Though the Spring Festival had passed, a lazy air still lingered in the Dali Temple. After presiding over the ceremonial opening of the office, Chief Guan offered some token guidance before leaving. Before long, the clerks and officials began slipping away one by one.
Left Shaoqing Wen Zhengyin came to chat with Su Yan, warmly and with a polished charm. In both overt and subtle ways, he tried to probe for information about the palace—his skills in fishing for intel were extremely refined.
Su Yan already felt their temperaments clashed. What’s more, Shen Qi had warned him that Wen was a hypocrite—sweet-tongued but treacherous. So Su Yan stayed alert, responding with harmless small talk and smiling even more brightly than Wen himself.
Wen Zhengyin eventually realized he couldn’t get anything useful out of Su Yan, so he politely took his leave, faking a smile.
Su Yan, having dealt with someone he didn’t like, felt his mood sink—so he decided to find someone he did like to “cleanse his eyes.”
He went to the Northern Surveillance Bureau.
As for the Four Guardians, they had shifted from openly accompanying him to protecting him from the shadows. Su Yan had said that now the holidays were over and there’d be frequent movement between offices, it wouldn’t look good for a mid-level official like him to always have imperial bodyguards in tow.
Out of sight, out of mind. Besides, after a few contacts with Shen Qi and no reaction from the Emperor, Lord Su’s courage had quietly grown. He’d begun looking for chances to blur public and private matters.
Sure enough, as soon as he arrived at the entrance of the street, he skipped the main hall entirely and headed straight for Shen Qi’s office.
The moment Su Yan’s carriage entered the street, Shen Qi already knew. Tea was brewed, dried fruits set out—everything prepared for his arrival.
This time, Su Yan had wised up and didn’t dare wear the cloak gifted by the Emperor. Instead, he wore a newly tailored dark blue cape, fastened with a unique gourd-shaped toggle made from a dried bonsai plant. It was simple yet flattering.
Once inside—warmth radiating from the brazier—he removed his cloak and hung it on the rack. Smiling, he greeted Shen Qi, who sat behind his desk. “Busy, Lord Shen?”
Shen Qi, upon seeing him, felt itchy all over—hands, teeth, heart. He was like a volcano in a constant state of boil, desperately trying not to erupt.
“Not as busy as Lord Su, who has been dashing about all over, finally deigning to visit my humble office.”
So sour, it made even candied kumquats seem sweet. Su Yan chewed on a few kumquat peels from the fruit tray, then tossed a whole fruit—pulp and seed—at Shen Qi. Shen Qi caught it and casually popped it into his mouth, chewing down seed and all.
Su Yan flushed a little, wiped his hands with a damp cloth, and said, “You’re well-informed. Naturally, you know what I’ve been working on these past few days. I was wondering if you had any intel related to that?”
Shen Qi replied, “I do—but it won’t come free. What are you offering in return?”
“Expenses from the New Year were heavy—I’ve spent my entire salary already,” Su Yan said half-jokingly. “Can I owe you for now?”
Shen Qi gave him a fierce look that seemed to see through his multiple layers of winter clothing, making Su Yan instinctively shrink back. “Fine. You can owe me—but I’ll collect later with interest,” growled the operatives chief.
Su Yan subtly scooted his chair back and chuckled as he waited.
Shen Qi said, “All the palace attendants of Kunning Palace have been handed over to the Directorate of Ceremonial for interrogation. The chief eunuch oversaw the torture himself, but it’s said they weren’t able to extract any information about the mastermind.”
Su Yan thought for a moment and said, “I don’t believe it was just a simple accident. The person behind it must be skilled enough to cover their tracks. Those attendants were just pawns—they didn’t know the truth.”
Shen Qi nodded. “That’s what the chief eunuch reported too. So the Emperor ordered all attendants who left their posts on the night of the Lantern Festival—including the two eunuchs tending the charcoal fire—to be flogged to death.”
Su Yan inhaled sharply, exhaled slowly, frowning with pity—but said nothing more.
—
“Was I too cruel in doing this?” asked Emperor Jinglong.
Lan Xi bowed deeply. “Your Majesty naturally had your reasons. Besides, they did violate palace regulations and deserved harsh punishment.”
The emperor held a teacup in one hand and the lid in the other, gently pushing aside the floating tea leaves. “You… after all these years with Zhen, still only know how to flatter, not knowing Zhen’s true intentions.”
Lan Xi raised his head, expression respectful, but with a trace of pity in his eyes. “This servant understands—it’s all for the young master’s sake. By ordering them beaten to death, Your Majesty effectively declared their crimes unforgivable. That way, when the young master killed three of them, it counted as carrying out rightful punishment.”
The emperor sighed. “In truth, I have never been a particularly benevolent ruler. At this very moment, I am merely a Father.”
Lan Xi said, “Your Majesty has reigned for fifteen years, diligent and loving toward your people, generous to your officials—widely acknowledged throughout the realm. But an emperor is still an emperor. One cannot rule a vast nation purely with kindness. That’s the way of the world. As the saying goes: Kindness doesn’t command troops, righteousness doesn’t amass wealth, goodness doesn’t govern, and sentiment doesn’t get things done.”
The emperor took a sip of his tea. “Since the world says I’m generous to my officials, then even the censors who criticized the Eastern Palace today should be treated with generosity. Lan Xi, pass on Our decree: Every imperial censor who gave remonstrations today shall receive two taels of silver and a pair of court boots. Also, write four characters and send them to the Censorate—write: ‘Loyal to the country.’”
Lan Xi covered his mouth with a smile and respectfully replied, “This servant receives the order and will see it done at once.”
He was just about to take his leave when the emperor suddenly asked, “Where is the Crown Prince?”
“He’s still kneeling in the Imperial Ancestral Temple, saying he wishes to copy scriptures in honor of the late Empress.” Lan Xi added, “It’s snowing heavily and freezing in the temple. Should this servant go and bring the young master back?”
The emperor said, “No need. Let him copy the scriptures. A little stillness and reflection will do him good. Anything else?”
Lan Xi hesitated briefly but answered truthfully: “Su Shaoqing went to see His Highness at the temple. The two were alone in the central hall for nearly half an hour. The Eastern Palace guards stood outside, so no one knows what was discussed. Oh, and when Su Shaoqing arrived, he was still wearing the cloak Your Majesty gifted him.”
The emperor seemed to choke, coughing hard before setting down his teacup. His expression turned complicated—not quite pleased, not quite angry. Shaking his head, he muttered, “That Su Yan!”
—
“Two taels of silver and a pair of boots? His Majesty is really feeling generous,” Su Yan chuckled. “I wonder what kind of expressions those censors made when they received the reward.”
Shen Qi smirked. “What else could they do besides kowtow in thanks for the imperial favor?”
The more Su Yan thought about it, the more he realized how twisted—and amusing—the emperor’s move had been. “In His Majesty’s eyes, all their effort and righteous fury was worth… two taels of silver. And the court boots? They’re black on top, white underneath. You could say it’s praise for their clarity between right and wrong… but you could also say it’s a jab—black and white reversed, twisting the truth. As for those four characters, ‘Loyal to the country’… truly thought-provoking.”
What a brilliant backhanded tactic… Su Yan couldn’t help slapping his leg and bursting into laughter.
Shen Qi watched him laugh so heartily—over another man, no less—and his eyes flashed cold and sharp like a blade, though his face betrayed no emotion.
Once Su Yan had finished laughing, he remembered his business. “There are two matters I need your help with, Lord Shen—”
He got up and walked to the desk, placing both hands on its surface, leaning forward to whisper in Shen Qi’s ear.
Shen Qi listened without expression and said, “I’ll help—but not for free. Will Lord Su be putting it on credit again?”
Su Yan nodded, giving him a placating look.
Needing help—for another man again—made Shen Qi’s temper rise. In a flash, he grabbed Su Yan’s collar and leaned in to bite his Adam’s apple.
“Pay some interest first.”
Su Yan knew perfectly well that Lord Shen was like a dog—he loved to bite. So, he struck first, lowering his head to bite the fingers gripping his collar. “No interest. Here’s the IOU. I’ll stamp it for you.”
He slipped away, pulled on his cloak from the stand, and said with a grin, “Goodbye, Lord Shen,” not waiting for a reply before strolling off.
Shen Qi looked down at the wet bite mark on his finger, then bit down again, deeper this time, until the skin broke and bled.
Gazing at the new “stamp” that would last longer, he licked the blood clean, a satisfied smile curling on his lips.
—
After receiving the laughably modest reward, the imperial censors at the Censorate exchanged puzzled looks, unsure of the emperor’s intentions. But even the stingiest gift was still imperial favor—each one kowtowed in thanks.
Censor Jia was the first to catch on. Clapping his hands, he said, “His Majesty has always indulged the Crown Prince. When I submitted a memorial criticizing the Eastern Palace before, I got a scolding. But this time, instead of reprimanding us, the emperor rewarded us. What does that tell you?”
“What?” the others asked.
“It means the emperor may be displeased, but he still has to maintain the royal family’s reputation and appease us censors. As long as we stand firm in our duty and speak the truth fearlessly, His Majesty will surely accept our counsel.”
“Well said! We mustn’t back down. Onward and upward—even unto death!” the censors rallied.
Once the little gathering dispersed, Jia Gongji furrowed his brow and looked down at the pair of boots in his hands, frustrated. “This is clearly a veiled insult!” he muttered. “But even if I’ve offended His Majesty, I won’t back down. What must be said will be said. That’s the true duty of a censor.”
Just then, a clerk arrived to deliver that day’s Imperial Gazette.
Jia Gongji always read each edition thoroughly—after all, it was a vital source of court information. Flipping through the pages, he suddenly came upon a memorial essay, written by none other than the Crown Prince himself, in honor of the late Empress Dowager.
Censor Jia had never held any expectations for the Eastern Palace’s literary skill, but with just one glance, he was hooked. He read the whole thing in a single breath. When he finished, he sat stunned, mouth slightly open, for once struck completely speechless.
—
The Imperial Gazette was quickly copied and distributed throughout the capital’s government offices, and from there into the hands of scholars and gentry. Many who read the essay were moved to tears, reminded of their own departed parents and loved ones. People began copying it out and reciting it, and before long, it spread from the scholarly class to the common folk.
“Have you read The Lament for My Late Mother yet? No? You must! It’s truly beautiful!”
“I can’t even read, but I had a street scribe read it aloud for me. I understood every word—and cried at every one…”
“Poor thing… lost his mother shortly after birth, yearning day and night but unable to see her, pouring all his emotions into the palace and her belongings—only to have it all burned to ashes in a fire. Not even a single keepsake left to hold onto.”
“No wonder he killed those palace attendants in a fit of rage—it turns out it was their negligence that caused the Kunning Palace fire. Look at me, just a warehouse guard, and I still stayed put during the Lantern Festival. But they ran off to watch the lanterns. Truly despicable.”
“All that talk of drunken debauchery and massacring hundreds—nothing but baseless rumors. He only killed three people, and they were the ones who made a grave mistake.”
“Didn’t you read the government’s public notice? It said those palace attendants deserted their posts, violated palace rules, and disrespected the late Empress—each sentenced to death. Clearly, the young master only killed those who deserved to die.”
“Sir, do you have a copy of The Lament for My Late Mother? May I please copy it for my own study?”
“It recounts the Empress’s kindness with so many emotional turns, vivid and heartfelt; it expresses the pain of a grieving son—like a cuckoo crying blood, truly moving. Observe carefully—this is what it means when writing from the heart surpasses any artificial skill! Pay attention, all of you. Today’s lesson is to memorize His Highness the Crown Prince’s Tribute. Each of you will hand-copy it three times and submit it when you return tomorrow.”
It was as if overnight, the tribute from the court gazette spread like wildfire throughout the capital. People scrambled to copy it, and bookstores ran out of paper, almost recreating the famed “paper shortage in Luoyang” from the Jin Dynasty. On the streets, more and more scribes appeared, offering to copy it for the barest of fees—or even for free.
These scribes, as well as the idle talkers in teahouses, taverns, and inns, appeared throughout the city during the day… and after sunset, they changed into their Embroidered Uniform Guard uniforms and returned to the North Surveillance Bureau.
Naturally, the households of Marquis Xianan and Marquis Fengan received the gazette as well. Hearing how public opinion in both the scholarly and common circles had turned in the Crown Prince’s favor overnight—undoing all their elaborate buildup, manpower, and resources spent on the smear campaign—Wei Yan and Madam Qin were nearly driven to vomit blood in fury.
Wei Jun, who was already like a flickering candle in the wind, had suffered a relapse just from learning Su Yan had been recalled to the capital and reinstated to his position. His family, afraid of triggering another collapse, kept this latest development hidden from him.
Madam Qin came up with a plan: better late than never. She quickly sent people to regional transcription offices to tamper with the copied versions of the gazette, inserting blasphemous lines into the tribute. The goal: spread these altered versions to the provinces and have local officials report the Crown Prince for disrespect.
Wei Yan fully agreed and immediately sent men out.
But unexpectedly, all the regional copying offices were now guarded by Embroidered Uniform Guard. Their agents couldn’t infiltrate, returning empty-handed in frustration.
What made things worse? The opposition wasn’t done. They had another move.
At the largest temple in the capital, Yanfu Temple, a major Dharma assembly was held on the 20th day of the first lunar month. As throngs of people came to offer incense, three rare blood sutras were put on display.
Two of them were centuries old, penned in blood by revered monks. The ink had long since aged into a rust-red hue.
The third, however, was a vivid crimson with a faint golden sheen and written entirely in Sanskrit—it radiated a divine aura.
Pious believers and curious folk alike began asking who had written it, hoping to take it home for worship. But the monks politely declined, saying it was written by a noble person who offered it to pray for the peace of his late mother’s soul—not a monk’s work.
And so, the identity of the writer became a mystery.
Before long, rumors began to spread—it was written by none other than the Crown Prince himself.
After the Kunning Palace fire, the Crown Prince had gone to the Imperial Ancestral Temple to repent before the late Empress, donning mourning clothes and following a strict vegetarian diet. He had been copying sutras in blood day and night without rest, praying only that his mother’s soul might find peace in the afterlife. Even after many weeks, he was still at it, his body now frail and gaunt.
Filial piety was considered the supreme virtue in the feudal era. Not only Confucianism but even common people believed that someone who showed deep filial love could not possibly be a bad person.
Soon, tales of the Crown Prince’s filial devotion spread across the capital. Everyone sang his praises, much like they once did Su Qinghe, who had beaten the grievance drum at the palace gates to avenge his master and purge corruption.
This time, Wei Yan and Madam Qin were once again nearly driven to madness, and even Imperial Consort Wei—deep inside the palace—was seething with frustration. Her painstakingly crafted schemes had gone up in smoke, but she had no outlet for her fury, so she lashed out at palace attendants to vent.
After barely regaining composure, she ordered her trusted maid to send word to her mother. The plan had failed. She now wished to meet with Master He for guidance once again.
When Madam Qin went to find Master He, he was seated at a stone table in the courtyard, copying something. She leaned in to look—and saw that it was that cursed tribute. Beside it was a blood sutra of unknown origin.
Trying to control her anger, Madam Qin asked, “Why are you copying this as well?”
Without stopping his pen, Master He replied, “I’m not copying a tribute—I’m recording enemy intelligence.”
“…What do you mean?”
“This person is a master of public opinion—able to stir clouds and summon rain with just a turn of the hand. A rare genius in psychological warfare.” Master He put down his brush, blew the ink dry, and bowed toward the blood sutra. “To have such a formidable rival… is a blessing indeed.”
