Chapter 23: The Glass Egg

On March 28th that year, after staying in the Western Garden for most of the year, the esteemed Feixuan Zhenjun Qingmiao Emperor finally moved his respected derrière and went for a stroll in the imperial gardens on the outskirts of Beijing to enjoy the spring scenery. 

He also took the opportunity to invite his close confidants, scholars, poets, Taoists, and high-ranking officials to accompany him. While appreciating the view, they would indulge in poetry, compositions, flattery, and music, reveling in the carefree and leisurely atmosphere.

In such a relaxed and leisurely time, it was the perfect opportunity to spread some subtle rumors. Seeing that the emperor was in a particularly good mood, Liu Mengjing, the Hanlin scholar who privately served him, cautiously brought up recent political matters while complimenting him. 

In the conversation, he began, intentionally or unintentionally, to criticize Yan Donglou and the Mu Guogong’s son for tson impudence and disrespect. 

He claimed they had colluded with the eunuchs of the Imperial Secretariat to deceive the emperor, arbitrarily punishing the officials—apparently, the punishment was so harsh that the official Zhou Zhicheng was unable to even stand after being caned.

A Hanlin scholar of such high status would not typically concern himself with a mere official like Zhou. However, the hidden motive was clear: this was a maneuver to gain power. 

If Liu could use Zhou’s case to smear his rivals, he might be able to influence the court’s tribute affairs and greatly expand the Hanlin Academy’s power. Power struggles in the officialdom were relentless, and this was the cleverness of the tactic.

According to the tradition set by Emperor Gaozu, all punishments and rewards for officials in the Beijing had to be personally reviewed by the emperor, demonstrating that the authority and power remained firmly in the hands of the monarch. 

However, later generations did not possess the same energy and discernment as tson ancestors, and many trivial matters were left for others to handle. The Imperial Secretariat often made decisions on its own and would only report to the emperor afterward. 

Yan Donglou, eager to act quickly and prevent any backlash from the more righteous Dangs, used this precedent. Yet, no matter how much the system was bent, it could never be openly acknowledged. If the situation were to be scrutinized, they would inevitably be accused of overstepping tson bounds.

At such a critical moment, the benefit of a well-placed figure in the emperor’s heart became clear. 

If the matter involved an ordinary official, the emperor would likely not be interested, dismissing it with a casual acknowledgment. Liu Mengjing, with his small-minded ambitions, might seize this opportunity to act and make his move against the enemies. 

But now that the case involved Mu Guogong’s son, a renowned figure, the Feixuan Zhenjun could not help but ask a few more questions, demonstrating his vast tolerance for the son of Duke of Mu.

In a good mood and full of energy, Feixuan Zhenjun decided to make the situation more dramatic. 

He not only called the parties involved to present tson cases in front of him but also summoned the officials from the cabinet and the Imperial Secretariat, including the Hanlin scholars who attended him, to the open space of the Imperial Garden, preparing to enjoy the spectacle.

The outdoor setting was informal, and everyone performed the usual formalities before standing in place. Feixuan Zhenjun elegantly sat down, motioning for Liu Mengjing to step forward and speak. As Liu Mengjing began, the emperor suddenly heard a long-forgotten mechanical sound.

[Damn, the glass egg!]

The emperor froze for a moment. Under the stone platform, amidst the swaying flowers, two pairs of eyes lingered for a second before fixing tson gaze on the shiny, smooth head of Liu Mengjing under his official hat.

Indeed, of the five Hanlin scholars, Liu was particularly notable, not just for his skills with the pen but for his exceptionally smooth and shining bald head. 

The scholars often had to transcribe decrees and assist the emperor, and tson hairlines frequently suffered from the stress of tson duties. But Liu, who was completely bald and smooth-headed, was quite rare.

Moreover, Liu Mengjing wasn’t just known for his hair—or lack thereof. It was rumored that he came from a wealthy family, was good at taking care of his health, and had managed to keep his skin perfectly smooth and flawless, shining like a polished gem under the sunlight. His head gleamed so brightly that it almost seemed like a rare treasure, and the phrase “glass egg” seemed perfectly fitting.

The emperor inhaled sharply, barely suppressing the urge to cough and splutter in surprise.

However, the divine book did not sink to such petty personal attacks. After the second mechanical sound, the emperor heard more commentary:

[Glass egg, glass egg, smooth and slippery but not sticky! Hey, I heard this Liu fellow studied Tai Chi and is famous for being able to dodge anything, like a mudfish that can’t be caught. 

He claims to be a master of the “throwing the pot” technique, and no one can resist him. I wonder what he’s going to try to throw onto someone today?]

Liu Mengjing, of course, could not hear this cruel murmuring. Straightening his clothes, he stepped forward, calmly quoting classical texts. 

His speech was elegant and soft-spoken, but his words clearly pointed at Yan Donglou and Mu Qi’s actions.

The clever little cabinet minister, standing at the back, immediately understood the danger. The Hanlin scholars were highly influential, and once they moved, tson actions were decisive. 

However, in this battle of words, the Mu Guogong’s son, with his limited education, was no match for Liu Mengjing. It was clear that the little cabinet minister had to step in to turn the tide.

 He suppressed his anger and listened carefully, trying to find a flaw in the words. But the more he listened, the more worried he became. Liu Mengjing spouted endless words, but aside from accusing them of overstepping tson bounds, he never touched on the actual details of the case!

Liu Mengjing was adept at using eloquent speeches full of classical references that seemed impressive but held no useful information. 

The little cabinet minister, having thoroughly investigated the Zhou Zhicheng case, knew that the evidence was irrefutable. Whether it was the collusion with pirates or his involvement with the remnants of the Jianwen Emperor, the facts were clear. 

Liu Mengjing could criticize all he wanted, but the minister could easily counter every accusation.

But in this case, Liu Mengjing didn’t touch on the facts at all. His words circled around the issue, never addressing the actual situation—this was his special skill.

If Liu Mengjing didn’t mention it, there were no flaws. If he didn’t press further, there was no harm. His words were just a relentless assault on tson arrogance and breach of protocol, completely avoiding any discussion of Zhou Zhicheng’s involvement. 

In short, Liu Mengjing’s strategy was simple: seize on one point and ignore the rest. It didn’t matter whether Zhou Zhicheng was guilty or not. The real issue was tson audacity in acting without imperial authorization—that was the real problem with tson attitude toward the emperor!

“One’s attitude toward the emperor is a matter of principle. In the face of such a matter of principle, how dare you talk to me about criminal facts?!”

The Xiao Ge Lao quickly grasped the strategy, but as soon as he understood it, a wave of bitterness surged in his stomach.

Damn it. Standing on dry land, watching a boat capsize, and keeping one’s hands clean—there are actually people more shameless than me in this world!

But no matter how shameless Mr. Liu was, the Xiao Ge Lao was helpless. The man nicknamed “Glass Egg” was known for leaving no trace behind and was naturally unbeatable in deflecting blame. Today, as a Hanlin Academy scholar, Liu had prepared every escape route in advance. 

As scholars traditionally did not involve themselves in administrative affairs, it was perfectly reasonable for him to sidestep the details of the case. 

Moreover, as a close minister to the throne, how could it be wrong for him to concern himself with officials’ attitudes toward the emperor?

Every word was calculated, leaving the Xiao Ge Lao speechless. When Liu finished his verbose yet hollow argument, the Xiao Ge Lao could only muster:

“Zhou Zhicheng’s actions are treasonous! Our anger comes from our loyalty to the emperor. Unlike you, nitpicking over trifles!”

“Loyalty to the emperor justifies overriding the laws set by Emperor Gaozu?” Liu replied mildly. 

“His Majesty rules with benevolence and filial piety. Every thought he has must align with honoring the legacy of Emperor Gaozu. Acting on your own authority, I cannot agree with.”

As he finished, Liu smiled faintly and offered a distant bow toward the imperial throne, appearing refined and composed despite the venom in his words. The Zhenjun perched on the throne, enjoying the spectacle, and couldn’t help but smile widely. 

He clearly saw through Liu’s cunning ploys but found the drama enthralling as long as it didn’t implicate him.

Rip into each other, rip harder!

Unfortunately, the monarch wasn’t the only spectator. The familiar ding-dong sound rang out again:

[The old fool has no self-awareness, grinning like that.]

The Zhenjun’s smile froze.

[But I must admit, Glass Egg lives up to his reputation. To leave Yan Donglou without an escape, that’s an unparalleled skill. Whether it’s invoking grand ideals or ancestral law, he uses the old Taoist’s principles to crush his political opponents while remaining squeaky clean himself. 

No wonder he rose to the Inner Cabinet. If it weren’t for the Divine Sword of this dynasty exposing him, he might have truly secured his place in history with his untainted reputation.

He’s an excellent tool, no doubt about it. The old Taoist brought him into the Cabinet partly to use him against rivals. But he underestimated Glass Egg’s skill at staying clean. 

During his Cabinet years, Glass Egg’s methods included indulging the emperor’s worst impulses while committing heinous acts himself. He left morals behind even compared to Yan’s Dang. After retiring, he published his meticulously edited diaries, pushing all blame onto the Zhenjun and securing his legacy as a paragon of virtue.

Didn’t see that coming, did you? The old Taoist played saintly emperor his whole life, making Yan and Xu take the blame, only to be outsmarted by this fake, pitiful flower. A lifetime of hunting hawks, blinded by a sparrow!

So seriously, who edits tson diaries every day? Ridiculous.]

One sharp jab after another pierced his heart. The Zhenjun… struggled to maintain his composure!

His face contorted, his breathing rough, as though suppressing something enormous in his throat. Yet, under the watchful eyes of the court, he couldn’t lash out and had to force himself into silence. Inside, however, waves of anger surged. 

He longed to grab the ceremonial mace beside him and bring it crashing down!

Damn it. Such insolence!

Below, although the debate continued fiercely, everyone’s peripheral vision remained locked on the emperor’s expression. 

Seeing the monarch’s constipated look, waves of anxiety rippled through the court. The Xiao Ge Lao, on the defensive, grew increasingly uneasy. To avoid bias, Yan Ge Lao and Xu Ge Lao had excused themselves from the session. If Liu pinned a charge of overstepping authority on him, he would truly have no way to refute it.

Cornered, the Xiao Ge Lao clung to his criticism of “nitpicking” and raised his voice in defiance:

“We act for the emperor, for the court, willing to endure any hardship. But I don’t understand—why is it that the more one does, the more grievances they suffer? Liu, your meddling risks undermining the tribute system. Can you bear that responsibility?”

These righteous words sounded almost virtuous, yet Liu remained calm and effortlessly dismantled the facade.

“‘Meddling’? Xiao Ge Lao, there is a saying, ‘Revere Heaven and honor ancestors,’ and another, ‘The empire belongs to the ancestors; everything must follow tson rules.’ The first was spoken by the sages, the second by His Majesty. 

If I adhere to these principles in my questioning, is that meddling? Pray, enlighten me.”

The Xiao Ge Lao was left speechless, and Liu pressed on mercilessly:

“What does it mean to ‘undermine the system’? By your logic, if we don’t follow your methods of arbitrary executions and defying the hierarchy, the court will fall into chaos, and the state will collapse?”

A soft chime rang, and the Heavenly Script spoke again:

[Unlikely.]

The Zhenjun:…

Liu’s unrelenting rhetoric left the Xiao Ge Lao unable to counter. As the situation spiraled, the Duke of Mu finally stepped forward:

“Mr. Liu, I have some questions about your argument.”

Liu turned with a relaxed smile, his bald head gleaming in the sunlight—a picture of confidence and ease. 

Even cunning figures like Yan Donglou couldn’t withstand his words; how could this pampered aristocrat pose a challenge? Confidently, Liu prepared to end the confrontation within five sentences:

“Please, Your Grace.”

“I believe there are times to follow protocol and times to act pragmatically. One shouldn’t demand perfection in everything,” said Mu. 

“People make mistakes. As long as no fundamental principles are violated, why insist on absolute accountability?”

Upon hearing this, Yan Donglou’s face changed dramatically, almost contorting in pain as he struggled to contain himself. 

He knew the son of Duke Mu lacked understanding of court politics, but he never imagined he could be this incompetent! What was this nonsense about “there are always moments of oversight”? 

Wasn’t this practically confessing to a mistake? If you’ve already admitted fault, how can you defend yourself?!

A single phrase can ruin a nation. A single phrase can ruin a nation. With just this one sentence, tson side was utterly defeated!

Mr. Liu froze for a moment, his expression briefly blank as though he couldn’t believe victory had come so suddenly. But a moment later, his smile grew wider, and he mercilessly hammered the final nail in tson coffin:

“I cannot agree with the son’s words! When it comes to matters concerning the sovereign, there are no small issues, only great ones. 

What does ‘oversight’ mean? Why wasn’t there an oversight earlier, or later, but precisely when it involves the emperor? Such intentions are deeply suspect. If this can be overlooked, then I have nothing more to say!”

At this, he radiated righteous indignation and even bowed deeply toward the throne to express his unwavering loyalty to the emperor. On the throne, the old Taoists expression grew darker, his gaze sharp and furious, seemingly enraged by the son’s remarks, ready to deliver a final judgment.

As the situation reached a dire point, the son’s expression remained unchanged. He spoke calmly:

“Does the scholar truly think so?”

Mr. Liu glanced at him, suddenly recalling certain rumors about the son of Duke Mu. He quietly took a step closer to the guards before replying resolutely:

“Of course. As long as one is loyal and diligent in service to the emperor, how could there ever be an oversight?”

Mu Qi sighed softly.

“Very well… I’ve heard the scholar is involved in editing the national archives and revising historical records. It so happens that I came across something puzzling in the History of the Yuan Dynasty edited by your office.

I’d like to ask your guidance—what does the official record mean when it describes the fifteenth year of the last Yuan emperor? It states, ‘The chancellor led troops to suppress the rebels. 

At Gaoyou, they achieved successive victories, routing the enemy troops,’ and mentions ‘a renegade monk causing havoc in Jiangnan.’ What situation is this referring to?”

Mr. Liu chuckled dismissively, his last trace of wariness dissipating. He had thought the son might have some hidden advisor attempting to challenge him on ethical grounds. 

But bringing up something as trivial as Yuan history? What a joke! A Hanlin scholar with his encyclopedic knowledge could respond to such a question in his sleep.

“Our dynasty’s emperor Gaozu rose from humble beginnings, seizing the world with his sword.

 In the fifteenth year of the Yuan emperor, our emperor Gaozu established his foothold in Jiangnan, based around Gaoyou…”

He suddenly choked on his words.

It wasn’t just him—every scholar, guard, minister, and even the Feixuan Zhenjun seated above froze in shock.

The emperor Gaozu had been stationed in Jiangnan during the Yuan emperor’s fifteenth year. 

That “renegade monk” and “rebels” described in the History of the Yuan Dynasty—could they possibly be referring to… the emperor Gaozu himself?

The court’s own officially compiled history had labeled the dynasty’s emperor Gaozu a “renegade monk” and “rebel”? What kind of catastrophic error was this?

No one dared breathe, let alone think. The entire hall was plunged into an oppressive silence, the kind that chilled bones. Every person stared blankly at Mr. Liu, who stood frozen as stiff as a wooden post.

No… this couldn’t be real. Could it?

After a moment of deathly quiet, a piercing scream shattered the silence from the high throne:

“IDIOT! INCOMPETENT FOOLS! If you keep standing there like statues, I’ll wipe out your entire clan! Fetch the swiftest horse, retrieve the archives, and bring me the History of the Yuan Dynasty immediately!”

The three-quarter-hour wait for the archives felt like the longest in the ministers’ lives. The Feixuan Zhenjun sat on the throne, his face a stormy blue; the eunuchs and guards dared not make a sound, while the scholars stood trembling, sweating profusely, racking tson brains to recall anything about the History of the Yuan Dynasty they might have once revised.

And then they realized, with despair, that they couldn’t remember a single word of it.

This wasn’t entirely tson fault. The History of the Yuan Dynasty had been ordered by the emperor Gaozu to undermine the Mongols’ legitimacy. 

It had been rushed to completion in just a year and a half—90 years of history crammed into 210 volumes. Many parts were lifted wholesale from raw documents likely penned by remnants of the Mongol regime. Errors and bias in the text were commonplace.

Though the records were supposed to be revised over time, no one had cared about Yuan history after the dynasty fell. 

The text was so poorly written, riddled with obscure names like “Abrigo,” “Badulu,” and “Temur,” along with gibberish phrases like “Qili” and “yemehe,” that even emperors couldn’t be bothered to read it. It was left to collect dust in the archives.

And so that fatal “renegade” character had slipped in unnoticed, sitting there for over a century, ready to cause havoc.

Curse those lazy predecessors! The scholars silently cursed the editors of centuries past, praying desperately that the son was merely illiterate or had misread the text. Anything but this apocalyptic mistake!

As for Mr. Liu… he was too far gone to even think. Though no one had touched him, he stood rigid as a corpse, his forehead no longer glistening with sweat.

The wait ended with a guard dismounting a horse in haste, sprinting to the hall with a box of thick books. 

The emperor snatched the records, flipping through them furiously. After a few pages, he rose abruptly and, with a roar of rage, hurled the hefty book at the scholars’ heads.

“What kind of useless history did you write?!”