Upon hearing that His Majesty intended to restore the title of Grand Pillar of the State to the Xu family, Wen Shouren, the Grand Scholar of Wuying Hall, turned ashen-faced. This old minister, once famed for his coffin-borne remonstrance against Xu Xiao, trembled uncontrollably. The stalwart leader of the court’s upright faction, long admired for his vigor in old age, now bore the unmistakable air of a man nearing the end of his days.
In the Liyang Dynasty, though the Zhang and Gu factions had faded into history, their legacies lived on through successors. For instance, Wang Xionggui, the former Minister of Revenue, became the heir to the Zhang faction. Even after being posted to Guangling Province, he gathered around him a coterie of officials from the Yonghui Spring era. Generals like Tang Tieshuang, Dong Gonghuang, and others moved from border regions to the capital, much like the Qing faction. The promotions of Wen Taiyi, Vice Minister of Personnel, and Hong Lingzhu were part of this continuity. Beyond these three factions, however, lurked a more shadowy group—the anti-Xu faction led by Wen Shouren, with Jin Lanting, Vice Minister of Rites, as its hidden successor and Gao Tingshu of the Ministry of War as a key figure. These men hailed from diverse backgrounds, lacking shared origins or seniority, yet they were united in one purpose: suppressing the Xu family’s influence in Liyang’s court and the Central Plains. In simpler terms, they harbored an almost pathological obsession with sidelining the Xu father and son. While the late Chief Councillor Zhang Julu was alive, they tempered their actions, wary of overstepping. But after his death and the rift with the “Unswerving Elder,” their restraint vanished, and they grew increasingly brazen.
Take, for example, the court’s decree to deliver a million shi of grain to the North before autumn. Under the influence of these entrenched figures in Tai’an City, rumors and veiled warnings spread through Jing’an Province, particularly in Qingzhou and Xiangfan. As a result, less than half the grain had trickled into the North, with no clear timeline for its arrival in Lingzhou’s granaries. The grain transport officials, long accustomed to their sinecures, had ready excuses for the Ministry of Revenue. And the ministry, beyond issuing stern reprimands, had no real intention of holding anyone accountable. After all, wasn’t the Ministry of Revenue the last bastion of the Zhang faction? Its current officials were almost exclusively scholars from the Yonghui Spring era, all self-styled disciples of the late Chief Councillor. Even Wang Xionggui, though not particularly close to the renowned Wen Shouren, had always harbored deep antipathy toward the Northwest. His son Wang Youling’s feud with the new Liang King, Xu Fengnian, was common knowledge in the capital.
The crux of the matter was that diverting grain shipments to the Northwest, though nominally separate from the Ministry of Revenue, still implicated the ministry responsible for the empire’s taxes. Officially, the ministry’s hands were clean, but many of its high-ranking officials were far from incorruptible. Diverting a million shi of grain disrupted established interests, threatening the lucrative annual dividends from the grain transport system. Behind the scenes, powerful families in Tai’an City—including those of Duke Yan Gao Shizhi and Marquis Huaiyang Song Daoning—stood to lose. When the old Liyang emperor enfeoffed his meritorious officials, following Yuan Benxi’s plan, civil officials were granted power while military officers received wealth. This policy elevated civil officials while suppressing military influence. Figures like Prince Zhao Yang of Changshan were part of this arrangement, while families like Gao and Song dipped into the golden stream of grain transport, albeit discreetly. Their gradual withdrawal had emboldened others, whose greed knew no bounds. When Zhang Julu attempted to reform the grain transport and petty official systems, he faced immense resistance, offending both high and low in the Liyang bureaucracy. Though there was no open revolt, his efforts achieved little. After Zhang’s imprisonment, the court fell silent—partly due to the inaction of his ally Huan Wen, partly due to the Zhang faction’s disintegration, but also because many officials privately welcomed his downfall.
Who would find dealing with the Xu family of the Northwest a pleasant experience? Who dared impose Liyang’s bureaucratic rules on the North’s border armies? Who had the audacity to demand kickbacks from Xu family officials in the Northwest, only to risk having their heads lopped off by those Northern “barbarians”?
Thus, the Ministry of Revenue’s true stance on the grain shipment was predictable: delay and defer. This strategy aligned perfectly with Wen Taiyi’s suggestion during a small court meeting.
Suddenly, the young emperor asked with a smile, “Cai Nan, Han Lin, your jurisdictions border the North. What do you think of the second Liang-Mang war’s trajectory?”
Han Lin, a pure scholar with no military expertise, naturally deferred. Cai Nan, the newly summoned military governor, however, spoke without hesitation, having prepared his response. Clearing his throat, he declared confidently, “Your Majesty, in my view, this war will be a protracted and bitter struggle for both sides. Victory will be pyrrhic, and defeat even more devastating. The North, though outnumbered, rides the momentum of their first victory. Their border troops are eager for battle, and in equal numbers, they outmatch the Mang forces. Moreover, their elite cavalry, like the Snow Dragon Riders, remains intact, and two previously concealed heavy cavalry units are ready. Generals He Zhonghu and Zhou Kang’s flanking cavalry didn’t even participate in the first war. The Mang, meanwhile, suffered catastrophic losses at Hulu Pass and in Liuzhou, with nearly ten thousand Qiang cavalry annihilated. Even before the second war’s official start, the battle at Longyan Plains has already decimated their elite scouts and shattered Hong Jingyan’s Rouran Iron Cavalry. Dong Zhuo’s personal troops are also severely weakened. These are glaring vulnerabilities beneath the Mang’s numerical superiority. Both sides must now reassess.”
The young emperor sighed softly, “Truly, the North’s cavalry is unmatched under heaven.”
“Unmatched under heaven”—this phrase, though familiar in the Central Plains, had never been openly acknowledged in Liyang’s court until today, and from the emperor’s own lips.
Han Lin, the Huai Governor, had grown darker-skinned and more reserved since leaving the capital, his refined elegance replaced by a rugged frontier demeanor. Compared to courtly scholars like Wen Shouren and Jin Lanting, he now exuded an ineffable distance. Among the dozen or so governors who had left Tai’an City, Han Lin’s rise was meteoric, a testament to the court’s high hopes. Unlike others relegated to the provinces, he had been elevated from a key central position, a rare mark of imperial favor.
The emperor regarded him warmly—Han Lin, who sent secret missives to the capital every ten days via imperial spies. “Han Lin, you’ve worked hard this past year.”
Han Lin bowed in trepidation. “Your servant has failed Your Majesty’s grace!”
The emperor smiled. “You’ve done well. Were it not for Cai Nan… you might have been the first Liyang governor to die in battle, and I would have lost an arm. Han Lin, do not act so recklessly again. A civil official’s loyalty lies not on the battlefield. Your devotion is beyond doubt, which is why I entrusted you with this frontier post.”
Except for Tang Tieshuang, the de facto head of the Ministry of War (since Wu Zhongxuan, the nominal minister, was still unfamiliar with its affairs), all civil officials in the Hall of Nurturing Virtue were baffled. Even veterans like Zhao Yang, Gao Shizhi, and Song Daoning, who had gradually returned to power, couldn’t fathom the emperor’s meaning.
Yet Han Lin’s direct praise signaled his inevitable return to the central government, possibly even leadership of one of the Three Departments—an outcome few had anticipated. Though once a disciple of the Zhang faction, Han Lin had seemed less talented than Zhao Youling or Yin Maochun, less erudite than Yuan Huo, and inferior to Wang Xionggui in other ways. Perhaps this was a case of late bloomers excelling where early stars faltered. In officialdom, today’s favorites often faced tomorrow’s reckoning, while steady figures like Han Lin gained momentum over time.
After this seemingly casual exchange, the emperor revisited the matter of conferring the title of Grand Pillar of the State upon the young Prince Xu Fengnian. The hall fell silent again, but this time, resignation flickered in many officials’ eyes.
The emperor lightly traced the edict on his knee. “Regarding the grain shipment, the Ministry of Revenue will draft another proposal for the Hall of Nurturing Virtue. If local resistance arises, consult with Vice Minister Tang of the Ministry of War. In any case, the grain must reach the North before the edict does.”
Here, the emperor glanced at Gao Shizhi and Song Daoning, who exchanged rueful smiles after his gaze moved on. Their families’ involvement in grain transport had dwindled to insignificance. The true “mice in the state granary” were now three imperial clansmen—two old hands who’d long disengaged from court politics and a newly emboldened upstart, reportedly lured into the scheme by the former. This newcomer, having risen rapidly through his son-in-law’s influence, had thrown himself into the venture after a single drinking session. In six months, his guaranteed dividends reached 2.5 million taels—far exceeding Gao and Song’s peak earnings of 500,000. Ironically, this son-in-law now stood in the Hall of Nurturing Virtue, positioned just after Qi Yanglong and Huan Wen, alongside Zhao Youling, Yin Maochun, and Wu Zhongxuan. Why had the emperor admonished Gao and Song instead of him? Because this untouchable figure was none other than Chen Wang, the Left Deputy Chief of the Chancellery, a central minister and imperial confidant whose closeness to the throne surpassed even that of the imperial relatives Yan Jiexi and Yan Chiji.
At this moment, Chen Wang stood impassive, betraying nothing.
Jin Lanting narrowed his eyes, studying Chen Wang’s back with a dark gaze.
Today’s small court meeting left both Wen Shouren and Jin Lanting disheartened. The emperor’s mention of appointing a venerable figure as chief examiner for the spring exams meant Jin, still junior in officialdom, had missed his chance to become the mentor of all scholars—a distinction far greater than that of a mere examiner. During the Yonghui era, when Zhang Julu and the “Unswerving Elder” jointly oversaw examinations, why did everyone claim to be Zhang’s disciples? Not just because he outranked Huan Wen, but because Huan only graded papers—final approval rested with Zhang.
Jin had hoped that with Qi Yanglong abstaining and Yao Baifeng leaving the Imperial Academy, he’d secure one of the three chief examiner positions. But reality proved far bleaker.
The meeting then turned to military deployments in Guangling Province, where Lu Shengxiang emerged as the big winner. Retaining his position as southern expedition commander, he now wielded unprecedented authority—commanding half the Ministry of War’s forces, the capital’s troops, and even jurisdiction over fourteen central provinces. The emperor’s offhand remark—”A general abroad may disregard imperial orders”—effectively elevated Lu above all other military governors. From this day forth, he controlled half the empire’s military might.
Wu Zhongxuan’s expression remained neutral, but none doubted the southern-born Minister of War was seething inside.
As the meeting adjourned, the weary emperor dismissed his ministers without further consultation.
The pillars of the Liyang court filed out. Lu Shengxiang, yesterday’s laughingstock, now basked in congratulations.
Gao Shizhi and Song Daoning left together, joined unexpectedly by Chen Wang, who offered a silent, apologetic smile.
Some things needed no words.
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