Chapter 435: Archiving the Qingci

A single midday meal, coupled with a whole essay titled On Thick Blackness, was finally enough to make Zhang Siwei shut his mouth in contentment.

Of course, Wang Shizhen had also been invited to lunch. During the meal, when he heard about how Zhu Ping’an and Zhang Siwei had quietly “acquired” a gold pen during the jiao ritual, Wang Shizhen was momentarily speechless. He pointed at the two of them, shook his head with a helpless smile, and offered a single-word verdict:

“Vulgar.”

Yet when he later heard about the sheer extravagance of the ritual’s expenses, he immediately turned around and scolded them for not taking enough gold pens.

“Ah…” Wang Shizhen sighed, lowering his voice. “I heard something about this jiao ritual while I was at the Court of Judicial Review. Supposedly, it was Yan Song who advised His Majesty to hold it.” He shared the piece of hearsay he had picked up by chance, his words heavy with undisguised dissatisfaction toward Yan Song.

His emotions stirred, blood surging hotly in his chest, Wang Shizhen dipped a finger into the vegetable broth on the table and began to write on the tabletop, stroke by stroke, composing a poem titled The Song of Qinfu:

‘Down flies a five-colored bird,
Calling itself the phoenix by name.
Unseen for a thousand autumns—
Yet when it appears, the state’s fortune prospers.

Feasted with bells and drums, seated in the Bright Hall;
The Bright Hall brims with paulownia and bamboo.
Three days without a cry—how long its intent must be!

By morning the phoenix is nowhere to be seen;
Instead it lurks in the eastern gate’s shadow, pecking at rotten rats,
Chirping and squealing, yet never fed.

By evening the phoenix is nowhere to be seen;
Instead it flatters the gray hawk in the western gate’s shade,
Begging that scraps of torn flesh be cast down.

Paulownia trees suffer long in bitter cold,
Bamboo seeds endure long in gnawing hunger.
The gathered birds startle and look at one another,
Not knowing the phoenix is but a Qinfu.’

Zhu Ping’an could tell at a glance that this poem was aimed squarely at Yan Song. Qinfu was a mythical creature recorded in the Classic of Mountains and Seas. Zhu Ping’an had only read that text earlier that very morning and remembered it clearly: Qinfu was a divine being who had offended Heaven and been slain by the Celestial Emperor. After death, it transformed into a giant raptor—shaped like an eagle, but with a red beak and tiger’s claws—surviving by feeding on carrion. It was a calamity beast, an omen whose appearance heralded war, plague, and disaster.

By invoking Qinfu, Wang Shizhen was openly mocking Yan Song: a creature that feeds on rot, pretending to be a phoenix. True phoenixes will not perch unless it is on paulownia, will not eat unless it is bamboo fruit. And you? Insatiably greedy, gnawing on rotten rats, currying favor with hawks. Worst of all, you sit shamelessly in the Bright Hall itself…

“Heh, Wen-sheng,” Zhang Siwei chuckled at the scene. “There’s a piece of fine writing you really must read.” From his robes, he produced the essay On Thick Blackness, which he had extracted from Zhu Ping’an through equal parts coercion and temptation, and handed it to Wang Shizhen.

Wang Shizhen was sharp-edged and hated evil as an enemy. That was a good thing—but also a dangerous one. With Yan Song holding power, showing one’s sharp personality too early, before having sufficient strength, could only invite disaster. That was precisely why Zhang Siwei gave him Zhu Ping’an’s essay, hoping it might temper him, or at least provoke some reflection.

At first, Wang Shizhen barely paid it any mind. But after reading for a short while, his posture straightened unconsciously. His expression grew serious as he sat upright, savoring each word and line with careful deliberation.

“I may not agree with the views expressed here,” he said after finishing, admiration evident in his voice, “but it is astonishing nonetheless. Who wrote this? Which great master?”

“Far away at the edge of the sky, yet right before your eyes,” Zhang Siwei replied with a smile, lifting a finger to point at Zhu Ping’an, who was happily eating at the side.

“Haha, I thought so,” Wang Shizhen laughed. “It could only be Zihou. Only someone who appears simple and honest on the surface, yet hides great wisdom behind seeming dullness, could write something so piercing, so insightful about the human heart.”

From the moment he began reading, Wang Shizhen had already suspected Zhu Ping’an. The handwriting was Zhu Ping’an’s, and if such an extraordinary piece had existed before, it would have spread long ago. That meant it had been written recently—and the answer was obvious.

“It’s nothing more than a playful exercise,” Zhu Ping’an said, smiling as he shook his head. “There’s no great insight into the human heart there.” He then pointed at the poem Wang Shizhen had left on the table. “Your Song of Qinfu is far better than my trifling work. But Wen-sheng, you really are showing your sharp character too openly. We all understand these truths—but now is not the time for us to speak out. As the saying goes, a gentleman conceals his tools and waits for the right moment.”

“That’s exactly what I wanted to say,” Zhang Siwei added, following Zhu Ping’an’s words. “It doesn’t matter among ourselves, but before others, Wen-sheng must be more cautious. The Yan faction is powerful now—do not contend with it head-on. Failing to wound the tiger, you may instead be devoured. Wait patiently for the future, until the time is ripe, and then proceed step by step.”

Wang Shizhen sighed and nodded. “Don’t worry. I only speak like this in front of you.”

After lunch, Zhu Ping’an and Zhang Siwei escorted Wang Shizhen back to the Court of Judicial Review, then returned together to the Hanlin Academy. Zhang Siwei went back to his office to attend to his duties, while Zhu Ping’an returned to the library pavilion, resuming his grand undertaking of organizing the bookshelves.

At around three in the afternoon, several young eunuchs arrived at the Hanlin Academy bearing imperial rewards from the palace. There were no gold or jewels, no honorary titles—only seven hats.

These seven hats were bestowed upon the seven Hanlin scholars who had gone to the Western Garden that morning to compose couplets and qingci—Zhu Ping’an and his companions.

The moment Zhu Ping’an received his hat, he felt the Jiajing Emperor’s reward was rather perfunctory. The hat looked suspiciously like those worn by certain Daoist priests during the ritual…

It resembled a ceremonial crown. Zhu Ping’an wasn’t sure whether it was the same style as the agarwood water-leaf crowns that the Jiajing Emperor had once bestowed upon ministers such as Yan Song and Xia Yan, as recorded in the histories. The hat was black—black corresponding to water in the Five Phases. Perhaps it reflected Daoism’s reverence for water, which benefits all things without contention.

After delivering the hats, the eunuchs also brought several sheets of finely mounted paper. Written upon them were selected couplets and qingci from the day’s ritual, each bearing the Jiajing Emperor’s private seal. In other words, these were the pieces that had earned imperial approval.

“Please, my lord, archive these according to precedent,” one of the eunuchs said, handing the mounted sheets to Li Chunfang.

Li Chunfang nodded, respectfully receiving them with both hands. Archiving the selected couplets and qingci from ritual ceremonies was standard practice; he knew the procedure well. Once Li Chunfang had accepted them, the eunuchs flicked their horsetail whisks and departed for the Western Garden.

As soon as they left, the Hanlin scholars in the hall urged Li Chunfang to open the sheets and let everyone see which works had caught the Emperor’s eye.

Li Chunfang obligingly followed their wishes. He unfolded the beautifully mounted sheets and spread them across the table for all to view. The archive contained ten couplets and two qingci, with the authors of each clearly recorded—everything laid out at a glance.

At the beginning were the two qingci. The first was written by Yuan Wei, which filled him with visible satisfaction—his pride practically glowing on his face.

Amid the crowd’s praise, Yuan Wei cast a forty-five-degree sideways glance at Zhu Ping’an, curling his lips slightly. See? This is Yuan Wei. And you, Zhu Ping’an—you don’t measure up.

However, when Li Chunfang unfolded the second qingci, Yuan Wei’s gaze subtly changed. The second piece had been written by none other than Zhu Ping’an.

It’s fine, it’s fine, he reassured himself. Mine is still the first one—the one His Majesty must favor most. How could Zhu Ping’an’s second piece possibly compare?

After comforting himself for a moment, Yuan Wei’s mood lifted again.

But when Li Chunfang opened the third sheet, Yuan Wei could no longer remain composed. His eyes nearly bulged out, his mouth twisting as if he had swallowed a fly.

Out of the ten couplets, Zhu Ping’an alone occupied three—and they were the first three. Yuan Wei, meanwhile, had only one included, and it was placed further back.

If that were all, Yuan Wei might not have been so shaken.

But that first couplet—Zhu Ping’an had clearly adapted his own:

“By the Luo River, the Mystic Tortoise first presents auspicious signs;
Yin number nine, yang number nine—nine times nine, eighty-one in total,
Numbers link to the Dao, the Dao accords with the Primordial Heavenly Worthy,
Sincere devotion moves the divine.

At Mount Qi, crimson phoenixes present twin omens;
The male cries six times, the female six times—six times six, thirty-six sounds,
Their voices reach Heaven; Heaven gives birth to the Jiajing Emperor,
May his life be boundless.”

Yet Zhu Ping’an had altered it—altered it significantly. And worse still, the revisions were masterful:

“Casting sacred yarrow stalks to form the text;
Heaven’s number five, earth’s number five—five times five, twenty-five in all,
Numbers arise from the Dao; the Dao accords with the Primordial Heavenly Worthy,
Supreme and without equal above.

Cutting bamboo pipes to attune the pitch;
Yang tones six, yin tones six—six times six, thirty-six sounds,
Their voices reach Heaven; Heaven gives birth to the Jiajing Emperor,
May his imperial line endure ten thousand years.”

Had it been only this one couplet, Yuan Wei might still have mocked Zhu Ping’an for reheating old leftovers. But the next two couplets were entirely original—and the second one, beginning with “The dragon has flown for forty-five years…,” could rival his own work in every respect.

There was nothing left for him to sneer at.

The more he looked, the more it felt as though Zhu Ping’an were deliberately mocking him—provoking him in silence.

In the past, every ritual had been his stage, the moment when Yuan Wei shone brightest.

But today…

The frustration was simply unbearable.