Chapter 379: This Humble Official Has a Memorial to Present

“Urgent dispatch! Urgent dispatch! Three hundred li in haste!”

“The Imperial Examination List! Open the gates! Those who hinder shall be guilty of great crimes—those who resist shall face severe punishment!”

The first light of dawn had just brushed the eastern sky when a cloud of dust rolled toward the gates of Anqing Prefecture. From within that swirling haze came the thunder of hooves—two riders charging like arrows loosed from a bow.

The one in the lead was a post courier clad in the official vermilion uniform, his hand clutching a scroll sealed with the great imperial stamp. Across the scroll, in bold black brushstrokes, were written four characters—“Deliver with all speed.” The courier urged his steed on mercilessly, galloping full tilt toward the city gate without slowing for even a breath.

Behind him, another rider followed close—a man in darker attire, bearing in his arms a sealed imperial decree. The scroll was black, its wooden shafts carved from rare sunflower ebony, the dark wood gleaming faintly under the dim morning light. Though slightly behind, his pace too was fierce and unrelenting as he sped toward the city gate.

These two were not companions. They had met only shortly before reaching Anqing. Both had departed from the capital, yet the second rider had actually left two full days earlier. His message, however—a commendation decree for ennoblement—was marked only two hundred li urgent, unlike the first courier’s three hundred li. Thus, despite his head start, he had been overtaken just before the gates of Anqing.

The guards stationed atop the walls of Anqing caught sight of the two riders tearing toward them, banners and scrolls raised high. Recognizing the seals and hearing the thunderous cries of “Imperial Edict Delivery!”, they dared not delay for even a heartbeat. Hastily, they opened the gates wide, waving the couriers through.

At long last, the Golden List of the Imperial Examinations and the imperial decree of ennoblement had arrived in Anqing Prefecture.

At that very moment—while the courier’s horses, drenched in sweat and dust, thundered into the prefecture far away—in the capital, Zhu Ping’an had just completed three days of ceremonial training at the Honglu Temple. Today was the day of presenting the memorial of gratitude before His Majesty.

According to the regulations set forth in the Great Ming Code, after three days of etiquette instruction at the Honglu Temple, the top scholar of the imperial examination was to lead all newly appointed jinshi to the palace to offer thanks to the Emperor. The event served not only as an expression of loyalty and humility—but also as a final test of whether the new scholars had properly mastered the intricacies of court ceremony.

This particular audience was to be held in the Western Garden (Xiyuan). It was already a small miracle that Emperor Jiajing had deigned to leave his Daoist retreat in the Western Garden for the last audience at the Forbidden City; to hold another full court assembly here so soon was, to the officials, nothing short of divine favor.

It was still early in the year, and to see the Emperor twice before spring’s end was something few dared to hope for. In the previous years, Jiajing had secluded himself so deeply in alchemy and Daoist cultivation that entire seasons passed without a single appearance. To the officials, it mattered little whether they were in Xiyuan or the Forbidden City—so long as they could see the Emperor’s face, their hearts brimmed with satisfaction.

That morning, Zhu Ping’an rose before dawn. He dressed meticulously in his newly bestowed court robes, the deep crimson silk trimmed with patterned gold threads, and fastened his scholar’s crown upon his head. Standing before the mirror, he steadied his breath—his heart thumping with anticipation and solemnity.

By the time he reached the Western Garden Palace Gate, the place was already thrumming with the quiet energy of expectation. To witness His Majesty’s presence was rarer than winning a grand prize, and no one—neither minister nor attendant—took the chance lightly. Before long, the front of the palace was filled with the most brilliant minds of the empire, the bureaucratic elite of Great Ming, gathered in dignified silence.

When the appointed hour arrived, the great bronze doors of Xiyuan swung open. Ministers and officials, ranked by order of precedence, filed inside in strict formation. Zhu Ping’an, leading the group of new jinshi, followed immediately behind.

The Hall of Supreme Purity (Taisu Hall) loomed ahead—a place already familiar to Zhu Ping’an, for it was there that he had faced the Emperor during the final stage of the Imperial Examination. Today, the hall had been prepared once more for the formal audience.

Officials from the Honglu Temple had already set the ceremonial arrangements. Before the eastern gate of the hall stood a small carved table—its surface engraved with coiling dragons among clouds—set precisely three paces from the main doors. Zhu Ping’an knew at once: this was the table upon which he, as the Zhuangyuan—the top scholar—was to place the Memorial of Gratitude on behalf of all new graduates.

The form and wording of such a memorial were fixed by tradition, leaving little room for personal expression. His had already been composed during the Honglu Temple training, revised word by word under the careful eyes of senior officials.

Moments later, the rhythmic clang of gongs and the steady beat of ceremonial drums announced the Emperor’s approach.

A retinue of Jinyiwei guards appeared first, surrounding the Emperor’s sedan in a glittering formation. Their shields gleamed like silver under the sun; banners, golden melons, and ornamental maces shimmered in the air. Behind them came palace musicians, their flutes and drums weaving solemn melodies that echoed through the garden.

Then—with a sharp crack of a whip—the imperial sedan came into view.

Emperor Jiajing had arrived.

The assembled officials, as one, thundered:
“Long live His Majesty! Long live the Emperor! Ten thousand years! Ten thousand years! Ten thousand times ten thousand years!”

Three times they knelt; nine times they bowed. The grand ceremony shook the hall like waves breaking upon a shore.

Zhu Ping’an, leading the new scholars, knelt among the ranks at the foot of the steps. From where he was, he could not see the Emperor clearly, only the golden radiance spilling from the hall. Yet each kneel, each bow, carried the full weight of his gratitude and awe.

When the ceremonial greetings concluded, the court’s true business began—the presentation of the Memorial of Gratitude by the Zhuangyuan.

A Honglu Temple official descended the steps, gesturing for Zhu Ping’an to follow him upward. Together they approached the dragon-engraved table before the eastern gate.

Following the prescribed ritual, Zhu Ping’an knelt, raised the memorial in both hands, and placed it reverently upon the table. Then, as taught, he performed three kneelings and nine prostrations before retreating once more to stand with his peers.

“Present the memorial!”

The cry of the herald rang out clear and powerful.

At once, another Honglu Temple official stepped from the ranks, approached the dragon table, and lifted the memorial with both hands. Advancing into the hall, he knelt in the center of the court, holding the document high before him.

“Proclaim the memorial!”

Again the herald’s voice resounded.

Kneeling, the official began to read aloud—his voice steady and formal—reciting the preface and conclusion of the memorial, the traditional words of thanks from the new scholars to their sovereign.

When the reading concluded, the herald called once more:

“New scholars, approach and pay homage!”

Zhu Ping’an led his fellow graduates up the hall steps. Together they knelt before the Dragon Throne, the Emperor seated high above upon his gilded seat.

From that height, Emperor Jiajing surveyed the kneeling scholars. His eyes glinted faintly, and at length he spoke, his tone calm but weighty as stone:

“Some among you shall enter the Hanlin Academy, some shall serve in the Six Ministries.
You are the keepers of my words, the stewards of our peace.
Cultivate virtue and ability well, for I shall depend upon you in the days to come.
Should any grow negligent, be warned—I shall not forgive lightly.”

His voice, though unhurried, carried an authority that filled the hall.

Zhu Ping’an and the new jinshi bowed deeply once more.
“We humbly heed Your Majesty’s sacred command!”

The Emperor said no more. The herald’s cry of “Rites concluded!” echoed through the hall, and the officials rose, bowed again, and stepped back to take their places at the end of the civil ranks.

Normally, with the memorial offered and the ceremony complete, the court would have dispersed—the Emperor returning to his residence, the officials to their ministries.

But today… something was different.

Just as the herald drew breath to declare the assembly dismissed, a voice—clear, sonorous, and unwavering—rose from within the ranks.

“Your servant has a memorial to present!”

The hall fell utterly silent.

Every gaze turned toward the speaker as he stepped forward from among the sea of officials—a man of about forty, refined in bearing yet radiating stern resolve. He wore the dark-blue Feiyu robe of a high-ranking officer, the embroidery of flying fish glinting faintly as he strode into the open.

In his hand, he gripped a jade memorial tablet, and with deliberate, unflinching steps, he advanced toward the Dragon Throne.

Raising his voice, solemn and resonant, he cried once more:

“Your servant has a memorial to present!”

The words struck through the hush like a blade through still water—bold, ringing, unyielding. His face was calm, his gaze steady, as though he had already cast aside the fear of life and death.

And thus, the tranquil air of the great hall rippled with sudden tension—the spark of something momentous about to unfold.