Chapter 434: Are You Egging Me On, or Are You Just Looking for Trouble?

After finishing the ritual couplets, Zhu Ping’an carefully went over the five pairs once more, meticulously checking each character and phrase to ensure there were no mistakes. Only after confirming everything was flawless did he allow himself a brief moment of rest.

The main purpose of this painstaking check was to prevent errors in the couplets—a precaution that was far from paranoid. Several years ago, a serious incident had occurred precisely because of a single miswritten character. At that time, an imperial scholar had been tasked with copying the sacred ritual texts for Emperor Jiajing. After the ritual, the emperor asked the presiding Taoist master whether the texts had been successfully delivered to the Heavenly Court. The Taoist shook his head, letting out a heavy sigh:

“The texts never reached Heaven. One of the characters was written incorrectly. When the divine gatekeeper at the South Heavenly Gate received the message, he noticed the error and confiscated the text. It never reached the Celestial Immortals.”

Upon investigation, Emperor Jiajing discovered that a single miswritten character had indeed disrupted the ritual. Enraged, he ordered the responsible scholar to be struck thirty times with the court’s heavy bamboo cane—until his skin tore and his flesh was lacerated, nearly killing him.

Zhu Ping’an had no intention of risking such a disaster.

After his brief rest, he unrolled a larger sheet of blue-green paper, reserved specifically for writing the ritual texts known as Qingci.

Having studied the Qingci Scripture for Rituals gifted by the elderly Taoist who resembled Lan Daoxing, Zhu Ping’an’s skill in composing ritual texts had improved dramatically. He now understood, at least, the style Emperor Jiajing preferred. The emperor valued three things above all in Qingci:

First, literary elegance—this was the foundation.
Second, flattery implying attainment of Taoist transcendence, the kind of praise every ruler enjoyed hearing.
Third, and most crucial, was simplicity that resonated with the emperor’s mind: “concise to the emperor’s heart.” In other words, one had to intuitively understand what Jiajing desired and expected. This was the simplest yet most challenging criterion.

Few in the Ming court could achieve this. Perhaps no more than ten, with the likes of Yan Song, Xu Jie, and Yan Shifan standing at the top. Yuan Wei, Li Chunfang, Yan Ne, and Guo Pu were slightly less gifted but still competent. Most others couldn’t hope to succeed. Yet Zhu Ping’an felt confident he could count himself among the capable few.

Armed with both study and historical insight, Zhu Ping’an was certain of his ability.

Qingci had risen to prominence precisely after the controversy over the Grand Rites of Jiajing, an event that had begun with disputes over the examination, the emperor, and the ancestral temple, and ultimately boiled down to solidifying Jiajing’s authority and asserting ritual propriety. In essence, Jiajing’s concerns were simple: consolidating his rule and pursuing Taoist transcendence.

With that understanding, Zhu Ping’an spread out the blue-green paper, dipped his brush into gold powder, and began writing each carefully conceived character:

“Whereas, beyond the distant court erected, the august festival looks down with grace. Preparations for the sacred altar…”

Once the text was completed, Zhu Ping’an’s sleeves held two extra brushes. With twelve brushes divided between his two long sleeves, there was nothing unusual—after all, the sweeping sleeves of Ming attire were excellent for concealing items.

With the five pairs of couplets and one ritual text completed, the middle-aged Taoist beside him took his ceremonial implements and performed a peculiar ritual dance atop the altar, muttering incantations under his breath:

“Bowing with devotion to Haotian, Haotian attends the ritual today. Golden light manifests within the ceremony, a celestial pearl suspended in the void. The pearl hovers toward the Jade Summit as Yuanshi instructs the assembly of immortals. The immortals leap with reverence to the Supreme. Supreme Mi Luo, the unparalleled heaven…”

Then, he bowed toward the heavens before carefully affixing the couplets and the ritual text to the altar.

“You have done well, honored master. Please step down and rest,” the Taoist said politely after completing the ritual.

Zhu Ping’an slightly bowed, folding his sleeves and stepping down from the altar. The sleeves were folded not only for etiquette—cough, cough—but because they hid numerous brushes. Considering the gold powder on each brush, if melted down at a jeweler’s, it would weigh at least three or four taels.

Once on the ground, he noticed that others had also stepped down. He shared a brief, knowing glance with Zhang Siwei. The atmosphere of the ritual remained thick; from a distance, Emperor Jiajing was performing the hand-cleansing ceremony with Taoist Master Tao, and everyone remained respectfully quiet. Zhu Ping’an couldn’t help but smirk slightly, wondering mischievously if the emperor might perform some dramatic, supernatural display during the ritual—it would be an exquisite spectacle.

Yet his hopes were dashed: after the scholars of the Hanlin Academy stepped down from the altar, they were immediately escorted out of the Western Gardens. Zhu Ping’an’s wish to witness the emperor performing mystical feats was ruined.

Once outside the palace gates, the scholars returned to the Hanlin Academy, resuming their usual duties. Zhang Siwei, still intrigued by Zhu Ping’an’s cunning ways, followed him to the library, as he had nothing pressing at the moment.

“Ahem, I just casually took one of the brushes. And I made sure—it’s real gold. Giving it to those charlatan priests? Better it benefits me. This one brush alone could fetch… hehe…”

“Studying Zihou’s cunning strategies has been quite enlightening,” Zhang Siwei mused as they entered the library. Seeing no one else around, he clapped Zhu Ping’an on the shoulder, drew a brush from his sleeve, waved it in front of him, and grinned, clearly proud of his find.

Yet Zhu Ping’an’s eyes fixed on him with a strange, unreadable expression. Zhang Siwei interpreted it as simple envy.

“Hey, no need to envy me. I just had a lucky inspiration on the altar…” Zhang Siwei patted Zhu Ping’an on the shoulder smugly and began to lecture him with exaggerated mentorship, “Next time, you’ll get your chance too…”

But the more Zhang Siwei spoke, the stranger Zhu Ping’an’s expression became.

“Hey, what’s with that look? Ahem, alright, alright, lunch it is,” Zhang Siwei muttered, scratching his nose in concession.

Yet Zhu Ping’an’s gaze grew even more peculiar, reaching an almost absurd intensity.

“Hey, don’t look so dissatisfied…” Zhang Siwei protested.

The next instant, he froze mid-sentence, as if someone had grabbed his throat. His eyes widened in disbelief.

Zhu Ping’an casually pulled a brush from his sleeve, the bristles drenched in gold powder—more than Zhang Siwei had. Then another. And another.

“You also…” Zhang Siwei managed to choke out before being silenced again.

Brush after brush emerged from Zhu Ping’an’s sleeves—twelve in total—each one dripping with gold. Zhang Siwei could only stare, dumbfounded, finally understanding the meaning behind Zhu Ping’an’s earlier gaze: Fourteen? No, make that twelve. Beat that if you can.