The door of the hall was pushed open from the outside. No eunuch announced the arrival, nor were there guards lining the path to lead the way.
Xu Jie came in alone.
His silver hair was combed meticulously, neatly tucked beneath his black gauze cap.
The official robe he wore looked a bit ill-fitting, appearing loose on him, as if draped over a dried bamboo pole.
His status as a three-reign elder and Chief Grand Secretary of the Cabinet was undeniable. Upon entering the side chamber, he merely bowed before the sovereign seated behind the imperial desk, then took a seat on the armchair below without waiting for permission.
Eunuch Li waited in the side hall, not daring to enter.
The old emperor watched Xu Jie sit down, showing no hurry to speak. Instead, he reached out, picked up the urgent memorial from Iron Orchid Mountain, and casually swept it into a corner pile of old documents, covering it completely.
“You came quickly, Chief Grand Secretary Xu.”
“Your Majesty summoned me; an old minister naturally hurries to the palace,” Xu Jie said, a hint of weariness in his voice. “Though I had already intended to request an audience today, Your Majesty beat me to it.”
“Oh?” The old emperor showed interest. “You wished to see me. For what purpose?”
Xu Jie did not answer directly. Instead, he pointed to the teetering mountain of memorials piled on the imperial desk.
“The autumn examinations.”
“For the chief examiner of this year’s autumn examinations, the Ministry of Rites submitted three names. I have held them back without approval.” Xu Jie pulled a neatly folded list from his sleeve and rested it on his knee without presenting it. “The issue is not with the candidates themselves, but with the examination regulations. They must be reformed.”
The old emperor’s fingers paused.
“Reform the regulations?” The old emperor repeated the three words, his tone flat. “How do you intend to proceed, Minister Xu?”
“Policy must be solid, but the method of selecting talent must change.”
With that, Xu Jie drew from his other sleeve a scroll of essays copied on ordinary cotton paper.
The folded edges were worn and frayed, evidence of repeated readings.
He presented the scroll with both hands, placing it on the table before him.
The old emperor glanced down at the title on the cover: “On Investigating Things and Rectifying the Heart.”
He did not touch the scroll. Instead, he looked up at Xu Jie standing before the desk.
“Who wrote this?”
A hint of amusement flickered in Xu Jie’s eyes as he spoke slowly.
“A retainer of the Earl of Integrity’s manor, surnamed Xu—Xu Zijin by name.”
“He was originally a poor scholar who repeatedly failed the imperial examinations. Somehow, he later entered the Xu family’s service, sorting through the miscellaneous academic notes of the young lady of the house. Some days ago, he wrote a policy essay that circulated among the scholars of the capital.”
“Is it widespread?”
“Both praised and criticized,” Xu Jie answered frankly. “Those who commend it say he exhibits the bearing of a founder of a new school of thought. Those who denounce him call it heretical nonsense and false scholarship. The day before yesterday, several students from the Imperial Academy jointly wrote a refutation and posted it on the academy’s partition wall.”
The old emperor finally reached out and unfurled the scroll.
He read quickly, scanning ten lines at a time, pausing occasionally on certain passages.
The side chamber was filled only with the rustle of turning pages and the slightly labored breathing of the old emperor.
After about the time it takes half a cup of tea to cool, the old emperor finished the last page.
“Principle lies in practical instruments, not in empty talk. Investigating things does not stop at exhausting principle in the mind, but must be applied to practical use…” He recited one line aloud, then stopped mid-sentence. Looking up at Xu Jie, he said, “The Xu family not only produces generals but also seeks to nurture a scholar who will found a new school?”
The question was weighty, carrying the unique wariness of an emperor.
A family advancing on three fronts—military merit, scholarship, and court influence—would that not be cause for alarm?
Xu Jie did not defend the Xu family. He did not even follow the old emperor’s line of thought.
He simply replied, “It does not matter which family nurtured the scholarship in this essay. What matters is whether this reasoning can be useful to Your Majesty.”
The old emperor stared at him for several breaths. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from the scroll.
“Then let me ask you. In these rules of his new school, where does imperial power stand?”
This was the true crux.
For any system of governance, one question ultimately needed answering: Where do you place the emperor?
Xu Jie’s tone held no ambiguity. “I asked Xu Zijin that very question. His exact words were these.”
“The orthodox tradition is the fence and enclosure; the ruling power is a ferocious beast descending the mountain. If the fence is strong and unbreakable, the beast can guard the house without harming its master.”
“A ferocious beast.” The old emperor uttered the words, savoring them in his mind. “He dares to say such a thing.”
Xu Jie did not respond.
He had sat in the position of Chief Grand Secretary for too many years, well aware that an emperor’s first reaction to such taboo phrasing was often anger, then reflection.
Explaining too quickly would only make things worse.
Indeed, the old emperor’s next words turned in another direction.
“You present this to me—this is not merely about finding a future for a poor scholar. Explain your true intentions clearly.”
Xu Jie had been waiting for these words.
“Your Majesty, please hear me out.”
“In recent years, the court has pursued the policy of reducing the power of the princes, reclaiming local military authority, and tightening control over the nation’s finances—strengthening the trunk and weakening the branches. This is the backbone of national policy and must not be shaken.”
“But every action has its deviation. Now that the princes’ powers have been largely curbed, the local gentry and aristocratic families, having earned official titles through the examinations, have filled the void left by the reduced princely domains.”
“Just a new crop of weeds,” the old emperor commented casually.
“Yes, new weeds.” Xu Jie followed the metaphor. “What I worry about is precisely this new crop.”
“Today’s policy essays in the examinations test nothing more than interpretations of the classics and rhetorical flourish.”
“Of the successful candidates, eight out of ten have mouths full of great Confucian principles, yet cannot understand a single account book once they leave court, nor calculate the transportation losses on a single mu of farmland.”
“Such men become magistrates and end up at the mercy of their secretaries and clerks in matters of justice and finance. They become censors and spend their time at court quibbling over words, impeaching one and censuring another. If they become ministers…” He paused intentionally.
The corner of the old emperor’s mouth twitched.
“Minister Xu, you mean that if the method of selecting talent is not changed, those chosen will always be useless people cast from the same mold?”
“I would not put it so crudely,” Xu Jie said, bowing his head slightly. “But the principle is indeed that. The problems facing the empire today do not lie in the classics but in practical instruments.”
“How to repair waterways, how to manufacture weapons, how to calculate taxes, how to manage flood control—these matters cannot be solved by memorizing ancient texts.”
“Xu Zijin’s concept of investigating things to attain knowledge, though somewhat forward in wording, is correct at its core: principle resides in concrete matters, in the undeniable use of practical instruments.”
“I believe the Great Qian needs such things.”
“You want me to incorporate this doctrine of investigating things into this year’s autumn examination essays?”
“Not incorporate,” Xu Jie said, shaking his head. He chose his words carefully.
“But to open a window.”
“I suggest that for this autumn’s examination, apart from the traditional topic on the classics, an additional practical policy question be added. It is not limited to classical sources or refined language—only the candidate’s insight into the practical affairs of the realm will be assessed.”
“Land taxes, canal transport, water conservancy, military craftsmanship—all may be addressed.”
“Whoever possesses true talent, even if their prose is simple and unrefined, may stand out through this single practical question.”
The old emperor leaned back against the dragon throne, his fingers once again tapping the surface of the desk.
Xu Jie could guess seven or eight parts of what he was thinking:
Once this reform was implemented, the greatest beneficiary would be Xu Zijin, that retainer of the Xu family.
This man’s theory of investigating things directly echoed the new regulations, and he would surely shine brilliantly in the autumn imperial examinations.
And the Xu family’s reputation would rise like the tide with the spread of this new scholarship.
The emperor feared the Xu family—Xu Jie knew this as clearly as a mirror.
But what he wagered on was another layer—the emperor feared even more the ironclad bloc of old forces in the court.
“Will it bring real benefit to Us and to the Great Qian Empire?” This was the final hurdle.
Xu Jie straightened his back, and his answer was heavier than any moment before: “It will.”
“The first real benefit lies in splitting the court’s factions.”
“Currently, court civil officials all come from the same school of classical interpretation, study under the same batch of teachers, read the same set of books, and are intricately connected like tangled roots, forming an impenetrable wall.”
“If Your Majesty attempts to pull any one nail from among them, you will drag up the roots of everyone else.”
“Once the new scholarship enters the imperial examinations, the empire will naturally produce another batch of people—those who follow an entirely different path from the old school, who recognize neither the old school’s connections nor their patronage. The two factions will contend for power, and the sovereign, presiding as the arbitrator—that is the true order the court should have.”
The old emperor’s fingers stopped.
“Secondly,” Xu Jie continued without giving the emperor a chance to interject, “The war in the northern border—no one knows how much longer it will drag on.”
“What Fort Zhenbei urgently needs is not just soldiers who can wield blades, but people who understand manufacturing firearms, calculating grain supplies, and constructing fortifications. The front lines are desperately short of such practical talent—yet nine out of ten scholars admitted through the imperial examinations can’t even keep track of the army’s provisions.”
“This change of rules is not for the sake of the Xu family’s retainer, nor is it to advocate for any new school of learning.”
Xu Jie’s final words landed on the emperor’s most sensitive nerve.
“It is to cultivate for Your Majesty a new crop of people—those who can work, who can get things done, and who can start anew above those corrupt bureaucrats who merely hold their positions without effort. When the old hands are unfit for service, new ones must take their place. And where will these new people come from? They will come through this very window.”
The side chamber fell silent once again.
The old emperor picked up the scroll titled “On Investigating Things and Rectifying the Mind” but did not open it; he simply weighed it in his hands.
Thin cotton paper, light enough to weigh barely a few ounces, yet placed on the scales of the empire, it was enough to upend a century-old ironclad rule for the imperial examinations.
“Split the factions.” He savored those two words, rolling them between his teeth.
A sovereign’s art of controlling ministers was nothing more than balance.
When one family dominates, it becomes unwieldy; when two factions contend, the sovereign sits securely.
This truth, he had understood long before Xu Jie.
The old emperor put down the scroll, picked up a vermillion brush from the brush stand, and dipped it into the half-dried cinnabar ink in the inkstone.
He flipped the long-pending autumn examination regulations to the final draft page, and with his brush, drew a large red circle in the blank space.
“I approve it!”
The vermillion mark stained the paper, spreading a ring of crimson.
“You will draft the questions for the practical policy essay,” the old emperor said, setting down the brush, adding at the end: “But there is one condition…”
“That man named Xu Zijin must not become a protégé of the chief examiner. Once the examination scripts are sealed with their names covered, they are to be assigned a separate code number, and I will review them personally.”
This was a precaution against the Xu family using the new scholarship to plant their own wings in the examination hall.
Xu Jie bowed deeply, accepting the decree without a single syllable of objection.
He took the red-marked regulations from the imperial desk with both hands, carefully tucked them into his sleeve, and left the copy of “On Investigating Things and Rectifying the Mind” exactly where it lay.
“Your Majesty,” Xu Jie said, “this old minister has one more request.”
“Speak.”
“After the autumn examination list is released, the newly selected scholars are by custom to attend the Thanksgiving Banquet at the Ministry of Rites.”
“I request Your Majesty’s permission for Xu Zijin to deliver a lecture on investigating things and attaining knowledge at the banquet, reading it aloud before the assembly.”
“Oh? It seems Xu Zijin is bound to enter officialdom then.”
The old emperor’s finger twitched once more.
“But you are placing the Xu family’s retainer over an open fire. The entire cohort of old-school grand scholars at court is waiting to find fault with him. If you let him speak at the Thanksgiving Banquet, aren’t you afraid that pack of old fossils will tear him to shreds?”
“They cannot tear him to shreds.” Xu Jie showed a rare hint of a smile, and behind that smile lay the seasoned shrewdness and calculation of a three-dynasty chief grand secretary.
“If they cannot tear him apart, then he will stand firm. For the new scholarship to take root in the court, this trial was inevitable sooner or later.”
“Rather than let the old school scheme in the shadows, it’s better to set up the arena in the open and let the world judge who is right or wrong.”
“And if he loses?”
“If he loses, then the Xu family will have misplaced their trust, and the court bears no blame. Your Majesty has merely approved adding practical policy essays to the examinations; you have not endorsed any particular school of thought.”
The old emperor pursed his lips, waited for a long moment, and finally snorted from his nose.
“Your surname is Xu, and his surname is Xu too. It wouldn’t be that you Xus have conspired together to fool me, would it?”
This remark was almost identical to the casual joke Xu Jie had made to Xu Zijin in his own residence that day.
Xu Jie froze for a moment, then quickly bowed and replied: “This old minister is no blood relation of his. But… since the surname is the same, it does sound pleasing to my ears.”
The old emperor said no more, waving his hand to dismiss him.
