Chapter 4: Liberation

Mu Qi returned home in high spirits, galloping into the residence on horseback. He sent the housekeeper to investigate, but to his great disappointment, the Duke’s mansion was eerily quiet, with no sign of imminent upheaval. Even the family’s relatives and old friends who had been contacted offered no news worth his eager anticipation.

The imperial court, it was said, was the only ship that leaked from the top. Given the laxity of the old Taoist’s confidants—whose ability to keep secrets was akin to a leaky faucet—and the Mu family’s extensive connections, the absence of any information likely meant there was no significant news. It seemed improbable that anything important could have been deliberately suppressed. Mu Qi quickly lost interest and sank into his armchair, motionless.

Noticing the heir’s displeasure, the steward, Jinbao, anxiously reported two other pieces of news he had uncovered: the Imperial Guard and the Jinyiwei (Embroidered Uniform Guard) had sent men to the home of Deputy Censor Di Maoyan. However, they were acting covertly, avoiding any public spectacle.

“Covertly?” Mu Qi asked. “You mean everyone at court already knows?”

“This is truly a top-level secret,” the steward stressed, emphasizing its utmost confidentiality.

Mu Qi shifted slightly in his chair, stunned. According to the system’s information, Di Maoyan, a staunch supporter of Chancellor Xia and Yan Ge Lao, had been in charge of managing salt transport for over a decade, holding sway over an immensely lucrative enterprise. His authority was unparalleled. However, his downfall in history occurred much later due to his brazen overreach—essentially stealing from the emperor himself—thus drawing imperial attention and leading to his ruin.

But now…now should have been his golden age, a period of close cooperation with the old Taoist to generate vast wealth. Why would such a ruthless move be made against him so prematurely?

This inexplicable deviation from historical events left Mu Qi feeling somewhat at a loss.

The greater concern wasn’t merely Di Maoyan’s fall, but the people behind him. Everyone knew that Di Maoyan had risen to power by aligning himself with Yan Donglou, the influential younger Yan. If Di’s disgrace was investigated, would it implicate the Yan family?

If the Yan family were to collapse twenty years earlier than expected, the consequences would be enormous, potentially introducing unforeseen complications to the system’s tasks. 

Pondering this, Mu Qi couldn’t help but feel uneasy.

“What about Yan Ge Lao?” he asked.

“Your foresight is admirable,” the steward flattered, “His Majesty did send Eunuch Li to deliver an imperial edict, granting each grand secretary of the Inner Cabinet a box of celestial pills, instructing them to take them regularly as a sign of the emperor’s care.”

The steward’s tone betrayed a hint of envy. As a mere gatekeeper of the duke’s household, Jinbao had purchased his own minor title of tribute student, granting him eligibility for minor official posts. Still, his future depended on the fortunes of the household. Witnessing the grand secretaries favored so prominently by the emperor, he couldn’t help but hope that his master would someday achieve similar heights and secure a celestial pill for himself.

However, the privileged heir of the dukedom merely let out a disdainful snort, rose languidly, and asked no further questions.

By nightfall, the situation had become clear. The court remained calm, and the Beijing was devoid of rumors. There were no signs of action against the duke’s household or the Yan family. 

In short, it was yet another ordinary, tedious day.

Still dissatisfied, Mu Qi had his servant prepare white cloth and red lacquer. He then took the items and wandered the streets. Normally, such strange behavior from a person under surveillance would provoke immediate action from the Jinyiwei. However, the area around the Duke’s mansion remained unperturbed. 

Only a few new street vendors glanced briefly at the heir before resuming their business.

Of course, they weren’t particularly skilled at their trade. Their pancakes and fried dough sticks were so poorly made that even stray dogs would avoid them. With craftsmanship this bad, how could they hope to survive in the capital? Their suspicious nature was practically written across their faces.

Mu Qi observed them for a while, shook his head, and ordered two pounds of the awful pancakes.

…Why make life harder for fellow laborers?

Disheartened by unfulfilled expectations, Mu Qi returned home and threw himself onto his bed in a fit of hungry frustration. He called for food and asked about his schedule for the coming days. Upon learning that he would have to attend court in the middle of the night in three days to accompany the old Taoist in consuming “heavy metals,” the heir grew even more irritable. 

During his routine evening report, he vented his frustration thoroughly.

However, amidst the usual rants against the “dog ratio system,” “nervous Lao Deng,” and “utterly reactionary feudalism,” Mu Qi did not forget to jot down his concerns. Watching the emperor become increasingly obsessed with drug use and behave in ways that blatantly violated Confucian ethics, he worried that it wouldn’t be long before a righteous moralist would step forward to make a bold remonstration.

“…Even martyrdom must have a sense of timing,” he wrote anxiously. “If some notable sets the precedent, those who follow will merely be poor imitations. Once it loses its novelty, what impact will it have left? I fear the historians will dismiss me with a mere ‘etc.’ 

How am I supposed to complete my mission like this? Alas, working under Lao Deng, even securing the first ‘martyrdom kill’ is a struggle!”

With a sigh, Mu Qi hastily finished writing, set the system aside, and ignored the slowly uploading progress bar. He left to freshen up.

To be fair, after decades of cultivation, the Feixuan Zhenjun  Emperor Qingmiao had honed some measure of self-restraint, even if inner strength might be debatable. 

Despite facing such an intense shock, aside from a single late-night outburst before his lifelong servant, the eunuch Li Zaifang, he managed to suppress his turbulent emotions and go about his duties as usual, revealing no cracks beneath his wrinkled, aged visage. 

Only when night fell did he eagerly dismiss all attendants and quietly step into the secret chamber of the Qinliang Hall once more.

In a single day, the emperor had steeled himself for the mysterious, otherworldly text. The cramped chamber had been meticulously prepared under Li Zaifang’s direction, adorned with talismans personally drawn by master priests from Taoist temples like Qingxu Guan, Baiyun Guan, and Longhu Mountain. 

The golden-paper and cinnabar charms fluttered ominously, while the central incense altar had been cleared to make way for a sword once wielded by the founding emperor during his rebellion.

According to Taoist Master Lan of Xuanzhen Guan, the “Heavenly Son’s supreme yang essence repels all evil,” and the emperor’s meditation in this space would make him impervious to harm. 

While Lan’s flattery was obvious, the old Taoist wasn’t entirely deluded; he wisely dug up ancestral relics to hedge his bets rather than solely relying on the emperor’s divine aura.

This preparation was as foolproof as it could get. The emperor, feigning calm, placed the enigmatic book on the altar, its surface glowing faintly under the talismanic light. At the stroke of midnight, the seemingly unremarkable Logbook emitted a white light:

[Data uploading…][Upload failed. Switching to local storage.][…Sigh, even martyrdom under Lao Deng requires queueing for a ticket?]

The emperor: ?!!

Feixuan Zhenjun clutched the altar so tightly he nearly collapsed. His hair stood on end, veins bulged on his forehead, and his eyes widened in disbelief. He barely suppressed a mouthful of blood with decades of cultivation, narrowly avoiding an apoplectic fit.

Of course, terms like “Lao Deng” and “Taoist” were disrespectful enough to provoke outrage, but they had become almost tolerable after repeated exposure. What truly shattered his composure were the glaring words, “martyrdom.”

What the hell? According to this book, would he, the emperor, end up in a situation where people queued to die for their remonstrations against him?

The thought alone made his chest tighten and his vision blur.

Whether as the unyielding young sovereign who once swept through court politics or the cryptic old Taoist who now spoke in riddles, Feixuan had never changed in essence. He operated under a veneer of Confucian ethics while secretly pursuing absolute control. Power, glory, and immortality were his goals, but so was the reputation of a benevolent sage-king.

In short, he wanted both substance and appearance.

But from ancient times to now, what “sage king” was ever subjected to martyrdom? Let alone queued martyrdom, exponentially amplifying its symbolic power. Throughout history, only tyrants like King Ji and Xu enjoyed such a “privilege.”

Would Feixuan, after decades of cultivation and scheming, end up alongside Ji and Xu in infamy?

He couldn’t accept it.

Deeply shaken, the emperor exhaled heavily, grabbed the cursed book, and scanned it with rapid intensity, vowing to uncover any clue about this “martyrdom.” Unfortunately, the logbook was filled with rambling rants and complaints, providing little tangible information—at least, none the emperor could comprehend.

Still, Feixuan’s keen intellect detected a subtle thread. Amid the seemingly disjointed entries, there were recurring desires for dramatic events: martyrdom, sacrifice, noble defiance, and an ultimate confrontation with “Lao Deng.”

The sheer self-destructive tone gave Feixuan pause. He instinctively dismissed the idea of genuine intent—if someone truly sought confrontation, it would be his failure as an emperor. Instead, he suspected an unfathomable agenda or hidden gain.

But what could be worth one’s life?

His thoughts naturally turned to an esoteric concept familiar from Taoist scriptures: Bingjie.

Bingjie refers to “death transcendence,” where immortals, deities, or demons shed their mortal shells through external force to ascend, achieving eternal freedom.

At the realization, the emperor’s fury gave way to suppressed excitement. While being mocked as “Lao Deng” was infuriating, the mere possibility of Taoist immortality allowed him to calm down instantly.

Whether it was a deity or a demon, the miraculous book that descended from the heavens, appearing out of thin air, seemed to possess abilities that had never been recorded in the Taoist scriptures. 

With such divine powers and such an extraordinary origin, even a mention of terms like “soul dispersal” or “death escape” was enough to convince anyone to believe, at least partially. 
 
And this partial belief alone was undoubtedly far more compelling than all the magical feats displayed by the Zhenjun and the world’s most accomplished Taoist masters over the past decades. It was enough to leave one dazzled and overwhelmed.  

As for the coarse and uncouth curses… well, considering that deities and demons transcend worldly norms and are unfamiliar with mortal etiquette, it wasn’t entirely unreasonable for their words to sometimes be inappropriate. 

As the incarnate manifestation of the Feixuan Zhenjun, the divine Qingmiao Emperor, he ought to be more magnanimous about such matters.  

After spending a quarter of an hour figuring this out, the Emperor immediately calmed his anger. 

He even found himself uninterested in the issue of the death petition that could affect his legacy for generations. His thoughts went straight to the core of the matter: if someone were indeed attempting to ascend through death escape, who exactly was it?  

—It had to be investigated, thoroughly. Even if it meant overturning every gutter in the capital, the truth must be uncovered!  

However, according to the Taoist scriptures, the matter of “death escape” was tied to the workings of heaven and could not be revealed to common mortals. If not for his own virtuous cultivation and high moral standing as the Feixuan Zhenjun, the heavens likely wouldn’t have bestowed this miraculous book upon him to disclose such secrets. Yet the workings of heaven must remain concealed. 

If any information were accidentally leaked, causing outside astonishment, it would be a minor issue. What truly worried him was that it might disrupt the Feixuan Zhenjun’s path to immortality for no reason at all.  

If certain people were to undergo death escape prematurely, how would he secure his own opportunity to ascend?  

The Emperor made his decision in an instant.  

“… It’s best to have the Imperial Guard conduct a covert investigation for now; there’s no need for a public uproar.”  

He murmured to himself, picking up the golden ruyi scepter beside him and striking it against the incense burner with a resonant clang.