After the former Emperor of Northern Mang ascended the throne, he prided himself on accomplishing four major feats: unifying the royal court, establishing over six hundred relay stations, drilling wells in arid regions, and stationing Red Army garrisons in major military strongholds. The current Empress, having usurped the throne, maintained these policies and further refined them. Additionally, she meticulously implemented two new initiatives: separating military and civilian administration, decentralizing local military, civil, and financial powers; and standardizing taxation and household registration. Other measures included establishing an agricultural encouragement office and compiling an agricultural manual titled “Essentials of Farming and Sericulture.”
The bureaucratic system of Northern Mang lagged far behind the refined institutions of the Central Plains during the Spring and Autumn Period. Every matter required the Emperor’s personal attention, which made wearing the dragon robe seem utterly unappealing to Xu Fengnian. Every family has its own troubles, and the diligence of the Zhao Emperor of the Liyang Dynasty was no less impressive. It was said that he penned thousands of characters daily in vermilion annotations. Remember, this was an emperor ruling a hereditary monarchy, not a scholar seeking literary fame.
Beyond this, merely attending daily court sessions—personally overseeing all matters from the three provinces, six ministries, and various departments—was enough to make commoners, who imagined emperors merely indulging in concubines and harems, shudder in awe.
Now, in late spring, during the Grain Rain season, heavy rains poured upon Tai’an City.
Previously, the capital had no custom of posting Taoist talismans to ward off scorpions. However, with the rise of Chancellor Zhao Danping, the “Purple-Robed Alchemist,” and the ensuing popular tales—especially after the Emperor himself set the example—red cinnabar talismans became widespread. Ordinary households would visit Daoist temples, spending dozens of copper coins for a charm, buying peace of mind at the cost of a few coins. Aristocratic families had connections to have talismans personally inscribed by Daoist masters. The grandest mansions received visits from young Daoist acolytes dispatched by venerable old immortals from the capital’s grand temples, delivering stacks of vermilion-red scorpion talismans. This was no different from the custom of exchanging tea gifts during Qingming and Grain Rain.
At this moment, just before the fifth watch of dawn, a man clad in crimson dragon-embroidered robes strode through the palace’s inner chambers. In one hand, he held several yellow talismans inscribed with vermilion characters—distinct from the usual scorpion-warding charms. The other hand remained hidden beneath his sleeve, gripping an ordinary oiled-paper umbrella.
He slowly passed through corridors toward the northern gate of the palace. The man had no eyebrows, no beard, and snow-white hair, with two long strands of white hair cascading down the front of his vivid red robe. The hand that held the talismans appeared clean and delicate, like a woman’s slender fingers. Upon closer inspection, however, thin red threads emerged from his sleeve, writhing like tiny serpents.
Though it was only Grain Rain, near a lake perhaps, the rain had just ceased, and the croaking of frogs filled the air. At the northern gate, Xuanwu, stood a watchtower and a water clock house, each manned by diligent eunuchs. Though this man had white hair, his youthful appearance suggested middle age. His footsteps made no sound, like a red-furred cat stalking through the night.
In the palace, eunuchs permitted to wear red dragon robes were few. In terms of rank, the highest included the Chief Eunuch of the Office of Ceremonial ( Fourth Rank Official) and the Eunuch Scribe ( Fourth Rank). Though the imperial palace of Tai’an was said to house a hundred thousand eunuchs—a number exaggerated for effect—it reflected the sheer magnitude of the Zhao family’s eunuch corps.
This eunuch approached the northern gate, Xuanwu, and affixed a vermilion talisman depicting a rooster pecking at a scorpion. Illiterate, he could not decipher the intricate characters inscribed upon it. In his youth, he had neither the means to attend a school nor the time to learn after entering the palace. Later, serving under his master, he remained too occupied. When his master ascended the throne, perhaps to avoid suspicion, he abandoned any thought of learning to read.
Standing beneath the gate, he gazed at the talisman penned by Zhao Danping of Dragon-Tiger Mountain. The great eunuch’s lips barely moved as he muttered three inaudible words: “Nonsense scribbles.”
He glanced at the sky. Another storm was brewing, a pity for the newly blooming peach blossoms and the tender green shoots. Quietly, he raised his umbrella and turned back. Approaching the fourth watch, near the water clock house, an old eunuch from the Palace Surveillance Office hurriedly carried a golden-charactered time tablet toward the watchtower. Along the way, younger eunuchs, regardless of rank, stepped aside in respect. Even those inside open rooms stood up upon seeing him.
Eunuchs, shrouded in mystery, followed countless rules and customs. Once, a favored grand eunuch accidentally collided with a Surveillance Office official, delaying the watch bell. Though the favored eunuch’s former superior had risen to become the Director of the Imperial Horse Bureau and the two called each other father and son, the Surveillance Office eunuch retaliated, beating the favored eunuch to death. Upon learning of this, Han Diaosi not only punished the favored eunuch but also subjected the Director of the Horse Bureau to secret execution by flaying. Even such a shocking affair, which horrified court ministers, was dismissed by the Emperor—who personally oversaw all state affairs—with a mere chuckle. He rejected the flood of impeachment memorials from censors with the phrase: “This is a family matter.”
At this moment, the old eunuch delivering the time tablet was basking in the deference shown by every eunuch along his path. Yet upon seeing the crimson-robed figure with white hair turning the corner, his hair stood on end. He dared not linger, bowing low and quickening his pace, though his steps grew smaller. Han Diaosi slightly shifted his shoulder, and the two eunuchs passed each other. The old eunuch did not even dare to breathe loudly. How could he not fear? Once, when a lost imperial prince returned to the palace, this man had slaughtered over four hundred eunuchs who dared to whisper about the prince’s identity—including the head of the Arms Bureau, one of the Twenty-Four Bureaus, who had once been his confidant.
This crimson-robed eunuch, with a history of bloodshed, was none other than Han Diaosi, the most feared among a hundred thousand eunuchs, known alongside Xu Xiao and Huang Sanjia as one of the Three Plagues of the Dynasty.
At the fifth watch, the drum sounded, signaling dawn.
As the first drip of the water clock echoed, a nimble young eunuch rushed to the palace gate to announce the coming of morning. Tens of thousands of red lanterns were simultaneously lit, illuminating the palace in a blaze of light and vitality. Han Diaosi walked quietly through this glow. As the second drip sounded, he arrived precisely before the Emperor’s chambers. Bowing low, he saw only a pair of yellow-and-purple embroidered boots from the Imperial Wardrobe Office. Other than the colors signifying rank, they were no different from common cloth shoes.
Inside, attendants helped the Emperor don his imperial yellow dragon robe. The Emperor listened to the rain outside and chuckled softly: “Grain Rain brings cleansing rains, purifying all things. A good omen.”
Han Diaosi, bowing lower, his white hair almost touching the cool stone floor, whispered: “Your Majesty, the Sixth Prince sent some pre-rain spring shoots yesterday.”
The Emperor remained silent. The room grew still, save for the sound of rain outside. After a long pause, he chuckled: “Though tender as silk, he clearly sent them for you, Master Han, not for me. No need to overdo it.”
Han Diaosi bowed even lower.
The Emperor removed one of his yellow-and-purple cloth shoes and threw it at the eunuch, laughing with mock exasperation: “Bring three jin then.”
Han Diaosi nodded. His white hair bent on the floor as he picked up the shoe, ran a few steps, handed it to a palace attendant, then stepped back, speaking in the eunuch’s distinctive soft tone—though less effeminate than others, more refined: “Your Majesty, forgive me. The Sixth Prince only sent two jin.”
The Emperor, about to put on the shoe himself, threw it again, laughing: “Then bring all two jin. You, Master Han, won’t get to taste this delicacy.”
The Seal-Bearer Han Diaosi and several other crimson-robed eunuchs already stood quietly outside, aligned with the corridor’s center line. Wind and rain blew sideways, soaking their shoes. These eunuchs were the highest-ranking, fourth-rank officials, awaiting the Emperor’s procession southward. They would first cross the symbolic boundary of the Inner Palace, the Dragon Path, then pass two palaces before reaching the Golden Hall for the morning court.
Before the court, several newly promoted young courtiers would join the procession. Though young, they commanded smiles from even the grand eunuchs—unlike the past, when high officials would dismount upon encountering them.
The morning court followed old customs, with the Emperor personally presiding daily, except during natural disasters or extreme weather. For most junior officials, it was not overly burdensome, requiring attendance only on the first and fifteenth days of the lunar month. Those living near the imperial city rose around the fourth watch, while others, unable to afford expensive mansions near the palace, had to depart in the third or fourth watch to avoid being late.
Today, with heavy rain, officials wore raincoats, waiting under umbrellas for the gates to open. It was a grand court day, attended not only by dukes, Prince Consort, and nearly a thousand officials but also by hereditary nobles and retired officers—over fourteen hundred in total—standing densely in the rain outside the imperial city. Raindrops the size of soybeans struck the umbrellas with loud thuds.
This was a unique scene of a prosperous era: officials waiting in the rain for morning court.
This unprecedented vast empire issued countless decrees through these officials to every corner of its territory.
When the bell rang, the officials abandoned their umbrellas and proceeded. Upon entering the palace gates, no noise or spitting was allowed. Those coughing near the Emperor were permitted to withdraw. However, this rule varied. Lower-ranking officials caught violating it were immediately expelled by guards and eunuchs. In the past, many descendants of meritorious families ignored such rules, whispering among themselves as they ascended the steps. Only after Chancellor Zhang Shoufu took power did such habits fade, making each court session increasingly solemn.
Jin Lanting, a minor official, stood alone under his umbrella, drawing ridicule from most officials who disliked him. They mocked him as “not a crane among chickens, but a chicken among cranes.” Especially memorable was the time this lowborn eunuch suffered from diarrhea during court, nearly dying from holding it in. Fortunately, unlike officials below the fourth rank who knelt outside without entering the hall, the Emperor noticed his discomfort and allowed him to leave, sparing a great embarrassment. Thus, Jin, who had painstakingly gained favor by selling fine paper to powerful figures, became a laughingstock among the capital’s elite. Especially after Huan Wen, the former Director of the National Academy, departed for Guangling as a regional commissioner, no high-ranking official remained willing to welcome Jin into their homes—especially since he had the misfortune of being close to Beiliang.
Once full of scholarly ambition upon entering the capital, Jin Lanting had long since shed his youthful idealism. He no longer cared for the endless mockery. He vividly remembered the envious glances he received the morning after Chancellor Huan invited him to his home.
Jin extended his hand from beneath the umbrella, feeling the stinging raindrops. He slightly lifted the umbrella, gazing at the officials gathered in cliques, each group representing a faction. Listening to their chatter, he stood on tiptoe, unnoticed. Thanks to his prestigious rank, he stood near the main gate, spotting several prominent umbrellas. One belonged to Chancellor Zhang Julu, whose tall stature made his umbrella rise several inches above others. Under it stood the revered Left Minister of the Gatehouse, Sun Xiji, who, though exempt from court, insisted on attending. It was a great honor that the Chancellor personally held the umbrella for him, equal to the Emperor’s permission for the elderly minister to sit during court.
Jin withdrew his chilled hand, lowered his gaze, and clenched his fist.
He secretly glanced at another official nearby, a minister from Beiliang, the Deputy Minister of Rites, Yan Jiexi. Coincidentally, Yan, formerly the Governor of Lingzhou in Beiliang, looked his way. Their eyes met briefly before both averted their gazes.
Jin subtly withdrew his gaze, took a deep breath, and steeled his eyes. He would be a loyal minister.
And today, the corrupt official he would impeach was none other than Xu Xiaolong, the Beiliang King who had recommended him for office!
He knew that after court, regardless of the rain, his name would shake the court and earn him a reputation for integrity across the land.
At this moment, Xu Fengnian entered the Ju Zi Province.
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