Su Yan exited Yangxin Hall and, outside the palace gates, ran into a not-too-close acquaintance.
“Lord Ling,” he cupped his hands in greeting. “Have you just come from the court session?”
Linghu, an official of the Imperial Diary Office, returned the salute. “That’s right. His Majesty summoned the Grand Secretaries for an audience at the quarter-hour past noon, but they haven’t arrived yet. It seems Lord Su got here first.”
“Speaking of which, every time you see His Majesty, you two always end up having a closed-door meeting. Can you tell me what was discussed? Otherwise it’s difficult for me to write up the court diary.”
Su Yan felt a twinge of guilt, but kept a composed face and smiled. “Nothing but official business. Today we discussed progress on the Baizhifang explosion investigation. But as it concerns unreleased state directives, I must decline to go into detail.”
Linghu nodded. “Understood. Once the Grand Secretaries arrive, I’m sure it’ll be related to this case as well. Sigh, it’s truly one stone stirring up a thousand waves.”
Su Yan sensed there was more to this and asked, “How so? I’ve been out of court the past few days due to injury—pray enlighten me, Lord Ling.”
Well, since he was just waiting anyway, and Su Qinghe was pleasant in both looks and speech, why not pass the time chatting? Linghu looked around to ensure no one else was near, then lowered his voice: “The explosion at the gunpowder warehouse was strange. According to the city patrol censor His Majesty assigned, the warehouse was heavily guarded that night. No outsiders entered, and no open flames were brought in. No one can explain how the blast happened. It’s stirred up much speculation in and out of court—people are unsettled.”
Su Yan nodded. “I’ve also heard rumors from the common folk. Things like ‘a glimpse of the red lotus, and chaos is born.’ Has Lord Ling heard of that one?”
“Of course. There are even more outrageous ones,” Linghu said, avoiding the phrase “heaven’s punishment.”
Officials in the capital had all heard various versions of these rumors.
Some were suspicious but treated the gossip as nonsense and didn’t spread it.
Others, however, saw the explosion as a golden opportunity to attack their political enemies: civil officials—especially those tied to the Western faction—submitted memorials condemning eunuchs and imperial in-laws for corrupt misrule that brought down divine wrath. Meanwhile, nobles close to eunuchs counterattacked, accusing some civil officials of embezzlement and bribery, thus incurring heavenly retribution.
The military officials, traditionally lower in status, kept quiet—they didn’t want trouble and nobody wanted to provoke them. To the outspoken moralists in the court—especially the censors and remonstrators—everyone except themselves was a potential traitor.
As a result, the court turned into a battlefield of tongues and tempers, swords sheathed but blood flowing all the same.
Su Yan was stunned. “How did His Majesty react at court?”
Linghu forced a smile. “His Majesty? He wasn’t spared the spittle storm either.”
“What? Even His Majesty was criticized?”
“Vice Censor-in-Chief Jia Gongji of the Censorate led a group of censors in submitting a memorial claiming the Baizhifang explosion was ‘Heaven’s warning to the Son of Heaven.’ They demanded that the sovereign and crown prince reflect on their governance, hold the Ministries of War and Works accountable, and issue a self-reproach edict to calm the people.”
“A self-reproach edict?!” Su Yan jumped. “Isn’t that a bit too much?”
“Too much?” Linghu didn’t understand.
“I mean… making a mountain out of a molehill.”
Linghu sighed. “Well, these things have precedent. Since Emperor Wen of Han, over seventy emperors have issued self-reproach edicts, usually in response to floods, droughts, plagues—disasters beyond human control.”
Su Yan understood. Natural disasters like earthquakes or droughts were devastating and difficult to manage. Since the emperor was believed to rule by Heaven’s mandate, any calamity people couldn’t resist would be blamed on him. That’s why so many emperors had been obsessed with producing auspicious omens—to prove they were virtuous and in tune with the cosmos. And the unlucky ones, plagued by endless disasters, were branded as morally unworthy of Heaven’s trust.
So clearly, to be emperor, luck mattered too.
If your luck was bad, no amount of competence could save you.
Thus developed the long-standing tradition: in times of major disaster or political instability, either officials would pressure the emperor to issue a self-reproach edict, or the emperor himself would use one as a strategic tool—to pacify public opinion and restore calm.
Even if symbolic, Su Yan was certain Emperor Jinglong would never issue one.
Not long after ascending the throne, Emperor Jinglong had stirred controversy by planning to raise the temple title of the late emperor. Right then, an earthquake struck Guanzhong. Civil officials and censors claimed it was a sign of Heaven’s wrath and pressured him to issue a self-reproach edict—some even drafted it for him, needing only the imperial seal.
But despite a court-wide push, the young emperor held firm. With the Empress Dowager’s backing, he instead forced a group of senior, manipulative officials into retirement. Only then did he seize full control of the court’s discourse.
Now that more than ten years had passed, the Son of Heaven’s prestige had only grown. If someone still tried the same old tricks, weren’t they just asking for trouble?
Su Yan said with conviction, “Lord Jia is in for a bad time.”
Linghu chuckled. “Those who play with fire will get burned. Lord Jia has always been fond of sharp words and pretending to be upright, all to get his name recorded in the annals of history. But now, I fear not only will he fail to leave his mark, he might not even keep his official hat.”
Su Yan shared similar political views with him. The two exchanged a smile, suddenly finding each other much more agreeable.
Linghu sighed. “I’ve seen a lot, remembered a lot, and thought a lot. In this entire court, some are talented but lack virtue, others virtuous but lack talent, and many lack both. Those who truly possess both talent and virtue, and care for the people… are few and far between. Lord Su, you’re one of the outstanding figures of the younger generation, with great potential—but also a difficult path ahead.”
Su Yan could hear the good intention behind his words and nodded with genuine feeling. “Thank you, Lord Linghu. I will not forget my original aspiration and will press forward with determination.”
Linghu cupped his hands respectfully and said sincerely, “As historians, we record with our pens, upholding only what is true. If Lord Su wishes to go farther and higher, then being ‘upright’ alone is not enough. I trust you understand the rest, and I need not say more. I wish you, Lord Su, a life like the spring breeze and autumn waters.”
“Spring breeze, noble and tolerant of all things; autumn waters, clean and untouched by dust.” Su Yan cupped his hands in return. “Thank you for your sincerity. This humble one is honored and will not disappoint.”
–
After being entrusted with high hopes by the court historian, Su Yan felt cleansed from head to toe by the purifying winds of the upright faction—almost as if he’d reached a state of calm clarity like a Zen practitioner. But just as he exited the palace gates, before he could even get his bearings, Yu Wang dragged him into a carriage—completely shattering his composure.
Somewhat annoyed, he said, “Didn’t Wangye say you wouldn’t accompany me and wouldn’t come to the palace?”
Yu Wang grinned. “I didn’t enter the palace. Can’t I just wait here for you to come out?” As he spoke, he handed over a small teapot.
He now spoke to Su Yan with ease and impudence. Su Yan, seemingly infected by it, also became unconsciously unrestrained. He took the teapot and gulped down the tea directly, then panted, “His Majesty already knows about you sneaking out of the city at night. You’d best rein yourself in and stop dancing on the edge of treason.”
Yu Wang raised an eyebrow. “Then does he also know I dragged his beloved minister out with me? Know that the two of us drank together—and spent the whole night under one roof?”
“I am not your tool to provoke your brother with!” Su Yan said angrily. “If Wangye insists on working with this official on a case, so be it. But public and private matters must remain separate. From now on, let us speak only of business. Don’t mess around with nonsense—it could lead to misunderstanding.”
Yu Wang asked sourly, “Who are you afraid of being misunderstood by—my imperial brother, the severely injured Embroidered Uniform Guard officer Shen Qi, or your missing personal guard?”
Su Yan recognized the deliberate jab at his sore spot and, furious, threw the teapot at him.
Yu Wang caught it easily, not even spilling a drop. His gaze fell on Su Yan’s fair face and flushed lips. He scoffed, “Just a palace audience and you’re already exhausted? Look at your lips, all swollen from talking.”
Su Yan, caught off guard, flushed with embarrassment, then flew into a rage. He grabbed whatever he could and began hurling it all at Yu Wang.
Yu Wang caught each item effortlessly, returning them all neatly to their places without even a smudge on his clothes.
Su Yan, panting from the effort, angrily moved to open the carriage door.
Yu Wang quickly grabbed his wrist. “Where are you going?”
Su Yan shook him off. “Wherever I want. I just don’t want to see you!”
Yu Wang saw that Su Yan was truly angry and realized he’d gone too far with his jealous sarcasm. Though he viewed Su Yan as someone close to his heart, Su Yan didn’t feel the same—at best, he saw him as a colleague forced to work together. Old grudges hadn’t been fully resolved; they weren’t even really friends yet. To say something so sour was just rubbing salt in the wound and making things worse.
…Love and feelings—once separated from the bed, why did they have to be so troublesome, so complicated? Yu Wang sighed gloomily, feeling like some greenhorn rookie.
He pressed the carriage door shut with his other hand and said to Su Yan, “Just as you said—public is public, private is private. I overstepped just now.”
There was a hint of apology in his tone. Su Yan said coldly, “Wangye must first figure out—what is your relationship with this official?”
What relationship… Physical? Yu Wang ventured, “Friends?”
Su Yan rolled his eyes. “‘Friends? This Wangye is lacking a friend like you?’ That was Your Highness’s own line, remember?”
Yu Wang drew a deep breath and answered with certainty, “Comrades! Battle companions! That, I’ve never denied.”
Su Yan thought it over and found the answer acceptable. He relaxed his tone slightly. “Then may Wangye remember your own words. Since we’re just comrades, it is inappropriate for you to meddle in my personal affairs.”
Seeing Yu Wang still looking somewhat bitter, Su Yan asked, “Since I met Wangye, I’ve only ever, as a friend, advised you once not to waste time on love and pleasure. But have I ever asked about your private matters, how many bed partners you’ve had?”
Yu Wang was struck speechless, feeling a little bitter—he’s not jealous because he doesn’t care. Su Yan truly had no romantic feelings for him—perhaps never would in this lifetime.
“I understand,” Yu Wang said quietly, dropping his gaze and releasing Su Yan’s arm. He stepped back in defeat. “If you want to go, then go.”
Su Yan stepped off the carriage and walked about a hundred paces toward the Meridian Gate. The imperial palace really was ridiculously large. He started to wonder if he was being foolish for walking when there was a carriage available.
Besides, that look on Yu Wang’s face just now—wounded pride and all—was pretty rare. Had he been too harsh?
Su Yan quickly reflected on it and decided that, compared to all the things Yu Wang had done to him before, what he’d said just now was nothing at all.
Still, not taking the carriage was indeed foolish.
The sound of wheels rumbled from behind and stopped beside him. The carriage door opened. Yu Wang held out his hand as if nothing had happened and said, “Not taking the carriage and insisting on walking—are you dumb?”
“You’re the dumb one! Your whole family is—” Realizing he was about to commit lèse-majesté, Su Yan burst into laughter, grabbed his hand, and climbed into the carriage. Just like that, the earlier argument was brushed aside.
Yu Wang outwardly agreed with Su Yan’s notion that “comrades-in-arms do not interfere in each other’s private matters,” but he had his own plans in mind—he intended to treat this frail and scholarly gentleman like the most elite cavalry or the sturdiest fortress, and conquer him.
Among the thirty-six stratagems, “Feign madness without becoming insane” could be used, as could the “Self-injury ruse.” If necessary, even the tactic of “allying with the distant to strike the near” against his romantic rivals was not off the table—except for the final tactic, “fleeing,” which he never considered. All’s fair in war.
—
With a single imperial edict, the special joint investigation team could officially set up shop at Dali Temple. However, preparations like personnel and funding allocations would still take a few more days.
Meanwhile, the critical leads that had been handed off to the Northern Surveillance Bureau had yet to produce results. With nothing urgent at hand, Su Yan showed up at Fengtian Gate the next day to see what was going on at court.
He wasn’t wearing the fourth-rank robe of the Right Shaoqing of Dali Temple. Instead, he wore the newly issued censor’s regular attire. Azure in color, the chest insignia had been changed from that garish purple mandarin duck to a mythical beast—Xiezhi—and looked much better.
He queued outside the Meridian Gate at the fourth watch of the night to register attendance. Standing in the censorate’s line, he overheard his colleagues from the Censorate discussing the new official uniforms. Everyone seemed quite satisfied, saying they were specially expedited using palace funds, which showed how highly the emperor valued the remonstrators.
Su Yan secretly chuckled: He does value them, but not for your sakes. And even if he did, would you respond with genuine gratitude? Maybe shoot your mouths off a little less?
As he took his position in the square before Fengtian Gate and waited for the emperor’s arrival, Jia Gongji turned around, caught sight of him, and was surprised: “Lord Su, aren’t you standing in the wrong place?”
Su Yan feigned confusion, glancing around before looking down at the insignia on his chest. “Doesn’t seem so. Unless I’ve been stripped of my posts as Censor and Provincial Censor of Shaanxi?”
It was common for officials to hold multiple titles, but their place in the court line-up was based on their highest-ranking post.
Even among equals, there was jockeying over whose side role carried more weight.
There was once a case early in the dynasty where a Minister who concurrently served as Director of Communications argued in court with another Minister who also held the post of Chief Censor, because the former believed he should stand in front. It escalated into a physical fight in court—all over the center spot.
But never before had anyone voluntarily lowered themselves, a fourth-rank official choosing to squeeze in among seventh-rank censors. Su Yan was indeed a rare flower.
Jia Gongji, amused and a bit mischievous, walked over and said, “Since Lord Su takes such pride in being a censor, you should embody the role—speak boldly and righteously, unafraid of power. When I present our remonstration at court, you mustn’t shy away or drag us down.”
Su Yan clasped his hands with composure and replied seriously, “As a censor, I am duty-bound to set things right and speak plainly of current ills. I await my superior’s lead without hesitation.”
Jia Gongji was very pleased with his answer. He thought: It wasn’t for nothing that I brought him into the censorate—he’s indeed a fine talent.
“Rest assured, Lord Jia,” Su Yan added with a smile, “His Majesty is arriving.”
Jia Gongji hurried back to his position. Su Yan tucked his sleeves in satisfaction, chuckling silently as he watched the man’s determined figure.
