Chapter 409: Suddenly Receiving a Note from the Emperor

After Zhou Houjie had left, it was just about noon, the time for lunch at the Hanlin Academy. The Academy had its own official kitchen, which provided meals of varying quality according to an official’s rank—always free of charge, of course. By virtue of his own status, Zhu Ping’an enjoyed a slightly better lunch than Zhang Siwei, with an extra meat dish. The two of them set their meals together and began eating side by side.

Though the Hanlin Academy had a kitchen, it had no communal dormitories or places for a midday rest. There was only one duty room with two beds, but those were reserved for the duty officers. After finishing his lunch, Zhu Ping’an returned to the library. He found a sunny window, dragged a chair over, and reclined, closing his eyes to rest.

Sunlight spilled over him, warm and comforting, evoking a familiar feeling of lying by the riverside in Xiahe Village, basking in the gentle breeze and soft sun.

Xiahe Village—just one more week of work, and then there would be the two-month leave that came with the appointment of a new official. Two whole months to spend back in Xiahe Village…

Thinking of this, Zhu Ping’an gradually slipped into a peaceful sleep. In his dream, his mother, Madam Chen, was simmering a fragrant pot of chicken soup, while his father had returned from the mountains with two wild rabbits, busy with his elder brother by the well, cleaning the game…

“Hey, hey, Zi Hou, wake up…”

Just as Zhu Ping’an was about to savor the delicious aroma of his mother’s stew in his dream, Zhang Siwei’s shrill voice jolted him awake. And this was no gentle call—Zhang Siwei seemed positively deranged, shaking him roughly as he shouted. When Zhu Ping’an finally opened his eyes, he felt as if his head had been turned into a rattle.

“Whoa, are you trying to murder me?” Zhu Ping’an rubbed his eyes, his expression a mix of disbelief and irritation as he glared at Zhang Siwei.

“Not murder! Come on, we need to go to the main hall—there’s a paper from His Majesty!” Zhang Siwei explained tersely, tugging him toward the front hall at a brisk pace.

A paper from the Emperor?

Why would a note from the Jiajing Emperor come to the Hanlin Academy? Uh… could it be that he wanted some books? But the library hadn’t even been organized yet. A subtle unease crept into Zhu Ping’an’s chest.

When they arrived at the main hall, Zhu Ping’an understood why Zhang Siwei was so urgent. The paper wasn’t being delivered by some minor eunuch; it was brought personally by Huang Jin, one of the Emperor’s most trusted courtiers. Just yesterday, the Hanlin Academy had drafted an imperial edict concerning Huang Jin, elevating him to the rank of “Inspector-General of the Eastern Depot,” also called “Supervisor of the Depot,” or respectfully, “Chang Gong” or “Duzhu”—the head of the Eastern Depot.

With the Emperor’s trusted agent personally delivering this note, it had to be urgent. No wonder Zhang Siwei had been in such a rush.

“Master Huang, there is no need for you to trouble yourself personally. Sending someone would have sufficed,” Yuan Wei said with a smile, stepping forward to greet Huang Jin.

“Master Yuan, you are too polite. This matter concerns His Majesty’s health; I feared that sending lesser aides might result in delays,” Huang Jin said, shaking his head, his face shadowed with concern.

Huang Jin’s personal appearance immediately heightened the gravity of the situation for Yuan Wei, Li Chunfang, and the others. Hearing him speak and seeing his anxious expression, their minds raced. Could His Majesty’s health be failing? But if the Emperor were truly ill, shouldn’t this be handled by the Imperial Medical Bureau? Why come to the Hanlin Academy?

The scholars were puzzled and concerned, not knowing the content of the Emperor’s note.

Zhu Ping’an’s curiosity sharpened as he looked at the tattered slip in Huang Jin’s hand. Yet as he took in its material, he felt relief. The note was clearly torn casually from Qing Teng paper, likely scribbled by the Emperor during a ritual or prayer session. If the Emperor still had time for such rites, there was likely no serious danger.

Even for a small paper note, the Hanlin scholars still kneeled in respect. Li Chunfang, the eldest among the officials present, took the note on behalf of the Academy.

“Please present several poems that stimulate appetite,” he read aloud.

When Li Chunfang unfolded the note and read the words, his expression twisted into one of bewilderment.

Seeing this, Yuan Wei’s curiosity intensified. When the note was passed into his hands, his expression mirrored Li Chunfang’s. Yuan Wei then handed it to Zhang Juzheng, who read it and passed it along to the others. Soon, everyone at the Hanlin Academy had seen the note.

Poems that stimulate appetite? What in the world?

If it were a request for “Qingci” (refined court poetry), it would not be surprising; the Emperor occasionally sent notes requesting such compositions. But poems that stimulate appetite? That was unprecedented. What sort of poetry could affect one’s appetite?

“His Majesty has had a poor appetite these past days. Last night he ate a bit, which brought us relief, but today he has not taken even a drop at breakfast or lunch. Seeing this pains us deeply. Last night, it was only after reading a particular poem that His Majesty regained his appetite. Unable to resist our urging today, His Majesty wrote this note during his meditation. You, the talented scholars of the Hanlin Academy, must compose several such poems—His Majesty’s health depends on you,” Huang Jin declared, bowing deeply to the scholars.

A jest! You are the head of the Eastern Depot! Who dares bow to you? Li Chunfang and the others quickly restrained Huang Jin, patting their chests to assure him that they would fulfill the task.

The Emperor’s appetite had been stimulated by a single poem last night?

What kind of poem could have such a miraculous effect?

At this moment, no one could guess that it was the poem Zhu Ping’an had written while drunk at a small banquet the previous evening. Who would associate a clumsy, half-baked piece from a minor gathering with the Emperor’s revived appetite? And, cough, could that even be called poetry? How vulgar!

Nevertheless, despite the unexpected nature of the Emperor’s note, it posed no real challenge to the brilliant minds of the Hanlin scholars.

Yuan Wei, in particular, was exceptionally quick-witted. As with previous submissions of refined poetry, he produced a piece almost instantly:

“The purple-capped peak rises from the emerald cauldron,
The crystal plate carries the pale scales;
Ivory chopsticks linger over sumptuous fare,
The phoenix knife slices through threads of delight;
Chefs wield their twin blades in perfect harmony,
Carving gold-plated platters of snow-white delicacies.
The eunuch attendants barely stir the dust,
While imperial cooks deliver the Eight Treasures in endless procession.”

Yuan Wei’s rapid composition surprised everyone. Several scholars gathered to admire the piece, praising it for its vivid imagery, as though they could see the Eight Treasures feast before them and witness the peak skill of the imperial chefs.

Listening to the accolades, Yuan Wei glanced at Zhu Ping’an, who had yet to pick up his brush, and a smug smile crossed his face. The young prodigy? First scholar of his generation? All hype. Could he compare to me, Yuan Wei?!