The wonton-stall boss lady, or perhaps she should be called “one of the Gatekeepers”, was riding hard along a snow-covered, rutted road.
Half of a mechanical cylinder was hidden inside her robes. It pressed coldly against her skin and faintly emitted a foul odor.
Because of the freezing weather, the smell had initially been weak. But as the journey dragged on, it grew increasingly noticeable until it became unbearable.
It was as though she were carrying a lump of excrement in her bosom.
—That damned Imperial Guard Shen Qi! Just what kind of “evidence” had he submitted? Why did it stink this badly?!
While silently cursing Shen Qi, she pinched her nose and hurried onward, hoping to pass the cylinder on to the Player before she herself was suffocated by the smell.
Of course, with her status, she was not qualified to meet the Player in person.
After changing hands twice, the cylinder and the Gatekeeper’s report were finally delivered to Mr. He.
Mr. He lifted the cloth covering the tray and was immediately driven back two steps by the stench. “What is this thing?!”
The female believer carrying the tray replied, “Imperial Guard Shen Qi claims that Emperor Jinglong’s death from the failed cranial surgery was his doing. He says he sneaked into the treatment chamber midway through and tampered with things. This is the evidence he submitted to the Player.”
Put that way, it really was important evidence. No matter how foul it smelled, it had to be endured.
Suppressing the urge to cover his nose, Mr. He resumed his detached, crane-like demeanor and said to the believer, “Carry it carefully and come with me.”
Inside the quiet room, the round moon window stood wide open. Outside, a fine rain drifted down. Cold wind mixed with moisture blew inside, chilling one to the bone.
The Player sat by the window playing chess. One hand held black pieces, the other white pieces, playing against himself.
The broad-brimmed conical hat on his head was draped with long ash-gray gauze curtains that fell from the crown of his head all the way to his feet, completely concealing his figure.
As Mr. He appeared at the doorway, the Player did not turn around.
Instead, he called out loudly, “Free? Come play a game with me.”
“Not free.” Mr. He replied without ceremony. “I’m busy avoiding wanted posters. Not everyone has the leisure you do.”
The Player chuckled. “The Hidden Sword Sect and Seven Kill Camp operate in the open. I operate in the shadows. Your Void Sect exists between light and dark. Wasn’t that our agreement from the beginning? Why have you suddenly developed resentment and directed it at me?”
Mr. He instructed the female believer to place the tray on the floor and dismiss herself.
Only then did he straighten his robes, sit cross-legged opposite the chessboard, and begin picking the white pieces one by one off the unfinished game and returning them to the bowl.
The stench seeped through the cloth covering the tray and gradually spread through the room.
“You brought excrement to see me?” the Player asked.
Mr. He replied calmly, “If one carries excrement in one’s heart, then one sees everything in the world as excrement.”
The Player countered, “If one carries no Buddha in one’s heart, then one merely makes red lotuses bloom among the foolish masses.”
After exchanging their barbs, both men smiled.
Mr. He relayed the Gatekeeper’s report. The Player ordered a trusted attendant to open the half-cylinder.
Inside was an oil-paper packet.
When the oil paper was unwrapped, it revealed a sticky, pulpy, rotten mass about the size of a chicken egg. Fragments of membrane still clung faintly to its surface, but its identity was impossible to determine.
The Player ordered both a physician and a coroner to examine it carefully.
Their final conclusion was: It appeared to be a piece of human brain tissue.
Since it had been removed more than a month ago, it had decomposed and become putrid.
That was only because it was winter. Had the weather been warmer, it would have smelled even worse.
… Could Shen Qi really be trying to use this rotten, ownerless chunk of brain matter to prove that he had dug into the late emperor’s brain in the treatment chamber?
Was this evidence submission, or deliberate disgust?
The Player and Mr. He looked at one another in speechless silence.
After a long while, Mr. He said, “This Shen Qi… he’s a madman. Yet you still intend to use him?”
The Player replied, “He’s not only mad. He’s ruthless, cunning, and duplicitous. Difficult to control. But he has a weakness, or rather, a fatal vulnerability. As long as we hold that weakness in our grasp, no matter how insane he is, he’ll still have no choice but to fall into our net.”
At Lotus After Rain Villa, Chen Shiyu searched frantically among rows of bottles and jars but could not find what he was looking for.
He hurried out of the ice cellar and asked the medicine apprentices, “The crystal jar I brought back from the palace, the one frozen in the ice cellar on the bottom shelf. Which of you took it?”
The apprentices looked at one another and all shook their heads.
“Not me!”
“Not me either!”
“We all know everything in the ice cellar is Master’s treasure. None of us would dare touch it.”
Chen Shiyu sighed regretfully.
“A pathological specimen completely removed from the brain of a patient suffering from head disease… what a rare medical case. I had planned to study it carefully… How did it disappear?”
***
On the fourteenth day of the second month, Zhu Helin held his enthronement ceremony in Fengtian Hall.
After offering prayers to Heaven and reading the late emperor’s final edict, he formally ascended the throne.
Yet on the night before the ceremony, he had still clung to the hope that perhaps his father had awakened and could continue governing.
Taking a risk, he secretly left the palace and slipped into Lotus After Rain Villa.
After sitting beside his father’s bed for an entire night, Zhu Helin finally accepted reality:
His father would not wake in the near future. And even if he did awaken, he would still require a lengthy period of recovery.
Zhu Helin could afford to wait.
The officials and people who could not rest without a ruler could not wait. The troubled situation of internal unrest and external threats could not wait either. There was no longer anyone who could serve as his pillar of support.
He had to take up the burden of the empire himself and become a mountain upon which others could rely.
That said, being such a mountain was quite difficult. Before even ascending the throne, he had already gotten into a fierce argument with officials from the Ministry of Rites.
The dispute centered on the reign title.
A reign title was not fixed forever. Throughout history, emperors often used different reign titles during their rule. When auspicious omens descended from Heaven, or when major events such as internal strife or external crises occurred, it was sometimes necessary to change the reign title as well.
The late emperor’s reign title had been Jinglong. It remained unchanged throughout his eighteen-year reign, so he was known as Emperor Jinglong.
When a new emperor ascended the throne, however, ritual law required a change of reign title. Thus, after deliberation between the Ministry of Rites and the Imperial Astronomical Bureau, more than a dozen reign titles were proposed for the new emperor to choose from.
Zhu Helin disliked every single one of them.
In the end, he chose a reign title himself: Qinghe.
“‘The seas are calm and the rivers run clear’, what an excellent omen,” he argued confidently. “Royal Father liked it too. His spirit in heaven would certainly approve.”
The Imperial Astronomical Bureau was only responsible for determining auspiciousness. Since the divinations turned out favorable, they had no objections.
The senior officials of the Ministry of Rites, however, exploded.
Who in the court did not know that the most favored figure of the day, the newly appointed Left Shliang of the Ministry of Personnel, Lord Su Yan, had the courtesy name Qinghe?
What did the new emperor mean by this?
Could it be that he intended to announce to the world that he held Su Shilang in special regard, harbored personal feelings for him, and was even using the reign title as a token of their bond?
Although many secretly suspected that there might indeed be something improper between the new emperor and Su Shilang, as long as it remained hidden, few people were willing to dig into the ruler’s private affairs or openly challenge the sharp-tongued Su Twelve. After all, the dismissed Censor Jia Gongji was a cautionary example.
But this move by the new emperor was plainly putting private feelings out in the open, without even bothering to conceal them.
The officials of the Ministry of Rites erupted in protest. One after another, they remonstrated and objected, pushing back fiercely.
Even Su Yan himself, upon hearing of it, was first stunned and then furious with embarrassment.
He immediately entered the palace and demanded that Zhu Helin abandon this bizarre idea and choose another reign title.
In the past, Zhu Helin had obeyed him in almost everything. But on this matter, he was extraordinarily firm, nearly stubborn.
Su Yan talked until his mouth was dry, yet accomplished nothing. Finally, he resorted to threats and declared that he would personally burn Zhu Helin’s entire collection of storybooks and erotic illustrations.
In the end, Zhu Helin reluctantly compromised…
Halfway.
He changed Qinghe (清河) to Qinghe (清和).
To the public, he announced that the two characters came separately from classical texts, carrying the meaning: “Continuing an age of peace and embracing virtuous harmony.”
Such a phrase was suitable for a reign title and beneficial to the realm.
The Ministry of Rites checked the books. Sure enough, both expressions existed. And even common people who had never studied the classics could easily interpret Qinghe as “a clean government and harmonious people,” which was hardly unreasonable.
Although the officials still felt there was room for ambiguity, they decided to stop while ahead, lest they be accused of servants bullying their master.
And so, after many twists and turns, the reign title was finally settled.
With a tiny concession, Zhu Helin won his first war of words against the officials through nothing more than a homophone joke.
As for Su Yan, he had nothing left to say… He suspected that Zhu Helin had intended to use the characters Qinghe from the very beginning. Otherwise, he would not have prepared the classical references in advance.
It was simply the psychological tactic of: If you want to open a window, first announce that you intend to tear off the roof.
The final result landed exactly where the boy wanted it.
Yet Zhu Helin still put on an aggrieved expression, as though saying: I am wronged. I haven’t even officially ascended the throne yet, and these old ministers are already bullying me.
The little tiger cub that once bared its claws had turned into a full-grown tiger. And one born with a natural streak of roguishness at that. A little hooligan, a little wild. Completely different from his father.
Su Yan rubbed his forehead and felt that his role as nominal teacher still had a long road ahead.
At the first court session held at Fengtian Gate after the enthronement ceremony, Zhu Helin issued decrees promoting and rewarding a large number of officials.
Most were people who had rendered distinguished service during the events surrounding “the Crown Prince’s return to the capital and succession.”
The first two names on the list were Su Yan and Shen Qi.
Su Yan retained his position as Left Shilang Ministry of Personnel and was additionally appointed Grand Scholar of Wenhua Hall, formally entering the Grand Secretariat.
Shen Qi was promoted to Commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, taking charge of the official seal.
Many other officials received promotions as well.
Su Yan had known that Zhu Helin intended to bring him into the Grand Secretariat. What surprised him was that he entered directly as the third-ranking Grand Secretary.
The first-ranking Grand Scholar of Zhongji Hall naturally went to the new Chief Grand Chancellor, Yang Ting. Although Xie Shiyan had not achieved many notable political accomplishments, his seniority was unquestionable, so he became the second-ranking Grand Scholar of Jianji Hall.
As for Su Yan, he had only just entered the Grand Secretariat and was the unprecedented youngest Gelao in history, having reached the position before the age of twenty.
He had assumed he would start at the very bottom. Instead, he was immediately ranked third.
Zhu Helin appointed two other ministers promoted from the Six Ministries as Grand Scholar of Wuying Hall and Grand Scholar of Wenyuan Pavilion, placing them fourth and fifth respectively.
The final position, Grand Secretary of Dongge Pavilion, was left vacant. Like a fragrant pastry visible but impossible to eat, Zhu Helin used it as bait for ambitious officials.
Want this last lucrative post? Then listen to me and work hard.
Su Yan could only admire the audacity. Afterward, he privately asked, “Who came up with this idea for you?”
Zhu Helin shot him a smug glance. “I thought of it myself!”
Nor was that all.
This new emperor, full of crafty ideas, also restructured the positions within the Grand Secretariat. The Grand Chancellor remained unchanged.
But instead of numerous deputy leaders, there would now be only two Vice Chancellors, with all others serving as assisting secretaries.
One chief.
Two deputies.
Three assistants.
The hierarchy within the Grand Secretariat instantly became crystal clear.
Having been elevated to Vice Chancellor, Su Yan now appeared almost equal in status to the veteran Xie Shiyan.
At a time when officials already believed Su Yan had enjoyed extraordinary favor from the late emperor and that someone so young could scarcely become any more influential, Su Yan became famous all over again overnight. He was practically one step away from becoming the most powerful minister in the empire.
The Su residence immediately became crowded with visitors. Countless officials sought to attach themselves to this rising star, whether openly or secretly. Many came claiming to be his examination peers or former classmates.
There was even an official who had sat the same metropolitan examination as Su Yan. Because his examination cubicle had been located next to a latrine, his performance had suffered and he had ended up only becoming a county magistrate. Even he shamelessly claimed to be Su Yan’s “examination peer” and eagerly arrived bearing gifts.
Many lower-ranking officials and unsuccessful scholars could not even claim to be examination peers or classmates. So they devised another method. They had seals carved reading: “Your humble servant and beast of burden beneath Scholar Su.”
Or:
“Running dog under Twelve.”
The final name on the seal would naturally be their own.
They stamped these seals on their calligraphy and paintings, parading them everywhere and congratulating themselves on their elegance.
For a time, the streets of the capital were filled with men waving folding fans and calling themselves “running dogs under Su Twelve.” Stationery shops even sold out of blank seal stones of every material.
Su Yan was driven nearly mad by these self-appointed beasts of burden and running dogs. Unable to endure it, he secretly fled to Shen Qi’s residence and hid there for several days of peace and quiet.
He had even developed something akin to PTSD toward the title “Su Gelao.”
The flattering officials who constantly addressed him as “Gelao” annoyed him so much that he eventually began responding automatically: “Old*? What do you mean old? Do I look that old to you?”
* lao in gelao = old
The official returned home after getting nowhere and pondered the matter. “…So that’s it! He’s dissatisfied because the Grand Secretariat has all the power of a chancellor but none of the title!”
Thus the rumor gradually spread. Many people stopped calling him “Su Gelao” and instead began calling him “Prime Minister Su.”
The problem was that the Founding Emperor had abolished the office of Prime Minister and replaced it with the Grand Secretariat precisely because he feared excessive concentration of power in a single minister’s hands.
In the early years of the dynasty, only four men had ever served as Prime Minister.
The Founding Emperor had executed three of them.
Now people were calling him “Prime Minister.”
Was that supposed to be some auspicious way of courting execution?
Besides, he was only a Vice Chancellor. There was still a Grand Chancellor above him!
Su Yan: I’m not! I didn’t! Stop making things up!
The “running dogs”: You are! You deserve it! Stop being so modest!
The censors: Impeach him!
The newly enthroned emperor, upon receiving the impeachment memorials: “…Hahahahaha, I also think ‘Prime Minister Su’ sounds better than ‘Su Gelao.’”
The censors: Remonstrate with the emperor! Your Majesty, mind your words!
The new emperor slammed the memorial onto the table. “Who keeps yapping? Step forward. Hormuz has just presented two lions as tribute. We happen to be short a caretaker to groom and feed them. Since you are all so loyal, why not help share your ruler’s burdens?”
The censors: …
To be beaten to death by the imperial rod would earn one the reputation of a loyal remonstrator for generations.
To be fed to lions, however, would simply make one a joke.
Forget it. “Prime Minister Su” it was.
After all, it was only an unofficial form of address.
Not worth fighting over.
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