Chapter 433: When the Moment Comes, Strike Without Hesitation

Zhu Ping’an followed a middle-aged Daoist up the stone steps to the ritual altar. As he ascended, his gaze swept across the altar, crowded with ritual implements and offerings that glittered and gleamed in profusion. The air was thick with the heavy, cloying scent of burning incense, so dense it seemed almost tangible. Zhu Ping’an inhaled once, then slowly shook his head without realizing it. Any single ritual object placed upon this Zhai-Qiao altar would be enough to sustain a comfortably well-off household for a long time.

From the highest tier of the altar, Yuan Wei caught sight of Zhu Ping’an’s slight shake of the head from afar. The corners of Yuan Wei’s lips curled upward into a mocking smile. Hmph, he sneered inwardly. So the brat’s finally run out of tricks.

Thus, wrapped in rolling clouds of incense smoke, Yuan Wei began quietly brewing his ornate and florid qingci in his mind, confidence swelling with every breath.

Not long after stepping onto the altar, Zhu Ping’an noticed the Daoists stationed below. Each held a ritual implement and had begun performing a strange, almost unsettling dance. Their movements were stiff yet exaggerated, feet stamping in odd rhythms as they swayed and spun. At the same time, they chanted scriptures at full voice, words rising and falling in cadenced unison, while their arms sliced through the air—sometimes in gestures of reverent welcome, sometimes in motions meant to expel unseen forces.

Spirit-dancing…

Zhu Ping’an curled his lips slightly and summed it up with that single phrase in his heart.

Once the Daoists below completed their spirit dance, several of them approached from a distance carrying writing materials—brushes, peachwood talismans, and other items—which they delivered one by one to each ritual platform. These were for Zhu Ping’an and the others to use in composing qingci and ritual couplets.

There were writing brushes, peach talismans, green rattan paper, paperweights, and more—everything one might expect.

Everything, that is, except ink.

“May I ask, Daoist,” Zhu Ping’an stopped the Daoist who had brought the materials, “where is the ink?”

The middle-aged Daoist smiled at the question and pointed toward a jar filled with thick, viscous golden powder. “My lord, this is the ink.”

“This… is ink?” Zhu Ping’an’s mouth twitched.

“Indeed,” the Daoist nodded, pride glinting faintly in his eyes. “This is pure gold ground into powder, blended with a divine elixir personally prepared by our master. All qingci and ritual couplets for the Zhai-Qiao are written with this ink.”

Hearing this, the twitching at Zhu Ping’an’s mouth intensified, as though he had been struck by some kind of spell.

“Is my lord unwell?” the Daoist asked casually, clearly accustomed to such reactions.

“I’m fine,” Zhu Ping’an replied, staring at the jar of gold powder that must have weighed several jin. The words were forced out through clenched teeth.

What a damned waste.

This wasn’t a ritual offering—it was outright burning money. Ink made from powdered gold? And that so-called divine elixir was probably nothing more than water, or perhaps some clear oil. Even so, mixing gold into ink like this was extravagance beyond reason. Over the course of this single Zhai-Qiao ritual, wouldn’t they use up hundreds of jin of gold powder?

This ceremony alone had produced countless moments that nearly made Zhu Ping’an’s eyes fall out of their sockets.

And after the ritual was over, these Daoists would no doubt pocket the remaining gold powder with perfectly legitimate justifications. One only had to look at the gold-thread embroidery woven into their Daoist robes to know exactly where that gold ended up.

After delivering the writing materials, the middle-aged Daoist stepped down from the altar, presumably to attend to other matters below. Left on the platform were only Zhu Ping’an and another middle-aged Daoist who was arranging ritual implements.

Before leaving, the Daoist had already explained that Zhu Ping’an was to write five pairs of couplets and one qingci to decorate the altar.

Seeing that the other Hanlin scholars had already begun writing, Zhu Ping’an gathered his thoughts and prepared to put brush to paper. This posed no real difficulty for him. Writing qingci and couplets was essentially the same as composing refined parallel prose, merely dressed in a specific ceremonial style. Earlier, the Daoist had brought eight brushes—perhaps to align with the auspicious number eight, or perhaps because gold-powder ink wore brushes down quickly.

Zhu Ping’an studied the brushes on the table, deep in thought.

He arranged the desk, selected a brush, and dipped it heavily into the gold powder. When the brush touched the green rattan paper, he wrote a single character:

“皇”—Imperial.

That one character confirmed his suspicion. The brush did not flow nearly as smoothly as with ordinary ink. The strokes rose and fell unevenly, gritty with a sand-like resistance, and the bristles had already begun to split slightly. No wonder the Daoist had brought so many brushes—this gold powder devoured them.

Having verified his thoughts, Zhu Ping’an smiled faintly. He dipped the brush again, this time plunging it completely into the gold powder until it was fully saturated. Lifting it out, he steadied his wrist and set it down once more on the paper.

The moment the brush touched the surface, the bristles split badly. Zhu Ping’an immediately lifted it.

“Daoist,” he said to the Daoist arranging the ritual implements nearby, shaking the visibly frayed brush, “please prepare a few more brushes. I write with a heavy hand, and these brushes don’t last.”

“Please wait a moment, my lord,” the Daoist replied, nodding before descending the altar.

As the Daoist stepped down, Zhu Ping’an casually slipped the brush, still soaked in gold powder, into the sleeve pouch hidden within his robe.

When the opportunity presents itself, take action.

Rather than letting these Daoists embezzle it all, he might as well safeguard a little himself and give it to those who truly needed it later.

Besides, this could be considered an unwritten convention. Even in ancient times, there was such a thing as a “brush fee”—compensation for brush wear. He remembered hearing a Hanlin scholar mention during a meal that when writing in the Western Garden, one could take the brushes home as a form of imperial favor. That scholar had sounded disdainful at the time. What use do I have for so many brushes?

But now—ahem, ahem—how strange. He found that he rather liked these brushes.

What could be done? He could only accept the imperial grace with gratitude.

Naturally selecting another brush, Zhu Ping’an dipped it in gold powder and swiftly completed the first pair of couplets:

“Beneath the imperial vault, divine favor extinguishes nine calamities and cuts away three disasters;
From the Purple Pole descends blessed grace, gathering a thousand auspices and reaching a hundredfold fortune.”

After finishing the first pair, Zhu Ping’an thoroughly soaked the second brush in gold powder and slipped it into his sleeve as well. At that moment, he felt that the sleeve pouches of ancient robes were truly marvelous inventions—spacious and practical, able to hold countless brushes without difficulty.

After he completed the first couplet, the Daoist who had gone to fetch more brushes returned, this time carrying no fewer than ten.

“My thanks, Daoist,” Zhu Ping’an said, cupping his hands politely.

From then on, each time he wrote, Zhu Ping’an would first saturate the brush with thick gold powder before setting it to paper. After writing only a few characters, he would dip it again—this time even more heavily—then place it down once more, shake his head lightly as the brush split beyond use, and quietly slip it into his sleeve before switching to a fresh one.

To justify using more brushes, the remaining four pairs of couplets were all deliberately long. The fourth pair, in particular, was an adaptation of a couplet Yuan Wei had written years earlier:

“By casting the sacred yarrow stalks, patterns are formed:
Heaven’s number is five, earth’s number is five—five times five makes twenty-five;
Numbers are born of the Dao, the Dao unites with the Primordial Heavenly Worthy, the Worthy above all.

By cutting bamboo pipes to harmonize pitch:
Yang tones are six, yin tones are six—six times six makes thirty-six sounds;
Sound ascends to Heaven, Heaven gives birth to the Jiajing Emperor, whose reign endures ten thousand years.”

This was a transformation of Yuan Wei’s original couplet. There were differences—some large, some small—but that hardly mattered. Who ever said couplets had to be completely original? Every Spring Festival, millions upon millions of households pasted identical couplets on their doors. Besides, this version still differed significantly from Yuan Wei’s original.

Naturally, to avoid criticism, Zhu Ping’an ensured his other couplets were entirely original. The fifth pair was an especially long original composition:

“The dragon has soared for forty-five years;
At this time, the five numbers align with Heaven, with Earth;
The five affairs are cultivated, the five blessings complete,
Five generations under one roof, robes of five colors radiant and bright.

The crane counts three decades and meets the eighth day;
We wish longevity—eight thousand springs, eight thousand autumns;
Eight talents advance, eight ministers ascend,
Eight tones follow the law, eight winds drift softly before the cinnabar court.”

“Forty-five years of the dragon’s flight” referred to the Jiajing Emperor’s current age. “The eighth day of the third ten-day period” referred to the present day itself. As for the rest—pure, unfiltered flattery, lavish praise piled high upon praise.

By the time Zhu Ping’an finished all five pairs of couplets, his sleeves concealed ten brushes in total. He had no intention of keeping them for himself. One day, they would be given to those who truly needed them, used in places where they mattered far more.

He was certain of one thing—no matter how they were used, their value would far exceed what they had achieved here today.