After a grueling half year, Lady Zhou’s illness finally recovered. The Yan family wanted to discuss marriage, but then the late emperor passed away.
Now, Yan Liangyu was already past sixteen and about to turn seventeen—quickly becoming an “old” young lady. Lady Yan was frantic, constantly trying to find a chance to corner Lady Zhou.
Yan Tongshu placed the plate of peanuts back on the table and lay on the daybed, pondering.
From what she could see now, it seemed Lady Yan had managed to corner her.
Yan Tongshu didn’t think seventeen was old, but in this era, if Yan Liangyu truly passed seventeen and approached eighteen, it would be hard to find a suitable unmarried man of her age who had no concubines or maidservants. Yan Tongshu could understand Lady Yan’s anxiety.
But the Zhou family… it was hard to judge.
Yan Tongshu genuinely felt that even if Zhou Zhengxun insisted, and the Yan family kept giving way, even if the marriage ultimately happened, the Zhou family wasn’t a good place for Yan Liangyu.
Unfortunately, not only was Zhou Zhengxun resolute, but that silly girl Yan Liangyu was equally stubborn.
Now that Zhou Zhengxun had passed the imperial exams and became a jinshi, he was waiting for an official post to open up.
Rumor had it that the bank the Zhou family had invested in recently ran off with the money, costing them a huge sum and offending many colleagues who had also invested. Now the Zhous were strapped for cash.
Yan Tongshu estimated that Lady Yan’s “accidental” meeting was being played along by Lady Zhou, who was using it as an opportunity to borrow the Yan family’s money to bribe a good official position for Zhou Zhengxun.
Tomorrow, the Zhou family would likely make exorbitant demands for the dowry.
“Sigh…”
Yan Tongshu let out a sigh and decided not to dwell on it. No matter how much she thought, she couldn’t make decisions for the Yan and Zhou families, nor could she change the minds of Zhou Zhengxun and Yan Liangyu, the two people involved.
Yan Tongshu opened her wardrobe, picked out a copy of The True Heart of the Wind and Moon Mirror, and began to study it closely.
…
Sunlight shot through the clouds, painting the palace roof tiles—green and blue in uneven shades.
The Chuigong Hall stood majestic and towering, with golden dragons coiled around its pillars.
Qin Yi sat upright upon the dragon throne, dressed in black robes with crimson lining, the twelve ornaments of imperial authority proclaiming his boundless dignity.
His brow was cold and stern, his eyes empty and indifferent, revealing no hint of emotion.
The Left Vice Director of the Chancellery and concurrent Deputy Director of the Secretariat, Chang Zhengzhang, was granted a seat below.
“Teacher,” Qin Yi spoke slowly, his voice as clear as striking cold jade. His tone held a trace of a former student’s respect for his mentor, but more prominently, it carried a calculated, proper distance—the measured detachment of a sovereign.
This young emperor, who had endured the successive depositions of three crown princes by feigning madness, playing the filial son, and biding his patience for years, had shocked everyone after officially ascending the throne and wielding power by revealing his sharp claws.
Only now, at this very moment, did Chang Zhengzhang—the Left Vice Director of the Chancellery, Deputy Director of the Secretariat, and former tutor to the crown prince—suddenly awaken from his fog, seeing for the first time the true, solitary, and ruthless core of the new emperor.
At the address “Teacher,” Chang Zhengzhang rose from his chair, bowed respectfully with clasped hands, and said, “Your Majesty is now enthroned, and I have already stepped down from the post of crown prince’s tutor. The title ‘Teacher’ is one I can no longer rightfully accept.”
Qin Yi’s voice remained cold, as if unmoved by Chang Zhengzhang’s caution.
He said, “Teacher, the prefect of Kaifeng, Yu Ping, has resigned due to old age. For the new acting prefect of Kaifeng, does Teacher have anyone to recommend?”
Chang Zhengzhang pondered briefly: “Your Majesty, does the Secretariat-Chancellery or the Ministry of Personnel have candidates to recommend?”
As the Left Vice Director of the Chancellery and Deputy Director of the Secretariat, Chang Zhengzhang naturally knew whom those offices had proposed, but the proper procedures had to be followed, and the necessary questions must be asked before the emperor.
Qin Yi flipped through a bright yellow memorial: “All old officials of seniority—deep experience, but too cautious…”
To say “cautious” was to say these men were mostly holdovers from the late emperor’s reign, many connected by marriage or blood to Prince Ming. And Prince Ming had formerly vigorously advocated for deposing Qin Yi, instead pushing the late emperor’s seventeenth son—the current Empress Dowager’s biological child—as heir, now under house arrest in Zhanglong Terrace.
Qin Yi spoke, “Teacher, do you have another candidate in mind?”
Although now rules set a sovereign and his minister apart, Qin Yi and Chang Zhengzhang were divided by an invisible river, the word “loyalty” was etched into the blood of the Chang family. What was more, Chang Zhengzhang had been the previous crown prince’s tutor; their entire family old and young were bound to Qin Yi’s ship. Their interests currently aligned.
Chang Zhengzhang carefully considered all available candidates in the imperial court.
The new emperor had ascended the throne, but old ministers were still resentful. As the late emperor aged and grew senile, he had sown the roots of a “bloated, corrupt, and rigid bureaucratic system,” which continued to bear bitter fruit. The government urgently needed rectification.
For change, they needed an entry point, a young person unafraid of authority with exceptional ability.
Chang Zhengzhang thought it over thoroughly. Qin Yi did not disturb him but continued reviewing the next memorial.
After a long while, having weighed and compared every option, Chang Zhengzhang spoke: “Your Majesty, I take the liberty.”
Qin Yi put down his memorial, his scrutinizing gaze landing on Chang Zhengzhang.
Chang Zhengzhang: “Has Your Majesty heard of the fourteen-year-old Young Top Scholar of the former reign, the sensation of his time—Yan Tongshu?”
Qin Yi lowered his eyes briefly, a vague image surfacing in his mind. He placed his hand on the desk, the blue veins on his pale arm curving like a coiling dragon tattoo.
His tone lifted slightly: “Is that the Young Top Scholar who was convicted for blunt remonstration?”
Chang Zhengzhang’s voice was deep and forceful: “Correct.”
Qin Yi now needed talent not only upright but also capable, so Chang Zhengzhang explained: “I was the chief examiner for the imperial exam Young Top Scholar Yan took. I read his essays—broad and learned, drawing from many masters, seeing through subtle patterns, profound and brilliant—he truly had talent. Moreover, beyond mastering ancient and modern writings, he also had practical skills.”
Integrity and knowledge were secondary.
That last point was crucial.
Qin Yi’s deep-set eyes showed a flicker of interest: “Explain.”
Chang Zhengzhang chuckled: “Your Majesty, he excels at medicine and corpse examination, and he has a keen power of observation—an expert in interrogation and investigation.”
Qin Yi: “Has Teacher seen this for himself?”
Chang Zhengzhang’s voice rang clear: “It was coincidence. About six years ago, this Young Top Scholar Yan was only sixteen, having just fallen from grace for his frank words, being promoted in appearance but exiled to the Xianlin Library…”
Chang Zhengzhang vividly recounted an old event from six years ago.
At that time, it was late spring, near summer. The lotus leaves and young water chestnut stems were fresh green, and the temperature gap between day and night was enormous.
Yan Tongshu loved to play, running into the mountains to catch wild chickens. Afterward, he caught a chill and fell sick for half a month, drinking bitter medicine and eating tasteless food until he felt nearly dead.
Finally, his illness broke.
With Lady Yan’s permission, Yan Tongshu couldn’t wait to take his maidservant Pearl and his book boy Jinbao to Aunt Yang’s noodle stall east of town.
Though it was just a stall, Aunt Yang’s fish paste topping was peerless—spicy and fragrant, the bones and meat both so tender they melted. A ladleful ladled into a bowl of sturdy hand-pulled noodles topped with glistening red sauce—one mouthful, and not only your taste buds opened up, but even your capillaries seemed to relax.
In late spring and early summer, the days weren’t yet hot—they still held a bite of cool air.
Downing a bowl of such hot, numbing noodles left you sweating from the spice, utterly wonderful.
During his convalescence, Yan Tongshu had spent a long time craving just this bowl of noodles.
Finally, she arrived excitedly by carriage at the noodle stall, only to find it wasn’t open.
That spot, once so lively and bustling, now held only a patched signboard reading “Aunt Yang’s Noodles,” flapping desolately in the wind.
After thinking about it for ages and enduring half a month, she was finally able to eat it—but now she couldn’t.
Yan Tongshu’s eyes reddened with grievance.
Pearl quickly comforted her: “Young Master, please don’t cry. I’ll go ask around. I swear I’ll find someone and make sure you get to eat it today.”
Pearl turned and went to nearby shops to ask where Aunt Yang had gone.
Her young master was fine in every way, except that she couldn’t bear to disappoint her stomach. If she craved something for days and couldn’t have it, she’d sink into a listless gloom for a while.
And if someone tried to take her food? She’d fight them tooth and nail.
Before long, Pearl returned, crestfallen. “Young Master, there’s trouble. Aunt Yang won’t be setting up her stall anymore.”
Yan Tongshu sniffled, feeling even worse.
“What happened to Aunt Yang?” she asked.
“Young Master, it’s her son, Zhao Sheng—that good-for-nothing who does nothing but loaf around all day, the one who stole your pouch the first time you met. He’s stirred up trouble again.”
Yan Tongshu reined in her disappointment. “What trouble did he stir up?”
Pearl pouted. She had no goodwill for any petty thief who’d stolen from her young master—even if he was the son of Aunt Yang, who made such excellent noodles and had such a warm heart.
Pearl said, “What else could it be? That Zhao Sheng always hung around with a gang of ruffians, acting tough, picking fights, and causing chaos.
A few days ago, Aunt Yang’s father-in-law, Zhao Gengtian, came to the Yang household demanding his retirement money. Zhao Sheng lost his temper and accidentally beat Zhao Gengtian to death. Now he’s locked up in the yamen.
Aunt Yang already lost her husband, and Zhao Sheng is her only son. With him in jail facing execution, how could she have the heart to set up her stall?”
When Pearl finished, a vegetable-seller auntie nearby, overhearing their talk about Aunt Yang, sighed and chimed in: “Actually, you can’t blame Zhao Sheng entirely. That Zhao Gengtian wasn’t a good man either.”
Yan Tongshu crouched down beside the auntie, helping her pick over the greens as she asked, “Auntie, what do you mean by that?”
The auntie sighed again. “Ah… Aunt Yang is a pitiful soul. Her husband died when he fell into a big pit while chopping wood in the mountains. She was still pregnant back then.
Her father-in-law—yes, that Zhao Gengtian, we call him Old Zhao—that heartless man, as soon as he heard his eldest son was dead, he brought the second son’s family over and kicked Aunt Yang out of the house.”
“Pah! He’s no better than a beast!”
Pearl was furious and cursed aloud.
Pearl was eighteen; Jinbao was five years younger, only thirteen, still just a child. He was fuming too, clenching his little fists.
The auntie, as if finding a kindred spirit, quickly added: “Isn’t that right? He’s not even human. But what could she do? Aunt Yang’s family had no man. These days, if you don’t have a man, you get bullied.”
Yan Tongshu set the cleaned greens neatly aside. “What happened next?”
The auntie pulled a fresh bunch of vegetables from her basket and laid it on the ground. “Later, Aunt Yang gave birth to Zhao Sheng, went to the village head to get her house back, borrowed some money, and while raising her child, opened the noodle stall.
At first, business was poor and the noodles were just so-so. She’d ask us to taste them every day and tweak the recipe. Gradually, the noodles got better, and business picked up.
Once business was good, she earned more money. The second Zhao family and Old Zhao grew jealous. Those people are truly heartless—knowing full well Aunt Yang was a widow with a child, they still showed up at her door every few days demanding money. They said things like, ‘Once you marry into the Zhao family, you’re a Zhao for life, you have to support Zhao the Elder and provide for him in his old age.’
Aunt Yang was harassed into submission and handed over money every month. But Old Zhao’s appetite only grew. Every year, he’d raise a ruckus demanding even more. Pah! Everyone knows their kind. Nasty, they are.”
The auntie tugged at Yan Tongshu’s sleeve, leaning in like confiding in an ally. “Let me tell you, Young Master, the money Aunt Yang gave Old Zhao basically all went to support the second Zhao family.
I heard from villagers on the day of the incident: Old Zhao was drunk that day, barged right into Aunt Yang’s place, causing a scene, demanding she hand over the secret to her noodle broth recipe so the second Zhao could open his own stall. He said if she didn’t, he wouldn’t leave—he’d hang himself at her doorstep. If you ask me, Zhao Sheng was pushed too far by Old Zhao before he lashed out. The way I see it, a man like Old Zhao deserves what he got.”
Yan Tongshu was filled with sorrow.
Greed knows no bounds—it cost him his own life. Served him right.
But Aunt Yang was truly pitiful. Widowed young, she struggled to raise her child alone, and just as life was looking easier, disaster struck again, leaving her with nothing to look forward to.
Yan Tongshu asked, “Auntie, do you know where Aunt Yang is now?”
The auntie sighed. “Where else? At the gates of the Kaifeng yamen, holding a petition for justice, kneeling and begging for mercy. She’s been kneeling for three days now. I saw her when I passed by today on my way into town—so pitiful. In just a few days, she’s wasted away to skin and bones, and her hair has turned white.”
Something didn’t add up.
Beggng for mercy didn’t require holding a petition for justice.
Yan Tongshu pressed further: “Is Aunt Yang crying out that she’s been wronged?”
The auntie said, “She is, loud and clear. But everyone saw Zhao Sheng kill a man—how could it be unjust? Still, with scum like Old Zhao, I guess the Zhao boy does have some reason to feel hard done by.”
