After Chen Wang, the Junior Guardian, had left, Gao Shizhi and Song Daoning exchanged a knowing smile, the bitterness from the Hall of Nourishing Virtue now gone.
When clever minds interact, some matters are best left implied rather than stated outright—such unspoken understanding is far more reassuring than explicit words. Serving alongside a scholar like Chen Wang, regardless of his rank and power, was always comfortable and agreeable, never something to resent.
Gao Shizhi joked, “To be saddled with a father-in-law who only knows how to drag him down—our Junior Guardian Chen truly suffers.”
Song Daoning shot him a glare and whispered, “This is the imperial palace. Have you forgotten the meaning of caution? And you dare criticize others?”
Gao Shizhi merely chuckled in response.
At that moment, Prince Zhao Yang of Changshan suddenly let out a sharp shout, startling the civil officials like Wen Shouren. When they turned to look, they saw a child of about seven or eight years old standing at the corner. Those familiar with Prince Zhao Yang’s household recognized the boy as his eldest grandson, currently studying in the Diligence Hall—a place where the imperial clan’s descendants gathered, a mark of pride for any scion of the Liyang imperial family. The Hall of Nourishing Virtue, located at the intersection of the outer and inner courts, was a top-secret military zone. Under normal circumstances, even if the old prince’s beloved grandson had wandered off in play, he should never have appeared in their line of sight. The rule that anyone who approached the Hall of Nourishing Virtue without reason within a hundred paces would be executed on the spot was no mere formality. No wonder Zhao Yang was furious—this old man, who had weathered the storms of officialdom for a lifetime, was genuinely terrified.
The child, pale with fear, his face scrunched up as if on the verge of tears but too afraid to cry, stood frozen.
Soon, however, a young man in white robes appeared beside the child. His eyes were closed, his expression serene, with a faint smile on his lips. He reached out and patted the boy’s head, then turned his sightless gaze toward Prince Zhao Yang. “Old Prince, please don’t be angry. I asked Zhao Yuan to guide me here. I had already informed the Directorate of Ceremonial in advance and did not overstep any palace restrictions.”
The old prince was momentarily baffled, struggling to recall the context. After a long pause, he remembered his grandson mentioning a new blind chief instructor at the Diligence Hall—a man surnamed Lu, with vast knowledge spanning astronomy and geography, and an exceedingly gentle temperament who never resorted to corporal punishment. At the time, the old prince had wondered how a blind man could become one of the chief instructors. Though Liyang was not like the Dafeng Dynasty, where officials were judged by their looks, it was still unusual for a blind man to hold such a position. Serving as an advisor in the provinces might have been acceptable, but this? Upon further inquiry, he learned that this blind scholar had once been an advisor to Prince Zhao Xun of Jing’an, drafting the influential “Four Memorials and Thirteen Strategies” during the late Yonghui era. Somehow, he had later settled in Tai’an City. Zhao Yang had scoffed at the time, assuming the man was just another opportunistic scholar like Jin Lanting, swaying with the wind.
Even after hearing the young chief instructor’s explanation, the old prince remained stern. He glared at his grandson and snapped, “What are you doing wandering around? Get back to your studies!”
The child, who usually trembled in fear of his grandfather at home, this time defied the “military order.” Gritting his teeth, he stammered, “Grandfather, I still need to guide Master Lu. He told us that the last ten miles of a hundred-mile journey are the hardest—they reveal a person’s true character. I’ve only walked half the way…”
The old prince, accustomed to absolute obedience in his household, flew into a rage. The aura of a veteran who had spent half his life on the battlefield surged forth. “You little brat! Half my foot! Daring to lecture me? If you’ve got the guts, don’t come back to the Prince of Changshan’s residence tonight—sleep on the street!”
The blind young man smiled. “Isn’t the purpose of scholars studying to understand propriety and act accordingly? Why can’t one reason with their elders?”
The contrast between the gentle instructor and the furious prince was stark.
Even many of the high-ranking officials ahead couldn’t help but stop and turn to watch, eager to see how this would unfold.
The old prince glanced at the beardless young instructor, too disdainful to engage further, and instead fixed his glare on the child. “Rebelling, are you? How many servings of ‘scabbard rice’ do you want for dinner tonight, huh?”
The term “scabbard rice” was well-known among Tai’an City’s elite—it referred to Prince Zhao Yang’s signature method of disciplining his family’s younger generation. Even the sons of neighboring dukes and marquises had often been on the receiving end of his scabbard beatings in their youth, with Zhao Yang famously declaring, “If your elders won’t discipline you, I’ll do it for them. Don’t thank me.”
At the mention of “scabbard rice,” the child’s legs trembled even harder.
The young man crouched down and whispered something to the boy, who nodded vigorously before scampering away. The blind scholar from Qingzhou then stood and said with a smile, “The saying ‘spare the rod and spoil the child’ holds truth, but if a family relies solely on punishment without cultivation through literature, it breeds only blind filial piety. Such loyalty may serve a household but rarely extends to the nation, offering no benefit to the sovereign or the people.”
The old prince sneered. “Lofty words indeed, befitting a chief instructor of the Diligence Hall. Unfortunately, I’ve no interest in your ramblings today. To be frank, I’ve killed many like you—scholars spouting benevolence and righteousness—during the Spring and Autumn Wars. Since you now serve in the Diligence Hall, I’ve no power to trouble you. Lucky for you, you were born twenty years too late!”
Those familiar with the Yonghui-era court knew Prince Zhao Yang’s bluntness was legendary—even the mentors of Zhang Julu and Huan Wen had once been on the receiving end of his tirades.
The young scholar remained unperturbed, choosing not to engage further.
Wu Zhongxuan, watching coldly from the sidelines, smirked, feeling a rare kinship with this old prince who had achieved great military feats but was born at the wrong time.
Jin Lanting, on the other hand, concealed his schadenfreude well.
To the likes of the former audacious scholar Sun Yin of the Imperial Academy, the rising star of the Hanlin Academy Song Keli, the ten-dan Go sage Fan Changhou, and now this sudden appearance of the impoverished scholar Lu Xu in white robes, the Vice Minister of Rites saw them all as future threats in the political arena.
Meanwhile, Qi Yanglong, Huan Wen, and Chen Wang all frowned in unison—especially Chen Wang, who had recently been reappointed as the Autumn Greeting Official, his expression darkening with rare anger.
Amidst this, only one person was truly terrified: the former Qingzhou General Hong Lingzhu.
Years ago, the Lu clan of Qingzhou had met a tragic end, with only one young survivor—a boy who had gouged out his own eyes, rendering him unfit for officialdom and thus spared. He was later said to have survived by gambling in Yongzi Alley and working as a qin player in brothels. Though he later inexplicably rose to become a scribe for the old Prince of Jing’an, Zhao Heng, and then the chief strategist for the new Prince of Jing’an, Zhao Xun, the Lu clan’s case had never been overturned. Certain worried parties had probed the Prince of Jing’an’s household but received no answers. Hong Lingzhu had never paid it much mind—firstly, because neither he nor his family had been involved in the tragedy (otherwise, they would have ensured no survivors, blind or otherwise), and secondly, because as the long-standing General of Qingzhou, the Lu clan had been insignificant, barely more than ants. If Lu Xu had tried to retaliate against his enemies, it would have meant challenging the entire Qing faction, which had always stuck together for survival. The fact that neither generation of the Prince of Jing’an had helped clear the Lu clan’s name suggested they had weighed the scales—a rootless young advisor versus the entire Qing faction—and found the latter far more valuable.
But now, seeing this blind young man in the palace’s most sensitive military zone, especially after his casual remark about having “informed the Directorate of Ceremonial,” Hong Lingzhu couldn’t help but let his imagination run wild.
If this blind man, now the teacher of the capital’s most elite young nobles, still harbored resentment toward the Qing faction—perhaps even extending it to him, Hong Lingzhu, a Liyang general with a “Ping” rank—it might not cause an immediate storm, but it certainly spelled trouble. Had Hong Lingzhu remained in Qingzhou, far from the emperor’s reach, as a third-rank general, he might have had distant worries but nothing as pressing as this.
Hong Lingzhu sighed inwardly. Ultimately, it came down to the Qing faction’s lack of voice in the court during the transition from Yonghui to Xiangfu—and his own lack of deep roots in the capital compared to someone like Wen Taiyi. Had it been Wen Taiyi, the old Vice Minister of Personnel with deeper ties to the Lu clan tragedy, facing this blind young man, he surely wouldn’t have felt such unease.
At this moment, Hong Lingzhu desperately craved the “Zheng” rank—one step above his current “Ping” title.
Of Liyang’s four “Zheng” generals—Yang Shenxing, Yan Zhenchun, Ma Lulang, and Yang Wei—Yang Shenxing had lost his title after defeat in Guangling and been exiled to the Liang Province as a laughable deputy military commissioner. Yan Zhenchun had died in battle in Guangling, though he was posthumously honored with a prestigious title. The highly trusted Ma Lulang had since passed away, and Yang Wei, advanced in years, would likely retire within five years. Unlike honorary titles, the “Zheng,” “Ping,” and “Zhen” ranks were substantive, meaning vacancies had to be filled immediately. For instance, the current Minister of War, Wu Zhongxuan, had replaced Yan Zhenchun as the “Zheng” General of the South.
During Hong Lingzhu’s entry into the capital and Wen Taiyi’s departure, after the death of the Qing faction’s leader Lu Feichi, the two had exchanged secret letters. Wen Taiyi, well-versed in capital politics, had laid out the situation frankly: aside from the transcendent Pillar of State Gu Jianfang, Hong Lingzhu’s future competitors included Lu Shengxiang, Tang Tieshuang, Xu Gong, Ma Zhongxian, the loyalist deputy general of Ji Province Han Fang, Yang Huchen (son of Yang Shenxing), the astonishingly fortunate Song Li, and Yuan Tingshan (son-in-law of Gu Jianfang). Not too many, but not too few either.
Now that Song Li and Yuan Tingshan had ruined their prospects by allying with the rebellious princes Zhao Bing and Chen Zhibao, they could be disregarded.
Tang Tieshuang, the Vice Minister of War, was a double-edged sword—his rise and fall both tied to Pillar of State Gu. Though he now seemed unstoppable in the Ministry of War, even overshadowing Minister Wu Zhongxuan, Wen Taiyi believed Xu Gong posed a greater threat. The Dragon Charging General from Jiangnan, backed by the scholarly elite after Lu Baijie’s fall, was a rising force regardless of current setbacks. As for Ma Zhongxian, with both family influence and genuine talent, as long as he stayed away from his power base in the capital, Wen Taiyi’s unspoken implication was clear: the Qing faction’s stronghold in Jing’an Province would be his quagmire. They might not openly destroy him, but delaying his ascent by three or four years was feasible.
As for the younger Han Fang and Yang Huchen, compared to Hong Lingzhu—a general with nearly two decades of experience and now holding a “Ping” rank—their disadvantages were obvious. Barring major achievements on their part or major missteps on his, Hong Lingzhu would outpace them.
Wen Taiyi had initially least favored Lu Shengxiang. Despite leading the massive campaign against the resurgent Western Chu, Lu had only received the hollow title of “Swift and Resolute General,” becoming a laughingstock in the capital. But now, his meteoric rise was undeniable. Hong Lingzhu could compete with Tang Tieshuang and Xu Gong, but Lu Shengxiang was untouchable.
Wen Taiyi had concluded his letter with a blunt truth: just as battles were life-and-death struggles, the highest echelons of court politics were a zero-sum game—one’s rise meant another’s fall.
He had also left unwritten words, conveyed verbally by a trusted messenger from the Wen family:
“Do not antagonize Chen Wang. Befriend Yan Chiji. And above all, beware of Lu Xu.”
Lu Xu’s official role in the capital was merely one of the chief instructors of the Diligence Hall. Now, he took a few steps forward, “gazing” around before asking with a smile, “I heard General Hong is also attending today’s minor court session. As a fellow Qingzhou native, might we have a word?”
The capital’s elite, unaware of the old Lu clan tragedy, assumed this was a normal exchange between fellow provincials. The Qing faction’s tight-knit nature in Tai’an was well-known—even officials living on opposite ends of the city would meet every ten days for small talk, a practice other factions found bizarre. While other provincial guilds stood empty, Qingzhou’s four guilds were always bustling, hosting everyone from high officials to scholars, merchants, and wandering knights, indifferent to criticism. Thus, no one found Lu Xu’s request odd.
Only Hong Lingzhu felt an inexplicable chill.
If word of this “chance” meeting reached Qingzhou, would the ever-suspicious Wen Taiyi still work tirelessly to pave his way?
Yet Lu Xu’s pleasant demeanor left Hong Lingzhu no room to refuse outright.
Steeling himself, Hong Lingzhu walked alongside Lu Xu, gradually distancing themselves from the others. Soon, he noticed a middle-aged eunuch in python robes and jade belt standing at a discreet distance—close enough to see Lu Xu but not hear their conversation. The eunuch’s attire marked him as high-ranking, and when his eyes met Hong Lingzhu’s, he offered a faint, knowing smile. This shocked Hong Lingzhu further—how many people in the court could command such deference from a python-robed eunuch?
No wonder Wen Taiyi feared Lu Xu so much, even willing to leverage Qingzhou’s network to hinder Ma Zhongxian’s career in exchange for Hong Lingzhu keeping a close watch on Lu Xu.
The blind Lu Xu walked slowly, his steps light on the stone path, adjusting subtly whenever he neared the edge to avoid stumbling.
Seeing this, Hong Lingzhu felt a pang of complex emotions.
How had this young blind man achieved so much? Luck? Fate?
Lu Xu remained silent, and Hong Lingzhu saw no need to speak first.
As stalwarts of the Qing faction for over two decades, he and Wen Taiyi were wary of Lu Xu but not outright fearful.
Finally, the impoverished scholar in white robes spoke calmly, “The Qing faction played no small part in bringing me to where I am today.”
Hong Lingzhu said nothing.
Lu Xu suddenly stopped and turned his sightless eyes toward the now-prosperous General of the South, Hong Lingzhu. “Though Vice Minister Wen was not the mastermind behind my clan’s tragedy, he bears responsibility. I will settle accounts with him in due time. As his old friend, General Hong may relay my words verbatim.”
Hong Lingzhu’s demeanor didn’t waver. “Now that you and Wen Taiyi serve the same court, and you, as a chief instructor of the Diligence Hall, mentor the empire’s future pillars, would you misuse your position for personal vengeance?”
Lu Xu laughed, then replied solemnly, “A gentleman may be deceived by what is right, but not by what is wrong.”
Hong Lingzhu was momentarily speechless.
Lu Xu added self-deprecatingly, “Besides, I am no gentleman. If I were, would I have clung to life all these years, dragging my clan’s honorable name through the mud?”
Hong Lingzhu sneered. “I will relay your message. If there’s nothing else, I take my leave.”
Lu Xu shook his head. “If I merely wanted to vent trivial grievances, why would I risk the appearance of factionalism by meeting you under the emperor’s very nose?”
Hong Lingzhu almost laughed—Lu Xu’s words were anything but “trivial.” Wen Taiyi would surely lose sleep over them.
Lu Xu continued slowly, “General Hong and I share no irreconcilable enmity. As fellow Qingzhou natives, and with the court now favoring the Qing faction, I will follow the tide. Setting aside civil officials, consider the military: Jiangnan has Vice Minister of War Xu Gong; the Liaodong magnates, once torn between Tang Tieshuang and Lu Shengxiang, now have only Tang left as Lu has risen beyond their reach.”
Hong Lingzhu nodded unconsciously.
Lu Xu went on, “You’ve likely heard that the true leader of Jiangnan’s scholarly elite is the Xu family’s patriarch, Pillar of State Yu Jiankang. His influence extends not only over Jiangnan’s bureaucracy but also into Tai’an, with connections even to figures like the straightforward Elder Tan. Meanwhile, Tang Tieshuang has been distancing himself from Cai Nan, Dong Gonghuang, and others—essentially from Gu Jianfang. Prince Zhao Yang and General Yang Wei both hold him in high regard, and recently, the Duke of Yan and Marquis of Huaiyang have also warmed to him. Of the four ‘Zheng’ generals, Wu Zhongxuan is already Minister of War, Lu Shengxiang is a foregone conclusion, and with Xu Gong and Tang Tieshuang…”
That made four seats already claimed.
Lu Xu chuckled softly. “Tell me, General Hong, how likely is it that Wu Zhongxuan—with his martial physique—lives another twenty years?”
The implication was clear: without extraordinary circumstances, Hong Lingzhu would have to wait at least two decades for Wu Zhongxuan to die before he could ascend.
Hong Lingzhu’s face darkened.
Lu Xu added offhandedly, “The Administrative Commissioner of Jing’an is hardly the Minister of Personnel in Tai’an.”
Hong Lingzhu smirked. “But you, Master Lu, are merely one of the Diligence Hall’s chief instructors—a prestigious but powerless position.”
Lu Xu hummed in acknowledgment but said no more.
Hong Lingzhu only saw the young scholar’s closed eyes and intoxicating smile.
Then Lu Xu uttered his final words, so soft they might as well have been thunder in Hong Lingzhu’s ears:
“I can recite, word for word, a certain 682-character secret letter. As for the messenger who delivered it on the Vice Minister’s behalf…”
He left the sentence hanging but raised a finger as he turned away, curling it slightly.
Understanding the gesture, Hong Lingzhu broke into a cold sweat.
Tai Sui Yellow Amulet Paper FuLu Taoist Love Talisman Traditional Chinese Spiritual Charm Attracting Love Protecting Marriage