ITIEQ C19

Chapter 19 – Halt Here

Shen Qinghe jerked up his head, disregarding all propriety as he stared straight at Emperor Zhaohuan.

“Entrust it… to Lord Kong?”

The Emperor drafted a new decree across the imperial desk, writing as he spoke: “You rendered merit in disaster relief, so I promote you to Shizhong (侍中, Palace Attendant) and grant further reward. Lord Kong has served many years with steady hand—no need for concern.”

Shen Qinghe pressed, “Was there fault in what I did?”

The Emperor’s brush paused briefly but continued its steady flow. “You are yet young. Better you enjoy pitch-pot, kickball, music—diversions of youth.”

He handed out the completed yellow decree: “Shen Shizhong, receive the imperial edict.”

A decree written by the Emperor’s own hand—highest of honors, words as solid as mountains.

The youth in blue could only kneel and accept.

He had rushed into the palace with robes unstraightened, hair yet untied, falling loose like dark sunflowers. Days and nights unceasing in disaster labor had left faint shadows under his eyes.

Xiao Yuanzheng (the Emperor) saw all this clearly.

As Shen Qinghe accepted the decree, the parchment warm in his hands, he felt only defeat. His grip shifted from weak to tight until he crumpled the corner, then knee-walked closer to the imperial dais.

“So… does Your Majesty not need me, then?”

His voice trembled on the edge of treason. He seized the Emperor’s black sleeve, gaze stubborn as steel, looking past the weight of emperor’s authority, demanding to hear this one answer.

The Emperor looked down calmly. His pale eyes like an undisturbed lake, impossible to read, whether ripple or depth.

At last Shen Qinghe deflated. His straight back bent; his clutching hand fell slack.

“At home Father always said I finish nothing, never pursue to the end. I resist, but what can I do? I had hoped at least to help some, perhaps earn a glance of approval for once. But—I was wrong. I burden Your Majesty, to coax me along; unworthy.”

By nature bright and lively, when forced silent at success, when just reward is snatched away, grievance must surge in his chest. Yet he would not speak, choosing instead to feign magnanimity, uttering empty words of resignation.

The Emperor’s heart stirred. What he had resolved now wavered.

Shen thought instead: since the matter is settled, unchangeable, his mind churned with a thousand turns—but outwardly, he could only soften, play weak.

What he did not expect was the Emperor’s broad warm hand pressing gently on his head. Startled by the heat, Shen Qinghe shivered.

“It is not that you did poorly. It is that you did too well.” the Emperor sighed deeply.

Too well—so bright that it drew arrows.

“I warned you before, do not rush forward. Yet your spirit is fierce, unwilling to bend or yield. The fault is also mine, to place you where you should not be.”

Now Shen Qinghe understood the heart of it. He coaxed, his tone stubborn yet plaintive: “Your Majesty thinks me reckless, disliking my ways. But aristocracy’s disease lies not on the surface but in the heart. To coddle only feeds arrogance. Since Your Majesty already abolished hereditary offices, why not cut cleanly at once? Let me be Yong’s axe, Your Majesty’s edge, to strike down corruption and right the world! Trust me—grant me a chance!”

“Root it by division; fight strong with strength, mask strong with weakness. In five or ten years—there will be real change!”

One sat, one knelt. They looked into each other’s eyes.

The young Emperor lifted Shen’s jaw lightly, eyes tracing brow and lashes, then dwelling on the urgent determination burning there. But at last he snuffed dangerous thoughts. Instead, with a white kerchief, he wiped the hot sweat from Shen’s brow.

Just as at first meeting in the Hall of Governance, or at the Gold-Scaled Banquet—his steady imperial voice struck deep.

“This is not something you can oppose. Halt here.”

Shen Qinghe let out a bitter laugh.

Halt here.

Days of labor bought only those two words.

He bowed low, respectfully.

“Your subject, accepts the decree.”

Nothing earth-shattering—merely, Emperor Zhaohuan did not count him a confidant. Merely, his old wasted-name too loud to entrust weight. Fine—then fine!

Had he ever feared hardship? Every barrier others drew in front of him, telling him to halt—he had crossed again and again. All truth lies in action—before then, words are futile.

He knew himself. From that faraway sunny mountain village, to this land called Yong, his desire roared like trumpets, never silent.

The Emperor of Yong was not his judge of worth.

Shen left the palace weary. Coincidentally, he met the old carter who once carried him as passenger. His donkey cart was now replaced by a new bullock cart—evidently life had improved.

The old man recognized him and called warmly, even offering a cheaper fare.

Shen was surprised. “You see so many daily, yet remember me?”

The man grinned, his dark face shining. “Aye. How could I forget such a fine-looking young master?”

The cart bumped past Luojin Street. Still bustling as ever; noble houses constantly receiving visiting cards. But Shen Qinghe had no doubt this time. He slumped in the shabby cart, closing his eyes, drifting in drowsy recall of these dreamlike months. He only wished to sleep.

The bullock cart passed lines of scholars on foot, book bundles on their mules.

But long through the swaying ride, Shen stirred awake—something was wrong.

Luojin Street’s noise extended into Qingyu Street, into Shoujing Alley. Yet here—silence unnatural.

He sat upright, yanked open the curtain. No longer the boulevard nor Scribe’s Mansion—only endless bamboo forest. He’d been taken to wilderness.

He realized: I’ve boarded a black cart. (An idiom meaning kidnapped or tricked onto the wrong carriage.)

He stepped down. The carter vanished. The ox grazed calmly, flicking its ears.

Looking down, he saw paved stone road beneath his feet. Main roads of the capital were tamped earth—what craftsmanship laid smooth brick paths deep in bamboo? The green sea of bamboo opened to reveal a round pavilion, dimly distant, one shadow seated within.

Dusting his sleeves, Shen thought: if such effort led him here, friend or foe?

Ascending, he saw clearly—white robes wide-sleeved, jade ornaments at waist, features noble. Surely an aristocrat. At least he bore not gaudy feathers or jewels like other dandies—rather immortal grace.

In the pavilion’s center was a go board. The youth played both sides himself, black and white. Shen leaned on a pillar lazily watching until the man ceased, game ended. Shen clapped mockingly.

“Marvelous, marvelous. You cityfolk play well!”

The white-robed youth spoke, tone refined. “Come. Let us play a game.”

Shen excused himself. “Sorry—I never attended youth chess halls. I don’t know how.”

“A pity.” He pointed at the board. “No matter—you see? Black pieces occupy heaven and earth, nets tight. White resists desperately—fated to a broken collapse. This is called a dead game. Do you know what that means? Irrevocable defeat, beams snapped, walls crumbling.”

“I don’t know about that,” Shen replied. “I only see both sets in your hands. Whoever wins, whoever loses—depends on your will.”

The youth smiled faintly.

Unwilling to play along, Shen shrugged. “If you want white to win, simple enough.”

“Oh? How?”

Shen strode forward, swept his arm across the board. Stones scattered, shattering like jade fragments on the floor. Then he picked one smooth white stone, twirled it in his fingers, and set it decisively at the board’s center.

“See? Now white wins.”

The youth frowned. “With only one stone, what victory is that?”

“Only one stone—is a victory enough.”

“…Interesting. Truly amusing.” He chuckled. “I am Yanlin Yue Ji (燕臨·越霁). I have long heard of Shen Gongzi, but today I know fame fell short.”

The Yue clan of Yanlin.

Shen’s heart jolted.

The greatest of Yong’s aristocracy. A lineage with true classical tradition, disciples and clients spanning empire. Qingbei Academy’s foremost rival.

He sneered inwardly. Likely they’d never heard of his shabby little academy; if they had, they’d think him insolent climber.

Curious indeed. While Chang and Qi factions clashed with tempest fury, the Yue clan—foremost of Five Clans—remained near invisible. Only a few venerable elders in the Cabinet, long past real power. Rumor said houses like Yue relied on pure classical prestige to reach heights others never could, scorning the mud of politics. Like the philosophical dictum of ‘value lies in absence.’

As for Yue Ji’s name—famed beyond measure. At Qingtan Gatherings, where men judged character, his was praised as model of all virtue. Not in the world of politics, yet everywhere his legend reached. Even far in Yanlin, praise flowed as water: “words the standard of scholars, conduct the model of men.” The proud clansmen took him as exemplar.

Truly, such a house was titanic. And people always follow tides—with such prestige, knees bent easier. Shen had doubted such wild praise—but still cautious.

He folded arms. “Since Yue Gongzi already knows who I am, no need of introductions. But tell me: luring me here in silence—what lesson do you plan?”

“I know of your brilliance—first rank exam with my cousin, close at the Emperor’s side, even managed famine relief admirably. Truly rare talent.”

Shen waited for the turn, to know the medicine in the gourd.

Yue Ji sighed.

“Alas. The Emperor fails in perception. A blind man given mirror, a blunt knife thinking itself sharp. I pity you.”

So. Here was the dagger under cloak.

The edict had left Hanchang Hall only hours, yet already he knew.

Shen sneered inwardly. This was no aloof crane—this was mastery reaching heaven itself.