Chapter 24: Shifting the Blame

A thick book sliced through the air, striking the glass ornament squarely and knocking it to the ground. 

It lay there motionless, as though its consciousness had been obliterated by a precise, devastating blow. 

The distance between the imperial throne and the cool terrace was at least two or three zhang, yet Feixuan Zhenjun’s ability to shatter armor (for even an official hat counts as armor!) and injure with a single strike was clear evidence of his enhanced strength through cultivation—a power far beyond the reach of ordinary men.

However, no one dared to praise His Majesty’s formidable might in this moment. All stood rigidly in place, shoulders hunched, heads lowered, hoping to become invisible, as the emperor slammed his throne with his palm and launched into a tirade. In his thick Hubei dialect, he cursed the glass ornament to the heavens, dragging its entire “family” along for the ride.

Even after this outburst, his anger remained unabated. He turned his wrath upon the imperial guards, roaring at them in fury.

“Drag him out and beat him thoroughly!”

The Hanlin Academy Scholars were regarded as future prime ministers. Even if they spent their careers idling and waiting for promotions, they could generally retire as regional governors. 

Such figures were highly respected, and emperors rarely resorted to physical punishment. But now, the old emperor was so enraged that he personally attacked someone, leaving the gathered ministers as silent as mice—none dared to plead for leniency.

—Well, of course. Pointing at the emperor’s ancestors and insulting them as “thieving monks”? Is there a quicker or more outrageous way to court death?

Big guy, you’re even bolder than Fang Xiaoru!

To be fair, the empire’s atmosphere was relaxed, and discipline over officials was lenient (read: ineffective and indifferent). Scholarly gossip ran rampant. 

Though outright insults to the imperial family were rare, subtle jabs and cynical remarks about the court were ever-present and impossible to purge. Over time, wild rumors were concocted about past emperors, irreparably shaping their historical reputations. 

For example, how did stories of the first emperor’s early years begging for food or Empress Ma’s infamous “big feet” spread far and wide? Surely, the first emperor didn’t boast about his wife’s shoe size himself.

The emperors had long been aware of such tales but found them impossible to suppress and reluctantly tolerated them. 

This tolerance extended to institutions like the Imperial Historiography Office and Hanlin Academy, which had never been harshly disciplined for centuries. After all, without official historians’ guidance, who could imagine how outrageous the unofficial histories might become?

Your Majesty, surely you don’t want obscene tales about yourself flying around, do you?

Yet centuries of tolerance had produced this? No one expected these scholars to rival Taishi in crafting immortal prose, but to brazenly label the Gaozu emperor a “thieving monk”? A single “thief” could be excused as careless wording, but “thieving monk”? That was deliberately careless!

The Gaozu emperor might have referred to himself as a “commoner from Huai” or a “monk of the Imperial Temple,” but anyone else uttering such things risked their entire clan’s survival.

If this scandal had occurred during the Gaozu emperor’s reign, it would have overshadowed even the infamous Three Cases of Xuanwu.

It wasn’t just about the scholar’s fate. The real issue was that The History of the Yuan Dynasty was an official state-commissioned history, periodically revised and corrected by successive dynasties. 

Such a monumental error reflected either negligence or a lack of respect for ancestral legacy across generations. And what did that amount to? Filial impiety of the highest order.

No matter how capable this Feixuan Zhenjun was, even he couldn’t shoulder the accusation of being unfilial to the Gaozu emperor. 

After his initial rage, the Zhenjun quickly shifted to damage control, desperately brainstorming how to escape this predicament. The immediate priority was to spare the scholar’s life, ensuring someone to pin the blame on later. Killing him outright would only invite suspicions of silencing the witness.

Despite wearing an expression like he was owed eight million coins, the Zhenjun discreetly gestured to Li Zaifang. 

Understanding the signal, the grand steward slipped away to instruct the Jinyiwei to hold their hands while preparing the Dongchang for interrogation. 

What charges the eunuchs might extract would depend on further imperial orders.

However, defining the charges proved tricky. The Zhenjun sifted through Bachelor Liu’s records and memorials, hoping to uncover evidence of treasonous remarks against the emperor or his ancestors. 

Yet, after combing through everything, he was horrified to find the man’s record spotless. Bachelor Liu was the epitome of a Teflon-coated bureaucrat, so adept at navigating officialdom that he never took risks or made mistakes. His ability to evade accountability was unmatched.

Of course, the Zhenjun could fabricate charges outright, but punishing a high-ranking scholar without evidence carried severe consequences. He hesitated, unwilling to let such a slippery figure escape unscathed.

Scanning the silent, terrified ministers, his gaze suddenly fell on the Duke of Mu’s heir standing quietly in the crowd.

As the instigator of this fiasco, the heir had retreated after quoting the fatal historical passage, staying silent amid the ensuing chaos. Most ministers overlooked him, assuming his involvement was accidental. 

With his notorious reputation as a frivolous dandy, how could anyone believe he orchestrated such an elaborate scheme? Most likely, he stumbled upon the passage while skimming books in the Wenyuan Pavilion and carelessly dragged the scholar into the mess.

Perhaps the Gaozu emperor’s spirit had intervened to punish Liu, and the heir was merely a tool of fate.

The Zhenjun initially dismissed the heir’s involvement, but upon closer reflection, he recalled a confidential report the heir submitted. It accused a certain official, Zhou Zhicheng, of collaborating with Japanese pirates and harboring “Jianwen remnants.”

Admittedly, the emperor had dismissed the report at the time, finding its claims of a “Jianwen Survival Plan” and slogans like “Advance Jianwen-1!” utterly nonsensical. But now, upon reconsideration, even nonsense seemed to hold a kernel of truth.

Zhou Zhicheng’s alleged collaboration with the Japanese made him a traitor. And if Liu supported Zhou Zhicheng, then he, too, must be a traitor. 

Perhaps under Japanese influence, he dared to defile the Gaozu emperor’s name in an official history. Thus, the court wasn’t at fault—merely deceived by cunning traitors. Ultimately, only the Zhenjun’s unmatched wisdom uncovered the plot.

Therefore, any errors in the historical record were not the court’s or the emperor’s fault. The blame lay solely with treacherous officials and Japan. 

Those scheming Japanese had not only bribed officials but also harbored Jianwen remnants and dared to smear the Gaozu emperor’s legacy!

Too Wicked Are the Japanese People! Among every hundred evil deeds in the Beijing, a hundred and one of them are surely committed by the Japanese!

Rather than reflect on oneself, it’s easier to accuse others. The old Taoist’s eyes flickered, and he quickly made up his mind. Amid the distant, undulating screams of the glassy egg, he slowly straightened up and coldly spoke:

“Yan Donglou.”

The Xiao Ge Lao immediately realized what was happening and quickly prostrated himself.

“You mentioned earlier that Zhou Zhicheng had connections with the Japanese and was suspected of harboring remnants of the Jianwen regime. Is this true?”

The Xiao Ge Lao cautiously replied, “I wouldn’t dare deceive Your Majesty. I’ve already had people investigate this thoroughly. All the evidence is sealed in the Ministry of Justice, awaiting Your Majesty’s review.”

“If you’ve already investigated, then I won’t bother sending others to do so,” Feixuan Zhenjun said indifferently. 

“The Beijing is the heart of the empire, yet there are people colluding with the japanese and others pleading for leniency on behalf of disgraced officials. Such matters must be thoroughly addressed. 

The japanese must also be handled properly. Since you and Mu Qi are already looking into this, take charge of the remaining issues as well. Act according to necessity and don’t be constrained by trivial formalities.”

Upon hearing this, the Xiao Ge Lao maintained his composure, but Mu Qi was immediately overcome with unexpected joy. 

With this verbal decree from Zhenjun, they essentially held the imperial sword of authority! Since they were tasked with “taking charge of everything,” they could not only mobilize forces to root out spies and interrogate agents but also openly intervene in maritime defense and control trade under the pretext of imperial orders. 

After all, hadn’t Zhenjun explicitly said to “act according to necessity”? If their actions slightly overstepped the rules, who could refute them?

Taking a feather as an arrow, Mu Qi realized he could smuggle through all sorts of personal agendas during the validity of this imperial decree—addressing the matters he wanted to handle first. As for any impeachment afterward? At worst, he would simply admit it with a shrug.

—”Zhenjun’s intentions were noble; it was I who misinterpreted and executed them poorly. I’ll sincerely reflect and admit my mistakes. Criticize me if you want, punish me if you must. At worst, I’ll lose my salary and take thirty strokes of the rod. 

Send me home to watch turtles hatch eggs—I won’t have an official position, but I can enjoy my leisure. What do I have to fear?”

With this resolve, Mu Qi promptly stepped forward, prostrated himself, and expressed gratitude for the imperial command, fearing Zhenjun might suddenly change his mind. His joy was so palpable that the celestial tome dinged again.

[Is it going to snow red today? Zhenjun is acting so dignified!]

Zhenjun, seemingly numb with anger from the glassy egg, didn’t react unusually. He simply sat coldly, expressionless.

Once the two had thanked him and risen, Zhenjun spoke indifferently:

“Officials colluding with the japanese are unforgivable. Once confirmed, the Three Judicial Offices shall conduct a joint trial. The Dongchang shall first surround their residences, and once notified, confiscate their properties immediately.”

The eunuchs of the Dongchang trembled as they rose to accept the command. Meanwhile, Feixuan Zhenjun sat upright, his mind racing. Although the Wa’s silver mines had been confirmed, the imperial navy was long in decline, far removed from the grandeur of the Three Treasures Eunuch’s voyages. 

It wasn’t feasible to assert dominance over the eastern seas for now. For the time being, he could only scrape together what little he could. Besides, for the Wa to come to the Beijing and bribe ministers instead of presenting tributes to the Emperor was an enormous insult. 

The money these ministers received wasn’t Wa money—it was his Feixuan Zhenjun’s money! Recovering what was rightfully his was only fair, wasn’t it?

Of course, if the confiscation caused too much uproar, it wouldn’t look good to bypass the Grand Secretariat entirely. After some thought, Feixuan Zhenjun spoke again:

“Let Grand Secretary Li oversee the matter; it will also make things more convenient for the Ministry of Revenue.”

Li Jurong, a cabinet member and Minister of Revenue, fearfully stepped forward, bowing to express his gratitude while humbly declaring himself unworthy of the Emperor’s trust.

Li Jurong, a scholar of unparalleled talent and insight, had once been a top-ranking graduate, yet in the cabinet, he remained inconspicuous, blending in without making waves. 

If not for the Chief Secretary being at the Beijing Prefecture for inspections and Yan and Xu Cabinet Ministers both taking leave to avoid conflicts, he might not have been called upon today. Yet, even now, he continued to decline modestly, truly the epitome of sincerity.

Perhaps still disgusted by the glassy egg, Feixuan Zhenjun felt a surge of goodwill toward such a quiet, unassuming man. He gently reassured:

“Minister Li, you’re too modest. Aren’t you well-versed in the peculiarities of overseas goods? The confiscated properties of these disgraced officials likely contain many illicit japanese items, which require someone of your expertise to identify and catalog.”

Li Jurong bowed again, responding, “Your Majesty overpraises me; I am overwhelmed with fear. 

My knowledge is shallow, not worth a fraction of true scholars. What little I know was entirely learned from others. In Huai’an, I met a scholar named Wu, who is profoundly knowledgeable in all matters ancient and modern. 

All that I know of overseas affairs comes from his teachings.”

Before Zhenjun could respond, the celestial tome, silent until now, suddenly resonated with an outburst:

[Holy crap, Journey to the West!]