Chapter 381: A Curved Path to Save Shen

The morning sky brightened into a soft gold, and the first rays of sunlight spilled over the rippling jade waters of Taiye Pond. A small boat drifted slowly across its tranquil surface, bearing Zhu Ping’an toward the shore. The water glimmered gently beneath the oars, like sheets of polished glass catching firelight.

When the boat reached land, Zhu Ping’an stepped lightly onto the stone embankment. He turned back toward the palace maids and eunuchs who had rowed him across, cupped his hands respectfully, and offered them a polite bow of thanks.

That morning, after court had been dismissed, Emperor Jiajing had withdrawn to the Guanghan Hall—a secluded palace built upon the small island in the middle of Taiye Pond. It was there that the Emperor had summoned Zhu Ping’an for an audience. Since the island could only be reached by boat, Zhu Ping’an had no choice but to make the serene yet tense journey across the lake to meet the Son of Heaven.

At the landing, a young eunuch was already waiting. Zhu recognized him immediately—Eunuch Feng Bao, a familiar face within the inner court. Feng Bao’s expression bloomed with a practiced smile as he greeted Zhu Ping’an with formal courtesies. While leading him along the path toward Guanghan Hall, the eunuch leaned closer and murmured,

“Master Zhu, His Majesty’s temper is not well today. When you face him, please tread with care.”

Zhu Ping’an gave a faint smile. He didn’t need the reminder—he had witnessed the Emperor’s anger firsthand that very morning. Still, the warning was a gesture of goodwill, and Zhu Ping’an was not a man to let goodwill go unrewarded.

“My thanks, Eunuch Feng, for your kind warning.”

He bowed once more and, with deft discretion, slipped a small silver note into Feng Bao’s sleeve. The eunuch demurred softly, only to accept it moments later with a subtle nod and another smile.

Guided by Feng Bao, Zhu Ping’an crossed the marble bridge and entered the cool shade of Guanghan Hall. Feng Bao halted at the threshold and motioned to another attendant, who led Zhu further inside to the Emperor’s chamber.

Within, the air was heavy with the scent of incense and sandalwood. Emperor Jiajing sat cross-legged upon the dragon bed, still dressed in his broad, golden dragon robe. His expression was dark and stormy, brows furrowed in lingering anger as he leafed through a memorial from Shen Lian. The silken hem of his robe cascaded from the bed and pooled upon the floor like a stream of molten sunlight.

Zhu Ping’an knelt the moment he entered the hall.

“Your servant humbly greets Your Majesty. Long live the Emperor, may Your Majesty reign for ten thousand years!”

“Rise, my loyal subject.”

The Emperor’s voice was calm yet distant. He inclined his head slightly, granting permission for Zhu to stand and approach. The vastness of the hall, however, left a long distance between them, and the echo of Zhu Ping’an’s footsteps on the marble floor sounded almost too loud in the silence.

“My thanks, Your Majesty.”

Zhu Ping’an stood but did not move closer just yet.

Emperor Jiajing’s anger had not yet cooled. The memorial Shen Lian had submitted still festered in his mind. Every time he recalled its contents, his temper surged anew.

He had ascended the throne in his youth—barely twenty when Heaven had granted him the crown. He had once been merely the heir of a distant vassal king, yet after Emperor Zhengde’s sudden death, the ministers had called him to the capital to inherit the Dragon Throne. Under the guise of the principle of “succession from brother to brother,” they had tried to control him at every turn. Led by Yang Tinghe, the ministers had sought to bind him with rules and rituals, but in the end, he had outmaneuvered them all, seized command of the court, and ruled the empire with unyielding authority.

Because of that victory, Emperor Jiajing had long seen himself as a sovereign unmatched in both civil virtue and martial prowess—perhaps even blessed by Heaven itself.

Yet now, Shen Lian’s memorial compared him to Emperor Xian of the Han—a weak monarch controlled by others! In Jiajing’s eyes, such words were not merely an impeachment of Yan Song, but an affront to the Emperor himself. How could he forgive that?

And so, his fury had erupted.

But the punishment he decreed—court caning followed by imprisonment and, finally, public execution—shocked Zhu Ping’an to the core.

Execution?

Those four words—to be judged and punished by law—were usually reserved for capital crimes, the kind announced in official decrees before a criminal’s death. Was the Emperor truly going to have Shen Lian executed?

This was not what history should have been. Zhu Ping’an clearly remembered that Emperor Jiajing had only ordered Shen Lian to be caned and then exiled to the frontier—not killed.

Shen Lian might have been impulsive, even reckless, but his heart was righteous and his intentions pure. To watch such a man perish unjustly… Zhu Ping’an’s conscience could not abide it.

He clenched his fists silently. This audience… it may be the only chance to save him. I must find a way.

“Why do you linger there, my subject?”

The Emperor’s sharp voice cut through Zhu Ping’an’s thoughts.

He blinked, startled, realizing that he had indeed failed to approach after being summoned forward. Lost in thought about Shen Lian’s fate, he had momentarily forgotten himself—a dangerous mistake before a ruler as temperamental as Jiajing.

Zhu Ping’an’s mind raced. The Emperor was already in a foul mood. Any hint of hesitation could be misread as disrespect. What could he say to soothe him?

Then, from the corner of his eye, Zhu Ping’an caught sight of the Emperor’s dragon robe trailing upon the ground. A memory surfaced—an old anecdote from later years, one in which an imperial physician had once pleased Jiajing greatly with a single clever remark about that very detail. The story had not yet occurred in this timeline, but perhaps… it could still serve him now.

Zhu’s heart steadied. He bowed deeply and said with solemn humility,

“Your Majesty’s dragon robe touches the ground. Your servant dares not draw near.”

A simple sentence, yet it struck directly at the Emperor’s heart.

The dragon robe—the embodiment of imperial majesty—lying upon the ground, and a loyal subject showing reverence for it—it was precisely the kind of omen-laden respect Emperor Jiajing relished.

On the ground, not beneath the ground. That single word made all the difference. On the ground implied the Emperor was of the living world—majestic, divine, human. Beneath would have implied death.

The Emperor’s anger softened by a few degrees. He reached down and lifted the trailing hem of his robe onto the bed, his expression easing.

“Come closer.”

Zhu Ping’an advanced with measured steps, stopped before the dragon bed, and bowed again.

The Emperor regarded him for a moment, then tossed the memorial toward him.

“Take a look. Tell me—what do you think of this?”

Zhu Ping’an caught the folded paper with both hands, bowed, and began reading. Outwardly, his face remained composed, but inside his mind churned like a storm.

If he spoke in Shen Lian’s defense now, he would only feed the Emperor’s rage. He needed another way—a way to redirect the Emperor’s thoughts without appearing to contradict him.

Minutes passed.

“Well?” The Emperor’s voice was sharp once more, his eyes fixed on Zhu Ping’an.

“If Your Majesty will permit my candor,” Zhu began calmly, “this memorial is but form without substance.”

“Oh?” The Emperor’s gaze sharpened.

“Ten grave accusations,” Zhu continued, “and yet not a single one supported by evidence—no witnesses, no proof, no corroboration. Thus, I say, Your Majesty, that it is a memorial of empty show.”

The Emperor’s brows furrowed. Then, slowly, a grim smile appeared.

“Indeed. Such petty men, thinking not of service to the realm but of playing tricks and false accusations—deserve death!”

Zhu Ping’an bowed again, then spoke quietly, almost as if to himself,

“I have heard, Your Majesty, that before submitting this memorial, Shen Lian purchased a coffin and placed it in his home.”

The Emperor froze for a heartbeat.

A coffin? So, the man had prepared to die even before he spoke?

The fury that had once burned within Jiajing’s chest flickered, uncertain.

So… he wished to die for fame? To die a martyr’s death, earning a name for righteousness?

His lips curved into a cold smile.

“So that is it. He would seek glory through death… Then I shall deny him even that.”

And thus, with one measured phrase, Zhu Ping’an had turned the storm.