Chapter 28: Discussions

Mu Qi stumbled out of the gates of Western Garden, his mind a muddled mess, as if caught in a bizarre dream. 

Talk of raising funds for coastal defense and the inexplicable benevolence of the Emperor—it all felt surreal, a chaotic blur that left him reeling.

This couldn’t possibly be real, could it?

Among the one to two hundred high-ranking officials and noble scions gathered at Western Garden for the meeting, nearly seventy to eighty percent likely shared this sense of bewildering disbelief. 

Outside the gates, the crowd huddled together, exchanging uneasy glances, not daring to speak loudly.

No one feared the Emperor’s madness or tantrums, but they dreaded him acting unpredictably and defying all conventions. By any measure, it was beyond comprehension that the Feixuan Zhenjun would personally authorize funds from the imperial treasury. 

The sheer absurdity of the situation was terrifying—so much so that some officials even wondered if they should summon an imperial physician to assess the Emperor’s mental state.

Yet, while his mental health remained uncertain, his physical state seemed stable enough. As the ministers waited outside, a eunuch delivered a handwritten decree from the Emperor to the Grand Secretaries of the pavilion. 

The decree summarized the key points of the Emperor’s speech during the meeting and instructed the pavilion to “reach a resolution promptly.” With black-and-white evidence in hand, there was no room for denial. 

Following imperial orders, the pavilion collaborated with the Six Ministries to draft a formal edict, solidifying the allocation of 900,000 taels of silver from the treasury.

Of course, the Emperor didn’t stop at this single maneuver. In his decree, he also elaborated on the principles of filial piety and fraternal duty concerning the reform of the Taimiao Temple. 

His intentions were obvious—if he could allocate a million taels annually, surely his late father deserved a proper place in the temple to enjoy even a cold bowl of pork soup.

At this point, the pavilion had no choice but to relent. Moreover, the Emperor’s veiled hints in the decree offered some reassurance to the officials. After carefully reading his words, they collectively heaved a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness,” they thought. “The old Taoist is still the same self-serving, hypocritical, and rule-averse man we know. Affairs of state remain comfortably on the familiar path of dysfunction. 

Despite his eccentricity and any lingering side effects from a failed alchemical experiment, his fundamentally petty and unkind nature hasn’t changed. We can still rely on our experience without paying the price of adjusting to a drastically altered ruler.”

With this shift in mindset, tson perspective transformed. In comparison to the Emperor’s whims, the trivial matter of the ancestral temple seemed inconsequential. 

After expressing gratitude, Xia Ge Lao accepted the decree and led the officials of the Six Ministries to deliberate in the pavilion. 

Notably, however, he excluded the Confucian scholars from the Ministry of Rites, who would traditionally oversee such matters. 

After the debacle surrounding the Yuan History incident, the court was wary of the scholars’ capabilities.

Even the emperor Gaozu had been burdened with the label of “thief monk” for over a century. If the scholars dared to tamper with the temple titles of the Emperor’s father, would anyone still dare to live in peace?

Once responsibilities were delegated, the ministers dispersed in silence, each likely rushing home to confer with tson advisors about this seismic shift in the court’s dynamics.

Still dazed, Mu Qi wandered away from the gates of Western Garden, his thoughts tangled in confusion. Before he could untangle them, Yan Ge Lao intercepted him.

“Brother Mu, judging by His Majesty’s decree, the tribute system might see significant changes!”

Yan Ge Lao was as astute as ever. Even amid the Emperor’s erratic behavior, he remained diligent and focused, steadfast in his pursuit of wealth and power. Having analyzed the decree thoroughly, he concluded that Feixuan Zhenjun’s orders presented an enormous opportunity to expand authority and monopolize financial resources, paving the way for future success.

As always, Yan Ge Lao’s instinct for financial gain was unparalleled. Even without insider knowledge of the Emperor’s ambitions, his recent dealings with emissaries from Goryeo and Japan had made him acutely aware of the staggering profits from overseas trade. 

With such profits at hand, what task could possibly be unachievable?

The affairs of state are like running a business: to ensure obedience from subordinates and maintain order among the people, vast sums of silver must be spent. Especially now, with the Grand Secretary stepping down and Yan Ge Lao at a critical juncture in his advancement.

In the past, the Yan family amassed considerable wealth through corruption, bribery, and profiting from projects. 

However, these ill-gotten gains always carried the risk of being exposed by the Feixuan Zhenjun, causing everything to collapse. In contrast, the tribute trade was an effortless and clean way to generate income without entangling in muddy waters.

Such lucrative, high-ranking responsibilities were bound to attract envy from outsiders. Thus, the Xiao Ge Lao wasted no time in meeting with the son of the Duke Mu to discuss terms and lay his cards on the table. “Within our circle, we can negotiate and share profits however we like,” he said. “But in critical moments, unity is key to prevent external threats from taking advantage.”

The Duke’s son readily agreed but mentioned that he was obligated to recommend a few individuals to travel to Jiangsu and Zhejiang for experience. He hoped the Xiao Ge Lao could provide some assistance when needed.

The Xiao Ge Lao immediately agreed. “That’s a minor matter! Brother Mu, you’re too polite. For positions above prefect, I dare not make promises. 

But for anything below that, I’ll handle it as you see fit. Matters in Jiangnan shouldn’t trouble you.”

The Yan Dang’s strong influence in Jiangnan indeed gave them the confidence to make such assurances. 

With tson support, whether it was organizing militias or clearing out pirates, things would be much smoother. Mu Qi smiled faintly but feigned hesitation:

“I wouldn’t dream of aiming for positions like prefect. Just a little training at the county level would suffice. However, the people we send down may be a bit impatient, and I fear they might run into resistance. ”

Yan Donglou understood immediately. Anyone entering through the Duke’s connections wouldn’t be ordinary officials. Such ambitious individuals were usually either competent ministers, skilled administrators, or upright officials with unyielding integrity. 

These types often caused quite a stir wherever they went.

However, no matter how formidable or unyielding they were, tson influence ended at this level. After all, a mere county magistrate couldn’t possibly shake the heavens of the Beijing. 

At most, the Yan Dang in the area would tolerate them for the sake of the Duke’s reputation—hardly worth troubling over.

Of course, when the Beijing truly descends into chaos in the future, the complacent Xiao Ge Lao might realize he should have been more cautious!

After the deal was settled, Mu Qi personally poured Yan Donglou a cup of warm wine and said with a smile:

“That impeachment by that bastard surnamed Zhou earlier gave me a scare. I was worried the censors would swarm like bees and stage another gang attack. 

You know how these censors pride themselves on tson lofty ideals and have always detested the tribute trade. They love to meddle in foreign affairs.”

The six departments of the censorate had a notorious reputation for uniting against individuals, bullying the few with the many. 

They even had the privilege granted by the founding emperor to submit memorials freely. If Zhou Zhicheng had managed to spark tson interest, they would’ve unleashed a barrage of criticism, turning Mu Qi into a victim of public opinion centuries ahead of its time.

The most ruthless thing about these censors was tson right to report based on hearsay, which meant they didn’t even need evidence to criticize someone. 

A coalition of such officials, untethered by facts and immune to consequences for being wrong, wielded immense destructive power. 

It was only thanks to the current Emperor’s adept maneuvering that they were still kept in check. 

Once his successor ascended the throne, these censors would likely become unstoppable, intimidating even the pavilion itself.

The Xiao Ge Lao snorted, clearly still uneasy. “That pack of pedants is truly useless in achieving anything but great at ruining things! What high-minded ideals? Tson opposition to the tribute trade stems from the losses they suffered during the maritime trade expeditions of the past!”

With his keen understanding of financial matters, the Xiao Ge Lao cut straight to the point. Why did the censors despise maritime trade so much? 

Because during Emperor Taizong’s six expeditions to the Western Seas, all the silver earned was funneled into the northern frontier. Meanwhile, civil officials’ salaries were paid with exotic goods like pepper, cumin, and glass beads from overseas.

Frankly, this practice was outrageously exploitative. While pepper and cumin were prized spices, minor officials had no access to trade channels and were gouged by merchants. Tson salaries were effectively halved. Working hard only to have tson pay docked bred deep resentment that lasted for generations, leaving civil officials with a lasting hatred of maritime trade.

Were it not for Zhou Zhicheng’s terrible reputation, the censors might have already rallied and demonstrated tson formidable criticism skills.

Mu Qi pondered aloud: “You make a good point. But it’s only because the court is currently preoccupied with other matters that the censors haven’t had time to attack. It’s best to make some preparations, just in case.”

The tribute trade wasn’t a short-term endeavor. If the censors regained tson focus, tson next assault could bring significant trouble.

The Xiao Ge Lao replied humbly, “I would appreciate your guidance.”

“Not at all,” Mu Qi said. “I think it’s wise to keep the censors busy with other matters, so they don’t fixate on maritime trade. 

We’ve already petitioned to implement evaluations of the Emperor’s qingci among foreign envoys. However, these poems are intricate and profound, often too difficult for barbarians to grasp. 

As part of the Emperor’s benevolence, we might have the idle censors write commentary and appreciation guides, which could then be compiled and sold as reference material for the foreigners.”

He paused and added:

“We could even create something akin to exam preparation guides, like Three Years of qingci Analysis or The Beijing’s Secret Papers, officially endorsed by the court.”

There’s no need to explain further. Nowadays, with the prevalence of the imperial examination system, countless related materials and model essays are published, and there are even dedicated tutors providing specialized guidance to help candidates succeed. 

The Xiao Ge Lao, having lived in the Beijing for years, surely understands how things work!

What’s the best-selling book in the world? Of course, educational materials!And the best of the best? Educational materials with monopolized copyrights!

While the imperial exams emphasize openness, fairness, and transparency—requiring every word in essays to be well-sourced—the Qingci exam operates under entirely different rules. 

The elderly examiner creates topics at will, and hundreds of civil officials grade the essays arbitrarily. 

The interpretation rights belong solely to the examiner, while the annotation rights are monopolized by the officials. 

By simply revising materials periodically, they secure a steady income without much effort or thought. Could there be an easier, more convenient, or more brainless business than this?

The Xiao Ge Lao’s expression instantly changed. Decades of making money, yet he had never encountered a strategy so brazenly shameless!

“The court is wealthy; there’s no need to bicker with the censors over trivial income,” Mu Qi said slowly. “Revenue from these materials can be allocated as subsidies for them, a gesture of appreciation for their hard work. 

But of course, this income depends on the overseas demand for these materials.”

Clearly, only with flourishing maritime trade will the tributary states be eager to study Qingci. Only with such eagerness will they be willing to spend money on annually updated, expensive resources.

In other words, the officials’ royalties and stipends are tied to the thriving ships of maritime commerce.

Want royalties? Want stipends? Go find them. Feixuan Zhenjun has placed them all at sea!

For a mere bit of pepper or cumin, or for wages discounted by the Zhu family, the censors have gnashed their teeth and fought relentlessly against maritime trade for hundreds of years. 

Their fierce, wild tenacity even startled the emperors. Now, with profits multiplying severalfold, how will the censors react?

Gentlemen, surely you wouldn’t want to return to those impoverished days, would you?

The Xiao Ge Lao froze for a moment, then murmured in shock, “This idea…”

“This idea was inspired by a certain Mr. Gui in my residence,” the heir humbly replied. “After talking with him, I realized how the market operates. 

Now, with scholars flocking to the Beijing, businesses selling essay collections and pamphlets are booming. Earning a fortune daily is no exaggeration…”

This was no lie. Reading about it in history books was one thing, but experiencing it firsthand was another. Only after chatting with Gui Zhenchuan did Mu Qi truly understand the explosive economic impact of the imperial examination system. 

Beyond conventional study materials and prep classes, there were practice papers, last-minute reviews, and analysis of question patterns. The creativity seen in modern education had already emerged, sometimes even in unexpectedly innovative ways.

Mu Qi even heard of scholars collecting essays from senior officials over the years, analyzing them to predict future question styles with “manual big data.”

Human ingenuity knows no bounds when it comes to climbing the ladder of civil service.
With such rich experience to draw from, replicating Qingci study materials would be child’s play.

Mu Qi smiled modestly, pouring a cup of wine for the dumbfounded Xiao Ge Lao.“These are just my humble thoughts, meant to amuse. But I believe, with this, no one will dare meddle with maritime trade again.”

In recent days, Wu Chengen, the recluse of Sheyang, had been feeling rather downcast.

Living in the Beijing was no easy feat. A failed scholar traveling thousands of miles to the bustling city in search of connections and opportunities incurs significant expenses daily. 

Though his friend Li Jurong, the Grand Secretary, often supported him financially, Wu still felt it was improper to overstay his welcome. For days, he wandered around, contemplating how to secure a job.

Perhaps it was divine favor, for just a day after seeking information, a well-dressed bookseller visited him, specifically requesting to see his Journey to the West.

Wu Chengen, known for his storytelling skills, was somewhat renowned back home. However, he hadn’t expected word of his unfinished Journey to the West to spread so quickly among the wealthy booksellers of the Beijing. 

Flattered yet hesitant, he declined repeatedly, explaining that the manuscript wasn’t polished enough for such esteemed eyes.

The bookseller, however, was unusually insistent, even bringing up mutual acquaintances as guarantors, making refusal impossible. Left with no choice, Wu reluctantly handed over his draft outline.

The bookseller flipped through a few pages, his expression gradually turning grim.

“I see in your outline that after Sun Monkey defeats the White Bone Demon and is expelled by Tang Seng, there are still five or six chapters before they reconcile. What’s written in between?”

Hearing this, Wu Chengen brightened up; his interest piqued. He hadn’t expected such a discerning reader who could spot the hidden narrative threads in his story!

A kindred spirit! Delighted, Wu eagerly explained his creative process. In his design, the breakup after the White Bone Demon incident marked the beginning of Sun Monkey’s farewell to his former self, the “Heart Ape.” After leaving Tang Seng, Wukong returns to Huaguo Mountain, only to find it destroyed by the celestial army. 

The ruins and desolation leave him with nowhere to belong. Visiting old friends, he discovers that most have perished in the past 500 years. The carefree days of the Monkey King are forever lost. In his lonely wanderings, he becomes as solitary as the stone monkey he once was.

Such intricate emotional conflicts and profound transformations reflected Wu’s exceptional narrative skill and unique perspective. But to the bookseller, all this boiled down to one realization:

This Wu guy is planning to torture the protagonist!

The bookseller swayed slightly, struggling to suppress a gasp.

But in the end, he had no choice but to plead quietly:“Isn’t this a bit too heavy? Could you maybe tone it down a little?”

Wu Chengen frowned slightly. “The manuscript is already written; it doesn’t seem appropriate to reduce it arbitrarily.”

Although his tone was mild, his attitude was resolved. The bookseller, observing his expression, couldn’t help but feel a heavy weight in his heart. 

He knew these scholars’ tempers all too well. At best, it could be called artistic integrity; at worst, it was an utter disregard for the readers’ feelings. 

When emotions overtook them as they wrote, they often created highly provocative, heartbreaking plot twists. Sure, such realistic elements might have towering artistic value, but did he ever stop to consider the readers’ feelings?

Ordinary readers might grit their teeth and bear it, but did he realize who was waiting to read this book now?

The bookseller’s eyes bulged, but he had no choice but to humbly plead, “After all, a story is meant for the audience. Making it too tragic might not be ideal…”

Wu Chengen hesitated for a moment but remained unmoved. He even patiently explained to the bookseller that he had already removed most of the fatalistic tragedy but kept a portion intact. 

After all, only by preserving some tragic elements could readers understand that this wasn’t a simple, low-quality power fantasy but a story imbued with profound reflections on reality.

The explanation was indeed compelling and convincing. But… would the wealthy patron really care about such reasoning?

The bookseller exhaled deeply and finally steeled himself, his expression turning cold.

“Sir, you can write whatever you wish,” he said with a sigh. “But I’m willing to pay for you to write an alternate version of Journey to the West with adjustments, just as a personal commission for me.”

He pushed forward a wooden box.

“This isn’t about money…”

The Wu family wasn’t so destitute as to stoop to being bribed. And besides, could art really bow to wealth?

“There’s a hundred taels inside.”

Wu Chengen… Wu Chengen fell silent.

“…Alright, I’ll think about it.”