Chapter 432: Deeply Distressed

Everything would have been perfect—absolutely flawless—if only there weren’t one extra person mixed into the crowd.

That person was a fellow by the name of Zhu Ping’an.

On the road to the Western Garden, every time Yuan Wei thought about the fact that Zhu Ping’an would be accompanying them, his mood soured instantly. The feeling was exactly like savoring rare delicacies from land and sea, only to suddenly bite down on a fly hidden in the dish. The taste ruined beyond redemption.

Still… perhaps this was not entirely a bad thing.

It’s about time I put him in his place, Yuan Wei thought grimly. Let him understand exactly where he stands, so he won’t keep getting carried away just because he cobbled together a few so-called “Food School” poems and started believing himself to be something special.

Having made up his mind, Yuan Wei resolved that during this jiao offering, he would compose yet another qingci—one so stunning it would shake the entire audience and leave no room for doubt.

Zhu Ping’an, on the other hand, carried none of those tangled thoughts.

What filled his mind was simple curiosity—pure and unguarded. He was curious about what the Jiajing Emperor’s jiao offering actually looked like, how grand its scale would be, and how such a ceremony was conducted in practice. As they walked toward the Western Garden, Zhu Ping’an quietly exchanged observations and guesses with Zhang Siwei beside him. Before he realized it, they had already arrived at their destination.

At this moment, the Western Garden was shrouded in drifting smoke. No one could say exactly how many incense sticks and candles were being burned that day; it was probably something that had to be measured by the cartload. Fortunately, the air quality of the Great Ming was still decent—otherwise, such rampant incense burning would have sent the PM2.5 index straight through the roof.

All the guards and soldiers on duty within the Western Garden had tied apricot-yellow cloth strips around their weapons and blades, symbolizing a vow to Heaven of benevolence and non-killing for the duration of the rites. Inside the Western Garden, the arrangements made the place resemble a blend of Buddhist temple and Daoist sanctuary: statues of the Daoist Venerable Ones, incense burners, talismans of every variety. Anyone visiting for the first time would surely mistake it for a Daoist monastery.

After Li Mo escorted Zhu Ping’an and the others into the Western Garden and handed them over to a middle-aged man dressed as a Daoist priest, he turned and left on his own for Pinglu, where the Grand Secretariat officials stood duty. Deep down, Li Mo harbored nothing but disdain for this entire jiao offering business.

With the Yan faction dominating the court, discipline in shambles, and His Majesty absorbed in cultivating immortality and refining elixirs—having neglected court audiences for over a decade—countless affairs of state piled up like mountains. How could such matters possibly be resolved through alchemy and transcendence? If cultivating immortality truly led to ascension, then how had Shao Yuanjie, the former Celestial Master once treated as His Majesty’s own teacher, still ended up dying? Even Shao Yuanjie could not escape death—so what exactly was His Majesty striving for?

Li Mo could not understand it. The Emperor was undeniably brilliant; even without holding court, he maintained a firm grip on governance. And yet, how could someone so wise fail to see through such an obvious fallacy?

Sighing repeatedly in his heart, Li Mo shook his head, returned to his duty quarters, and shut the window firmly. As for the jiao offering and all that lay outside—out of sight, out of mind.

“Esteemed lords, please wait a moment,” the middle-aged Daoist said, flicking his fly-whisk as he addressed Zhu Ping’an and the others. “My master is currently discussing the details of the jiao offering with His Majesty.”

Zhu Ping’an took the opportunity to observe the man more closely. The bagua patterns and intricate lines embroidered on his Daoist robe were all outlined in gold thread—sheer extravagance. A single robe like that must have consumed several taels of gold to produce.

While the Daoist was speaking, inside the Hall of the Three Pure Ones, the Jiajing Emperor and Tao Zhongwen had already finalized the various details of this jiao offering. Tao Zhongwen rose from his bagua cushion and respectfully saluted the Emperor.

“Then I shall leave the matter in your capable hands, Master Tao,” the Jiajing Emperor said, standing as well.

The Emperor’s treatment of Tao Zhongwen was exceptionally courteous—so much so that if Yan Song were present to witness the scene, he would surely feel a pang of jealousy. The Emperor addressed Tao Zhongwen as “Master,” whereas even Yan Song was merely called by his courtesy name.

What was more, Yan Song had to submit requests and wait to be announced whenever he sought an audience. Tao Zhongwen, by contrast, could enter freely without prior notice—and each time, the Emperor personally granted him a seat.

Such favor was virtually unheard of in the entire dynasty.

While waiting outside, Zhu Ping’an also took time to examine the setup of the ritual platform—or rather, the Daoist ritual field. Surrounding the field were numerous Daoist priests clad in gold-threaded robes, each holding different ritual implements: apricot-yellow banners, court tablets, ruyi scepters, jade registers, jade seals, ceremonial swords, command flags, command arrows, and command tokens. Every single item gleamed with golden brilliance. Wherever metal was involved, it was made of solid gold.

At the sight of it all, Zhu Ping’an nearly had the urge to knock a few of them unconscious and make off with the goods.

How much money does a single jiao offering like this cost? he thought grimly. Is all the blood and sweat of the Ming people being burned right here? Wouldn’t it be far better spent on the common folk?

And this wasn’t even the end of it.

The ritual field was vast, with nine altars constructed in total—one main altar and eight smaller subsidiary ones. The altars were raised platforms of earth and timber, meant to communicate with Heaven itself. The main altar stood a full seven or eight meters high, upon which were arranged incense burners, candle stands, flower vases, incense slips, ceremonial banners, talismanic documents, memorial texts, consecrated water, hand warmers, and countless other ritual objects. Scattered together, there were nearly a hundred different items.

In addition to the altars, the field contained eighty-one incense burners, arranged according to numerological principles. Each burner stood nearly half a man’s height, holding Daoist incense sticks over a meter long and as thick as a baby’s arm. Smoke coiled endlessly into the air, carrying with it the blended fragrances of several medicinal herbs and rare aromatics. Even a casual glance made it obvious that this incense alone was worth a fortune.

Such waste.

If only the money spent on this jiao offering were used to do something meaningful for the people! Instead, piles of silver were simply burned away—gone, reduced to smoke.

The grander the ceremony appeared, the more Zhu Ping’an’s heart ached.

Just as he was gritting his teeth in silent anguish, a chorus of voices chanting “Wuliang Tianzun” rose in the distance. Looking up, he saw an elderly Daoist slowly approaching—white beard flowing, hair like a crane’s plumage, youthful complexion untouched by age. He wore an apricot-yellow Daoist robe, and his presence radiated calm authority. All the Daoists in the field bowed to him from afar, while several higher-ranking middle-aged priests hurried forward to receive his instructions.

Though the distance was great, Zhu Ping’an could make out the man’s appearance clearly enough. He truly looked like the archetypal immortal from the pages of books—white beard drifting, eyes bright and alert, spirit vigorous.

This air of masterful charlatanry was almost on par with that old swindler Zhu Ping’an had once encountered by the Qinhuai River, the one who had gifted him two books.

Still, one thing was certain: this Celestial Master Tao was not the same Daoist he had met before. This man appeared older—and the aura he carried was far more imposing.

Why not just stay in the deep mountains and cultivate your Dao in peace? Zhu Ping’an thought with a silent sneer. The Great Ming cannot afford to be tossed around like this. When this towering edifice finally collapses a hundred years from now, Daoists like you within the palace will have played no small part in it.

From afar, Zhu Ping’an curled his lip in disdain.

After issuing his instructions, Celestial Master Tao floated away toward another palace hall—likely to bathe and prepare for the jiao offering.

Once the Daoists who had received his orders returned, they began leading Zhu Ping’an and the others onto the ritual platforms. One Daoist was paired with one Hanlin scholar, each pair assigned to a single altar to compose qingci, plaques, couplets, and other ritual texts.

Yuan Wei was clearly a frequent participant in such ceremonies, and many of the Daoists recognized him. A senior-looking Daoist—likely an elder disciple—personally led Yuan Wei to the largest main altar.

Standing atop the highest altar, Yuan Wei glanced toward Zhu Ping’an, who was ascending one of the smaller platforms nearby.

A proud, self-satisfied smile spread across his face.