Chapter 7

As long as competent officials remained within his grasp, Emperor Jing would never move against them.

Xu Ziming held the rank of Second Grade Minister and had always served with diligence and integrity, rarely making mistakes. There was no way the emperor would risk shaking his court just for the sake of a young man he’d met only once.

Such was the art of ruling.

The Next Morning — Imperial Court

Emperor Jing sat high upon his dragon throne, flanked by rows of civil and military officials.

Serving the emperor was no easy task. Officials woke before dawn, and many slept later than the palace guards.

Morning court convened when the sky was still dark, and no one ate beforehand. A single stomach issue could spell disaster—if the emperor was speaking and you lost control… well, you might as well dig your own grave.

With so many officials in attendance, the grand hall couldn’t hold them all. Lesser-ranking ones had to stand outside—even in the dead of winter, braving the biting cold until court was dismissed.

“Step forward if you have matters to report. If not—court is adjourned!”

A high-pitched voice echoed across the hall.

“Your Majesty,” one official spoke up, “winter approaches. Supplies in the Tuoluo Kingdom are scarce. They’ve repeatedly raided our northern borders, looting and killing. I beg Your Majesty to send troops to suppress them.”

“Your Majesty,” another said, “I must accuse the Minister of Personnel—his son has assaulted the common people.”

“Your Majesty,” added a third, “floods have devastated the Gannan region. The people are displaced and starving. I urge Your Majesty to open the granaries and provide relief.”

Most of these matters had already been submitted in memorials. Emperor Jing was aware. The purpose of raising them now was to debate and find solutions.

After a full hour of heated discussion, the major issues were settled.

Next came trivial complaints—the emperor had no interest in them.

His gaze shifted to an elderly man with a missing leg—the only one in court allowed to sit besides the emperor himself: the legendary General Chen.

General Chen was puzzled. Ever since losing his leg, the emperor had exempted him from morning court. But the night before, he’d received an imperial edict summoning him without fail.

“General Chen,” the emperor said suddenly, “you were quite the spectacle at the Zhuangyuan Pavilion last night, weren’t you?”

The general’s heart sank.

He had gotten drunk, vented his frustrations, and made a scene—yet news had already reached the emperor?

He scanned the room. It had to be one of those self-righteous scholars who tattled. They always did.

Scholars were the worst. Rigid. Sanctimonious. More obsessed with reputation than life itself. They dared to challenge even the emperor, taking pride in it.

Some had even died for it—earning posthumous titles as “upright” and “loyal” officials. It only encouraged more to follow.

These men were stubborn to the bone. They would denounce anyone—be it the emperor or a petty magistrate.

General Chen leaned on his cane, attempting to kneel, but the emperor stopped him.

“I understand your frustrations, General. But the Zhuangyuan Pavilion is a place for scholars. A drunken outburst there invites criticism.”

To hell with the scholars, the general cursed inwardly. Those pretentious snobs were the reason he got mad in the first place.

“Your Majesty,” he said aloud, “this old servant knows his mistake.”

The emperor waved it off. “I’m no tyrant. I understand you. I don’t blame you… in fact, I have a gift for you.”

“Eunuch Quan, read it to him.”

Eunuch Quan—known for his effeminate voice—was a close aide who had served Emperor Jing since his days as crown prince. He carefully unfolded a piece of paper from the imperial desk.

Written in the emperor’s hand was a newly acquired poem, gifted by a young man named Xu Yi.

Chapter 8

Eunuch Quan looked across the hall of officials, then began to read in his sharp, clear voice:

By candlelight I polish my sword in drunken haze,
Dreams take me back to horns echoing in the camps.
Feasts shared among warriors over blazing fires,
War drums roll as we muster in autumn’s chill.
Horses gallop swift as black lightning,
Bows crack like thunder in the fray.
I fought for my emperor’s peace—
To earn eternal honor… yet now, only white hair remains.

Silence fell.

And then—shock.

The court, once hushed, buzzed with stunned admiration.

The civil officials flushed with excitement. As men of letters, they longed to pen a verse that would echo through history.

Even the rougher military officials were moved. They didn’t grasp every word, but the imagery was unmistakable:

An aging general, his glory days behind him, silently mourning before his sword.

Glory fading. Beauty aging. A life of regret.

“Your Majesty,” cried Li Hanru, head of the Hanlin Academy, his beard trembling, “who is the author of this masterpiece?”

He had spent a lifetime writing verse. And yet… next to this, he felt unworthy even to hold a brush.

All eyes turned to the emperor.

Emperor Jing frowned slightly. “Why? Couldn’t it have been written by me?”

No one believed him.

His literary talent was well-known—but the raw emotion in this poem, the aching loneliness of a veteran... it wasn’t something an emperor, secluded in luxury, could truly express.

“Your Majesty,” said one blunt official, “you live within the palace. This poem speaks of a battlefield soul. It cannot be yours.”

That nearly earned him a thrown incense burner.

General Chen’s heart was pounding. This poem had put his unspoken pain into words. Whoever wrote it—was his soulmate in ink.

“Your Majesty,” he pleaded, “this old servant begs to know who wrote it.”

The emperor replied calmly, “I came across it by chance. It was written by a young man—barely in his teens. His name is Lan Xing.”

Gasps filled the hall once more.

A teenager?

How could a boy produce such profound emotion?

Yet the emperor had no reason to lie.

Lan Xing.
The name burned into every official’s memory.

Once court adjourned, they would spare no expense to find him. Just one verse from him… and they too could be immortalized in history.

“With no title given, I’ve decided to name this piece,” said the emperor. “Let it be known as A Gift to General Chen.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty!”
Unable to kneel, General Chen bowed deeply, eyes glistening.

The emperor glanced at Eunuch Quan.

“Court is dismissed.”

The eunuch’s voice rang through the hall once again.

After court, officials hurried out in small groups—buzzing with speculation. Who was Lan Xing? How to find him?

Even Xu Ziming, a famed scholar himself, was eager to meet the mysterious boy. He moved quickly.

“Minister Xu, wait!”

He turned. Eunuch Quan was trotting toward him in those dainty little steps.

“Eunuch Quan,” Xu greeted, bowing respectfully. No one dared slight someone so close to the emperor.

“Why the rush, Minister Xu?” said the eunuch, smiling. “His Majesty has summoned you. Please, follow me.”

Xu Ziming froze.
His mind raced.
Had he made a misstep? Been reported by political enemies?

He discretely offered a silver ingot. “Might I ask what His Majesty wishes to see me about?”

Eunuch Quan smoothly slipped it into his sleeve. “Oh, Minister Xu... how could I presume to guess His Majesty’s thoughts? You’ll know soon enough.”

Xu Ziming forced a smile. Greedy bastard, he thought. Takes the money and offers nothing.

In the Imperial Study

“Kowtowing before His Majesty. May you reign in peace.”

Emperor Jing said nothing—just flipped through a book.

Xu Ziming knelt, motionless, too afraid to lift his head. Time dragged on.

At last, the emperor spoke.

“Minister Xu. Rise.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.”

Xu stood, still bowed slightly, his heart pounding.

“How many sons do you have?”

He blinked. “Your Majesty... I have three—no, four sons.”

He’d almost said three. His instincts still didn’t count Xu Yi as one of his own.

The emperor put down his book and looked him in the eye.

“Three or four?”

“Four, Your Majesty!”

The emperor’s voice turned cold.

“Our dynasty is built upon the virtues of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faith. I shall not speak on your private life—but he is still your blood. I do not favor men who abandon their kin.”

Xu Ziming froze.

He knows.

Emperor Jing continued: “Xu Yi is a fine young man. Treat him better.”

Xu Ziming trembled, his face pale.

Who ratted me out?
Does he know everything?

Visions flashed through his mind—his whole family kneeling at Dragon Platform, awaiting execution.

He collapsed to his knees.

“Your Majesty, I beg forgiveness! Please, spare me!”

The emperor watched coldly.

He had no intention of punishing Xu Ziming—not today. But fear was a useful tool.

“I summoned you in private,” he said, “because I won’t make this a public matter.”

Xu Ziming blinked. Was he hearing correctly?

The emperor added, “Xu Yi has talent. Great talent. I’m giving you one more chance. Do not let me down. You know what happens if I am disappointed.”

“And remember—Xu Yi doesn’t know my identity. This conversation stays between us. Not a word to anyone else.”

“You may go.”

Xu Ziming was stunned.

The emperor… met Xu Yi? How?

He’d barely left the Xu estate!

Eunuch Quan approached gently. “Minister Xu, this way please.”

Snapping out of his daze, Xu Ziming bowed low.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Your servant takes his leave.”

Only after exiting did he dare wipe the sweat from his brow. His back was drenched. His legs barely held him.

He cast one last glance at the imperial study, face pale, before hurrying away from the palace.