If the Crown Prince were still uncontested, if the throne were certain to pass to none but him, then with the Emperor’s cunning and methods, who would dare lay a finger on him?
But now the Crown Prince had been confined to his quarters for several months, and the Emperor’s stance remained deliberately ambiguous. It was inevitable that certain parties, impatient for achievement, would grow eager to eliminate the Crown Prince and seize his position.
Prince Huai was the Crown Prince’s greatest rival for the succession, and he had already made his way to the capital. It was only natural that Yan Chen kept a close watch on the prince’s every move.
“When dragons clash, wind and clouds are set in motion; the grass on the wall sways wherever the wind blows.” Yan Chen said, “Where are the factions that once swore to follow Father with their lives? Even Wang Gaoxiang has already retired from office. Does Father still dare to entrust his own safety to others? Loyalty that is merely spoken aloud is, in the end, nothing more than grass on a wall — it bends whichever way the wind blows.”
“I understand.” The Crown Prince’s face showed a flicker of remorse. He brushed the wood shavings from his robes and said with self-deprecating humor, “A father, still needing his not-yet-grown son to advise and comfort him — how utterly pathetic. It is I who have burdened you and squandered the talents and abilities you were born with.”
“Father, the Imperial Grandfather suffered greatly from the strife between legitimate and illegitimate heirs. He would never change the succession unless absolutely forced to — and the present state of the court is proof enough of that.” Yan Chen pressed on while his father’s mind was clear, “So long as we preserve our lives, so long as the Imperial Grandfather has not banished us from the Eastern Palace, there is still an opportunity to turn things around.”
Even if every minister in court defected to Prince Huai’s side, as long as the order of seniority remained intact — as long as the Emperor still recognized his eldest son — the Crown Prince had a chance to stage a comeback.
Perhaps it was for the sake of his son that Yan Youzheng finally mustered a measure of spirit. He nodded and said, “I promise you — from today onward, I will pay close attention to what goes on around me and conduct myself with the utmost caution in all things… until the Imperial Grandfather makes his choice.”
The morning mist had not yet cleared, and the rosy clouds of dawn had not yet emerged. The mist lay like flowing water and drifting clouds, burying the imperial city. Across the entire Forbidden City, only the glazed golden tiles atop the palace roofs were visible above the layers of morning fog; nothing ten paces beyond could be made out.
The palace attendants had prepared the imperial palanquin and were just about to escort the Emperor to the Hall of Supreme Harmony for the morning court session, when they suddenly heard the faint rustle of robes and the measured, unhurried sound of approaching footsteps.
Looking closely, a group of civil officials gradually emerged from the white mist — their robes a mix of red and green — each wearing an expression of righteous indignation.
At their head was Zhang Lingyi, with the Minister of War, Chen Gongda, and Pei Shaojin flanking him on either side. Behind them followed a number of officials from the Ministry of War and the Bureau of Military Affairs, as well as the students of Old Master Zou who remained in the capital.
Pei Shaojin had indeed “taken to heart” what Huang Qingxing had said and gathered Old Master Zou’s students together — though only after receiving Lin Yao’s letter.
They entered directly through the east and west gates of the Hall of Supreme Harmony without waiting for the morning court session, and intercepted the Emperor — who had only just finished dressing in his dragon robes — right outside the Hall of Great Goodness.
Having been banned from entering the palace for a full month, Zhang Lingyi once again took the lead, kneeling before the Hall of Great Goodness and chanting in a sustained, melodious tone: “When the cunning hare is dead, the hunting hound is cooked; when the high-flying birds are gone, the fine bow is put away; when the enemy state is destroyed, the strategist perishes.”
But the Emperor, seated within the imperial study, paid no heed and made no response. He had the palanquin withdrawn and simply did not hold morning court that day.
Seeing that the Emperor refused to take the bait, and knowing full well that the Emperor and his elder brother were playing out a scheme, Pei Shaojin — young, spirited, and brimming with indignation — gave a contemptuous snort, rose to his feet, and, clad in his green official robes, began to recite aloud outside the hall a poem by the Ming-dynasty poet Li Shangyin, “Jia Yi”: “In the Xuanshi Chamber the Son of Heaven sought worthy counsel among the exiled ministers — Jia Yi’s talent was peerless and unrivaled. Yet what a pity: deep into the night the Emperor leaned forward and drew his seat closer, only to ask not of the people’s welfare, but of ghosts and gods.”
The movement of celestial bodies had become unmistakably pronounced — the planet Mars crept closer to the star Antares with each passing night. Every official at court knew exactly why Pei Shaohuai had been imprisoned, yet not one dared speak the words “Mars dwelling in Antares” in open court.
What they feared more than Pei Shaohuai’s unjust imprisonment was Heaven’s will — the authority of Heaven itself.
Pei Shaojin, fearless of punishment, seized the opportunity this day presented and, with that single line — “asking not of the people’s welfare, but of ghosts and gods” — tore through the paper-thin pretense that everyone had been maintaining.
He declared: “Emperor Wen of Han governed with diligence and won the people’s allegiance through virtue, suppressing rebellion through military force, and thereby ushered in the great flourishing era known as the ‘Reigns of Wen and Jing.’ Even so, he has been mocked in verse by literary men for centuries since, and that poem is on every tongue to this day. And yet now, Your Majesty has imprisoned a meritorious official of the court over a celestial sign that has not even come to pass — a ghostly and mystical omen still unmanifested. How are the officials who serve diligently and faithfully supposed to feel about this? What will the people of the realm say? How will the historians set their brushes to the historical record? How will the poets and men of letters frame their satire? If hereafter there appears some other celestial phenomenon — a comet assailing the moon, an autumn star visible by day, a white rainbow piercing the sun — whom will Your Majesty imprison next? Once all the capable men at court have been cast into prison, who will be left to serve the court, to serve the people of the realm?”
Each question rang out with iron resonance, striking with the force of hammered steel.
Compared to Pei Shaohuai’s act of stripping off his official robes, revealing a plain undershirt, and calling out those three words — “The ship is sinking” — Pei Shaojin’s words were far more direct, slashing at the wound with every stroke of the blade.
He continued: “Every time Your Majesty offers sacrifices to Heaven and to the ancestors, the liturgical text invariably proclaims the restoration of the Han people’s orthodox succession and the revival of the great Han dynasty’s glory. When Your Majesty speaks of revival — does he mean the practice of ‘inquiring of ghosts and gods in the night,’ or does he mean the governance of the Reigns of Wen and Jing?”
When Pei Shaojin finished speaking, Zhang Lingyi was the first to say, “This official concurs.”
Then, wave upon wave, the cry of “This official concurs” rose up — and it struck the Emperor’s heart more deeply than the chant of “When the cunning hare is dead, the hunting hound is cooked.”
The Emperor, seated within the imperial study, evidently judged that the atmosphere had been sufficiently charged and that his own fury had reached its peak. His face flushed crimson and he swept his hand across the imperial desk, overturning it in one motion. Memorials, brushes, inkstones, and teacups scattered across the floor. He roared: “Rebellion! Rebellion! They have all turned against me — each one of them has begun to call out my crimes and demand I answer for them. Am I the Son of Heaven, or are they?”
Xiao Jin dropped to his knees at once. “Your Majesty, please calm yourself.”
The Emperor raged: “Convey Our verbal edict — arrest all those treacherous rebels out there, strip them of their offices, reduce them to the status of commoners, and exile them to the lands of Qin and Jin to serve as soldiers and farmhands, never to be reinstated.” The string of commands came without pause or hesitation.
Although his understanding with Pei Shaojin lacked a degree of tacit synchrony, the officials who had come today to “press and petition” were largely men well-versed in military and financial affairs. Combined with the confidential dispatches from the northwestern frontier that Yan Chengzhao had forwarded, the Emperor was able to surmise roughly six or seven tenths of Zhang Lingyi and Pei Shaojin’s intentions.
Seeing that the palace attendant Xiao Jin had received the edict but had not moved to carry it out, the Emperor said, “Go on then — what are you waiting for?”
“Your Majesty, which official do you wish to appoint to execute this matter?”
Among those to be punished were members of the Grand Secretariat — by rights, it should fall to the Chief Grand Secretary, Hu Qi, to handle this. But the Emperor considered the matter for several breaths, then said, “We hereby appoint the Minister of Personnel, Pei Jue, to oversee this personally.”
“This servant obeys.”
Once the Emperor was left alone in the imperial study, he pulled out a silk handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow, muttering quietly to himself, “That Pei Zhongyai really does have a vicious tongue. Once this matter is settled, I ought to punish him for it.”
But then the Emperor reconsidered — he had, after all, had the man’s elder brother locked up for more than a month. Given the bond Pei Shaojin shared with his brother, it was perhaps only natural that he would lash out with a few choice words.
The Emperor had issued a special command to carry out the matter that very day — to cut through the knot with a sharp blade and be done with it. And so, by the time the evening mist had settled over the city, Zhang Lingyi, Pei Shaojin, and the others had already been changed into prison garb, fitted with shackles and irons, and led out one by one through the city gates.
Fortunately, the Emperor had retained a measure of mercy. He had punished only the officials themselves, not their families — and had ordered no confiscation of their household property.
This left the impression that he felt some degree of guilty conscience, and drew back a measure of goodwill from the officials still at court.
The families of the various households came to see them off, weeping and wailing — even more suffocating than the evening mist that hung over the deep mountains beyond the city. The Pei family, though they knew the truth of the scheme, still had to play out their full role in the performance alongside the two brothers. The womenfolk followed along in pursuit, sending them off all the way to the road beyond the city’s outskirts, until the soldiers barred them from going any further.
Even knowing it was all part of a stratagem, the sight of the usually gentle and refined Shaojin with his hair loose and dressed in prison garb — the shackles wearing raw marks into his flesh — how could they look upon such a sight without being moved? And seeing that the colleagues and mentors of the two brothers, men who had come forward to press and plead for them, were now suffering the same fate without complaint — how could they not feel a deep and abiding gratitude?
The winding official road stretched on ahead, curling forward into the dusk like a path leading into the night.
A carriage pulled out from a side road and drew alongside the line of prisoners, brushing past Pei Shaojin as it went. When it reached his side, the coachman called out with a grin, “Would the officials kindly stop for a moment and allow my master to say a word?”
The escorting soldiers were about to bark a reprimand when the carriage curtain lifted and a gold ingot was tossed out.
“Say what you have to say, and be quick about it. The journey cannot be delayed.” With those words from the soldier, Pei Shaojin was left alone beside the carriage.
“Was it worth it?” the person inside asked. Listening carefully, he recognized the voice at once — it was Huang Qingxing.
After being made a fool of by Pei Shaojin, Huang Qingxing had learned of Shaojin’s fate and had come expressly to gloat.
Pei Shaojin let out a laugh and turned the question back on him: “Are you furious?”
“You had a broad and open road before you and refused to walk it — you insisted instead on throwing yourself into danger. Not only did you fail to save your brother, you’ve gotten yourself caught up in it as well, and you still have the nerve to laugh?” Huang Qingxing said with a cold edge to his voice, “Reckless and ignorant — harming both yourself and others.”
Pei Shaojin found a smooth stone nearby and sat down upon it. Even dressed as a prisoner in prison garb, he sat with the same dignified composure as ever. He was not the least bit provoked by Huang Qingxing.
He thought of what his elder brother had once said — “In a field of green, the tares shoot up first” — a subtle dig at Huang’s character. He remarked pointedly, “Huang Di, this world is vast and its borders without end. Do you know why weeds don’t grow elsewhere but insist on growing in cultivated fields?”
Perhaps the word “weed” stirred something buried in Huang Qingxing’s memory, striking at a tender wound within him. Huang Qingxing fell silent behind the carriage curtain.
Pei Shaojin continued: “Because weeds are parasitic by nature — they cannot survive apart from the cultivated field. If the rice seedlings are gone, do you think the weeds can go on living? Even if they somehow managed to live, they would live in some dark corner, just as you are doing now — hiding behind a carriage curtain, not daring to show your face.” Feeling a pang of injustice on behalf of Master Nanju, he said, “You betrayed Master Nanju. He and Lady Zou raised you, taught you, and lifted you up — and you stabbed him in the back. You are a traitor.”
“I did not betray my teacher.” Huang Qingxing’s voice grew agitated and he finally lifted the curtain, leaning out and looking down at Pei Shaojin with contempt, “I have schemed and climbed my way upward with every ounce of my strength. Once I have reached a position of power, I can restore my teacher’s name and let all the world know of his talent and his greatness.”
Pei Shaojin rose to his feet and, unable to help himself, spat in Huang Qingxing’s direction, saying, “Absurd raving. If Master Nanju, with all his noble virtue, were to learn that he had produced a scoundrel of your caliber among his students, he would only be filled with remorse and self-reproach.”
Huang Qingxing wiped his face, smoothed the two strips of his mustache, and instead burst into a laugh tinged with a kind of unhinged satisfaction, putting the question back to Pei Shaojin: “And what about you? What about you and Pei Shaohuai? You two received our teacher’s guidance, passed the imperial examination at the top of the rankings, and rose to important posts — have you ever, even once, raised your voice in court to vindicate him? Have you ever persuaded the Emperor to treat those loyal and virtuous old ministers with greater esteem? You take and take and never think to repay — is this how you conduct yourselves as his students? What have you two actually done for him?”
Pei Shaojin brushed the dust from his clothing and turned to face the rising full moon. Dragging the clanking weight of his shackles and irons, he walked forward without looking back, leaving Huang Qingxing with one final answer: “We have kept Master Nanju’s ideals alive. We have ensured the world does not forget ‘Great Harmony Under Heaven.'”
The winding road that had seemed to lead into the night, now illuminated by the moonlight, at last revealed its end.
The long road tapered to a single point in the distance — no one knew how far it went, but so long as one kept walking, the end could be reached.
Pei Shaojin raised his voice toward the bright moon and chanted aloud: “The same green mountains share the same wind and rain — has the bright moon ever truly divided two homelands?” The words echoed long and slow across the open road before returning.
The moonlight had at last climbed over the high walls and shone down into Pei Shaohuai’s small courtyard.
Pei Shaohuai gazed at the moon as it just began to crest above the wall, and found himself reciting that line from the Tang poet Wang Changling: “The same green mountains share the same wind and rain — has the bright moon ever truly divided two homelands?”
Even though they were each in a different place, the same bright moon shone down on both of them — it was as though the brothers were speaking on the same wind.
This was the verse they had exchanged the year they parted as young men, when they had traveled south together for their studies.
Yan Chengzhao sat on the stone platform, drinking wine and offering reassurance: “Don’t worry — nothing will happen to your younger brother.”
“He is still too impulsive,” said Pei Shaohuai with concern. “The situation on the frontier is complicated. How could a capital official who has only ever studied military strategy on paper possibly march into that place?” He knew full well that even if he were not confined here in this prison, he would never have been able to talk his brother out of it — but he could not help worrying all the same.
“How is one to know what true military strategy really is without going out and experiencing it?” Yan Chengzhao thought of his limited encounters with Pei Shaojin and said, “If he were not so bold — not the kind of person who dares to act and be dared — how would he be a member of your Pei family? How would he be your younger brother?”
Yan Chengzhao looked at Pei Shaohuai and offered an even-handed assessment: “If we’re speaking of impulsiveness — Pei, the vice director, set this scheme in motion without having first met with the Emperor to work out a plan, and yet he dared to stand before the court and cry out, ‘The ship is sinking.’ If you ask me, the vice director is rather more impulsive than his younger brother.”
Pei Shaohuai laughed sheepishly and said, “Is it not because I trust His Majesty and Yan, the chief commander of the Embroidered Guard? When two people are playing the same game of chess and their thinking is in alignment, their ideas can’t be too far apart.”
The bright moon shone clear. After Huang Qingxing slipped into a narrow alley, a plainly patched civilian carriage emerged from the other end of the alley a short while later — it did not head back toward the residence where Huang Qingxing was temporarily staying, but instead turned toward the northern part of the city.
The moonlight fell upon the carriage, casting its shadow onto the roadside weeds — shadow and grass layering over each other, like a solitary wandering spirit standing at the road’s edge.
At last, the carriage arrived at the rear gate of the residence of Grand Protector Wang. Under cover of the coachman’s movements, Huang Qingxing slipped inside the Wang household.
Within a compartment of light silk and white curtains, two figures sat facing each other atop a couch. The lamplight cast their shadows onto the white curtain behind them — tall and large.
Wang Gaoxiang was more than ten years Huang Qingxing’s senior. Huang Qingxing wore a thin strip of mustache on either side of his upper lip, while Wang Gaoxiang had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and wore a goatee. Seen separately in ordinary circumstances, few would notice how alike they looked. But seated side by side, one could plainly see that both men had the same pair of angular, slanting eyes and the same sharp, straight hawk’s nose — and when they were not smiling, both projected an air of intimidating menace.
“The Crown Prince’s situation is a lost cause,” Huang Qingxing said. “According to the instructions from the one above, Grand Protector Wang ought now to render his full support to me.”
Wang Gaoxiang leaned his shadow forward, as if to overshadow Huang Qingxing, and said with bitter fury, “I climbed step by step to the position of Grand Protector of the Crown Prince and became the teacher of the Eastern Palace. I was on the verge of bringing matters to fruition — and if you hadn’t been obstructing things in the south, would I have lost?” He said coldly, “You want me to help you? Dream on.”
“Grand Protector Wang is getting on in years, and he really does have a talent for telling jokes.” Huang Qingxing sneered. “What do you mean, I was obstructing things? If the one above were to hear that, he would laugh himself to pieces. If what Grand Protector Wang calls ‘bringing things to fruition’ means that the Crown Prince, after ascending the throne, would remember old sentiments and leave Wang a comfortable ceremonial post in the Grand Secretariat — a post that subordinates would address with the respectful title of ‘Grand Secretary Wang’ — then yes, Grand Protector Wang was indeed on the verge of bringing things to fruition.” His eyes were full of contempt, and he did not touch the tea on the low table in front of him.
Huang Qingxing continued: “Pei Shaohuai entered the capital from Fujian Province a mere two months ago, and you, serving simultaneously as Minister of Personnel and Grand Protector of the Crown Prince, first lost your authority over the capital evaluation, and then fell out with the Crown Prince and allowed a rift to grow between you. And Grand Protector Wang still claims to have been on the verge of bringing things to fruition?”
Wang Gaoxiang was left momentarily speechless.
“In so short a time, Grand Protector Wang has squandered everything accumulated over years of effort and lost it all to Pei Shaohuai, only to be forced to resign as Minister of Personnel and retreat into his residence to seek his own preservation. Even if the Crown Prince had truly ascended the throne, what would Grand Protector Wang have had, month after month and year after year, to set against the Pei faction besides an old sentimental tie?” Huang Qingxing’s words were like pointed thorns, each one sinking deep. He then continued, “Grand Protector Wang’s defeat was not caused by my obstruction in the south — it was a defeat at the hands of the Pei faction, a defeat at the hands of Pei Shaohuai. On the contrary, far from obstructing you, I actually saved Grand Protector Wang. Think about it — if Prince Huai had not come to the capital, and you had committed such serious blunders, do you think the one above would have let you live to this day? At your age, to disappear without warning is far from unheard of.”
A look of fear crept into Wang Gaoxiang’s eyes.
Having delivered the hard words, Huang Qingxing moved on to softer ones, saying: “Is this not a perfect opportunity to crush the Pei faction underfoot? Is Grand Protector Wang not even a little tempted? If you were to bring the Crown Prince’s old followers over to Prince Huai’s side, and Prince Huai were to take the Crown Prince’s place and ascend the throne in time — do you think he would not remember that contribution and allow you to enter the Grand Secretariat and serve as Chief Grand Secretary?”
Enticing him with the lure of personal gain.
But Wang Gaoxiang was not swayed. He said coldly, “If I could not see through your honeyed words, then I would have lived ten or more years less than you for nothing. If the situation were this straightforward, would I not have chosen to go with the Prince Huai who stands right before me?” He began to look at Huang Qingxing with contempt of his own, and said with a cold smile, “Don’t you want to know who the one above really is? Are you content to have your life and death controlled by another forever?”