ITIEQ C24

Chapter 24 – Every Move Ruthless

The next morning, as soon as Shen Qinghe stepped into the palace gates, four guards in golden armor—embroidered at the sleeves with lions and tigers, waist-belts hung with sharp sabers—surrounded him in a hostile circle and marched him straight toward Hancheng Hall. The posture was identical to the first trial of the cheating case.

Eunuch Yuanbao followed at his side. With a flick of his horsetail whisk, he leaned down, spoke in a low voice: “Lord Shen, once you are before the throne—say nothing.”

Shen Qinghe’s heart sank lower with every step. He already had a fair guess: Yue Ji had acted with terrifying speed—striking so quickly, so fiercely!

It was during the grand audience of ministers. From the central path he was escorted all the way forward, every rank of official turning heads to watch him go, all with the expression of anticipating a good show.

In the ranks of Third Rank dignitaries stood Shen Zhao. When he saw his son thus pressed forward in chains of formality, his face was as sour as long-pickled vegetables. He had long suspected it might come to this. So long as his son idled as a profligate, squandering his mother’s dowry, the trouble remained limited. But once granted position and authority, inevitably he would stir waves that would drag the entire Shen family into calamity!

That day when he had foolishly indulged the boy’s insolent words—it had been sheer madness. Now disaster bloomed from within, nourished by his very hand! His mind whirled at frantic pace: when the disaster fell in full, how could he cut clear the Shen clan from blame?

Shen Qinghe was forced down upon the floor, pressed to kneel. Four golden-armored guards surrounded him close, hands laid on sword-hilts.

“Attendant Shen, since you are here in the hall, I shall repeat my accusation before your very face!”

The speaker stood forward—judging by robes and insignia, a Court Censor.

“You have, on multiple occasions, obtained office by fraud, bought and sold titles, deceived the throne, engaged in cheating—will you confess, or will you not?”

Shen Qinghe answered nothing.

Originally, it had been mere impeachment papers filed to the Secretariat. Now, a mighty Censor from the Censorate came himself to present charges. Yue Ji was evidently furious.

The white-haired Censor sneered: “Indeed, no need for your reply. When the Censorate speaks, there are always facts well-proven. The Supervision Office has already arrested those who wrote your cheating exam papers. They scoured the homes of the Secretariat Chief Clerk, discovering account books that record, in black on white, the bribes you paid! Shen Qinghe, what excuse remains?”

Shen Qinghe laughed bitterly in his heart. Was ever an investigation conducted so swiftly? Evidences had been prepared long before. Whether he bent knee or not, Yue Ji had both plans ready: he who yields prospers, he who resists must perish.

Seeing him mute, the elder Censor stroked his beard in triumph. “Nor is that all! You also, to the countless common folk, practiced sinister sorceries, leading them into witchcraft!”

At these words, attendants dragged forward a stooped, dark-skinned peasant. Coarse hemp clothes hung from his trembling frame, fear clouded his eyes as he sank down to kneel.

“This official,” the man stammered, “he told us our plague was caused by evil spirits, and only by eating what he gave us could they be exorcised. Many of my fellows—after eating, their bodies itched and burned as if worms crawled under the skin! One man quarreled with him, and the next day, after the creeping, he died! This is no healing but murder and silencing. Those evil spirits—doubtless set loose by him! Thousands of corpses were burned, they told us it was for exorcism—but it was sacrifice! My kin and brothers all doomed to ghostly service, perhaps denied rebirth! I beg Heaven’s justice—officials, help us!”

The court murmured in shock. Even nearby ministers stepped back, afraid this youth truly wielded sorcery.

Shen Qinghe turned slowly, gazing upon this accuser. A stranger’s face—perhaps one of tens of thousands seen fleetingly in the relief camps. He had no time to recall every visage. The man quailed and dared not meet his eye.

“You charge me with sorcery?” Shen Qinghe’s tone was icy. “Answer this: did that very medicine not save your life? Without it, would you be here today, spitting slander in this august hall?”

The farmer stiffened. “How do we know the evil craft did not only make us appear healed? Perhaps in days we’ll be nothing but bones! My whole family’s gone—only I remain. Lord, I beg you cease your magic, spare others your curse!” He wept bitterly, prostrating. The sight was grotesque theatre.

Shen Qinghe parted his lips, but no words came.

What refugee would dare so slander an imperial official, daring to cry complaint upon the floor of Hancheng Hall? He had saved them, housed them—but with the Yue clan controlling the stage like a fisherman on his rock, one craven mouth could suffice to heap mud upon him.

Censor Chen, spitting foam with indignation, cried: “To play falsely with spirits, such witchcraft! Such a man still daily by His Majesty’s side—he risks poisoning the very Dragon Body, repeating past disasters! Must we tread again the old folly?”

The precedent lived strong: the late Emperor had been undone by mystics, “immortalists” with black-gilt pellets and sorcery, leaving the realm prey to the Prince of Ying. From the moment Emperor Zhaohuan ascended, he had harshly crushed such charlatans, decreeing death without exception upon any who wielded sorcery within the palace.

Now Qi Xiang stepped forward with studied leisure: “This Shen Qinghe even runs a private academy in the capital, spreading foreign teachings, dabbling daily in base practices. Could it be witchcraft there as well? I beg Your Majesty, order its closure, cut off this source entirely, lest wickedness spread further.”

And with sidelong glance: “Lord Shen, Vice Minister of Rites—you raised this poisonous son, indulged him; you too must bear blame.”

Shen Zhao stumbled forth, trembling. He dared not hesitate. Desperate to sever ties, he cried:

“Your Majesty, clear-eyed, see! This rebel son is unruly, treasonous. I am not one to shield evil. For the sake of righteousness, I cast him from the lineage: strike him from the family register, deny return even in death. I submit him wholly to Your Majesty’s judgment!”

Then came forward an aged Grand Councillor. With a heavy sigh, he shook his sleeve: “Once, Shen Qinghe was student of my Donglai Academy. Years past, I never imagined he’d become unfilial and faithless. From this day, I expel him. He is no longer my pupil.”

The white-haired Censor pressed on: “Fraud of office, deceit of the world, consorting with witchcraft—can such betrayal be forgiven? Only by compounding all his crimes and punishing them together can balance be restored, and justice returned to Heaven and Earth!”

Hancheng Hall became a vast stage—each official stepping to play his part, a drama rolled forth. Dark ceiling above, dark floor below; in between, he was painted the buffoon, a clown upon whom all could heap scorn, mockery, delight.

Shen Qinghe swayed, seeing phantoms—clamorous demons crying out for his flesh and marrow.

This was Yue Ji’s plan: to have him encircled like prey, torn apart piece by piece, let him learn the taste of utter abandonment and wrath of many, in vengeance for yesterday’s defiance.

It was not that he could not argue—but all would be futile. In such a net cast against him, with endless pretexts ready, endless accusations to drown him, each blow crueler than the last until, even if innocent, they would brand him guilty a hundred times over.

Someone fell to his knees, crying aloud:

“Your Majesty, restore order, restore justice for the world!”

Like wind through grass, the crowd as one bent with him.

High upon the throne, the young emperor sat silent, distant.

The youth in blue knelt upon crimson steps. Even bent, his back was straight as pine, his robe spread like a lotus blossom. How like their first meeting in spirit—save none knew this time if his eyes too brimmed with tears.

Within the emperor’s breast stirred pain unknown. His hand upon the throne’s armrest clenched, then relaxed, then clenched again. At last, his voice, low yet ringing with absolute command, spread across the hall.

“The charge of exam fraud—I myself heard and judged. That case is long closed. If Censor Chen must persist, then send it to the High Court for retrial. As for corruption, I removed Shen Qinghe already from his Secretariat post—there ends that matter.”

Murmurs surged. Clearly, the Emperor was not joining their attack. Chen bristled, about to speak, but was crushed beneath a single gesture of that imperial hand.

“As for ‘sorcery’—I too have heard such things. Yet the ‘scab-pox treatment’ had passed the review of the Imperial Academy of Medicine. It did save countless souls. Am I to believe you more skilled than our court physicians?”

“A tiller, ignorant of letters, confuses unknown with witchcraft—he may be excused. Yet you, steeped in scholarship, cornerstones of the state, to tremble at shadows? This disappoints me deeply.”

“Chen Yongcai—have you forgotten your first oath upon entering the Censorate?”

The words were mild, yet pressed like Mount Tai upon the old man’s shoulders.

His earlier pride drained. Clutching his ivory tablet, sweat beading, he bowed low: “I recall… ‘To temper our conduct like the wind, to cleanse as frost, to restrain officials below, remonstrate affairs above…’”

The Emperor rapped the throne arm; Chen collapsed to his knees.

“I placed in you the trust of my eyes and ears—that you would report faithfully the truth of governance and law. But you, aged, grown clouded, unable to tell jade from stone, muddy from clear. For decades of service, I shall not condemn you further. Retire. Return to your fields.”

Chen’s frame shook violently. His court tablet struck the floor as he bowed heavy, suddenly not the vigorous elder but broken in age.

“Shen Qinghe.”

The celestial voice named him. He woke as from dream.

“You have not committed grave fault, but you indeed grew arrogant with favor. Yet mindful of your meritorious service in disaster relief, I assign: Strip off this court garb, twenty strokes, exile to Qiuquan Prefecture. Until recalled, you may not enter the capital.”

The Emperor paused, then asked,

“Any objection?”

It was clear—he shielded Shen Qinghe to the utmost. Even censuring a venerable court elder, even risking gossip of favoritism, to save him.

Such grace—Shen Qinghe swore to never forget, etched to marrow.

He pressed his forehead to the stone.

“Your servant confesses guilt. I thank Your Majesty’s boundless grace. Long live the Emperor.”

Footnotes:

 

 

1. Censorate (御史臺) – An official body in imperial China tasked with scrutinizing officials, impeaching misconduct, essentially state inspectors.
2. Scab-pox method (疫痂法) – Here refers to an early inoculation or medical treatment resembling historical “variolation.” Others, unfamiliar, labeled it sorcery.
3. Qiuquan Prefecture (丘泉郡) – An outlying district; being dispatched there would be exile from the center of power.
4. “Stripped of court garb, twenty strokes” – Standard punishment: physical flogging, removal of honored attire, loss of court dignity before reassignment.