Emperor Jinglong sat in the Imperial Study, reading the Northern Surveillance Bureau’s report on the confession of the Huaian Prefect. His temples throbbed in frustration.
The Yellow River’s frequent course changes and breaches, which inundated towns and farmlands, had already resulted in significant death, displacement, and suffering—a devastating natural disaster. Yet, for local officials to greedily embezzle disaster relief funds and profit from the nation’s calamity was a moral outrage. Even more heinous, they had dared to murder a court-appointed inspector to cover up their crimes!
Lan Xi, who was serving by his side, noticed the Emperor’s dark expression as he massaged his temples. He quickly offered a cup of fragrant herbal tea, advising, “Your Majesty, please don’t let anger harm your health.”
The Emperor accepted the tea, sipping it slowly as his fury gradually subsided. He still furrowed his brows, commenting, “It is hard to govern rivers, but governing the hearts of men is harder. The harm caused by man-made disasters far exceeds that of natural ones. Inform the Ministers of Personnel and Public Works to prepare for a court discussion in three days on river management and rectifying official conduct. They should come with concrete proposals.”
He tossed the confession document onto the desk. “As for the sentencing of this embezzlement and murder case, let the Grand Secretariat draft an edict in accordance with my orders: punishment must be severe, and not a single head should escape the chopping block. Announce it to every province to serve as a warning.”
Lan Xi acknowledged the order and sent someone to relay it.
The Emperor sipped his tea and sighed deeply, feeling an exhaustion that stemmed not from his body but his unrelenting mental strain. From the moment he ascended the throne, he had carried the weight of the empire on his shoulders. Every day, he reviewed memorials and decrees, dealing with everything from administrative appointments and economic policies to military matters and border security.
The recent years had been especially turbulent. Some of the more pressing issues included rampant banditry in Shanxi, Henan, and Shandong. Among the bandit leaders, the one nicknamed “Crazy Liao” in Henan commanded over ten thousand followers, pillaging towns and counties. Although Left Shilang of War Yu Chezhi had achieved some success in suppressing the bandits, Liao had repeatedly eluded capture. Without his head, the Emperor knew the trouble would persist.
Beyond the Great Wall, Beicheng had fallen into disarray, torn apart by internal strife as various tribes vied for power. Though no large-scale invasions had been launched, the borderlands were frequently harassed, with livestock and supplies plundered.
Four months ago, the emperor had adopted Su Yan’s strategy—choosing to secretly support the Oirats among the Mongol tribes, helping them grow in strength to contend with the Tatars. The Oirat leader, Hu Kuoli, had accepted the title of Pingning Wang, yet remained uneasy. He sought to secure a marriage alliance for his eldest son, Kunle, with a Ming princess, but the emperor tactfully declined, agreeing only to exempt them from tribute in trade. Judging by the envoy’s latest report, Hu Kuoli seemed somewhat dissatisfied with the refusal but ultimately accepted it, requesting that the Great Ming increase its supply of salt and tea in their exchanges.
Then there was the matter of horse administration.
The emperor pulled open a drawer and retrieved a memorial that had been sent express from Shaanxi, covering four hundred li in a single day. He unfolded it and read through it once more.
Su Yan’s semi-cursive script flowed like drifting clouds and flowing water—though it had yet to acquire the firmness of age, it carried a natural grace. In the past few days, whenever the emperor grew weary from reviewing imperial documents, he would take out this particular memorial and read it again—as if seeing it brought him closer to the man himself.
The memorial detailed how mismanagement of the horse policies had led to the devastation of Shaanxi’s livelihood, driving commoners into exile and turning them into bandits, which in turn caused a surge in crime—an issue that gave the emperor much to ponder.
Su Yan earnestly wrote that the civilian horse-rearing system was in dire need of abolition. However, he also understood that this policy had been decreed by the founding emperor and upheld for over a century. Abruptly revoking it would cause an uproar in the court and place immense pressure on the emperor. Thus, he proposed a gradual approach: first, suspend the harsh enforcement of the strict capture orders, and exempt horse breeders from foal tributes for the next two years to stabilize the populace. Once state-run pastures had been reorganized and the number of warhorses increased, the civilian horse-rearing system could then be phased out step by step.
“Boiling a frog slowly in warm water,” the emperor murmured, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. This new imperial censor is quite sharp—his choice of phrases is peculiar yet remarkably fitting.
This memorial had not gone through the usual Grand Secretariat review nor received official deliberation—it had been personally approved by the emperor himself. Every proposal it contained had been granted a direct “Approved”, including the dismissal and stripping of rank for Lu Angao, which the emperor had curtly endorsed next to Su Yan’s self-reproachful admission of overstepping authority, simply writing: “Dismissed—well deserved.”
The decrees had already been issued days ago, yet this memorial had yet to be filed away. The emperor’s fingers traced idly over the ink, as if trying to touch something beyond the paper itself.
As he continued to run his fingers over the document, he suddenly noticed something hidden—a subtle, deliberate trick concealed within the text.
Rather than an anomaly, it felt more like a mischievous gesture of goodwill—a mix of clever pride and childlike playfulness, quietly tucked into the formal report, waiting to be discovered by its intended recipient.
The emperor unfolded the lengthy memorial, his fingers tracing from the first character on the far left, moving diagonally down to the right. Connecting the characters together, he softly read aloud:
“An imperial decree… is truly useful… Your subject is deeply grateful… No need for the sword yet… If one day I end up cutting someone down… it means I had no other choice… Consider this a prior notice.”
Because the characters were arranged from left to right, contrary to the usual order, he hadn’t noticed it even after reading it several times.
“You sneaky devil! What kind of word game is this?” The emperor couldn’t help but laugh and curse. “Calling this a preemptive report? Really?”
Though he scolded, he wasn’t satisfied. He continued searching the page until he found another cleverly arranged section where the words formed a circular pattern: “Though a thousand miles apart, my heart remains in the Purple Palace, praying for Your Majesty’s health.”
The emperor’s fingers repeatedly traced the circle of words. Finally, he closed the document, stored it in the drawer, and inserted a delicately carved jade pendant shaped like a lotus leaf into the folds of the memorial.
When Lan Xi returned from delivering the emperor’s message to the cabinet, he brought back a newly submitted memorial.
Hearing that it was from Yanan Prefecture in Shaanxi, the emperor pushed aside the other documents on his desk and began reading it. After only a few lines, he frowned and exclaimed, “Nonsense!”
Standing slightly behind him, Lan Xi sneaked a quick glance at the memorial. After some hesitation, he asked, “Is Your Majesty displeased because this memorial praises Lord Su’s accomplishments?”
The emperor replied, “This so-called merit was achieved at great personal risk. When horse bandits attacked the city and stormed the prison, the local garrison failed in their duty, the military offices failed in their duty, and even this prefect failed in his duty. It fell to Su Yan, a delicate scholar, to clean up the mess. And now they dare submit a memorial crediting me with divine protection and a miraculous retreat of the bandits?” The emperor’s lips pressed into a tight line, and he refrained from continuing.
Lan Xi, observing the emperor’s expression, knew he was worried about Su Yan’s safety. Over time, Lan Xi had come to understand the emperor’s sentiments—His Majesty genuinely valued Su Yan but restrained himself from making any overt moves. What he cherished was the profound mutual understanding of ruler and subject, a connection of hearts and minds. He sought a willing submission born of genuine affection and loyalty, considering that the ultimate fulfillment of his desires.
Despite his speculations, Lan Xi dared not act without explicit orders, having been reprimanded harshly before. At most, he could add a few words of subtle encouragement. He cautiously echoed, “Indeed, it was perilous. Who knows if the twenty Embroidered Uniform Guard soldiers assigned to him were enough?”
The emperor, also concerned about the adequacy of the guards, was troubled by the precarious state of affairs in Shaanxi. Had he known it would be so dangerous, he would have assigned Su Yan to a safer position.
Now there were two ways to address the situation: either issue an edict instructing the local inspector general, Wei Quan, to dispatch elite soldiers to protect Su Yan, or select additional Embroidered Uniform Guard troops from the capital and send them to Shaanxi. Each option had its drawbacks: local soldiers were readily available but would attract attention, while the Embroidered Uniform Guard, being the emperor’s personal guard, were highly effective but would take seven to eight days to arrive.
After a moment of deliberation, the emperor made up his mind. “Since Feng Que’s death, no new chief officer has been appointed to oversee the Embroidered Uniform Guard?”
Lan Xi replied, “Correct. Although three individuals hold the title of Commanding Envoy, these are nominal positions. Your Majesty previously stated that the chief officer must possess absolute loyalty, intelligence, exceptional ability, and diligence—none of which can be compromised.”
The emperor nodded. “I still haven’t found the right candidate. Let’s wait a little longer. For now, send an urgent message to Wei Quan, instructing him to assign troops for Su Yan’s protection. In the meantime, we’ll select suitable personnel.”
—
At the Northern Surveillance Bureau.
Shen Qi carefully folded the “love letter” he’d received, placed it in an embroidered pouch, and tucked it close to his body. He wished he could tear off Ji Yao’s head tonight, concoct a plausible excuse, and head to Shaanxi tomorrow to see his beloved.
He clenched his fists, took three deep breaths, and suppressed the impulse. Regaining his usual air of sharp composure as the Embroidered Uniform Guard commander, he returned to the main hall.
The spies had been highly efficient, gathering a considerable amount of information on Ji Yao within just one day. Shi Yanshuang compiled and categorized the findings before presenting them to Shen Qi.
Flipping through the pinned pages, Shen Qi sneered, “A man of great virtue? More like a half-baked immortal.”
Shi Yanshuang remarked, “From what I’ve seen, this Ji Yao seems to have some genuine skill. He claims to foresee the future. A spy from Fengan Marquis’s household reported that it was Ji Yao who advised Wei Jun to keep a double and warned him of imminent bloodshed. That’s why Wei Jun narrowly escaped the assassin’s second attempt, letting the double take his place.”
Shen Qi replied, “That’s not foresight; it’s observation and deduction—a charlatan’s tricks. Throughout history, those in high and dangerous positions often maintain doubles. Ji Yao merely guessed correctly. As for Wei Jun, having survived a previous assassination attempt, it’s only natural to expect another. Given such a situation, he could face bloodshed any day.”
Shi Yanshuang nodded in realization. “So this warning was a high-probability guess, with only the exact timing uncertain. If bloodshed occurred soon after, Ji Yao could claim credit for his foresight. If it didn’t, he could say he prayed to avert the disaster, but the effect wouldn’t last long, giving him a pretext to demand further compensation or trust.”
“Exactly. You’re catching on quickly—perhaps you could set up a fortune-telling booth yourself,” Shen Qi teased, patting his subordinate’s shoulder.
Shi Yanshuang chuckled awkwardly and asked, “What about his alleged alchemical ability to transmute base materials into gold? Many in the palace have witnessed it firsthand—how do you explain that?”
Shen Qi wasn’t sure at first. However, during Su Yan’s brief stay at his residence, they had discussed palace gossip, including this so-called alchemy. Su Yan had laughed and explained, “This is an ancient trick. It originated with Egyptian priests, who made alloys of copper and zinc resembling gold to deceive pharaohs. Later, Chinese Taoists improved the method, using mercury to dissolve gold into an amalgam. When heated, the mercury evaporates, leaving the gold intact. In other words, the ‘stone’ being transformed is already gold—like an ugly duckling that was always a swan.”
At the time, some of Su Yan’s peculiar terminology baffled Shen Qi, but he understood the gist: it was a sleight of hand.
Su Yan had grinned mischievously and asked, “Do you want to ‘debunk the science’?”
Shen Qi replied coolly, “Frauds love to perform, and the nobles love to watch—why should I ruin their fun?”
“You’re quite pragmatic,” Su Yan had remarked, peeling grapes on a reclining couch. As he popped a skinned grape into his mouth, he mumbled, “If you ever see it again, steer clear. Mercury is toxic, and inhaling its vapors can also poison you.”
Shen Qi had been captivated by Su Yan’s lips, stained a faint purple from grape juice. One by one, the small, round seeds were pushed out by the tip of his crimson tongue, a sight that tested his self-control. Su Yan, spitting the seeds into a small bowl, glanced at him sideways. “What are you ogling at? If you want to eat, peel them yourself—don’t expect me to serve you.”
Shen Qi’s gaze darkened as he silently vowed: I’ll serve you. I’ll peel and deseed every grape, and feed them directly into both your mouths.
—Yet such scorching and languid summer afternoons have long since passed, leaving only sleepless nights of wistful reminiscence.
“…My lord? Lord Qianshi?” Shi Yanshuang’s voice pulled Shen Qi back from his wandering thoughts. Realizing he had lost focus, Shen Qi straightened and said sternly, “Continue.”
“There are also other skills like ‘throwing a cup to transform into a bird,’ ‘cutting paper into the moon,’ and ‘vanishing one’s own body,’ said to be miraculous.”
“Just illusions, nothing more than tricks of the eye,” Shen Qi dismissed without hesitation.
“And his temple, Lingguang Temple, supposedly has a living Buddha that grants miracles. People pray for careers, wealth, marriages, or children, and their wishes are often fulfilled. As a result, the townsfolk frequently gild the Buddha statues with offerings.”
Shen Qi thought for a moment and said, “That sounds like a good entry point. Select a few sharp and agile men; we’ll go undercover and investigate Lingguang Temple.”