At the morning court on the sixth day of the second month in the Jiawu year, Emperor Jinglong carefully listened to each of the Six Ministries’ reports and made an important address. He urged that post-disaster cleanup and relief efforts in Baizhifang be thoroughly implemented, and that issues such as bloated staff, shirking responsibilities, and embezzlement be eradicated. He instructed the Crown Prince, in his role as relief commander, to adopt stronger measures to ensure the people’s basic needs were met and to maintain social stability.
The emperor’s speech sparked strong reactions. Officials pledged to follow His Majesty’s directives with greater resolve and firmer action to complete the relief efforts and comfort the people.
—Reported by seventh-rank Censor Su Qinghe of the Censorate.
Su Yan finished mentally narrating his own made-up news report and, as the meeting neared its end, finally saw Censor Jia make his move.
Patience, not bad. Su Yan watched as Jia Gongji stepped forward from the crowd, shifted his aching feet, and focused his full attention.
As expected, Jia Gongji first questioned why the memorials submitted by him and other censors had been shelved without response. Then he reopened old wounds, imploring the emperor not only to issue an edict holding officials accountable but also to purify himself with fasting and prayer, make a personal visit to the ancestral temple to offer sacrifice, and—most critically—issue a self-blaming edict.
Of course, he phrased it more delicately: “It is not that Your Majesty’s governance is at fault or your actions in error, but rather that Heaven offers a warning through calamity, resulting in the deaths and injuries of countless citizens, with hearts thrown into panic…”
Which translates to: “It’s not your fault, but since Heaven clearly disapproves— demonstrated through a massive explosion—you should issue a self-blaming edict to calm the public. Even sages reflect thrice daily, so why shouldn’t the emperor engage in some self-examination? If there’s error, amend it; if not, let it be a lesson.”
His tone was passionate and sincere. By the end, he was kneeling and bowing repeatedly, crying out: “King Wu of Zhou and Emperor Taizong of Tang both said, ‘If the people err, the fault lies with me alone.’ Your Majesty is kinder and wiser than both—surely you cannot bear to see the common folk suffer!”
Many other remonstrators stepped forward in support, urging the emperor to consider the welfare of the people and issue a self-blaming edict to appease Heaven. Such a grand act of humility, they claimed, would ensure peace and prosperity and resolve all troubles.
This was the first time Su Yan, since traveling back in time, had witnessed such a large-scale display of moral coercion and backhanded flattery. Only one thought ran through his head….
What the actual f*ck.
You’re a wise ruler? Then you must meet the standards of one! You have to emulate those from history—eat locusts during plagues, walk barefoot to pray for rain during droughts. Emperor Lizong of Song once issued a self-blaming edict simply because a comet streaked across the night sky—he even vacated the main hall and ate reduced meals as a sign of penance. You, Emperor Jinglong, are even more enlightened than him, so why can’t you do the same?
What high-sounding righteousness—this was the epitome of “strict with others, lenient with oneself.”
A crowd of censors knelt in the plaza, voices of petition rising like waves.
Civil and military officials looked at each other with varying thoughts—some agreed but dared not speak under the emperor’s gaze, others disagreed but didn’t want to argue with the remonstrators.
The cabinet elders remained cautious. In matters like this, one shouldn’t speak too quickly; it was best to first observe the emperor’s stance. If he did decide to issue a self-blaming edict to quiet the unrest, anyone who opposed it too early might end up with a reputation for fawning or obstruction. Even the famously hot-headed Vice Chancellor Jiao Yang stayed silent.
As for the Grand Chancellor Li Chengfeng, he was getting on in years. A few days ago, he caught a chill from working through the night and fell seriously ill. Otherwise, given his temper, he would’ve already leapt up and smashed Lord Jia’s head with his ivory tablet in fury.
Jia Gongji glanced around, and when he couldn’t spot Su Yan among the crowd, he turned to look within the ranks. He soon found Su Yan standing alone and used a look to signal him to stick with the group and not fall behind.
Su Yan cracked his knuckles inside his sleeves, but his face remained calm, even with a slight upward curl at the corners of his mouth—still that familiar composed smile before he even speaks.
His gaze swept past the officials toward the emperor seated high on the jade steps. It was too far to make out the emperor’s expression, but he somehow felt the monarch’s eyes were on him.
The Crown Prince, Zhu Helin, who was seated to the emperor’s lower left, abruptly stood, ready to speak out. Emperor Jinglong turned his head to look at him and said, “Sit down.”
“But—”
“Sit down,” the emperor repeated, his tone heavier.
The crown prince reluctantly sat back down.
Emperor Jinglong said, “What I must handle lies in the present. What you will handle lies in the future. Why the rush? For now, listen and observe more. Your time will come.”
Standing behind the emperor in service, Lan Xi felt a jolt of unease. This remark is difficult to interpret… Was His Majesty advising the young master not to act rashly, to learn first? Or was it a veiled rebuke, displeased with the crown prince’s eagerness to wield authority? But weren’t they always close as father and son? Could he be reading too much into it?
Hard to say. Ever since the Kunning Palace incident, the emperor’s attitude toward the prince had shifted. He’d punished him with nearly a month of confinement at the Imperial Ancestral Temple without a hint of concern. Even when the prince returned to court, pale and haggard from copying scriptures in blood, the emperor only inquired lightly, no longer displaying the same warmth as before… Tch. With royal fathers and sons, who can tell? Lan Xi gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
Below, the censors continued to plead from their knees:
“Your Majesty, take Heaven’s warning to heart! Consider the common people!”
“Please issue a self-admonition decree, to settle the hearts of the people and pacify Heaven’s will!”
“Could it be that Your Majesty cherishes your face more than the peace of the realm or the lives of your people?”
Some officials cried as they spoke, tears falling like rain in righteous grief. A few censors were so emotionally stirred they lost control, pressing their foreheads to the ground until the blue brick floor was stained with blood.
Su Yan looked on coldly at the group hysteria before him, thinking the court might as well issue them an award for “Most Deeply Moved by Themselves.”
Seeing that Su Yan still hadn’t stepped forward, Jia Gongji’s eyes shifted from urging to disappointment—and then contempt.
Su Yan merely smiled, shook out his sleeves, and solemnly stepped out from the ranks, stopping a short distance from Jia Gongji.
Everyone in court knew that the Shaoqing of Dali Temple, Lord Su, was a favorite of the emperor, highly trusted. Seeing him now seemingly about to join the petitioners—and even wearing his censor’s uniform—whispers began to spread: Could it be the emperor really plans to issue the decree? Or is Su Yan willing to give up imperial favor for the noble name of a fearless remonstrator?
Speculations swirled, only for Su Yan to raise his face and calmly address the throne:
“Your servant deserves death—how could I have forgotten when Your Majesty’s birthday celebration is?”
…His Majesty’s birthday?
What did that have to do with Heaven’s warning or a self-admonition decree? Why was Su Twelve bringing up something so completely unrelated at such a critical moment—had he lost his mind?
Lan Xi let out a faint hiss and looked toward the emperor’s expression.
Emperor Jinglong gave him a slight nod.
So Lan Xi stepped forward two paces and called out sharply: “The imperial birthday is on the fourteenth day of the second month.”
“The fourteenth,” Su Yan counted on his fingers. “Only about seven or eight days away! The emperor’s birthday is one of the three great festivals, alongside New Year and Winter Solstice. By law, every prefecture across the realm must celebrate with three days of feasting and holiday. Court and citizen alike join in joyous celebration. According to custom, the capital’s craftsmen are to decorate the streets with paintings and silks; His Majesty ascends the tower to enjoy the sea of flowers and dances; officials set up offerings and present toasts.
“—Such a grand festival requires careful preparation. But I see no sign of any activity in the palace. If nothing is done soon, it will be too late.”
The emperor’s eyes flickered, a subtle smile seeming to form on his lips.
Lan Xi also began to piece it together, though he hadn’t yet figured it all out. He answered on instinct: “His Majesty has always advocated simplicity. He once said a birthday is a personal occasion and should not be used as an excuse for extravagance that burdens the people. Thus, the birthday is usually marked only by a family banquet within the palace. On that day, officials offer birthday greetings at Fengtian Hall, and receive tea—nothing more, no elaborate preparations needed.”
“I see,” Su Yan nodded seriously, then added, “As the sovereign leads, so must the subjects follow. Since His Majesty practices frugality, we officials must avoid excess as well. Which is why I find it puzzling that just three days ago, Lord Jia here celebrated the birth of his son with such grandeur—hiring opera troupes, dragon dances, drums and gongs, hosting lavish banquets for colleagues and friends over two full days. Why the double standard?”
Jia Gongji was stunned. He rose from the ground and glared at Su Yan. “Su Twelve, what is the meaning of this? Are you accusing me? I’m over forty and only just had a son—it’s natural to celebrate a bit more. How does that break the law?”
Su Yan quickly shook his head. “Not at all, Lord Jia. It’s perfectly understandable, a joyful occasion indeed. In fact, I’d also like to clear up a rumor on your behalf. Some officials have been spreading falsehoods, saying your son was ‘prayed for’ at Lingguang Temple. That is nonsense!”
“True, last July, you did visit Lingguang Temple to consult Master Jiyao—ah, apologies, Jiyao is a convicted heretic now, a criminal—not a master anymore. But you didn’t bring your wife along. When the Embroidered Guards investigated, Jiyao confessed the full list of officials he deceived, and it’s clear you weren’t among those duped. Therefore, your wife and child are entirely innocent. I hope certain officials stop slandering behind people’s backs and ruining reputations.”
Jia Gongji’s face turned red, then pale.
That visit to Lingguang Temple had been a mark of shame—believing in a fraud. When the scandal broke, revealing the monks had assaulted women under the guise of blessings, he’d secretly rejoiced that he hadn’t brought his wife, narrowly avoiding disaster. He’d hoped the matter would fade with Jiyao’s death and the temple’s demolition, and no one would ever know.
But alas, no wall can block all wind. Word still got out. Some officials even mocked him behind his back for having fathered a “Arhat’s son.” All he could do was grit his teeth and pretend not to hear it.
With everyone watching, Su Yan exposing the matter was indeed a way to clear his own name—after all, as someone who had once restructured the Embroidered Uniform Guard and was on good terms with Shen Qi, the official in charge of the case, he naturally held weight when speaking about matters handled by the Northern Surveillance Bureau.
But still, Su Twelve—was now really the right time to clear up personal rumors?
While others were impassioned and earnestly decrying national issues, he stirred the pot with gossip related to his personal affairs—what was his true intent? How was Jia Gongji supposed to preserve his dignity in front of everyone?
Jia Gongji glared at Su Yan, veins bulging at his temple, but he couldn’t repay kindness with hostility and scold him for meddling. He could only grumble with frustration, “Many thanks to Lord Su for clarifying on my behalf, but this is a court assembly. Lord Su’s digressions risk confusing public with private matters, inverting priorities.”
His implication: Either Su Twelve lacked sense or had ulterior motives—everyone, don’t fall for his game.
Su Yan smiled unbothered, and continued, “Clarifying the rumor was incidental. I mainly wanted to offer Lord Jia a word of advice—many of the congratulatory gifts you received at your son’s birth celebration were valuable gold, jade artifacts, antiques, and collectibles. These should be returned. After all, there’s no such thing as a free lunch. Those who showered you with gifts, despite having no kinship or close ties, clearly expect something in return. As a censor and court official, might you not become a shield for their wrongdoings, or a weapon they use against others?”
“Whether used to cover up crime or strike at enemies, it all betrays the calling of a censor—one who should be impartial and just, a scourge to the corrupt.
“—Straight words are hard to hear, but I speak in goodwill. I hope Lord Jia won’t take offense.”
Take offense? Jia Gongji was practically about to explode. Rage and humiliation had his whole body trembling, his ears burning. Around them, murmuring officials began whispering terms like “disguised bribery” and “sanctimonious,” cutting deeper than any blade. Jia Gongji wished the floor would crack open so he could vanish from shame.
Su Yan then turned his gaze toward the group of censors kneeling on the ground.
Twenty to thirty of them, all frequent allies of Jia Gongji from the Censorate—usual suspects notorious for grandstanding in court.
Their faces were still flushed with the passion of “sacrificing oneself for the greater good,” but Su Yan’s needle-sharp gaze made them start to shrink back.
He began to pace slowly, circling each one, offering commentary as he went:
“Censor Xue—you arbitrarily arrested and flogged dozens of local military officers while inspecting Xuanfu. You can’t possibly escape the charge of ‘abusing military personnel,’ can you?”
“Censor Helou—when tasked with nominating worthy individuals to office, why were all your recommendations from your hometown? Does your family specialize in producing ‘talent’?”
“And you, Censor Huang—knowing full well that ochre yellow is an imperial-exclusive color, yet to satisfy your vanity and parade a sense of superiority, you wore ochre-colored silk in public. Are you still counting yourself lucky that the Embroidered Uniform Guard didn’t pursue charges?”
“Censor Tang…”
The named censors were all pale with shock, unable to fathom how their skeletons had been dug up.
Then came the mention of the Embroidered Uniform Guard. Their faces turned ashen. If the Guards knew, surely the Emperor did too. This was nothing more than using Su Yan’s mouth to drop the axe at the most effective time!
Su Yan said with increasing force: “Everyone has faults—so why force the Emperor, who has neither failed in governance nor erred in conduct, to issue a self-reproach edict? And how do you know Heaven’s wrath wasn’t in fact aimed at your unworthiness?”
He gave a mock-proposal: “How about this—each of you writes a confession, listing your own misdeeds and scandals. Denounce yourselves harshly, vow to repent and reform, and pledge to become upright officials worthy of your rank and salary. Post it publicly at the announcement boards in both city markets. How about that?”
He raised his voice even more: “Why so quiet? I urge you all—take Heaven’s warning to heart, think of the common people!”
“Do you value your own face more than the stability of the realm and the lives of the people?”
Now that his words had been turned back on them, those censors were deeply humiliated.
Then Su Yan turned toward the left and right rows of civil and military officials and said aloud: “No one is perfect. Who among us can claim to be without fault? I, Su Qinghe, certainly cannot. I’ve made mistakes too. So how about we all reflect—correct our faults if we have them, and strive harder if we don’t?”
“Let’s just hold a session of ‘criticism and self-criticism,’ dig deep into our rights and wrongs. I believe Heaven will be moved by our sincerity, and our empire will achieve peace and stability, and all disasters will be dispelled.”
“Absurd!” someone among the officials loudly rebuked. “Is a nation governed by ‘criticism and self-criticism’? If Heaven could be swayed by a few words of repentance or an apology, would we still need commoners to toil, officials to fulfill their duties, or monarchs to govern diligently?”
Su Yan clapped his hands. “Well said! A nation thrives through action, not empty talk. Then why waste time over a single self-reproach edict, instead of doing your own work diligently?”
Atop the jade steps, the long-silent Emperor Jinglong finally spoke:
“Pass down My decree: a ‘Special Joint Investigation Team’ is to be established. Right Shaoqing of Dali Temple, Su Yan, will serve as team leader to investigate the Baizhifang explosion case. All personnel from the Ministry of Justice, Dali Temple, Northern Surveillance Bureau, and the Censorate—regardless of rank—must comply with his orders. Anyone who disobeys will be treated as defying imperial command.
“Whether the Baizhifang explosion was a natural disaster or man-made, the truth must come to light. Su Yan, I task you to get to the bottom of this, and bring the culprits to justice, to uphold the law of the land.”
Su Yan kneeled and saluted: “Your servant—accepts the decree!”
“As for the rest of you—” the Emperor swept his gaze across the censors Su Yan had just named, sighed in disappointment, then rose, flicking his sleeve. “Punish them according to the law. Those who must be demoted, demote them. Those who must be dismissed, dismiss them. Court is adjourned.”
