The once-a-year day Emperor Tianshou looked forward to most was about to arrive.
Although this year there was no grand “gift” delivered by Qiu Suming, he had already obtained an even greater one by confiscating Qiu Suming’s entire household. That alone was a windfall so large that even if he received nothing for decades to come, it would not matter.
It had to be said—he truly had immense confidence in his own health.
…
In previous years, he might not have thought this way. But this year was special. From his great-grandfather, to his grandfather, to his father—almost all of them had died in their thirties. The most unfortunate was his grandfather, who had just turned thirty when he suddenly collapsed and died.
The longest-lived among them was his great-grandfather, who only made it to thirty-eight.
And this year, Emperor Tianshou was nominally forty years old, and actually thirty-nine—already surpassing all the emperors in his ancestral line. Coupled with the so-called “Heavenly Stone” he had obtained, he felt his body was vigorous and powerful. Living another forty years? No problem at all.
He had broken the family curse of short lives, and lately he looked upon everyone with rare good humor. He even summoned several scholars to compose birthday congratulatory essays for him. With his coffers newly filled, his rewards to officials had also become noticeably more generous—the better the writing, the greater the reward.
Meng Jiuyu, as a presented scholar and third-place laureate, naturally could not be absent from such occasions of literary competition and flattery. Occasionally, when Meng Xizhao returned home, he would see attendants moving piles of imperial gifts into the storeroom like flowing water.
Meng Xizhao: “……”
Lady Meng: “……”
Silently withdrawing his hand, Meng Xizhao coughed lightly. Meng Jiuyu knew he had been exhausted from laboring over affairs all night and, being considerate, did not tease him further. Instead, he pretended nothing had happened and continued sitting properly in place.
After a brief moment, Meng Xizhao spoke first.
“Actually, there is something I need Father’s help with.”
Meng Jiuyu blinked, immediately straightening his posture. “Second Son, speak.”
Meng Xizhao turned toward him and smiled slightly. “Father often practices calligraphy, and not just one style. While observing from the side, I noticed that no matter whose handwriting you imitate, you can reproduce it almost perfectly. So I was wondering—if I brought you another sample of handwriting, how long would it take for you to imitate it so well that even the original writer could not tell the difference?”
Meng Jiuyu: “…………”
He looked at Meng Xizhao with some surprise, his expression turning peculiar. Meng Xizhao did not avoid his gaze and simply looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.
After a moment of silence, Meng Jiuyu swallowed back a flood of guesses and thought it over before replying.
“That depends on what you want me to write. If it is only a few characters, one day is enough. If it is a poem, three days. If it is a full essay, half a month would be required.”
Hearing this, Meng Xizhao considered it as well. After a while, he carefully said, “Mm… it should be about the length of a lyric poem.”
Meng Jiuyu nodded. “Then seven days will suffice.”
He spoke with great confidence. Meng Xizhao immediately brightened. “Good. Tomorrow I will find a way to steal that person’s handwriting!”
Meng Jiuyu: “…………”
Fine. I’ll be waiting.
＊
That said, although he claimed he would find a way the next day, when the day truly arrived, Meng Xizhao had no time to think about it at all.
Early in the morning, he entered the palace again and once more reinforced everything he had told Emperor Tianshou the night before, ensuring the Emperor would absolutely not mention the sweat-blooded horse incident. After that, he proactively offered his services again, declaring that even though he was no longer serving in the Ministry of Rites, he would still devote himself to the Great Qi, willing to shed blood and sweat for the nation. The grain procurement negotiations with the Xiongnu, he would also assist with—he would not allow Jin Tuo Zhe to take even a single advantage from the Great Qi.
Emperor Tianshou knew exactly how sharp his tongue was. After all, it had been Meng Xizhao who had tricked a written treaty out of the Xiongnu in the past. The Emperor immediately agreed.
Since Meng Xizhao was about to engage in a war of words with the Xiongnu envoy, Emperor Tianshou also did not bring up Li Huai again.
It was not appropriate, after all, to have Meng Xizhao contributing to national merit on one side while on the other side he executed his cousin.
Besides, at such a critical moment, it was best not to stir unnecessary trouble. If Jin Tuo Zhe discovered that they had killed an official of the Ministry of the Imperial Stables, and then realized the sweat-blooded horses were already gone, that would be a disaster.
So, if anyone was to be executed, it would be after Jin Tuo Zhe had left.
This time, Jin Tuo Zhe’s visit was not like their previous trip to the Xiongnu. He had come for his own future and the situation within his homeland, and thus he was far more urgent than the Great Qi side. Negotiations this time were proper negotiations—whoever held more bargaining chips would win.
The Great Qi was currently strong, wealthy, and not particularly dependent on the deal. In truth, even Lu Fengqiu alone could have handled it. Yet Meng Xizhao still acted as though he were fighting a grand verbal war daily, simply so Emperor Tianshou would believe he was working hard.
＊
A year had passed, and Jin Tuo Zhe’s temperament was no longer what it had once been. Driven by profit, even the Left Wise King could be abandoned with a single phrase—“time waits for no man.” Much less Meng Xizhao, a fleeting acquaintance. However, that dagger from the previous year had still left a mark in his heart. Thus, while he could argue and mock Lu Fengqiu freely, he subconsciously avoided conflict with Meng Xizhao.
This reaction, in Emperor Tianshou’s eyes, did not suggest anything improper between them, but rather that Meng Xizhao was truly formidable—so formidable that he had intimidated the envoy.
Because of this, Emperor Tianshou increasingly relied on Meng Xizhao. With his brilliance on display, even the Emperor’s previous coldness toward him quietly faded.
However, Meng Xizhao did not become complacent. He knew full well that this favor only existed while he was useful. Once the treaty was signed and Jin Tuo Zhe left, his preferential treatment would vanish.
Thus, during these days, he spent his mornings negotiating and his afternoons returning to the government office to investigate matters with his subordinates. While he was busy, Grand Tutor Geng was also not idle—he did not personally act as an intermediary, but instead sent others to dig through Li Huai’s entire household through him, searching for any additional corruption.
To be honest… the Marquis’s household could not withstand investigation.
The entire court was rotten to its core. Everyone had money; and that money almost certainly came from corruption. Even if a minister like Sikong Xiang did not take bribes himself, countless people still sent him gifts—just fewer than true officials who openly embezzled.
Even someone like Zhan Shanyou, who had spent his entire career in the field with no opportunity to accept bribes, had over a dozen accusations fabricated against him when investigated. These were not entirely baseless either—someone had indeed sent him gifts in certain years, and even if those were ordinary social exchanges, they could be blown up into serious crimes.
As for a hereditary noble household like the Marquis’s residence, which had been established for generations, the number of gifts they had received was even greater.
One could say this: in the Great Qi dynasty, as long as you investigated any official thoroughly, you could bring one down after another—it all depended on the Emperor’s mood.
Once targeted by Grand Tutor Geng, the Marquis’s household immediately fell into turmoil. Everyone knew what was happening, but no one dared to speak up.
The Meng family, as well as several noble families allied with the Duke of Wu, tried to plead on their behalf, but whether it would succeed remained uncertain.
After all, this move by Grand Tutor Geng was not new.
Most of his political enemies had been dealt with in exactly this way.
He was also extremely skilled at choosing targets. Since Emperor Tianshou currently needed the Meng family and favored Meng Jiuyu, he would not use this method against Meng Jiuyu. Instead, he targeted the Marquis’s wife’s maternal family. After all, the Duke of Wu’s household no longer had anyone serving in court, and the Emperor felt no attachment to this old merit-holder from his grandfather’s generation.
＊
Emperor Tianshou himself knew that Grand Tutor Geng simply disliked the Duke of Wu’s household, so he did not immediately agree. But given his temperament, he might one day grow irritated and be worn down into consenting.
The young heir was increasingly frustrated. Fortunately, both his sister and brother-in-law advised patience, so he endured for five days. Li Huai also remained in the Imperial City Bureau for five days.
Finally, the negotiations concluded. Both Great Qi and the Xiongnu expressed lukewarm satisfaction with the outcome and agreed to sign the formal treaty the next day. Grain would then be allocated by the Ministry of Revenue, escorted by soldiers, and transported to the border of Youzhou, where the exchange between the two nations would be completed.
The treaty could actually have been written on the spot, but Meng Xizhao suggested otherwise. This time was different from before; there was no urgency. Therefore, let the Ministry of Rites draft it carefully, word by word, producing a polished document according to Great Qi’s standards—and the Xiongnu should comply.
…There was no such “standard,” of course, but Emperor Tianshou felt it was dignified, so he agreed.
Jin Tuo Zhe was confused, but since he had already verbally agreed, and the Great Qi people were not like the Xiongnu who might suddenly renege, he simply left it for the night.
And the moment he left, Meng Xizhao turned back immediately, his expression solemn as he addressed the Emperor, who was laughing heartily above him.
“Your Majesty, I have already uncovered the truth behind the sweat-blooded horses’ sudden death. There are witnesses and physical evidence, which I request to present before Your Majesty!”
Emperor Tianshou’s laughter froze instantly.
“…………”
Can you not bring up whatever ruins the mood? Didn’t you see I was in a good mood?!
And keep your voice down—what if the Xiongnu envoy hears you?!
The hall fell into dead silence.
Lu Fengqiu and the other officials of the negotiation had not yet left. Hearing this, they all looked at Meng Xizhao in shock.
Meanwhile, Meng Xizhao remained bowed. As long as the Emperor did not speak, he did not rise.
Emperor Tianshou: “……”
With so many unrelated officials present—and the treaty not yet signed until tomorrow—if anything went wrong now, Jin Tuo Zhe might very well return unexpectedly…
Jin Tuo Zhe trusted the Great Qi completely and did not think they would suddenly back out. Emperor Tianshou, however, did not have such trust in the Xiongnu—they were notoriously shameless and even treaties could be torn up at will.
After a long silence, Emperor Tianshou finally said coldly, “I am somewhat tired today. This matter shall be discussed tomorrow.”
But Meng Xizhao would not relent. He bowed even lower. “Your Majesty, this concerns human life. After I finish reporting the internal details, Your Majesty may rest.”
Emperor Tianshou: “…………”
Fine. You’ve grown bold.
A year and a half into his official career, this was the first time Emperor Tianshou had heard such firm refusal from him—so firm it felt almost like coercion.
The Emperor stared at him. Lu Fengqiu and the others held their breath. None dared to speak.
Emperor Tianshou was irritated, but he also felt that if he refused, Meng Xizhao would not let it go. Even if he drove him out of the palace, he might send his father instead. Expelling a prefect was easy; expelling a minister of state was not—it would be seen as rejecting counsel, something the old officials would seize upon to lecture him endlessly.
With a reluctant wave, he finally said, “Very well. Since there are witnesses and evidence, present them.”
Meng Xizhao immediately showed joy and had the attendant bring in the person he had prepared outside the palace.
A veterinarian was brought in.
Lu Fengqiu observed silently. Seeing the old man trembling with fear, he thought quietly to himself that Meng Xizhao truly had risen to a level beyond him.
＊
The old veterinarian presented the “evidence” on a tray. Emperor Tianshou looked at it.
“What is this?”
It looked like… a blade of grass?
Meng Xizhao replied immediately, “Your Majesty, this is the poison known as ‘Duan Chang Cao.’”
Emperor Tianshou: “……”
Everyone else: “…………”
Emperor Tianshou nearly exploded. “Meng Xizhao! You dared bring such poison into the palace?!”
Meng Xizhao dropped to his knees at once, but his voice did not waver. “Your Majesty, this is the evidence I speak of! All six veterinarians of the Imperial Stables have examined it and confirmed the sweat-blooded horses died of poisoning. As for the exact poison, since animals cannot use the methods used for human diagnosis, they cannot be certain. The only physical evidence is this ‘Duan Chang Cao’ hidden in the feed trough. But Your Majesty, the toxicity of Duan Chang Cao lies in its leaves, not its stem. A single plant usually has four to seven leaves. For an ordinary person, eating one leaf causes death within seven days without treatment; three leaves cause death within two days; and consuming a whole plant leads to rapid collapse and immediate death!”
Emperor Tianshou’s head spun. “What exactly are you trying to say?!”
Meng Xizhao replied without hesitation:
“I am saying that the Imperial Stables are heavily patrolled. The horse stables of the sweat-blooded horses are among the most heavily guarded areas. I have already confirmed there are six patrol rotations, each arriving every half an hour to inspect and clean the stables. In such a short half hour, how could three horses all suddenly die?”
He paused, then continued.
“If a person needs to eat an entire plant to die instantly, and a horse requires seven times that amount…”
Emperor Tianshou blinked, his gaze returning to the tray.
One plant for instant death, seven times for a horse… and three horses would be twenty-one plants…
…
Meng Jiuyu was right—so long as that infamy still clung to him, not only Meng Jiuyu, but even Meng Xizhao himself would not be able to win any goodwill from the military officials.
Meng Xizhao paused for a moment, then smiled again.
“Everything depends on human effort. It’s only a few words anyway, no real trouble. Besides, Father, you are so capable—His Majesty has always favored you. Even with my brother and me constantly dragging you down, you still stand firm in His Majesty’s heart.”
He raised a thumb.
“Father, you are this.”
Meng Jiuyu stroked his beard, the straightforward flattery making him feel pleasantly at ease—yet faintly bitter at the same time.
Yes. Anyone else would have long been ruined by these two troublemakers at home.
Seeing that Meng Xizhao still wanted to continue praising him, he raised a hand to stop him.
“Enough, enough. Speak plainly. Simply giving credit to the army wouldn’t make you come here in such a manner. What exactly do you want me to do?”
Meng Xizhao chuckled and pulled a chair closer, sitting beside him.
“Father, let me explain in detail.”
“There are many generals who contributed in this campaign. If each of them is richly rewarded, His Majesty will likely be unwilling.”
Although they had just confiscated the property of Qiu Suiming, half of the spoils went to the state treasury and half to the inner treasury. The inner treasury belonged to the Ministry of Revenue and served as the emperor’s private vault for gold and jewels.
Once the money entered his own pocket, asking him to spend it again became far less appealing. It would no longer feel like “found money,” but like his own flesh being cut away. From Emperor Tianshou’s favorite day being his birthday celebrations, it was clear he was not a generous ruler. Rewarding favored courtiers was one thing, but generals who returned from campaign—brutish men who barely spoke polite words—were another matter entirely.
Meng Jiuyu understood this well and nodded for him to continue.
“So,” Meng Xizhao said, “this is precisely where we come in. We must help His Majesty share his burden—spend less money, yet handle the matter beautifully, leaving no loose ends.”
“Grand Tutor Geng is busy enriching himself. He will certainly urge the emperor to reward generously. At that moment, Father, you may step forward calmly with a more restrained proposal. One that satisfies both His Majesty and the army. Would that not bring you one step closer to the position of Chancellor?”
Meng Jiuyu had long dreamed of becoming chancellor. The left chancellor position had an incumbent who had shown signs of retirement, but Emperor Tianshou had repeatedly refused, believing that Meng Jiuyu alone could not suppress Yan Shanying and thus insisting he remain in place.
Meng Jiuyu narrowed his eyes slightly, imagining the prospect of promotion. But after only a few breaths, he returned to reality.
It was too distant—like an empty promise with no substance.
He frowned and asked, “Enough of that. How exactly do you propose satisfying both His Majesty and the army?”
Meng Xizhao smiled.
“Simple. Promote each rank by one level, establish a Loyal and Martial Ancestral Temple, grant titles to wives and sons, and commission painters to imitate Emperor Taizong of Tang. We do not need many portraits—just twelve generals. It would record this great conquest of Southern Zhao and honor loyal service.”
“For higher-ranking generals, grant land and estates. For lower ranks, follow existing customs. No need for excessive extravagance—just a few words from Father to restrain Chief Commander Geng so he cannot skim too much off the rewards. For the soldiers, that alone would feel like an early New Year.”
Meng Jiuyu fell into thought.
Indeed, much of this was feasible. Land and estates already existed in reserve. Since the prosperous era of Emperor Renzong, the court’s concern had shifted from grain to gold and jewels. As long as it did not cost too much cash, Emperor Tianshou would likely approve.
The ancestral temple and painted portraits would bring glory without real expenditure. And since the emperor already considered himself a wise ruler who might even emulate Emperor Taizong or Qin Shi Huang, this proposal would be quite pleasing.
Only the part about restraining Geng Wenjin gave him pause. The Ministry of War was independent; intervening in its internal affairs carried risk.
Seeing his hesitation, Meng Xizhao casually continued, as if unaware of it.
“Ah, there is one more thing you must remember.”
“What is it?” Meng Jiuyu asked.
“We must not favor one over another,” Meng Xizhao said. “General Ding has achieved great merit, and Chief Commander Geng may share some credit. But General Shang will be left out. He did not participate in this campaign, and his faction gained little. Now that General Ding will be promoted to Supreme General upon return, General Shang will surely feel resentment.”
Meng Jiuyu scoffed loudly.
“So what? What could he possibly do to me? A foolish, bloated man—aside from flattering His Majesty, what else is he good for?”
Meng Xizhao: “…………”
For once seeing his father look down on someone so openly, he was momentarily stunned. Then he grew anxious.
“He does not need to be capable of much. Flattering the emperor alone is enough to cause us trouble! Father, my brother and I have already displeased His Majesty. If you make even a single misstep at this critical moment, our family will be in danger!”
Meng Jiuyu paused.
Ah? Was it really that serious?
Just not dealing with Shang Xiguan—how did that put them in danger?
Meng Xizhao looked at him with frustration.
“Have you forgotten how General Zhan died?”
Meng Jiuyu: “……”
At the mention of that name, he could not help but feel a trace of guilt.
Strange indeed. Even though he had not been involved in the original case—only later assigned to handle the confiscation—after hearing years of accusations, even he began to feel as though he had truly done something unforgivable.
And once that guilt surfaced, a flaw appeared.
And once that flaw appeared, Meng Xizhao immediately seized it.
“What does it mean to guard against petty villains but not against honorable gentlemen? What does it mean that a thousand-mile embankment collapses from an ant hole? What does it mean that history always repeats itself in eerily similar ways—our family must not repeat the same mistakes…”
Meng Jiuyu’s mouth twitched hard at the corners after hearing this. His son was so worried that Shang Xiguan would cause trouble that, although he still felt it was unlikely, he had been partially convinced and his stance had loosened.
After a moment, he asked, “So according to you, I should go and give credit to Shang Xiguan?”
He thought to himself—where exactly was he supposed to give credit? Shang Xiguan hadn’t set foot outside Yingtian Prefecture for ten years. The greatest contribution he had made to the court was that after gaining weight, he always traveled by carriage, which saved the Ministry of War the expense of assigning him a fine warhorse.
…
Meng Xizhao smiled and said, “Give him credit. Right now, among all the generals, which one isn’t considered a subordinate of General Shang? He is the Grand General of the Elite Cavalry. At the very least, we should make a gesture and have His Majesty bestow him a residence. For such a grand military occasion, if everyone else is included but only he is left out, it wouldn’t look proper.”
Meng Jiuyu frowned. “There aren’t that many residences to be granted to them.”
Meng Xizhao replied, “Ah, Father, that’s where you misunderstand. Around where I live near the Eighty-Li River, aren’t those all residences for military officers? It’s just that the area is remote and sparsely populated, so most of them are vacant anyway. They could just be bestowed to them.”
Meng Jiuyu still gave a dismissive hum.
＊
In the end, Meng Jiuyu still agreed to this matter. He agreed readily enough, but after Meng Xizhao left, he sat in his study for nearly two hours without coming out.
Because he absolutely did not believe that Meng Xizhao was doing this simply to salvage his reputation and make a convenient gesture of goodwill.
But if one said Meng Xizhao had other intentions in doing this, he could not see what they were. What benefit could Meng Xizhao possibly gain from requesting rewards for Ding Chun and the others?
Unable to understand it, unease lingered in his heart. Names passed through his mind one by one. When he reached the name Zhan Shanyou, who had already been dead for eleven years, Meng Jiuyu’s expression stiffened slightly.
…Guilt.
Zhan Shanyou’s heroic bearing had been extraordinary—campaigning in the south and north, undefeated in every battle, never once defeated. When Meng Jiuyu first passed the imperial examination and became a presented scholar, he had also carried youthful ambition, even entering officialdom with admiration for General Zhan’s renowned name.
In both civil and military spheres, there is no second place. While Zhan Shanyou lived, no one could surpass him. And as for himself—though lacking in talent—he had believed he could at least become an outstanding figure among scholars.
As for how his lofty ambitions were crushed to pieces by the cannibalistic court politics, there was no need to mention it. The reign of Emperor Renzong had already been stifling enough, but who could have imagined that the crown prince—once merely somewhat lustful—would, after ascending the throne, turn the court into its present wretched state?
Ten years of bitter study, all for fame under heaven. Now his name had indeed become known—but it was destined to be infamous.
As a parent, there is often a psychology of compensation: what one failed to achieve, one hopes one’s children will achieve in their stead. He had not become a man of pure and upright scholarly lineage, so he hoped his child could be; he had not withstood the pressures of intrigue, so he hoped his child could be steadfast and untainted; he had not changed the foul and chaotic court, nor taken that courageous step to save those with iron bones and integrity, so he had hoped…
At this thought, he suddenly paused, then shook his head with a bitter smile.
No. That path was bound to be difficult and full of hardship. He had never wished for his child to stand in such a dangerous position. It was his child who had walked there of his own accord.
He was not as good as Er Lang.
With a long sigh, Meng Jiuyu stopped thinking about why Meng Xizhao wanted him to request rewards for the army. Instead, he began to think about how to make it happen.
He was incompetent. Only after so many years had he finally seen through what Er Lang intended to do. Since he could not personally assist him, he must at least handle these trivial matters to help him accomplish it.
If he could also drag that bastard Shang Xiguan down in the process, that would be even better.
He hated that utterly useless waste so much that he could almost kill him with his own hands.
Clicking his tongue regretfully, Meng Jiuyu shook his head, took out a fresh official document, and began writing.
…………
On the twelfth day of the ninth month, the Emperor’s Longevity Festival finally arrived.
Meng Xizhao once again entered Chongzheng Hall, holding a scroll painting in his hands.
It was a work by a renowned scholar of the Wei and Jin dynasties. Because paper was not very reliable at the time, the painting had been done on silk. The Wei and Jin era was so turbulent, yet such works had been passed down to the present—each one priceless. If Madam Meng had not seen that he had incurred the displeasure of Emperor Tian Shou and feared for his official career, she would never have taken this painting out as a birthday tribute.
This painting had been passed down as a dowry through four generations. She originally intended to leave it for Meng Jiaojiao to take as part of her marriage, continuing it as a family heirloom. The moment she handed it to Meng Xizhao, her heart ached so badly it looked as if her face might twist out of shape.
Yet when Meng Xizhao looked at the painting, then at his mother’s expression of near suffocating pain, he actually broke into a smile and accepted it on the spot.
This left Meng Xiang looking at him with strange curiosity. He knew very well how stingy his younger brother was when it came to gifts for the emperor—why was he so generous this time?
Even after stepping into Chongzheng Hall, he still had not figured it out.
As expected, Emperor Tian Shou was very pleased upon seeing the painting and even praised Meng Xizhao a couple of times. Meng Xizhao accepted all of it without hesitation, properly performing his bows and greetings, a bright smile on his face. Anyone who saw it would understand that the Emperor was no longer angry with him.
However, the others were not particularly surprised by this. Only Grand Tutor Gan looked at him with an especially sharp, piercing gaze.
The one who truly stood out during this Longevity Festival, however, was the Crown Prince.
It was extremely rare—ever since the Empress passed away, no one had seen the Crown Prince appear at a Longevity Festival. Yet today, not only had he come, he had also brought a grand gift: another painting, a portrait of Emperor Tian Shou rendered with astonishing lifelike detail.
When the scroll was unfolded, it shocked all the officials present. They had never seen such painting technique before—so vivid that it almost seemed alive.
Because it was drawn to scale, matching the Emperor’s actual height, even nearby attendants cried out in alarm, briefly thinking there was suddenly another Emperor Tian Shou standing there.
What outsiders saw was the artistry of the painting—but what Emperor Tian Shou saw was the man within it.
The Crown Prince stood calmly to the side. When everyone finally noticed that Emperor Tian Shou had not spoken for a long time, they turned to look—and only then realized that he too was completely stunned.
Meng Xizhao stood nearby with his hands tucked into his sleeves, head lowered.
The Crown Prince possessed exceptional talent. With only a slight bit of guidance from him, he had quickly grasped the method of rendering figures with depth and volume. Combined with the ink-wash style popular in the present era—one he had learned since childhood—the result was a fusion that made the figures both vividly lifelike and fully aligned with contemporary aesthetic tastes.
However, all of that was merely embellishment.
The true subtle wonder lay within the subject itself: he had painted Emperor Tian Shou from the year he had just ascended the throne.
The Emperor in his twenties.
“The living world does not preserve youth; mirrors and blossoms alike fall away.” Though Emperor Tian Shou could not be called strikingly youthful in appearance, he was extremely self-regarding and immensely inflated in pride. He would undoubtedly miss the image of his younger, more vigorous self. In an era without cameras, such a painting alone was enough to leave him utterly stunned.
Emperor Tian Shou ordered the eunuchs to lift the painting directly before him. All other gifts were removed, and he stared at the portrait for a full quarter of an hour.
The Crown Prince had a strong memory, and he and Meng Xizhao had revised the painting countless times in private. Meng Xizhao had specifically instructed him not to make it fully realistic—instead, to enhance it slightly on top of realism: add highlights, adjust tonal softness as if applying a filter, subtly refine facial features.
In short—make it as handsome as possible.
What Emperor Tian Shou looked like seventeen years ago, even he himself could barely remember. Even if others noticed that the figure in the painting was somewhat more refined than their memory of him, no one would be foolish enough to say so aloud on such an occasion.
And so Emperor Tian Shou gazed at the figure in the painting with both nostalgia and longing. He did not feel he had been beautified; in his own memory, he had always looked exactly like this.
Thus, after that quarter of an hour, even though the painting had been sent by the Crown Prince, Emperor Tian Shou repeatedly declared “good” four times. Moreover, in his first year on the throne, his relationship with the Crown Prince had not yet deteriorated to its present state. At that time, though they were not close, they were still a relatively ordinary father and son.
Of course, in the Crown Prince’s memory, that was not the case at all—but it did not matter. Emperor Tian Shou had also applied a filter to that period of recollection.
In his mind, the Crown Prince’s act of presenting this painting was an expression of filial admiration. After some hesitation, Emperor Tian Shou’s mood ultimately improved. He immediately decreed that the Crown Prince should be sent to the Ministry of Justice for training. Since the Minister of Justice had recently been dismissed and the Vice Minister had stepped up, the Crown Prince would serve as Vice Minister of the Ministry of Justice.
The moment this decision was announced, the hall erupted in an uproar. Most officials only murmured among themselves, but Grand Tutor Gan, standing close to the throne, felt as if he had been struck by lightning.
You are actually letting the Crown Prince enter the Six Ministries?
You are actually letting the Crown Prince enter the Six Ministries?!
Are you no longer planning to treat him as a target?
If Meng Xizhao could hear his inner question, he would have scoffed.
What was there to be so shocked about? The Crown Prince had worked for this for who knew how long. He almost daily had to face that disgusting Emperor Tian Shou, carefully currying favor—enough to let the Emperor understand his intentions, but not enough to make him feel disrespected. A dignified Crown Prince, originally as elegant and noble as bamboo and jade, had been forced by this unyielding monarch into behaving almost like a servile attendant.
Fortunately, effort had paid off. Against the backdrop of the Sixth Prince’s constant mischief, and with Su Ruocun’s relentless subtle prompting, combined with the Crown Prince’s own persistent efforts, he had gradually overwritten the impression Emperor Tian Shou held of Empress Xie.
At last, the Emperor had agreed to allow the Crown Prince to step into official service.
As for the proper treatment a Crown Prince was supposed to receive—lectures, instruction, and the like—there was no need to even hope for that. Simply no longer being treated as background scenery was already a tremendous leap forward.
And that was all they needed: Emperor Tian Shou personally speaking those words.
He had personally opened a crack. Through that crack, the Crown Prince could step into the court and obtain real authority. Even if that authority was minimal, it was an imperial decree—spoken law, the beginning of reconciliation between father and son, a signal from the Son of Heaven himself that his heir was capable of independent governance.
Whether Emperor Tian Shou truly thought this way did not matter. What mattered was that everyone saw his attitude, and knew this was his own decision.
Meng Xizhao quietly turned his head, looking at the varied expressions of the civil and military officials, then curled his lips slightly before turning back again.