Kays Translations

Chapter 358: When Immortals Clash, Mortals Suffer

With Zhu Ping’an standing alone at the very top of the list, the Imperial Examination Announcement Ceremony finally came to an end.

Once the Chuanlü official received the golden list from the hands of the court scribe, musicians outside the palace struck up the solemn notes of “The Ode of Jiajing.” The music, stately and resonant, filled the crisp spring air of the imperial court.

All the civil and military officials, together with the newly ranked jinshi, knelt once again in unison, performing the ritual of three kneelings and nine prostrations. Their sleeves brushed the cold marble floor as they bowed toward the emperor.

Under their reverent gaze, Emperor Jiajing rose and departed on his imperial palanquin, the golden dragon embroidery glinting under the sunlight. He was heading back toward his Western Garden—no doubt, to resume his alchemical pursuits once more.

As the emperor vanished beyond the gates, officials from the Honglu Temple carefully handed the freshly written Golden List to Minister of Rites Xu Jie. Xu Jie examined it line by line with calm precision, then passed it on to Minister of Personnel Li Mo for confirmation.

Around them, high-ranking ministers crowded in, eyes gleaming with curiosity. Everyone wanted a glimpse of this year’s palace examination results.

Rumors had already been circulating long before the exam began: Ouyang Zishi, the nephew of the powerful Grand Secretary Yan Song, was participating this year. What’s more, Yan Song himself had overseen the grading of the examination papers.

Whispers had spread that Ouyang’s paper had been ranked first among all by the examiners—many had assumed that the title of Zhuangyuan (Top Scholar) was already his.

Yet when the results were officially announced, the impossible happened—Ouyang Zishi’s name was nowhere near the top three. Not the Zhuangyuan, not even the Bangyan or Tanhua.

If someone were to say that Yan Song had acted completely without favoritism, not a single person in the court would have believed it.

After all, if the Grand Secretary were truly impartial, how did his nephew’s paper come to be ranked first during the ministerial review?

Besides, everyone had heard another interesting piece of gossip: Zhu Ping’an, the very man who had now claimed the first place in the empire—the Huiyuan of the provincial exam—had originally been ranked eleventh by the same panel of examiners.

Ordinarily, that ranking would never have reached the emperor’s desk. But by a stroke of fortune—or divine whim—His Majesty had decided this year to personally review the top twenty examination papers.

Some officials, who secretly resented Yan Song but dared not oppose him openly, took great pleasure in this outcome.

“Ah, how the mighty have fallen,” one of them whispered behind a sleeve. “The Grand Secretary schemed too cleverly for his own good. Now, the emperor’s favorite stands tall as the Zhuangyuan, while his own nephew barely scraped a second place in the second tier.”

Truly, it was poetic justice.

“Oh, Lord Yan,” came a voice from the side. “You must seize this moment to look upon the golden list yourself. In a few minutes, it shall be hung for all to see at Dong Chang’an Gate.”

The speaker was an elderly official with a beard white as frost—Minister Li Mo himself. His tone was mild, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. He held the golden list aloft, waving it slightly as though offering an innocent invitation.

Everyone knew his words carried a sharp edge.

Zhu Ping’an, standing not far away, glanced at the gray-bearded official with curiosity. Who was this man, so bold as to taunt Yan Song in public? In these times, few possessed such courage.

Yan Song, however, did not take the bait. Instead, he chuckled softly, his old face radiant as he stroked his beard.

“Ahem, Lord Li, how very thoughtful of you—such filial concern for an old man’s failing hearing! My ears are not what they used to be. When the names were read just now, I confess a few escaped me. Since you are so kind as to offer, then yes, I shall take a look. My thanks.”

His tone was gentle, grandfatherly even, yet every word was dipped in honeyed sarcasm.

Li Mo blinked. He had expected the old fox to flare up in indignation, not to smile so serenely, as though amused by a child’s prank.

Before he could reply, a burly, round-bellied man with one sharp, gleaming eye pushed through the crowd. The officials instinctively stepped aside.

It was none other than Yan Shifan, Yan Song’s infamous son.

“Hehe, Lord Li’s concern truly moves me,” Yan Shifan said mockingly as he accepted the list with both hands. “On behalf of my father, I thank you for your… filial piety.”

Though he performed a shallow bow, his face bore not a trace of respect—only a smirk of ridicule.

Li Mo snorted coldly, tossed the list into Yan Shifan’s waiting hands, and stepped back. Behind him, several officials glared daggers at the younger Yan, their expressions united in quiet contempt.

Yan Shifan only smiled wider, his single eye glinting with menace. So, Li Mo grows bolder by the day, he thought darkly. A year ago, he was but a gatekeeper during the Tatar invasion, guarding Zhengyang Gate. Now, after a single promotion, he thinks himself my father’s equal.

A spark of cold calculation flashed across his face. It seems time to remind this old fool who truly holds power in the court.

Yan Shifan handed the list respectfully to his father. Yan Song opened it, scanning the gilded names, then descended the marble steps toward the line of jinshi waiting below.

He stopped directly before Zhu Ping’an—the young man who had just seized the title that was meant for his nephew.

“Zhu Ping’an,” Yan Song began, his voice deep but measured. “You are now the Zhuangyuan, the top scholar of our Great Ming. You are even younger than Fei Hong of Jiangxi, who once held the same honor—by more than six years. Fei Hong was twenty when he triumphed; you, however, are but fourteen.”

The air trembled slightly as murmurs spread among the officials. Even those who disliked Yan Song could not hide their surprise.

Zhu Ping’an bowed low, his face composed though his heart beat fast. Before him stood one of the most powerful men in the empire, second only to the emperor himself.

Though he despised Yan Song inwardly, he kept his expression humble, his every movement respectful.

Yan Song seemed pleased with the display. Stroking his beard, he nodded approvingly.

“Such talent at so young an age,” he continued warmly. “It speaks both of your diligence and of our emperor’s wisdom. When I first read your paper, I knew it was extraordinary—though fate nearly played a cruel trick. Thankfully, His Majesty’s divine insight prevailed. You must never forget the emperor’s grace, nor fail his boundless love for talent.”

Zhu Ping’an bowed again, replying evenly, “This humble student will remember your instruction, my lord.”

To onlookers, the scene was touching—a wise elder praising a respectful youth.

Yet to those who knew better, it was a subtle performance, both sides playing their roles perfectly.

“Hmph! Birds of a feather—scheming both young and old,” came a muttered voice.

It was Li Mo again. He turned his head away, speaking as though to no one in particular, but everyone understood the barb. With a cold snort, he led several officials past the scene.

After a few steps, he paused, bowed slightly, and said curtly, “My health is poor. The task of posting the list at Dong Chang’an Gate shall be handled by the Left Vice Minister.”

Without another glance, he departed.

From behind, Yan Shifan called out cheerfully, “Take care, Lord Li! Rest well—His Majesty will surely need your tireless service again soon!”

Li Mo’s stride faltered for an instant, betraying his anger. Yan Shifan’s laughter rang through the courtyard, dark and triumphant, his single eye glinting like obsidian.

So it begins, Zhu Ping’an thought, suppressing a sigh. When gods fight, it’s mortals who suffer.

He recalled Li Mo’s final cutting remark—“birds of a feather”—and could only smile bitterly. I’ve done nothing, yet somehow I’ve offended a powerful man by merely standing here. Heaven help me.

Then it struck him. Wait… Li Mo—the Minister of Personnel? The man who oversees the promotions of every official in the empire?

Zhu Ping’an felt a chill crawl down his spine.

Truly… fate has a cruel sense of humor.

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