ITIEQ C80

Chapter 80 – Knocking at the Ruler’s Heart

With a gesture that verged on humiliation, Yue Zhi was forced to lift his eyes to the man before him, without a ripple of emotion. So what if this posture was disgraceful—he was still above, and that had never changed.

Yue Zhi: “The emperor treats you with special regard—why do you think that is? For your ability? Your talent? Or your benevolence and single‑minded devotion to the people?”

Shen Qinghe would not listen to such drivel. “Trying to sow discord?”

Yue Zhi let out a thin laugh, prying at the hand gripping his collar. “His Majesty has mobilized armies and struck far afield, and at this juncture calls you back to the capital—what do you suppose he means by that?

“You open academies and ‘enlighten’ the people; you fancy yourself the savior of the realm, a bodhisattva ferrying all beings. In the plan to make the masses clever, who benefits most? Across ages without number—give commoners a butcher’s blade, and the first they swing at is the one on the dragon throne. Whatever ‘Xiao clan,’ whatever ‘Great Yong’—when resentments boil and the oil fires blaze, all ends as a mound of yellow earth… Seeing that day approach—who most wishes to take your life? Is it really me?”

Shen’s pupils tightened. He had assumed that leaving the capital made him transparent; he hadn’t expected Yue Zhi to be watching in the dark.

Sensing his pause, Yue Zhi’s lips curved again:

“The Xiaos are all madmen. Without the remonstrance and restraints of ministers like us, if the tiger and rhinoceros roam from their pens—what calamity for the world would that be.”

“Fine words for ‘my own good,’ but when the people awaken, aren’t you the ones most afraid?” Shen shot back. “Dynasties rise and fall—but families led by the Yue will be erased, root and branch.”

“Yes.” Yue Zhi’s laugh dipped low. He straightened, and under the black‑haired youth’s warning gaze, leaned to murmur at his ear: “When the Yue vanish—guess who will rise?”

“Winning hearts and holding the court—who else could be so thorough? Terrifying, truly.” His breath was warm at Shen’s ear, and he watched the tremor pass through Shen’s gaze.

“Behave,” Shen said, pulling back from him with discomfort.

“If I were a sovereign, I too would scour this still‑weak force early and clean.”

“First keep you close at hand. Then, when the moment fits, find cause for you to die for ‘no reason’ at home—and butcher the fowl for the egg. Your academy and your students—keep those of use; kill the rest… Look at you: even now you adore and uphold him. How can one not call our emperor formidable.”

Shen’s brows knotted tightly as he stared at him.

“Xiao Yuanzheng intends to move on the scholar‑clans. Our ‘today’ is your ‘tomorrow.’ I pity your gifts; better to tell you early than watch you scatter by and by—and let you understand—”

He looked like a beast made of calculation, eyes brewing malice that would not disperse.

“We are the ones fated to be your oldest friends.”

…

Shen Qinghe left the room, ignored Liu Xianglin’s greeting, and headed straight back to his residence.

Yue Zhi could not be trusted—but was there not a grain of truth in what he’d said?

The edict recalling him to the capital had been baseless. The “other estate” was the Zhaohuan Emperor’s private property; every servant around him belonged to the Emperor. Even his letters passed through those hands.

Everything he had in the capital was hermetically tied to Xiao Yuanzheng.

He strove upward with one heart. And Xiao Yuanzheng…?

At the summit, a man alone—front court and rear palace pressing in—would he not have his heart changed from what it had been?

Even if Xiao Yuanzheng remained the same… what of the Zhaohuan Emperor? What Shen held could place the dynasty at its peak. The Emperor knew this clearly. To a sovereign—would that not look like a sword suspended over his head?

The retirement before Longzhang Terrace; the indifference at the Hall of Peace—Shen gave a bitter smile. Did he truly see me as a threat?

A thunderclap boomed; Shen started, slow to realize it was the sky.

People and animals on the long street rushed home to avoid the rain. On the stone steps before his residence, he felt shards of sleet mixed in the water, cold against his skin.

When the time comes, all “old friends” and “confidants” turn their faces—how rare is such a story in history? The end is seldom pretty.

A porter, seeing his lord standing at the door, hurried up with a parasol. “My lord?” Seeing that face, he asked carefully, “Do you wish to go somewhere? Shall I order a carriage?”

Shen was silent awhile, looking at the porter though his mind drifted in clouds.

Would he dare to gamble?

He would.

He had never feared risk; he even enjoyed pushing it higher to trade for what he wanted.

That was his own choice—life or death, either way.

But to ask a hundred souls at an academy to stake their lives alongside him—should they all place their chips as well…?

His mind knotted itself into a snarl. Even the System felt it—“Host? D‑don’t get worked up!”

Shen drew a deep breath, strode into the residence, and summoned the chief steward.

“Send word to the inner palace at once—Shen Qinghe requests an imperial audience.”

The kitchens had added dishes to lift his mood. Shen picked without tasting. At last, word came back from the palace. The steward, hemming and hawing, reported:

The message came from Jinchang; much was said, but left and right, it meant only—“No audience.”

Outside, rain bucketed down; inside, the steward felt a storm brewing as well. He stared at his nose, then his heart, awaiting the storm. But his lord merely set down chopsticks and wiped his mouth, expression blank.

Not angry—that was good. The steward wiped sweat from his brow and hurried to relay “good news.” “Just now, someone on the street asked for your address, my lord. We inquired; they were your students. A few had come in the rain, so I took the liberty of housing them here first.”

Shen blinked. “Who? Which student?”

A glance from the steward sent a servant to fetch them. When Lang Xinyue appeared, Shen’s face held only surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

Lang Xinyue was soaked—clearly caught in rain—having run in from the hall in haste. He shot a glare at the steward who had prevented him from rushing to the teacher at once, then pressed his lips, silent.

Seeing this, Shen sent the others out. Only then did Lang speak hurriedly: “Teacher—those dog‑clans…”

Shen’s features hardened; he poured tea for him. “Don’t rush. Slowly.”

Steadier, Lang explained: Senior Dan worried about leaks and sent him to ride through the night to the capital. He recounted what he had been told—Shen’s face grew darker.

Several cohorts had graduated. Some built at home; some stayed at the academy; some had been recruited by minor clans as retainers. Each had their course; Shen had not intervened. If they could carve a path, so be it.

But today Lang brought word that before these students could find their footing, they were banging on the walls—“rectifying” their workplaces. Words and deeds so contrary that their masters had discovered them—not merely “house‑cleaning,” but moving to trace the line down. And that trace—turned up a web whose “heresies” all came from one place.

“Princess Pingyun has already reclaimed a few who were detained. She says she can still take the pressure—that you needn’t worry in the capital. But Qingbei County… less certain. Senior Dan has set out in person—he’s told old and new to keep low.”

Retainers with temperament—those existed. Many eccentric talents were still honored by the clans; how had it come to imprisonment… Shen thought a moment and saw the cause. The Northwest Army and the Dragon‑Rampart Guard had rolled up several clans under cover of “seditious letters.” Afraid and on edge, they peered inward, searching the house for plagues within. New fledglings—just in time to be loaded on the barrel.

But having rung the bell at the clan’s ear, one could no longer swagger as before. Currents in court were rising; the ripples would travel to the far ends of Great Yong. What storm might break—nearly predictable.

Shen shoved the window open. Gale‑driven rain flooded the room. Thunder growled, each peal louder than the last.

Lightning split the sky, etching every silver hair‑thin needle of rain.

The youth’s pale face glowed in the dark; hair clung wet to his cheek; droplets beaded his lashes and fell—a pair of lacquer‑black eyes, breathtaking in a single instant.

Jinchang hunched with a parasol at his side, near calling him “ancestor.” “His Majesty is at work—please go home first! The wind and rain—mind a chill. Whatever it is—tomorrow is just the same…”

Shen showed no reaction, standing on the jade steps before Hanchang Hall, staring forward. “Eunuch Jinchang, do not mind me. I’ll stand here and wait—whenever His Majesty finishes work, he may summon me. If he cannot by dusk, I’ll wait till night; if not by night, till dawn. If I catch a chill, so be it. I’m young—a few colds won’t kill me.”

“Aiya…” Jinchang glanced up at a sky unlikely to clear, then down at the stubborn young lord.

Your Majesty, Your Majesty—if you mean to play the villain, you must do it yourself. Why make your servants the butt? Neither fish nor fowl—caught both ways!

A small umbrella could not stem such rain. Seeing Shen’s hair and clothes dripping, Jinchang realized he would dash himself against this southern wall, and ten horses could not drag him back. With a toss of his dust whisk, he ran back in to report the truth.

Xiao Yuanzheng was reading The Emperor’s Canon. He had perused the volume countless times—its page edges thinned with wear. His gaze lingered long upon the line “Reflect on oneself; conquer oneself—thus is the kingly way accomplished,” before Jinchang’s muted steps drew him from thought.

“Your Majesty—Lord Shen… refuses to leave. He stands outside the hall, saying he will wait till you summon him. The storm won’t break for awhile; his clothes and shoes are soaked. Will you—”

One look from the Emperor, and Jinchang fell silent.

“He doesn’t know when to advance or retreat. Let him swallow bitterness; then he’ll learn not to charge blindly.”

“As you say…” What else could Jinchang say? He could only agree. He had watched this Little Lord Shen grow into himself; though others might see less favor than before—nightly trespass of the forbidden palace, fifth‑rank, resisting a command to stand at Hanchang Hall—and still hale? How could one not see the care?

Alas—the Emperor, for all his warmth, could be ruthlessly firm. The young lord’s “stratagem of suffering” would avail little…

Though his heart scratched like a cat, duty called. Palace servants at the Emperor’s side had been pared again; many petty tasks fell to him. As he changed the water and eaglewood in the burner, the Emperor spoke suddenly:

“Still there?”

Jinchang knew at once whom he meant and chose words with care. “He’s been outside the whole while.”

No change marked Xiao Yuanzheng’s face. His little finger idly stroked the page’s edge—once, and again.

Silence stretched till Jinchang thought nothing more would come—when the Emperor sighed, low and heavy. In the past, the most urgent matters of thirteen provinces and ranks of officials kneeling for audience had not knitted his brow. But since Little Lord Shen’s return, the Emperor’s moments of labor and sorrow had multiplied.

Once, for all his breadth, the Emperor had sat upon the high clouds—worthy of awe and fear. Touched now by human worries and joys, those serving him felt oddly more at peace.

Setting the book aside, Xiao Yuanzheng rubbed his brow. “Send him to the side hall. The imperial physicians are busy—no leisure to diagnose another ailing Secretary of the Chancellery.”

Jinchang bowed and went. Outside, he pleaded and coaxed, oiling the words—Shen did not hear a word. Rain washed his fine features to a bright edge; Jinchang could hardly bear the sight. At last, he steeled himself, and above the drum of thunder and rain, raised his voice:

“If Your Lordship does not go, this humble one must have you escorted!”

Shen glanced at him. He had stood nearly an hour, drenched to the bone, the chill biting. The handsome young lord had lost all color; his lips trembled as he spoke, nearly drowned in the boiling rain. “If His Majesty will not see me, I will not go.”

“Please convey this for me: If the ruler commands the minister to die—the minister cannot refuse. If His Majesty loathes me—let him take my life today.” He forced his lips up again.

“If there remains only the divide of ruler and subject between us, and nothing else—then I will turn and go at once—and never set foot in the Son of Heaven’s hall again.”

“Y‑you…”

The silver‑tongued grand eunuch was struck dumb!

“My lord!” Such words—how wild with insolence!

Why this self‑torment!

Dark hair plastered his brow—he looked like a bird with wet wings. The great doors of Hanchang Hall slowly opened, revealing the figure within in dark robes.

At the sound, Shen’s head snapped up. His breath smoked in the cold, but his eyes were brighter than the twisted, snarling lightning.

Xiao Yuanzheng lowered his gaze upon those obstinate eyes that seemed to have expected this—and felt the urge to sigh again.

Drenched and bedraggled as he was, the man at the steps still wore a smile of triumph.

He had won his wager.

Footnotes:

1. “If the ruler commands the minister to die, the minister cannot refuse” (君要臣死，臣不得不死): A classical expression of absolute loyalty within Confucian political ethics, invoked here both literally and as moral leverage. 
2. “Raising a hut to retire” (结庐归隐): Alludes to reclusion in the Confucian‑Daoist tradition (e.g., Tao Yuanming), and to “Minister Kong” (likely Confucius/Kongzi in reverent shorthand), suggesting an ideal of withdrawal from corrupt politics. 
3. “Dragon throne” (龙座): Metonym for the emperor’s authority; “butcher’s blade” imagery evokes peasant uprisings turning against sovereigns when social orders collapse. 
4. “Tiger and rhinoceros roam from their pens” (虎兕无柙): Classical phrase signifying dangerous forces unleashed without restraint, used to argue for ministerial checks on imperial power. 
5. “Side hall” vs. “main hall” (配殿/正殿): Being sent to a side hall rather than received directly in the main hall signals both censure and a reluctant concession—face‑saving protocol within palace etiquette.