As Su Yan exited the imperial study, the wind brushed past him, and he realized his back was damp. The day was truly getting warmer, the hall had been stifling, and after that episode of intense weeping, his back was soaked in sweat.
He felt a bit irritable, though he wasn’t sure if it was due to the weather or something else.
The emperor was shrewd, always calculating, and not without the suspicion typical of most monarchs. He wasn’t merely the “benevolent ruler” recorded in history, something Su Yan had known ever since overhearing one of his private conversations. This was why he always tread so carefully when serving the emperor, never letting his guard down.
He was certain that the emperor’s questions earlier weren’t because he suspected any connection between him, Chancellor Zuo, or the Xiye Party. After all, he was still young, had been in office for only three months, and a simple background check by the Embroidered Uniform Guard would show his life was as plain as a blank sheet of paper. Most likely, it was a habitual test, much like the way the emperor often tested other officials.
The emperor seemed to be making one thing clear: No faction or network of people mattered in the face of absolute loyalty to him. He had tested Su Yan by offering him a position in the Ministry of Personnel, then by proposing marriage beneath the imperial edicts, and now by posing a question that could have spelled disaster. All of this was to gauge Su Yan’s political stance and whether it had strayed from the right path.
Had Su Yan made a grand declaration of loyalty, the emperor likely would not have believed it. After all, too much zeal often arouses suspicion.
Su Yan’s quick thinking, choosing to cry bitterly and entrust his sentiments to a feigned emotional breakdown, had helped him escape the trap.
How much the emperor truly trusted or favored him, Su Yan wasn’t sure. He could only take things one step at a time.
But deep down, he still felt a bit wronged.
Apart from sleeping and eating, most of his time was monopolized by the emperor and the crown prince. He did whatever they asked without complaint, offered sound advice, and even after being reprimanded, held no grudge. In short, he was the ideal minister. How could they not appreciate him? One day, they’d regret it!
…Of course, this was just wishful thinking. In this ancient world, the emperor had the power of life and death over him, while Su Yan was merely a small, insignificant official among a sea of others.
Even the Chief Minister of the Cabinet, above tens of thousands, could be imprisoned on the emperor’s word. All blessings and punishments came from the throne, and Su Yan had no right to feel wronged.
At this moment, all he wanted was to go home and take another bath. Seeing that the sun was starting to set, he decided not to go to the crown prince’s quarters, sending a young eunuch to inform the prince instead as he left the palace with a heavy heart.
Back at home, Su Yan sank into a tub of warm water. After heating the last pot of water, Su Xiaobei came to wipe his back and asked softly, “Master, are you feeling troubled?”
Su Yan, leaning lazily against the edge of the tub, replied, “What’s there to be troubled about? To outsiders, I’m the crown prince’s Shidu, flourishing in both the palace and court.”
“Ever since you returned from the palace today, there hasn’t been a trace of a smile in your eyes. Are you tired?”
“My body isn’t tired, but my heart is. The crown prince throws a tantrum if he doesn’t see me for a day, and the emperor would probably love to have me planted as a decorative shrub in the imperial study. Haven’t you heard the idle gossip from the Imperial Astronomical Bureau lately? They say I’m only pretending to be candid, and that my real skill is currying favor.”
“They’re just jealous of your favor with the emperor. If they had the chance to be that decorative shrub in the study, they’d jump at it! They’d be bending over backwards to get into that pot. They’re only spreading sour rumors because they’re envious, like flies buzzing around in a ditch. They’re not worth your attention, Master.”
Su Yan chuckled softly. “I know that, but I still appreciate your comfort.”
Su Xiaobei looked uneasy and lowered his gaze. “Master, why do you always thank us servants? It makes me feel so unworthy…”
Su Yan replied, “Why shouldn’t you stand tall? We’re all born of our parents; who’s inherently more noble than another? Strip away the trappings of power and status, and aren’t we all just people?”
“It’s not the same,” Su Xiaobei’s eyes reddened as he struggled to hold back tears. “When the Yellow River flooded, my family’s fields and home were destroyed. The four of us had to flee to the capital. My sister starved to death along the way, and my Father traded her body for a sack of coarse rice cakes just to get us through the wasteland. When we reached Dongchang Prefecture, we were attacked by bandits. My mother was taken, and we haven’t heard from her since. By the time we arrived in the capital, my Father was on the verge of death. He had no choice but to sell me to a human trafficker. The trafficker saw that I looked decent and intended to sell me to the lowest brothel. If you hadn’t bought me, I’d already be a pile of bones by now. How can people like us—whose flesh and blood can be bought and sold—still call ourselves human?”
Hearing this, Su Yan’s heart filled with sorrow. He sighed and said, “The past few years have been tough with all the natural disasters and chaos, but things will get better.”
“Will they? How long will it take?”
“…Not much longer.”
Disasters of war and the Yellow River often occur together. While the Yellow River nurtures civilization, it is also unpredictable, and the devastation caused by breaches and course changes is eventually wiped away time and time again by human efforts and the passage of time. New shoots will once again sprout from the barren land.
“What’s done is done, no point dwelling on it,” Su Yan said as he got up and dressed. “Let’s have dinner, I’m starving.”
Su Xiaobei wiped his tears and forced a smile. “Everything’s ready, just waiting for your command.”
“Oh, right. Shouldn’t we buy some zong leaves, glutinous rice, peanuts, and the like, to make some zongzi for the festival? Oh, and salted eggs and ham—both sweet and savory zongzi are delicious.”
“I’ve already bought everything. The cook will make them tomorrow.”
“That’s no fun! Let’s make them ourselves, give it a try.”
Su Xiaobei hesitated. “I’m afraid that Xiaojing and I are not skilled enough and might make them look like sticks.”
Su Yan laughed. “It doesn’t matter if they turn out like barrels; we’re just doing it for fun.”
The next morning, the three of them set up in the courtyard. They cleaned the stone table and laid out all the ingredients. As they laughed and chatted, they made zongzi, and soon, the table was covered with the most grotesque and monstrous shapes imaginable.
Su Yan admired his latest creation—blunt and long on one end, round and sunken on the other. Suddenly, it reminded him of a certain male appendage, especially with the strings wrapped tightly around it. Feeling embarrassed, he was about to unwrap it and try again when he heard someone knocking loudly at the gate.
Su Xiaojing opened the door, and a group of servants carrying gift boxes filed in, filling two stone tables with their deliveries.
“These are festival gifts from Yu Wang for Lord Su. Please accept them with a smile,” said the steward in embroidered clothes. He seemed to feel that he had shown enough deference and, without waiting for a reply, turned and left.
“I don’t want to smile. Can I just reject them?” Su Yan sighed in frustration and casually opened one of the boxes. Inside were twelve exquisitely wrapped zongzi, made with the finest tribute rice, dried fruits, and ham from Heqing, steaming and fragrant.
“Wow!” Su Xiaojing exclaimed. “What kind of zongzi is this? It smells amazing! Isn’t this something you can only eat in the palace?”
Su Yan tossed him two. “Yep, just eat them.”
Su Xiaobei looked at the zongzi they had made and felt increasingly disheartened. “I’ll take the ones we made to the kitchen and let the servants have them.”
Su Yan stopped him. “No, these are the first zongzi I’ve made in two lifetimes. I’m going to savor them.”
So Su Xiaobei carefully separated Su Yan’s monstrous creations, including the one that resembled the unspeakable appendage, and cooked them in a separate pot. As they boiled, they simply disappeared.
“What do you mean, ‘disappeared’?” Su Yan asked, eyes wide.
“Well… I went to buy a jar of locust honey from the street vendor, and when I came back and lifted the lid, they were gone.” Ashamed of his failure to watch over the kitchen, Su Xiaobei felt deeply embarrassed.
Su Yan waved it off. “The back door was probably left open, and some kid sneaked in, lured by the smell. Kids have a sweet tooth. It’s fine; they weren’t well-made anyway. Let’s eat the ones from the gift box—top-tier food, no point wasting it.”
***
In the Northern Surveillance Bureau, the early summer sun did not penetrate the slightest bit. The place was perpetually dark and cold, a fitting hideaway for the white snake Xiao Qing to cultivate during the Dragon Boat Festival.
Shen Qi lounged back in a circular chair, his legs resting casually on the table, swinging a string of cooked zongzi in his hand. They still had some warmth, though they were so hideously shaped they seemed to insult Quzi.
He glanced at them with a half-smile, then unwrapped one, dipped it in the sugar on a small porcelain plate, and took a bite.
“Ugly as they are, they taste surprisingly decent,” the commander commented.
After finishing it, he looked over at Zhuo Qi, who was hanging disheveled and filthy from the torture rack, and shook another zongzi in front of him. “Lord Zhuo, how about eating a zongzi to celebrate the festival?”
Zhuo Qi’s face was as pale as paper, his lips cracked and bloody, and he croaked weakly, “Water… give me water…”
Shen Qi slowly unwrapped another zongzi, stripping away the bamboo leaves one by one to reveal the sticky, sweet glutinous rice inside. He got up and walked over to Zhuo Qi’s side.
“Lord Zhuo, let’s be honest here. Enduring like this is pointless. You say you haven’t embezzled or accepted bribes, but what about those extra supervisory positions you approved? Were all the grain donations handed over to the court? Wasn’t some of it siphoned off to fill private coffers? According to the laws of the founding emperor, just sixty taels of silver is enough for a death sentence by flaying, so your punishment isn’t unjust, is it?
You claim you didn’t form factions, but what about those letters exchanged with the Xiye members? Didn’t they contain grievances about the nobility being in high positions while the talented languished below? Didn’t you openly curse the eunuchs and the Embroidered Uniform Guard?”
Zhuo Qi was on the verge of collapse, barely conscious, still mumbling for water.
Shen Qi sneered. “You scholars… all mouth, criticizing everyone, but never daring to stand up to real power. Warriors die fighting, and officials die remonstrating. If you were like Left Shilang Yu Che of the Ministry of War, who didn’t flinch even after being flogged thirty times in court and forced the emperor to take back his decree, I’d respect you as a real man. But would you dare? All you do is take it out on us, the emperor’s dogs.
Yes, we are the emperor’s dogs, his claws and fangs, but whose claws and fangs are we? If you pulled out our teeth and clipped our claws, who would feel the pain? The court is full of Confucian scholars, all claiming to be pure of heart, but how many are truly serving the country? Five? Ten? Aren’t they all fighting for their own interests and reputations, using ritual and propriety to manipulate imperial policy, even at the expense of the emperor’s dignity?
‘Your Majesty, have you written your self-criticism yet? No? Then I’ll write it for you.’
‘Your Majesty, I’m resigning. But if you accept my resignation, your reputation will suffer even more.’
I’ve seen this kind of thing so many times in my ten years as an Embroidered Uniform Guard. As long as our claws are sharp, this is how it’ll be. If you take them away, where’s the emperor’s authority?”
“So, have you figured out what your crimes are?” Shen Qi stuffed the zongzi into Zhuo Qi’s mouth bit by bit. “This was personally made by your proud disciple. Eat it, and then sign the confession. The commandant has promised that if you sign, you’ll be spared from execution. He won’t go back on his word.”
Zhuo Qi’s throat felt like it had been stuffed with hot coals. Suddenly, a sliver of clarity broke through the chaos in his mind.
After days of brutal torture, his beliefs and willpower were nearly crushed. He had been wavering between a desire to live and sacrificing himself for his principles, at times considering signing the confession.
Even though the confession implicated his mentor, Li Chengfeng, Li Gelao.
Especially after hearing Shen Qi’s “theory of claws and fangs,” his heart was filled with despair, and he was nearly ready to nod in agreement.
But who would have thought that the seemingly offhand remark at the end—”This was made by your favorite disciple”—would feel like a bucket of ice-cold water poured over his head, waking him up.
Su Yan!
During the time he had been imprisoned, while others feared being implicated and dared not visit, only this seventeen-year-old boy had braved the dark prison, bringing clothes and food.
At that time, his mind had been foggy, but he vaguely remembered seeing bloodstains on Su Yan’s outer robe, and afterward, the boy was dragged away by that ruthless commander, Shen Qi. Who knew what kind of punishment or torture he had suffered?
He had only taught Su Yan elementary education for three or four years when the boy was six, yet Su Yan repaid this small kindness with such unwavering loyalty, ready to face death without hesitation.
And what about himself? After being nurtured by Li Chengfeng for so many years, he had faltered in his resolve, clinging to life like a coward, not even as steadfast as a boy not yet twenty!
Zhuo Qi felt ashamed, wishing he could die on the spot.
With great effort, he chewed the sticky rice in his mouth and said, “I will sign the confession… in court, in front of everyone. I will not admit guilt in this filthy prison.”
Shen Qi wiped his sticky fingers and signaled for his subordinates to give him some water.
Half an hour later, the court session began.
Shen Qi did not accompany Feng Que to the courtroom. Instead, he found an excuse to retire, staying in his room to peel zongzi. After finishing the sweet ones, he moved on to the savory ones, eating them one after another as though they were a meal, complaining about their ugly appearance.
Not long after, one of his trusted aides entered and whispered something in his ear.
Shen Qi’s expression darkened.
Zhuo Qi had died in the courtroom. Before a crowd of onlookers, faced with a confession filled with fabricated accusations, he had bitten through his tongue and sprayed his hot blood over the paper—
“If you wish to know my crime, let my blood speak for me.”
Shen Qi gestured for his aide to leave and began to consider the implications of this unexpected development.
Implicating Li Chengfeng was no longer an option, preventing Fengan Marquis from getting too much of what he wanted, which would have made him even more arrogant.
With Zhuo Qi dead, the case was closed. He could no longer implicate others, including his teacher and, naturally, his students.
All things considered, his death was convenient.
Shen Qi smirked with satisfaction as he looked at the last remaining zongzi… which resembled a lifelike phallus the more he stared at it.
That Su Qinghe, so innocent and pure on the surface—what was going on in his mind?
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