Chapter 380: Petition to Execute the Traitor Yan Song
“Your servant has a memorial to present.”
That single sentence struck the hall like a thunderclap from a clear sky.
The words came so suddenly that everyone — from the august Emperor Jiajing seated upon the Dragon Throne, to the ranks of civil and military officials standing below — found themselves momentarily frozen. None had expected this. None were prepared.
And then, when they saw who had stepped forward, a ripple of shock swept through the court.
It was Shen Lian.
The moment Zhu Ping’an caught sight of the man, his heart sank. A sense of foreboding, sharp and cold as a blade, cut through his chest.
He knew — from history, from memory — that Shen Lian’s impeachment memorial against Yan Song had indeed taken place around this very time. Yet he hadn’t expected it to be today. He had even been thinking of warning Shen Lian, perhaps through an anonymous letter or some subtle word of caution. But fate had moved faster.
Shen Lian had already stepped forward.
Could it be that after that drunken night — the night he forced drink upon Yan Shifan, son of the all-powerful Grand Secretary Yan Song — Shen Lian had awakened in confusion and dread, realizing the enormity of what he’d done? And perhaps, knowing too well the vengeful nature of the Yan family, he had decided that since disaster was already inevitable, he might as well face it head-on — to strike first, even if it meant death?
As it turned out, Zhu Ping’an’s guess was not far from the truth.
That drunken episode was but the final spark. In truth, Shen Lian had long intended to memorialize the Emperor and expose the crimes of Yan Song and his son. The drinking incident merely convinced him that if he didn’t speak out now, he might never have another chance.
So, upon returning home, still half-drunk and his heart aflame, he set to work.
For three days and nights he shut himself away, neither eating nor sleeping properly. He wrote and rewrote, tore up drafts, refined every line with painstaking care. The ink on his desk thickened into crusted pools, and the candle wax piled high beside him. Only when dawn broke on the third day did he finally put down his brush.
Then, as though preparing for his own death, he bathed, burned incense, arranged his affairs, and even ordered a coffin for himself. Having said farewell to his wife and children, Shen Lian walked alone toward the imperial court.
Some things, he thought, must be done by someone.
Silence would not save the nation. Each day of silence was another day of complicity.
If all the other ministers chose to turn a blind eye and hold their tongues, then he — Shen Lian — would not.
“Your servant has a memorial to present!”
In a hall thick with stunned whispers, Shen Lian’s voice rang out like a clarion call. The force of his righteousness seemed almost visible — a surge of upright energy filling the court, shaking the pillars and echoing against the vaulted ceiling.
Standing among the front ranks of officials, Lu Bing — commander of the Embroidered Guards and Shen Lian’s superior — was dumbstruck. His usually composed features twitched with disbelief. Shen Lian had not breathed a word of this to him beforehand. And though Lu Bing did not yet know what matter Shen Lian intended to raise, a heavy unease settled in his gut.
From his elevated throne, Emperor Jiajing narrowed his eyes. “And what,” he asked coldly, “is it that you wish to report?”
“Your Majesty,” Shen Lian declared, stepping forward until he knelt upon the polished jade floor, his memorial held high above his head. “The Grand Secretary Yan Song is a traitorous villain who brings calamity upon the realm and suffering upon the people. Your servant implores Your Majesty to execute Yan Song!”
The words fell like a hammer blow.
Gasps rippled through the ranks. The entire court erupted in a storm of shocked murmurs. Even Yan Song himself — standing serenely among the senior ministers — blinked in surprise. This minor official dared to brand him, Yan Song, the chief scholar of the cabinet, as a national traitor?
Emperor Jiajing’s brows furrowed, his tone deadly calm. “Do you understand, Shen Lian, that a man’s words may condemn him to death?”
Shen Lian lifted his head, his expression unwavering. “Your servant understands. Yet when treachery festers in the court, I cannot remain silent. The traitor Yan Song is guilty of ten capital crimes — each deserving death!”
Then, voice ringing with fury and conviction, he began to list them one by one.
“Last year, when the barbarian Altan Khan defied our borders, Your Majesty resolved to lead a northern campaign. The ministers of the realm were united in their wish to serve. But victory depends upon sound counsel, and sound counsel demands that the court first purge itself of corruption. Yet the Grand Secretary Yan — greedy to his marrow, foolish to the bone — cared only for himself and his son Shifan.
When Your Majesty worried for the realm, did he summon worthy men to advise you? No. He conspired with his son to seek his own profit. He stifled the loyal and encouraged the fawning. He sold offices and traded favors. When the court rewarded a man, he said, ‘It is by my grace’; when the court punished a man, he said, ‘It is by my decree.’ Thus all sought to please the Yan household and forgot the Emperor’s will!
Shall such wickedness be borne?
I name his crimes:
First — he accepted bribes from generals, endangering our borders.
Second — he conspired in secret with princes for illicit gain.
Third — he monopolized the Ministry of Personnel, selling even the smallest offices, corrupting the very foundation of governance.
Fourth — he extorted annual tributes from provincial inspectors, bleeding the common folk dry.
Fifth — he silenced the censors and cowed them into submission.
Sixth — he envied the virtuous and destroyed all who opposed him.
Seventh — he permitted his son to amass wealth through corruption, incurring the hatred of all under heaven.
Eighth — he sent the riches of the nation to his home, day after day, causing unrest along every post road.
Ninth — he clung to power for years, twisting state affairs to his private will.
Tenth — he failed to aid the imperial cause, bringing anxiety to his sovereign!”
Each accusation struck like a drumbeat, echoing across the hall. Shen Lian’s face burned crimson, his hand pointed straight at Yan Song, and his voice trembled with fury and righteous grief.
The court held its breath.
For all his outward calm, Yan Song knew these accusations were, for the most part, true. Yet he merely smiled faintly, serene as an old fox among startled hens.
When Shen Lian had first cried “traitor,” Yan Song had indeed felt a flicker of fear. But as the memorial went on, that fear vanished.
So that’s all you have, boy? he thought. Moral outrage and fine words?
In his heart, he even sneered: By calling me a usurper of imperial will, you insult not me but His Majesty himself. Do you take the Son of Heaven for a fool or for the feeble Emperor of Han?
And sure enough — even before Shen Lian had finished his last sentence — Emperor Jiajing’s fury erupted.
“Utter nonsense!”
His voice cracked like thunder through the hall. The imperial memorial was flung from his hand, scattering papers across the polished floor.
“Last year you were already presumptuous before my throne,” the Emperor thundered, “and I forgave you once, taking pity on your ignorance. Yet now you return with slander and defamation, seeking to destroy a loyal minister and make yourself appear righteous! If all my subjects were as reckless as you, the court would descend into chaos!”
Shen Lian fell to his knees, his voice hoarse. “Your Majesty, every word I speak comes from the depths of my heart! I beseech Your Majesty to investigate and see the truth!”
He struck his forehead against the ground. A crimson stain spread across the tiles — blood from his brow.
The Emperor’s eyes flashed coldly. From the depths of your heart? Then you accuse me of blindness, of failing to see what you see?
“Impudent!”
His shout shook the hall. “Guards! Give him twenty strokes and throw him into the dungeon! His punishment shall be decided in due time!”
The words fell. No one dared to intercede.
Only a few among the officials murmured timidly, “Your Majesty, calm yourself…” but their voices were feeble and quickly died away.
Shen Lian was seized by the imperial guards, dragged across the floor as he cried out, “Your Majesty! Hear your servant’s plea! Please—execute Yan Song! Save the realm, Your Majesty—!”
His voice faded into the distance.
Yan Shifan, standing behind his father, gave a subtle nod to one of the guards — a silent order. When the beating begins, make it count.
Yet fortune had not abandoned Shen Lian entirely. As a fellow member of the Embroidered Guards, he was under Lu Bing’s jurisdiction. Lu Bing quietly signaled the men to show mercy. Thus, after three heavy strokes, they lightened their blows. Though his back appeared torn and bloody, the worst of it was superficial.
Once Shen Lian was carried away, Emperor Jiajing departed in anger, his robes swirling behind him as the court hastily dispersed.
Outside the grand hall, a crowd of officials gathered around Yan Song and his son, loudly proclaiming their indignation on his behalf, eager to prove their loyalty to the powerful father and son.
Zhu Ping’an, however, stood rooted where he was, watching as Shen Lian’s broken, bloodied form was dragged toward the prison. His mind felt hollow, his chest heavy.
Only when a young eunuch approached and whispered, “His Majesty summons you, Zhuangyuan-lang,” did he stir from his daze.
None of the other officials looked surprised.
For it was custom — after the new champion scholar offered thanks to the Emperor on behalf of all successful candidates — that he would be summoned privately for an imperial audience.