Vine tendrils climbing up the tiled walls, small blossoms shyly opening in the dusk.

Pei Shaohuai returned from the Yang residence, stepped down from the carriage, and was in such a hurry that all he wanted was to get back to his courtyard and drink a few cups of cooled tea to dispel the feverish heat that lingered on him.

He had not anticipated being intercepted midway by Shaojin.

“Elder Brother is usually so steady and composed — why such haste today? Could it be that you were… bullied by someone while out?”

“You, Shaojin — do you have too little to study, or not enough writing practice, that you have the leisure to stand here and make fun of your elder brother?”

Pei Shaohuai’s throat was dry and he was eager to get back. He only said, “I’ll settle accounts with you another day.”

Watching his elder brother stride away with hurried yet somehow lightened steps, Pei Shaojin smiled to himself, thinking — Elder Brother had been steady and composed since childhood, unhurried and mature by nature. Today’s scene, by contrast, had rather more of the air of a young man about it.

He murmured to himself, “It seems Elder Brother has upheld his title of ‘the best gift-giver.'”

After two days of rest, Pei Shaohuai returned to the Hanlin Academy. Lecturer-Reader Zou sought him out first, and the two sat together in his office for a casual cup of tea, during which he learned more about Pei Shaohuai’s general situation.

Lecturer-Reader Zou’s office was filled with ancient texts and manuscripts — more than anyone else’s — yet they were arranged with perfect orderliness, stacked in neat piles in every drawer, without the slightest disarray.

Both in the furnishings of his office and in his manner of dress, Lecturer-Reader Zou was a man of great simplicity.

Pei Shaohuai recalled that Grand Secretary Zou had once mentioned that his son was an entirely pure-spirited scholar — dedicated and absorbed in historical materials, capable of sitting quietly and carefully compiling the Veritable Records and national histories. For that reason, Grand Secretary Zou had, at the time, gently declined the Emperor’s offer to promote his son. Lecturer-Reader Zou had no ambition in that direction, and was not suited for it — letting him remain in the Hanlin Academy to write was just right for him.

For this reason, Pei Shaohuai did not bring up the matter of Jiangnan with Lecturer-Reader Zou. Their exchange was purely a discussion of scholarship and perspectives.

Lecturer-Reader Zou said, “Your brushwork is steady, and the drafts you have organized are clear and easy to understand — that is very good. From today onward, you may formally take part in compiling the name records. Your monthly assignment is ten volumes of old canonical texts. You may arrange your own schedule, and simply submit your drafts at the end of the month.”

“Understood. This subordinate will attend to it.”

Afterward, Pei Shaohuai went on his own initiative to find Lecturer-Reader He and requested that his name be added to the palace duty rotation roster to participate in the duty assignments.

Lecturer-Reader He still wore that same warm, considerate expression. He advised, “You have been in the Hanlin Academy for barely a month — there is no need to rush into these routine duties. If you find yourself too idle, I could instead arrange for you to lecture on the classics, which would also help you become better acquainted with your colleagues.”

Pei Shaohuai laughed inwardly. Routine duties? The two primary responsibilities of a Compiler, and he was calling them routine duties?

Moreover, here he was — a young man of eighteen — and regardless of his scholarly ability, to lecture on the classics to other officials after only just arriving would hardly win him new acquaintances. It would far more likely earn him resentment.

“This subordinate’s qualifications are still too shallow. I fear I am not fit for lecturing,” Pei Shaohuai said, dispensing with the pretense, and spoke directly: “This subordinate is an imperially appointed Compiler and ought to carry out the duties of a Compiler. If I were to go without serving on palace duty rotation for an extended period, I fear that would be improper.”

He had stopped just short of saying outright: “I ask the Lecturer-Reader to conduct himself according to the regulations.”

Only then did Lecturer-Reader He understand — Pei Shaohuai was not an empty-headed aristocratic scion intoxicated by his own fame. With matters having reached this point, there was nothing left but to acquiesce.

After all, once Pei Shaohuai began appearing before the Emperor, and later took up his concurrent post as Supervising Secretary, he would be beyond the reach of a mere Lecturer-Reader to supervise or obstruct.

“Thank you for the trouble, Lecturer-Reader. This subordinate takes his leave.”

The palace duty rotation changed every three days, and Pei Shaohuai’s turn came around quickly. On the day of his duty, Pei Shaohuai put on a freshly laundered official robe, and before the mao hour he was waiting outside the gates of the Hanlin Academy for a palace eunuch to come and escort him inside.

He reviewed each matter that required attention and each item that needed to be prepared. For the duty rotation and record-keeping, what mattered most was writing quickly and recording completely, with no omissions.

The duty began with the morning court session. Court attendance — also referred to as listening to governance at the Imperial Gate — was held in the Hall of Supreme Harmony.

Behind the side door of the Hall of Supreme Harmony stood an unassuming low table. Pei Shaohuai settled himself cross-legged before it, arranged his brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, and began grinding the ink. If there was ever a time the record-keeper was busiest, it was during court sessions — and if it happened to coincide with two factions locked in a sharp-tongued confrontation, he could only wish he had six arms.

Pei Shaohuai was fairly quick with his transcription and was not especially nervous.

The morning court session was about to begin when someone walked in. Catching sight of Pei Shaohuai bent over the low table, the newcomer clearly froze for a moment.

Pei Shaohuai heard the sound and looked up — he froze as well. It was an old acquaintance: Yan Chengzhao. They had not seen each other in some time, and the last place Pei Shaohuai would have expected to run into him was in the corner behind the side door.

He was not wearing his military uniform as Commander of the Imperial Guard — he wore the flying-fish robe of the Southern Brocade Guard. It appeared he was not attending court.

To ease the awkwardness, Pei Shaohuai took the initiative and asked, “Is Commander Yan also on duty today?” He had no idea whether the Brocade Guard had a duty rotation of any kind — it simply came out without thinking.

He also asked, “Does your duty also bring you to this side door?”

If they were here to claim his spot, Pei Shaohuai was not about to yield it — this position gave the clearest view of the entire court proceedings.

Yan Chengzhao was cold and detached. He gave a vague “mm” in reply, and then, after a long pause, as though unable to help himself, finally opened his mouth to explain: “The Southern Brocade Guard has no duty rotation. We are on duty at all times.”

Pei Shaohuai gave an “oh” and said, “That must be quite taxing.”

As long as the man was not here to drive him away, sharing the space behind the side door was no great matter. Just as this thought crossed his mind, court began, and Pei Shaohuai became absorbed in his work.

After the morning session, as Pei Shaohuai gathered his documents, he noticed that Yan Chengzhao had already slipped away at some point without a sound.

The Emperor had already departed for the Qianqing Palace. Pei Shaohuai likewise took his things and, guided by a palace eunuch, made his way to the Imperial Study in the Qianqing Palace.

His record-keeping station was in a side room of the Imperial Study. If a palace eunuch suddenly summoned him midway through for a meal, it meant the conversation that followed was not for his ears.

There were not many officials coming to the Imperial Study to discuss matters that day, and after they had all taken their leave, there was still some time before the Emperor’s noon meal.

“Compiler Pei, His Majesty requests your presence.” Palace Eunuch Xiao came to relay the summons.

The Emperor, knowing this was Pei Shaohuai’s first time serving on rotation, had intentionally called him in.

Pei Shaohuai rose at once, smoothed down his official robe, straightened his black gauze hat, and followed Palace Eunuch Xiao into the hall to pay his respects.

“Your subject pays his respects to His Majesty.”

“Rise.” The Emperor said with a cheerful smile, “Having looked you over carefully today, I find that you indeed possess both scholarly elegance and upright spirit — exactly as your writing reflects.”

“Your Majesty is too gracious.”

The Emperor today wore a casual, relaxed robe at home — the fabric and pattern still showed a quiet regality, but it carried a warmer, more approachable air. The robe was in the most common shade of blue-green, making him seem all the more like an ordinary elder.

At first, the Emperor only asked how Pei Shaohuai was finding the Hanlin Academy, and whether he had managed to handle today’s record-keeping duties adequately. Pei Shaohuai answered each question in turn, and the faint nervousness he had at first gradually subsided. His composure and measured responses were evident.

Then the Emperor turned to the matter at hand, saying, “Your Palace Examination essay — I have read it many times. It is my view that when civil unrest arises among the people, it is not merely the failure of local governance but also my own dereliction.”

As Pei Shaohuai did not yet know the Emperor well enough, in that instant he replied, “Your subject would not dare.”

“I have called you here today because I wish to hear the honest words of a young man,” the Emperor said, pausing before continuing, “From your essay, I sense that your views on the matter of agricultural land policy for the common people were confined by the length of the examination and only touched on the essentials — as though there was more you left unsaid. Today, within the Da Qing realm, vast imperial estates and official estates of hundreds, even thousands of hectares continue to appear, while ordinary people have no land left to till. Combined with the matter of popular unrest — how do you see this?”

Pei Shaohuai had not expected that on his very first day of duty rotation he would be subjected to the Emperor’s direct questioning.

This was no longer a written essay — this was a matter of speaking with genuine knowledge and insight.

Furthermore, it was his display of bold candor that had earned him the post of Supervising Secretary in the Emperor’s estimation. To be timid and hesitant today would do him no good.

This was a question Pei Shaohuai had discussed with Grand Secretary Zou on more than one occasion.

He replied, “Your Majesty, when private estates grow without limit, the common people are driven to become tenant farmers. Private coffers grow fat while the national treasury grows thin, and the powerful wealthy harm the common people. This subject need not elaborate further on the extent of these harms.”

It was clearly understood by all where the harm lay — so why had imperial relatives, nobles, and high officials continued to be permitted to hold so many estates and farmlands? Indeed, it had even become common practice to reward officials for their service by granting them estates.

Even if the Emperor wished to reclaim these estates, he would have to weigh carefully how to manage the inevitable tumult it would cause among the court officials.

It was less a matter of seeking countermeasures, and more a question of finding a justifiable reason to take back the estates from the officials’ hands and redistribute them to the people for cultivation.

Pei Shaohuai said, “When the founding emperor established the Da Qing dynasty, the granting of estates was done because the national treasury was insufficient, using the proceeds of land to offset the officials’ salaries.”

When the Emperor’s treasury lacked enough silver to pay the salaries of imperial relatives and officials, the only solution was to shift this burden onto land — Da Qing was vast, and the produce of the land could be converted to cover the equivalent of salaries.

Imperial direct descendants were invariably ennobled as princes, whose heirs were ennobled as commandery princes, whose heirs were ennobled as military generals, and so on down the line — the imperial clan was full of people who simply reproduced their way into claims on the Emperor’s estates.

Within a few generations, the problem of land consolidation began to manifest. The national treasury remained in deficit, while the estates available to grant grew ever fewer.

The implication of Pei Shaohuai’s words was that resolving the problem required addressing it at its source.

The Emperor listened and smiled without speaking — not granting estates to imperial relatives and nobles, but paying them salaries instead, the money for which would have to come from somewhere in the national treasury.

After a long pause, the Emperor said, “Does your worthy subject have any strategy for replenishing the national treasury?” — asked without great expectation of a response.

Pei Shaohuai replied, “Under Heaven is vast, and it is not Da Qing alone. Tax revenue and commercial income are not confined to agricultural taxes alone. Is it not precisely with this in mind that Your Majesty has opened the sea at Songjiang Prefecture and Taicang Prefecture?”

“Does your worthy subject believe this course is viable?”

Pei Shaohuai understood that the Emperor had called him for a conversation today more as an informal exchange of ideas, not a matter of actually settling on a course of action.

After all, he was nothing more than a newly appointed junior official.

And so Pei Shaohuai replied, “Your Majesty, intuition is insubstantial, while records are concrete. The ships coming and going at the docks are already being logged — from those records, one can make the calculations.”

“Well said.” The Emperor considered this with a thoughtful expression.

What the Emperor would ultimately do remained a matter to be deliberated further with his senior ministers. Given Pei Shaohuai’s current standing, all he could contribute was these few candid words, spoken on the strength of his boldness alone.

Only when the national treasury was replenished would the Emperor have the confidence to act.

Only when the people had land to till, and were no longer hungry, could one begin to speak of education and civilization.

What ruler, however virtuous, could be expected to listen attentively if one spoke only of the people and never of the national treasury?

At just this moment, an official arrived to request an audience and discuss a matter of affairs, and so today’s conversation came to an end. The Emperor had Pei Shaohuai withdraw for the time being.

Returning to his post, Pei Shaohuai’s palms were drenched in sweat.