The autumn wind from the northwest stirred ripples in the stagnant waters of the capital’s officialdom. Though the surface seemed calm after the wind passed, beneath it surged undercurrents of unrest.
Sima Puhua, who had succeeded Lu Daolin and Yuan Guo as the Minister of Rites, had just finished receiving the notoriously arrogant young prince before returning to the Zhao Family Weng compound, where the Ministry of Rites stood adjacent to the Ministry of War. The septuagenarian elder appeared unusually frail.
The six ministries of the Shangshu Province, rebuilt during the early years of Yonghui, were arranged side by side. In the Liyang Dynasty, the left was considered superior to the right, so the Ministry of Personnel, whose chief was revered as the “Celestial Official,” naturally occupied the easternmost position. At the time, Gu Jiantang, then Minister of War, had surprisingly chosen the westernmost location for his ministry. Thus, from east to west, the order was Personnel, Revenue, Justice, Works, Rites, and War—a clear indication of how little regard the Ministry of Rites had received during the Yonghui era. Initially, there was even a saying in the capital: “A Vice Minister of Rites is as lowly as a mere clerk in other ministries.” Only under the leadership of Lu Daolin and Yuan Guo did the Ministry of Rites gradually regain its footing. Nowadays, it was even more prominent, with the unwritten rule that scholars of the Imperial Academy were often drawn from the Ministry of Rites.
Since the second year of the Xiangfu era, Sima Puhua had carried himself with more pride than even the younger officials during court assemblies. Even in the depths of autumn, he exuded an air of springtime vitality. But today, when the old minister returned to his office, the sharp-eyed officials of the Ministry of Rites noticed he seemed utterly dispirited. The elderly man shuffled into his chamber, sank into his seat, and began sighing deeply, so lost in thought that he didn’t even notice the arrival of Vice Minister Jin Lanting and the newly appointed Vice Minister Jiang Yongle, who had come together. He continued his lamentations.
Jiang Yongle’s heart sank at the sight. Local officials might believe his promotion from the ceremonial rites division to Vice Minister was due to outstanding evaluations in the capital’s assessments, overseen by the powerful figures Yin Maochun and Chen Wang. But even the lowliest capital officials knew the truth: Jiang Yongle had secured this increasingly coveted position purely because, in the matter of posthumous honors for the late “Crippled Xu,” he had miraculously guessed the late emperor’s intentions. His proposal of the “Martial and Severe” posthumous title had been approved. The so-called “outstanding evaluation” was merely a fig leaf for the court. Some high-ranking nobles who despised Jiang Yongle openly called him the “Shit Vice Minister.” Previously, Jiang Yongle had brushed it off—there was little he could do anyway. Having served in the capital for years without deep roots, he had been stuck with the unenviable task of deciding the posthumous title in the first place. To him, the rising tide of his vice-ministerial rank was tangible. If others were jealous, they could go step in some luck themselves—would that magically embroider peacocks on their official robes?
But when Vice Minister Jiang suddenly heard that the son of the man posthumously titled “Martial and Severe”—the new Prince of Liang, Xu Fengnian—had unexpectedly entered the capital, he was terrified. He had once entertained secret ambitions of competing with Jin Lanting, hoping to stumble upon another stroke of luck and ascend to the position of Minister of Rites. Now, such audacity was unthinkable. The minister’s seat was enviable, but his life was more precious. Thus, during their walk together, Jiang Yongle had adopted a posture humbler than that of a sixth-rank clerk, determined to seek Jin Lanting’s advice on how to oppose Liang at every turn while still thriving in his career.
Finally snapping out of his daze, the old minister gestured for his two deputies to sit. Looking at them, Sima Puhua had always felt uneasy—one was young enough to be his son, the other practically his grandson, yet they were only one rank below him. Once he retired, one of them would don the second-rank pheasant-embroidered robe. But today, the elderly man set aside such petty thoughts, instead feeling a sense of shared misfortune. Glancing at the door, he cleared his throat and spoke slowly, “Today, this official was suddenly summoned by imperial decree to welcome the Prince of Liang into the city. I assume both of you are aware.”
Jiang Yongle nodded vigorously, like a pecking chick.
Jin Lanting, whose vow to grow a beard had become a celebrated tale in Tai’an City, remained composed—true to his reputation as the “Elegant Jin the Third.”
Sima Puhua then delivered some bland bureaucratic remarks, the kind he could drone on about for hours without pause during ordinary meetings—a testament to his official prowess. But today, the old minister cut himself short, stroking an imperial gift of Tianhuang paperweight in silence before finally mustering the strength to say, “As we parted, the prince mentioned he would visit our Ministry of Rites sometime.”
Jin Lanting remained unruffled.
Jiang Yongle, however, was dumbstruck. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the minister had glanced at him with pity, as if looking at a condemned man.
Sima Puhua lowered his eyelids and added mildly, “He also said he wished to… reminisce.”
Jin Lanting narrowed his eyes, stroking his meticulously groomed beard with a smile. “Oh?”
Jiang Yongle broke into a cold sweat. Reminisce—with Jin Lanting? With him? Or with every notable official in the Ministry of Rites?
The old minister’s withered fingers unconsciously caressed the smooth Tianhuang lion paperweight—whether recalling the soft skin of his newly wedded young concubine or savoring the emperor’s grace, it was unclear.
The young prince’s declaration of visiting the Ministry of Rites was true, as was his intention to reminisce. But Sima Puhua had omitted part of their exchange. In fact, the new Prince of Liang had engaged in polite small talk with this second-rank dignitary. Most of the “Xiangfu New Officials” like Gao Tingshu and Fan Changhou wouldn’t know, but the older “Yonghui Veterans” remembered a notorious joke from Tai’an City’s official circles years ago. When the Liang Province had presented a batch of warhorses from the Xianli Pastures, Sima Puhua, then a clerk in the Ministry of Rites, had burst into laughter upon reading the report that the “Liang horses stood nearly six feet tall.” He immediately shared the hilarity with his colleagues, quipping, “These Liang horses must be enormous—almost as tall as the dung-pulling mules in Tai’an City! The world is full of wonders, but Liang takes the prize.” Only when the horses arrived did the bookish Sima Puhua, who had never held a sword in his life, realize that a horse’s height was measured to its withers, not its head!
This colossal blunder had shamed Sima Puhua for years, though as his rank rose, fewer dared mention it. Yet today, the young prince had reopened the old wound, grinning as he said, “Minister, could you point me to any six-foot-tall dung-pulling mules in the capital? I’d love to see them—it’d make my trip worthwhile, wouldn’t it?”
What could Sima Puhua do but lower his head and force a laugh? Nodding in agreement was out of the question.
Now, the more the old minister thought about it, the more humiliated he felt. Despite priding himself on his composure, his fingers unconsciously clenched around the paperweight.
Jiang Yongle was already considering feigning illness to take leave—or, if necessary, taking a deliberate fall to bruise his face beyond recognition!
Jin Lanting finally spoke, though his words only deepened Jiang Yongle’s confusion. “Minister, my household has just received several crates of autumn crabs from Chun Shen Lake—plump and delicious whether steamed or salted with locust leaves. When might you be free to join me for a taste?”
The old minister nodded, a faint smile appearing. “I’ve heard that Gao Tingshu, the so-called ‘ghostly talent’ of poetry, recently composed a masterpiece on crabs that has taken the capital by storm. With wine, crabs, and poetry among friends—what could be more delightful?”
Jiang Yongle’s rise to Vice Minister of Rites had involved luck, but after years in the Ministry of Rites—where cryptic circles and unspoken implications reigned supreme—his discernment was sharp. It took him only a moment longer than the minister to grasp Jin Lanting’s subtext.
The poem by the newly minted second-place scholar Gao Tingshu contained a pivotal line: *”With cold eyes, I watch the crab—how long can it scuttle sideways?”*
Yet Jiang Yongle’s anxiety only deepened. The logic was sound, but the immediate crisis was the imminent arrival of that arrogant northwestern crab into the Ministry of Rites. Sima Puhua had deep roots in Tai’an City and the lofty status of a minister. Jin Lanting was a favorite of the late emperor, entrusted to the current sovereign, with the emperor’s backing. They could weather the storm—but Jiang Yongle was merely a mid-ranking vice minister. If the prince truly sought a target, who else would he choose? *How long Xu can scuttle sideways, I don’t know. But I might soon be carried out of the Ministry of Rites horizontally!*
Jin Lanting took his leave first. Jiang Yongle hesitated, but the old minister had already waved him off, dismissing him.
Dazed, Jiang Yongle barely registered his own departure, standing numbly in the courtyard corridor.
Unlike the deafening cicadas of summer, autumn’s chirps had faded to near silence.
By decree, the six ministries in Zhao Family Weng were barred from planting tall trees. Now, in late autumn, not a single cicada’s cry could be heard in the courtyard.
Jiang Yongle slumped against a pillar, suddenly overwhelmed by the desolate chill of a doomed cicada’s song.
※※※
Though the Ministries of Rites and War were neighbors, the distance between them was not insignificant—a small mercy for the officials of Rites. Otherwise, in any dispute, scholars meeting soldiers—one arguing with words, the other with fists—the latter would inevitably “win.” For the Ministry of War, the varying ranks of Rites officials were all just pretentious literati, annoying yet not worth the effort to fight. Thus, the two ministries had always been the least connected within the Shangshu Province.
But as their fortunes diverged, the rough-edged officials of War, accustomed to only acknowledging the Ministry of Personnel, couldn’t help but feel aggrieved. Both ministries had seen three ministers depart in quick succession—for War, it was Gu Jiantang, Chen Zhibao, and Lu Baijie; for Rites, Li Gubai, Lu Daolin, and Yuan Guo. Yet the future trajectories were clear: while War still lacked a minister, if Sima Puhua were to die suddenly, a replacement would be proposed in court the very next day.
Adding to War’s humiliation, Vice Minister Xu Gong wasn’t even in the capital—he’d been sent to Liaodong by the emperor! Only the newly appointed Vice Minister Tang Tieshuang remained, a complete outsider with no prior experience in the capital. How could he navigate the intricate web of capital politics? Worse, everyone knew Tang Tieshuang was a protégé of former Minister Gu, while the previous minister, Lu Baijie, had fallen out of imperial favor—his “lateral transfer” to Guangling was a blatant demotion, not even disguised as a promotion.
With no leader, the Ministry of War could barely hold its head high in court. The temporary figurehead could hardly secure benefits for his subordinates, and the deteriorating situation in Guangling only poured oil on the fire.
Overnight, the officials of War had become the lowest of the low.
*What a damned miserable existence.*
In such dire straits, the rise of two juniors—Gao Tingshu and Kong Zhenrong—stood out starkly. Gao Tingshu, the more flamboyant of the two, was a top-tier scholar whose poetic fame had spread through court and country with Jin Lanting’s help. When Grand Pillar Gu Jiantang returned to the capital and revisited the Ministry of War, Gao Tingshu’s ease in conversing with both former ministers Gu and Lu had left a lasting impression. His meteoric rise was assured; the only question was how many years he needed to accumulate prestige and which newly established academy would serve as his next stepping stone.
In contrast, the taciturn Kong Zhenrong kept a lower profile. Rumor had it this Liang-born youth had once been close to a certain prince—if not a hidden dragon, then at least a young serpent to watch. Moreover, Kong Zhenrong and Yan Chiji were known to be inseparable, and that Imperial Gatekeeper was the emperor’s brother-in-law!
Unlike the other five ministries, where vice ministers had separate offices, War’s two deputies had always shared one—even during Gu Jiantang’s tenure. Only when Chen Zhibao became Minister of War was a separate courtyard arranged. Now, Vice Ministers Xu Gong and Tang Tieshuang’s desks faced each other east and west in the main hall.
At the moment, Tang Tieshuang sat behind the western desk, attending to official matters while occasionally glancing at the sky, ignoring the whispers of his subordinates. The mobilization of seven thousand troops from the Western Capital Garrison had been his responsibility. Now, with the young prince swaggering into the capital under the “protection” of General Zhao Gui and Cavalry Commandant Yuchi Changgong, Tang Tieshuang was destined to become a laughingstock—and the entire Ministry of War would share the disgrace. The sidelong glances from other ministries at tomorrow’s court session were all too predictable.
As for the true state of the Liang-Mang conflict, no one dared broach the subject without Tang Tieshuang’s lead. When it came to military secrets, silence was the wisest policy.
The officials of War had truly become grandsons overnight.
*What a damned miserable existence.*
Under the guidance of a chief clerk from the Bureau of Military Appointments, several unfamiliar faces appeared in the grand hall of the Ministry of War, each exuding an air of majestic confidence, striding through the heavily guarded premises with ease.
Tang Tieshuang, known as the “Cold-Faced King of Hell,” unexpectedly broke into a rare smile. Rising to his feet, he strode toward the newcomers without waiting for any introduction from the subordinate official. With a hearty laugh, he delivered a solid punch to the chest of one of the burly men, exclaiming, “Old Dong! You lot—either none of you show up, or you all come at once! Was this planned?”
The group wasn’t dressed in official robes. The middle-aged man addressed as “Old Dong” by the Right Vice Minister curled his lips and retorted, “We know you’re a pauper at heart. If we came one by one, could you even afford to treat us to drinks?”
A burly man beside Dong chuckled, “Vice Minister Tang, your Ministry of War is harder to enter than a fortress—guarded like we’re thieves or something…”
Tang Tieshuang shot the outspoken man a glare before grinning. “Let’s talk outside. I’ll show you around.”
The officials in the hall were utterly baffled. There had been no word of any transfer orders promoting frontier generals from the two Liao regions to the capital.
Kong Zhenrong, an assistant director from the Bureau of Carriages, wasn’t stationed in the main hall but had coincidentally come to report a military matter to the bureau chief. Witnessing the scene, he merely found it odd but didn’t dwell on it. Only after Vice Minister Tang led the group away did he step out of the hall.
Suddenly, someone called out to him. Kong turned to see Gao Tingshu, who had recently been promoted from chief clerk to assistant director in the Bureau of Military Appointments. The two had never interacted before, and Kong had no idea why this man—whose reputation in the capital surpassed even many vice ministers—would seek him out. Calmly, he asked, “Assistant Director Gao, is there something you need?”
The dignified Gao Tingshu smiled. “I’ve heard that Brother Kong enjoys collecting military treatises. Coincidentally, I recently stumbled upon a rare edition of *The Tiger Seal Manual*. Frankly, parting with it would pain me, but if Brother Kong wishes to borrow it for a year or two, I’d be more than happy to oblige.”
Had this happened when Kong first arrived in the capital from Beiliang, he would’ve thrown a punch without hesitation. Even a year or two ago, he would’ve turned away mid-sentence. But now, Kong waited for Gao to finish before shaking his head with a faint smile. “I may be a crude brute, but after years in the capital, I’ve heard the scholars’ saying: *Lending a book is like lending a wife; gifting a book is like gifting a concubine. Thus, books may be gifted, but never borrowed.* So, Brother Gao, are you breaking convention?”
Gao Tingshu was momentarily stunned before bursting into laughter. “Brother Kong, you’re truly a wit! Fine, fine—I’ll gift it then. I’ll play the magnanimous fool just this once. Tomorrow, I’ll personally deliver the book to your residence. In return for my ‘sacrifice,’ I hope you’ll reward me with a few cups of wine.”
Kong Zhenrong grinned. “Poetry and prose would be the death of me, but drinking? That’s my forte. I just hope Brother Gao can hold his liquor well enough to keep up.”
Gao Tingshu roared with laughter.
Instead of leaving, Gao walked alongside Kong and lowered his voice. “Brother Kong, do you know the identities of those three men?”
Kong shook his head.
Gao leaned closer, his voice dropping further. “I know some, and I’ve guessed the rest.”
Kong murmured, “Do enlighten me.”
Without any pretentious mystery, Gao explained slowly, “Tian Zong, Governor of Yongzhou; Dong Gonghuang, Deputy General of Yangzhou; and Wei Dong, Admiral of the Qingzhou Navy. It seems the court intends to add another vice minister to our Ministry of War, specifically to oversee the capital’s military affairs. In short, they aim to reclaim some military power from the hands of certain frontier generals. Barring surprises, Dong Gonghuang will take the post. Though it’s only a half-rank promotion from third-rank to full third-rank, rising from a regional deputy to a vice minister wielding authority over the capital’s troops is undeniably a significant ascent. As for Governor Tian, he’ll likely be laterally transferred to fill the vacant vice minister position in the Ministry of Justice left by Han Lin. But given Minister Liu’s frail health, Tian’s future prospects are no less bright than Dong’s—perhaps even brighter. As for Wei Dong, who should’ve been assisting Prince Shu Chen Zhibao with the Qingzhou Navy, his sudden departure from Guangling and his future role remain a mystery. After all, Tai’an City has no suitable seat for a naval commander.”
Kong pondered briefly before replying, “Perhaps he’s just passing through the Ministry of War and the court for formalities. He’ll be promoted, no doubt, but likely return swiftly to Guangling to become the Grand Admiral of the Guangling Navy—possibly while retaining his old post.”
Gao considered this carefully before nodding with a smile. “That must be it. Brother Kong, you’re astute!”
The assistant director from the Bureau of Military Appointments didn’t let Kong see his hand clenching and unclenching momentarily.
The two exchanged a few more trivial remarks about ministry affairs before Gao, seizing a rare moment of leisure, excused himself to return to his duties.
In the corridor, two young men of similar rank and age walked in opposite directions.
After a distance, Gao glanced back at the tall figure before muttering to himself, “Hah, so he’s not *actually* a fool.”
Kong Zhenrong never turned around, his face expressionless.
The night before, his father had sternly forbidden him from visiting the Xiamawei Posthouse. This young man, an assistant director with a bright future ahead, rubbed his face roughly.
*Brother Nian…*
Of the four brothers from back then—Yan Chiji became the Imperial Brother-in-Law, living the scholarly life he’d always dreamed of.
And I, Kong Wuchi, have learned to be an official.
We’re still brothers.
Li Hanlin, who once feared death more than anything, is now a captain of the Liangzhou Rangers beyond the frontier.
Fighting alongside you on the battlefield.
You’re still brothers.
I just want to know—are *we* still brothers with *you*?
Brother Nian, over the years in Tai’an, I’ve collected over sixty sets of military treatises for you.
Do you still want them?
—
As Gao Tingshu and Kong Zhenrong had surmised, the quiet arrival of Tian Zong, Wei Dong, and Dong Gonghuang—bypassing the Ministry of War’s usual deliberations—heralded their impending promotions.
Tang Tieshuang led the trio on a casual tour, avoiding all talk of state affairs or military matters. Instead, they chatted about trivial local customs, never once mentioning their shared patron—the Grand Pillar of the State, Gu Jian’tang.
Tian Zong, Governor of Yongzhou, had secured the first merit in crossing the river during the conquest of the old Southern Tang.
Dong Gonghuang, Deputy General of Yangzhou, like Tian, had remained in the provinces rather than follow the Grand General to the capital. Early in his tenure, he had flogged to death the third son of the Xu clan of Gumu and married the eldest daughter of the Yu clan, a prominent southern family.
Wei Dong, the “Dragon King of Wei,” already related by marriage to the current Governor of Qingzhou, shared deep ties with Vice Minister Wen Taiyi of the Ministry of Personnel and General Hong Lingju, who had arrived in the capital earlier.
Add to this Cai Nan, now Military Commissioner of the Two Huai regions, and Tang Tieshuang himself, standing beside them as Vice Minister of War.
To any capital official who pieced this together, the implications were chilling.
The Gu Faction might be gone, but Gu Jian’tang still commanded the largest frontier army in the Liyang Dynasty. Unlike Xu Xiao, who had entered the Ministry of War nearly alone, Gu’s old subordinates had long been scattered—yet beyond these four now in high positions, many more loyalists remained hidden.
Tang Tieshuang fell silent.
The late Liyang Emperor had dispersed Gu’s generals—a strategy of *release*. The current Emperor was gathering them back to the capital—a strategy of *control*.
It wasn’t a matter of which ruler’s methods were superior—just different tactics for different times.
With the Liang Province issue resolved, half the task of curbing regional warlords was complete.
And once the remnants of Gu’s faction in the provinces were purged, wouldn’t that accomplish most of the goal of restraining local military power?
What truly saddened Tang—though he showed no trace of it—wasn’t the Emperor’s use of them to counterbalance the remnants of the Zhang Faction among civil officials, nor the imperial tactic of leveraging military men to disrupt ties between the old Yonghui-era ministers and the new Xiangfu-era appointees.
No, it was that among the brothers who’d once exchanged lives on the battlefield, perhaps only Old Dong still cared more about the Grand General’s plight than their own promotions. Tian and Wei’s personal joy far outweighed their concern.
Tang quickly regained his composure and smiled.
Such was the court. Such was human nature.
Knowing full well the loneliness of high places, men still climbed toward them.
Countless Liyang generals—from the old Spring and Autumn veterans like Yang Shenxing and Yan Zhenchun to Tang Tieshuang himself—had become mere pawns in someone’s hands.
The civil officials weren’t faring much better.
With Zhang Julu gone and Qi Yanglong arrived, the skies had changed.
As Lu Baijie, the unspoken leader of Jiangnan scholars, departed in disappointment and Xu Gong was sidelined at the frontier, northern scholars led by the Peng family of Liaodong began rising. The fragmented Qing Faction showed signs of regrouping, dampening the recent arrogance of Jiangnan’s noble clans. Meanwhile, figures like Yao Baifeng secured stable positions in the central government.
The once-clear factions on the board had been thoroughly scrambled.
The only constant was the shadowy hand moving the pieces.
Chaos with order beneath.
Tang couldn’t discern whether the late Emperor, the current Emperor, Zhang Julu, or Yuan Benxi had contributed more to this game.
But of the handful of players, aside from the Zhao family, what had been their fates?
Then Tang thought of a certain young man and grinned widely.
A pawn fixed firmly in place had somehow managed to disgust the player.
How bizarre!
How delightful!
—
Back in the Ministry of War’s grand hall during Tang’s absence, news of a standoff at the Xiamawei Posthouse sent shockwaves through the room.
Gao Tingshu muttered, “Pity they can’t kill him. But a martial prince drowning in the *jianghu* by ‘accident’—that’d be plausible, no?”
As time passed, the six ministries of Zhao Jia’ang—Rites, Works, Justice, Revenue, Personnel, and War—erupted in uproar.
Then the Secretariat and Chancellery, the Imperial Academy, the Hanlin Institute, the six pavilions…
Huan Wen and Zhao Youling both dismissed it as “nonsense,” though the former criticized the young prince’s unbecoming behavior, while the latter fumed at his youngest son Zhao Wenwei for spectating at Xiamawei.
Only Chancellor Qi Yanglong remained unmoved, engrossed in a banned poetry collection he’d retrieved. Munching peanuts from a small dish, he savored both the verses and the snacks.
The anonymous collection contained lines like *”With a three-foot blade in my chest, where dragons lurk, I slay dragons”*—wild and free—and *”May white-haired meet white-haired”*—tender and restrained.
Hmm? The dish was empty.
As for the poet—long dead.
The old man sighed, a pang of loss in his heart.
—
In a solemn palace hall, absent of courtiers or eunuchs, a young emperor sat alone on the dragon throne.
Facing south in the vast silence, he murmured words only he could hear:
“Do you not realize? If the Northern Barbarians lose one more Dong Zhuo and two hundred thousand men, and you of the Northern Liang lose one hundred thousand more…”
“Then this world will know peace at last.”
Tai Sui Yellow Amulet Paper FuLu Taoist Love Talisman Traditional Chinese Spiritual Charm Attracting Love Protecting Marriage