicts, royal affairs, official appointments, and court memorials—and publish them as Dibao, which were essentially the ancient equivalent of the People’s Daily.
These gazettes would then be copied again by provincial liaison officials stationed in the capital and dispatched on fast horses to the provinces, further spreading to local offices, allowing all regional officials to read them. Once the gazettes arrived, even local gentry scrambled to get a look.
Su Yan had his eyes on exactly these court gazettes.
Upon entering the Ministry of Communications, he went straight to find Cui Jinping.
Cui Jinping was overjoyed to see his old friend and pulled Su Yan aside for tea and casual talk, also expressing his gratitude again for Su Yan’s previous advice.
Su Yan smiled and asked, “Is Canyi Cui now swimming like a fish in water?”
Cui Jinping, never one to hide his ambitions, answered honestly, “Alas, the pond is still too small. The golden-scaled dragon still awaits its leap.”
This was a line from a poem he had composed at the celebratory feast after the exams.
The other two top scorers, the second and third place winners, had both fulfilled the omens in their own poems:
One wrote, “Leaning alone at the highest pavilion,” and was later assassinated in the Eastern Garden, falling to his death.
Another penned, “The cold moon reflects empty shadows across a thousand rivers,” and was deemed to have committed suicide out of guilt—an empty life indeed.
While sighing over these, Cui Jinping also started to entertain the idea that his own poem might also be prophetic.
He concluded that a man must have the ambition of a great bird, flapping his wings and striving forward. A life of petty concerns or aloof detachment was not enough. He thought this—and acted on it.
Su Yan nodded, “Top Scholar Cui has lofty ambitions. I am not your equal.”
Cui Jinping beamed with satisfaction.
Then Su Yan said, “I have a chance to serve the Eastern Palace. Would you be interested?”
“Eastern Palace?” Cui Jinping had heard of the Kunning Palace fire and the rumors circulating the streets. As for today’s heated court debate, he had witnessed it firsthand at Fengtian Gate.
To speak fairly, he didn’t think the Crown Prince had done anything terribly wrong—at most, he had lost a bit of decorum. But seeing the censors group together and launch such a fierce verbal assault left him stunned.
That was the Crown Prince, the future Emperor! What could they possibly gain from biting and not letting go like that? Not only would they risk offending the current emperor, but once the Crown Prince ascended the throne, they would be the first to be dealt with! Cui Jinping shouted in his heart, even wanting to step forward and add his voice. But just as he moved a foot, his superior—the Director of the Office of Transmission—noticed and gave him a fierce glare that stopped him in his tracks.
Cui Jinping was unconvinced, feeling that his political talents were being wasted.
Unexpectedly, opportunity came knocking once more—albeit by a detour.
“So, what do you say? Do you want it or not?” Su Yan asked.
Cui Jinping thought for a moment, then countered, “Why wouldn’t I?”
Su Yan, as a friend, gave him a reminder: “Think it through. Once you get involved in this, there’s no going back to staying uninvolved and untainted.”
Cui Jinping burst into laughter. “Who wants to stay uninvolved! I’d rather stir up storms. How else can I show what I’m capable of if the waters are calm?”
Su Yan merely smiled at his bold words, then took out an envelope and handed it over.
Cui Jinping unfolded the pages inside and read them carefully. After a long while, he slapped the table and exclaimed, “Brilliant writing!”
“If even the top scholar himself praises it, then it must be truly excellent,” Su Yan replied. “Now, I wonder if such a well-written eulogy—coming from the Eastern Palace no less—could be printed in the Imperial Gazette and distributed to the whole country?”
Cui Jinping considered it for a moment, then replied firmly, “It can be done!”
Su Yan rose and cupped his hands. “I’m counting on you, Lord Cui.”
Cui Jinping grasped his hand gratefully. “Brother Qinghe, no need for courtesy. We’re not only classmates but kindred spirits. You’ve always been generous with me—be it Eastern Palace rewards or chances for promotion, you’ve never forgotten me. Of course I must seize the opportunity and not let your efforts go to waste.”
Su Yan smiled. “You flatter me, Brother Pingshan. From now on, we’ll look out for each other. That’s the only way to stay standing firm amid the winds from every direction.”
Cui Jinping, efficient and decisive, immediately ordered the woodblocks to be carved so the eulogy could be printed in the next issue of the Imperial Gazette, to be released in two days.
After exchanging a few more pleasantries, Su Yan took his leave and went to sign in at the Dali Temple, officially beginning his new year’s duties.
