Chapter 402: Seeing in Place of Hearing

Zhu Ping’an and Zhang Siwei made their way toward the Dali Temple, and midway they ran into Wang Shizhen, who was also heading there. That evening, the Dali Temple was set to host a welcoming banquet, and the three brothers decided to take the chance to gather for lunch together.

They picked a small but impeccably clean tavern along the way and stepped inside. Casually, they ordered four dishes and a soup, along with six baked flatbreads, and began eating. When Wang Shizhen learned about Zhu Ping’an’s assignment at the Hanlin Academy, he was momentarily surprised. Then, concern and indignation replaced his astonishment. He felt that Lord Li Mo had been far too hasty, treating Zhu Ping’an differently without a proper investigation.

Just like Zhang Siwei had, Wang Shizhen tried to comfort Zhu Ping’an and even suggested asking his father, who served as a censor, to speak on his behalf to Lord Li Mo. Zhu Ping’an, however, politely declined both offers.

“‘When Heaven is about to place a great responsibility on someone, it first tests their mind and spirit, exhausts their muscles and bones, wears their body, and makes them face the impossible.’ Heh… perhaps Heaven intends to entrust me with a great task as well,” Zhu Ping’an said with a small, wry smile, trying to ease their worries.

“You see, Zihou… heh, Wensheng, I think the emperor isn’t anxious at all—it’s the eunuchs who are restless…” Zhang Siwei pointed at Zhu Ping’an, chuckling.

“Forget it, you go be a eunuch if you like. I won’t,” Zhu Ping’an replied, shaking his head.

Wang Shizhen also shook his head, and the three of them exchanged a glance before bursting into laughter. Both Wang and Zhang were genuinely impressed by Zhu Ping’an’s ability to remain so calm and optimistic. In their minds, if the situation had been theirs, they could hardly have managed to maintain such composure.

After the meal, Wang Shizhen headed to the Dali Temple, while Zhu Ping’an and Zhang Siwei returned to the Hanlin Academy, each resuming their respective duties. Once back in the archives, Zhu Ping’an brewed a pot of tea, then carried the teapot and cups up to the third floor, making a beeline for the Yongle Encyclopedia.

One of the attendants responsible for cleaning the archives was sweeping upstairs when he saw Zhu Ping’an: one hand holding a book, the other a cup of tea. The young scholar was so absorbed in reading that he didn’t even notice someone had come up to the floor. The attendant occasionally glanced at him while tidying, noticing how completely unaware Zhu Ping’an was of his presence.

In the eyes of the attendant, Zhu Ping’an was unlike any other superior he had ever seen. He had been cleaning the archives for more than ten years and had served six or seven generations of senior Hanlin scholars. But he had never encountered anyone so devoted to their books, unwilling to put them down even for a moment.

It wasn’t until the attendant was sweeping near him that Zhu Ping’an finally noticed him.

“Oh, Old Li is here to clean again. Would you like a cup of tea?” Zhu Ping’an asked, putting down his cup and greeting him warmly. He had already met the attendant, surnamed Li, earlier that morning.

When Zhu Ping’an went upstairs, he had deliberately brought extra teacups, ready to serve anyone who might stop by. Old Li cleaned the archives daily; a cup of tea to soothe the throat seemed the least he could do.

“Lord Zhu, you flatter me—I don’t deserve such courtesy,” Li said, surprised and slightly flustered. It was the first time he had met a Hanlin scholar who greeted him so gently, speaking almost as if having a casual conversation without any airs.

“It’s nothing, really. There are only a few of us in the archives, and I’ll need your help plenty in the future,” Zhu Ping’an replied calmly, smiling as he poured a cup of hot tea and set it on the windowsill. “It’s the tea issued by the Academy; we’ll just make do.”

“This is too kind of you, Lord Zhu. I… I really can’t accept this. I mustn’t,” Li replied, touched.

Just a single cup of tea seemed to lift all the fatigue from his back and shoulders, dissolving the soreness from hours of sweeping. In all his years at the Hanlin Academy, he had never met a superior so down-to-earth. Previous senior scholars either stared imperiously at the ceiling or gazed disdainfully from under lowered eyelids. Even occasional polite gestures were always delivered with an air of superiority. Zhu Ping’an was the first who was entirely unpretentious.

“You focus on your work; don’t worry about me,” Zhu Ping’an said, moving a chair to the spot Li had just cleaned. With a nod, he returned to his book.

Engrossed, Zhu Ping’an delved into a text on criminal investigation in ancient times. The book contained numerous practical methods for solving cases, alongside a wealth of classical anecdotes. While ancient investigations often relied on coercion—roughly thirty percent of the stories included some form of punishment—the book offered abundant strategies for deduction and logic. Zhu Ping’an was deeply inspired, gaining a preliminary understanding of old investigative techniques.

One story, in particular, piqued his curiosity. It recounted a magistrate who had mastered the art of lip-reading, using it to unravel numerous complex cases.

Curious, Zhu Ping’an returned the book to its shelf and, using the Hongwu Zhengyun classification, searched for texts on lip-reading. To his surprise, he found an entire volume categorized under “Techniques.”

“Lip-readers substitute sight for hearing, interpreting language through observation of the lips. In the Spring and Autumn period, a man named Er Ai of Wei excelled at this art…”

The volume explained the art of lip-reading comprehensively, gathering all related information. Within, Zhu Ping’an found a detailed guide on lip-reading pedagogy. The Yongle Encyclopedia did not compose original content but meticulously compiled records from various texts, noting the sources, volumes, and authors—a true case of “recording, not creating.”

This particular guide came from a work called Biographies of Performers. Lip-reading had been a performative skill, used by storytellers to engage audiences. Its origins traced back to Er Ai of Wei in the Spring and Autumn period, refined over centuries into a teaching manual.

The instructions were meticulous, covering facial and lip movements to decode speech. Factors such as setting, ambient noise, linguistic habits, dialects, lighting, and distance were all accounted for, with specific strategies provided for each scenario. The text also identified the ideal practitioners: those who were steadfast, studious, and taciturn.

“Seems like this suits me perfectly,” Zhu Ping’an thought, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Why not learn it? Skills never hurt, and lip-reading sounded not only practical but also impressive.

Thanks to his near-photographic memory, he quickly absorbed the volume, then replaced it on the shelf, mentally summarizing the techniques.

In reality, lip-reading wasn’t particularly difficult. Once one grasped the principles, proficiency came through practice. Zhu Ping’an found the manual clear and accessible, and before long, he had mastered the techniques it described.

Yet, mastering the book’s teachings didn’t make him a true lip-reader. Lip-reading required continuous accumulation and practice. Zhu Ping’an had only taken his first steps—he knew the method, but to truly understand and interpret lips in real situations, he would need much more practice.