Chapter 5: Green Words 

Mu Qi slept soundly until morning, lazily climbing out of bed to gaze out the window. It wasn’t until the family’s crowing rooster made a racket that he let out a long sigh, instructing his personal servant to bring breakfast. Then he asked:

“How many celestial texts do I have left?”

The servant replied honestly, “I’ve counted them all. There are only two discarded drafts left in the box. The rest have already been used.”

Mu Qi’s expression darkened immediately. The servant, sensing the tension, quickly exited the room.

The so-called “celestial texts” were a whimsical idea concocted a few years ago by an old Taoist priest. It seemed the revered Feixuan Zhenjun, after years of cultivating immortality, had grown lonely. 

So, alongside his governance, he decided to make his ministers “assist with mystical cultivation” by writing ceremonial praises extolling the Taoist way. 

Ordinary mortals, of course, were too base to achieve Zhenjun’s level, but they could at least pen prayers to the heavens, glorifying the Zhenjun’s virtues and deeds.

 Such writings would supposedly aid Zhenjun’s ascension to enlightenment.

Thus, starting two years ago, all officials ranked fifth or above in the Beijing were required to submit one celestial text every month for the Zhenjun’s review.

 Close confidants, such as cabinet elders, ministers, and noble scions, faced even stricter demands: a polished and elegant celestial text every ten days, with high literary quality as the minimum standard.

For the cabinet elders and ministers—veterans of the imperial examination—churning out a thousand-word prose piece wasn’t too daunting. But the noble scions and imperial relatives, untrained in scholarship, were in a bind. Initially, they could pay ghostwriters, but the emperor, meticulous about celestial texts, cracked down on this practice. 

Several writers were punished for fraud, leaving noble scions in tears, forced to rack their brains, and struggling to meet deadlines.

Writing a celestial text was like crafting a Taoist ritual document—strict in structure, full of parallel phrasing, and demanding refined language. It was a task far more challenging than Mu Qi’s old college thesis. If not for a few cheats granted by his system, allowing him to procure texts occasionally, he would have failed his “newbie quests.”

But even cheating came at a cost. The thought of bleeding resources again darkened Mu Qi’s mood, and his heart ached faintly.

In the bureaucracy, writing celestial texts to flatter the emperor wasn’t enough; managing relationships with superiors and subordinates was equally important. After breakfast, Mu Qi ordered his trusted servant to inquire about the topics chosen by several cabinet elders. 

He didn’t want to risk submitting similar work and causing embarrassment. The servant returned shortly, looking uneasy.

“The stewards of the elders’ households said their masters have been feeling unwell lately and are resting at home. None have started drafting their texts yet.”

Mu Qi was puzzled. “How is it that they’re all sick?”

The servant glanced around and lowered his voice.

“Word is… it happened after they took the imperial elixir.”

Though the cabinet elders’ ailments were kept under wraps, nothing escaped the ears of the prince’s household. The servant had uncovered everything: yesterday morning, Eunuch Li from the Directorate of Ceremonial Affairs delivered the pills on Zhenjun’s behalf. By afternoon, while the elders were at work, something went wrong.

Perhaps the elixir was too potent, or the elders, being advanced in age, lacked tolerance for the heavy metals in the concoction. Despite taking smaller doses than Yan Ge Lao, they succumbed when exposed to a cold draft during discussions. 

The effects were immediate—first, intense heat throughout their bodies, then profuse sweating, and finally unbearable discomfort. In a panic, they gulped down cold water, only for the opposing forces of heat and cold in their stomachs to wreak havoc.

“From what the clerks said,” the servant whispered, “the elixir was effective. It supposedly purged their impurities…”

Mu Qi didn’t understand. “What does that mean?”

The servant gritted his teeth and clarified, “It’s just….it’s just running away.”

Mu Qi: ???!!!

What?!

“Ran away? in public?” he asked incredulously. If it had been that dramatic, the capital would surely have erupted in chaos by now!

“Not exactly,” the servant hastily replied. “The elders abruptly stopped the meeting and urgently called for chamber pots, unable to wait for sedan chairs. They sprinted away, leaving half the clerks in the Inner Cabinet gagging from the stench…”

Now that the worst was out, the servant didn’t hold back. Though he lacked the vocabulary to articulate it delicately, he explained the embarrassing scene as plainly as possible.

“Later, the attendants who delivered the trousers mentioned that even the… contents that came out didn’t seem quite right…”

Mu Qi was left utterly speechless, his mind churning with countless waves of disbelief. Sudden onset gastrointestinal distress was, of course, a hallmark symptom of acute heavy metal poisoning. 

But for the expelled matter itself to seem so abnormal—this medicine’s potency was truly overbearing. Historical records spoke of high-ranking officials who assisted the emperor in alchemical experiments suffering horrifying outcomes, such as expelling “two bowls of clotted blood.” Could it be that these pills were specifically targeting the lower digestive tract?

But how was it that Emperor Lao Deng himself, after taking these pills for over a decade, had never experienced such symptoms? 

Could it be that the emperor had developed a tolerance through sheer persistence?

The heir to the prince of Mu’s title remained silent for a long time before finally sighing deeply. 

As protocol dictated, it was proper to visit a bedridden elder statesman to inquire about their health. However, given the nature of this illness, it hardly seemed an appropriate time to disturb him.

“…Perhaps I’ll check in later,” he muttered gloomily. “Let’s hope nothing serious happens.”
·
“Did it really cause diarrhea?”

Yan Donglou, the young master and son of Yan Ge Lao, blinked in shock. Then, overwhelmed with joy, he nearly toppled off the recliner, the fiery pain in his chest momentarily abating.

In contrast to his son’s impulsive delight, Yan Ge Lao himself maintained a calm and measured demeanor as he listened to the report. Slowly opening his eyes, he cast a stern glance at his son.

“What ‘pulled’? When discussing official matters, watch your wording. Remarks that harm unity must not be uttered…”

The young master begrudgingly shrank back. Yan Ge Lao continued:

“And how are Xia, Xu, and Li?”
“I heard that Xia and Li both summoned renowned physicians but dismissed them shortly afterward,” a servant replied softly. “ Xu has shut his mansion’s gates entirely, so it’s hard to say.”

Yan Ge Lao gave a knowing hum, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. “Xu Shaohu truly has grand ambitions.”

Seeking medical treatment for a stomach ailment was ordinary enough. But when the ailment involved the alchemical pills bestowed by the Feixuan Zhenjun, the matter became extraordinarily delicate.

The emperor’s elixirs were, of course, flawless. If senior officials, after consuming them, fell ill to the point of needing doctors, did it imply their constitution was too feeble to bear such divine blessings?

And if the state’s key ministers were so frail, how could they manage critical affairs or aid in celestial governance? Inevitably, such perceptions would diminish their standing among their peers.

It was likely due to such considerations that Elder Xu gritted his teeth and endured without calling for a doctor.

Realizing this, Yan Ge Lao narrowed his eyes slightly, harboring a newfound wariness.

The young master understood the implications as well.“Xia Yan is in his seventies; retirement is inevitable, so reputation hardly matters to him. But Li Jurong, a champion scholar? 

Even he is willing to retreat? Hmph! In that case, Father’s only true rival is Xu Shaohu. Yet Xu, not even sixty, can only rely on physical resilience to endure. Ultimately, he’s no match for you!”

Even Yan Ge Lao, seasoned and composed, couldn’t help but smile faintly. Though nearly seventy himself, he had boldly taken two elixirs at once the previous day. Apart from some heat-induced nosebleeds, he had suffered no serious consequences. 

Compared to the embarrassing afflictions of his colleagues, wasn’t he practically a divine specimen for testing these pills?

This was no ordinary advantage—it was unique, unparalleled. Such a talent had to be leveraged, celebrated, and amplified to decisively secure dominance in the inner council’s power struggles. 
Yan Ge Lao pondered for a moment before speaking deliberately:

“Donglou, discard the earlier draft. Write a new qingci (official proclamation), focusing on the miraculous efficacy of the celestial elixirs and expressing gratitude for His Majesty’s divine generosity. 

Towards the end, subtly insert a few obscure historical references, hinting at a desire for another reward of these elixirs. Take your time crafting it, and bring it to me by supper for review.”

When it came to administrative matters, the senior ministers were all experts, and Yan Ge Lao might not necessarily outshine Xu Shaohu. But in terms of devotion to celestial refinement and sincerity in trial consumption, who could rival him and his son?

At this thought, father and son exchanged a knowing look, sharing a mutual understanding.
·
The grand scholars likely spent an entire afternoon grappling with their ailments before opening their doors to visitors. By late evening, news had trickled back from informants regarding the drafted qingci, which followed a routine approach and offered little innovation.

Mu Qi scrutinized the proposed text for a while, dismissed the servants, and opened the system interface.

The system’s servers were as unreliable as ever. It took over half an hour to load the homepage. 

Among its poorly maintained features, only the friend communication tool remained relatively functional. Originally designed for users undertaking solo missions to alleviate loneliness, it has since become a medium for trading information across timelines and exchanging resources.

Mu Qi opened the chat window. His list of two friends was as barren as always—one account remained grayed out, while the other incessantly beeped, boasting an average daily online time of over five hours, breaking last week’s record.

To have so much leisure time for browsing during missions… this person truly had an enviable, carefree existence.

Mu Qi exhaled deeply, his eyes briefly flickering with envy. Truthfully, his burnout and neglect in this bizarre mission world were partially due to the relentless torment from an old Taoist and partially because of his companion’s success. Back when they signed contracts lured by the live-streaming site, he and Liu Li had drawn lots for mission worlds together. 

Mu Qi selected this seemingly ideal scenario—noble birth and a perfect starting point. Liu Li, on the other hand, drew an abysmal fate: a chaotic century of warring states, fragmented territories, and a weak, declining dynasty on the brink of collapse.

Such a horrifying task was nothing short of a death trap. Liu Li had nearly cried on the spot upon seeing his lot. Mu Qi consoled him repeatedly, even promising to offer whatever help he could. It was during this time that they exchanged contact information.

But when the missions began, Mu Qi realized the truth about that “terrible” draw—what “century of chaos” and “warring states”? It was simply a parallel world modeled after the Three Kingdoms.

 And Liu Li, reincarnated as the incompetent and beleaguered emperor of a faltering dynasty, somehow still had a critical advantage: the invaluable presence of a prime minister Zhuge!

Looking at his own snarky and temperamental mentor, then comparing him to someone else’s virtuous and refined prime minister, Mu Qi’s mood instantly collapsed:

Damn it, is this how we’re playing the game now?

Over the years since his transmigration, he has watched Liu Li undergo a complete 180-degree transformation in mindset. From the initial manic despair of the nation is in peril, the realm is crumbling, the blame lies with me alone, to a calm, elegant, and serene demeanor that seemed to exude a hymn of “The Prime Minister is the best in the world” from every pore.

Just take a look at the updates this guy posted every day:

“The Prime Minister praised me again today; I’m so happy!”

“Urgent: Does anyone know remedies for sleep disorders or ways to improve appetite? My Prime Minister has been eating less and dealing with a lot lately, and I’m really worried!”

“I showed the Prime Minister new techniques for iron smelting and textile weaving today. He was very pleased and said I’ve made great progress. Ah, I’m truly unworthy of such praise~”

“Has anyone seen my Prime Minister? Don’t worry, he’s not lost or in trouble. I just want everyone to see how amazing he is!”

Ugh! How can someone say stuff like this every single day? If this isn’t a prime example of a “daddy’s boy,” what is it? Disgusting. Utterly disgusting!

Grinding his teeth, Mu Qi deliberately ignored the update that read, “Rereading ‘The Memorial to the Throne’, I’m moved to tears,” and angrily opened the chat box.