The New Year in the Great Qian capital of Shengjing was as lively as ever.
The streets were festooned with lanterns and banners; children in new clothes chased each other at alleyways, clutching sugar-coated hawthorn sticks or sugar figurines in their hands. Their faces were flushed red from the cold, but their laughter drifted far and wide, the sweet-and-sour scent of the hawthorn sticks mingling with the winter air to form the distinctive aroma of the festival season.
Teahouses and taverns were packed to the brim every single day.
Storytellers spiced up their amusing tales time and again—always festive, always lively, the kind that made listeners feel good.
Patrons, cracking sunflower seeds, listened with keen enjoyment, now clapping in praise, now murmuring in wonder.
As for the slaughter that had taken place during the palace banquet—it seemed to have simply passed by.
No one mentioned it.
No one dared to.
The Crown Prince had "died of illness."
That was the official explanation put forward by the imperial court, and also the "truth" everyone had to remember.
Yet, when Crown Prince Li Chengqian passed away, there was no imperial decree announcing national mourning, no suspension of court for three days, and even the funeral rites were conducted with the utmost modesty—as if this prince, who had held the position of heir apparent for thirty-six years, was nothing more than an insignificant presence within this imperial city.
Dead, and that was that.
Life continued as usual.
But in Shengjing, some changes had indeed occurred.
Some mansions that had once been haughty and high-and-mighty were suddenly left vacant. The bail sticks on their doors were starkly white, the stone lions at their gates still bared their fangs, yet no carriages or horses stopped there anymore.
Occasionally, pedestrians passing by would lower their voices to gossip, and as they spoke, their tones would gradually drop, as if afraid of being heard by something.
Behind those sealed doors lay emptiness, evoking a strange sense of desolation.
The city seemed to have lost some of its vitality, but this was only for a few days. Because another wave of people was flooding into Shengjing from every corner of the Great Qian realm—the provincial graduates from all prefectures and provinces.
The triennial Spring Examinations were about to begin!
Even before the fifteenth day of the first lunar month had passed, inns in Shengjing had raised their prices three to five times, yet they were still packed to capacity.
Accents from the north and south mingled in the streets and alleys—the soft tones of Jiangnan, the fiery twang of Shu, the bold cadences of Qilu, and the barely discernible dialects of Liangguang.
The candidates, wearing robes of various kinds—some bright and new, others half-worn—gathered in small groups at teahouses, speaking loudly and passionately about everything from the Confucian classics and statecraft essays to current government policies and their shortcomings.
When they grew excited, they would slam the table and stand up, spittle flying; when they touched on taboo topics, they would lower their voices, stealing furtive glances around.
Bookshops were doing booming business as well.
Past exam papers, famous scholars' commentaries, selected contemporary essays—anything related to the civil service examinations was placed in the most prominent spots.
Shop owners were all grinning from ear to ear, counting their silver and mentally calculating that this batch of candidates was twenty to thirty percent larger than previous years, meaning business would last at least another month.
Some clever merchants even hired people to work through the night producing all kinds of "pre-exam secret compilations," with the words "Top Secret" printed on the covers, and sold them at ten times the normal price—still, people scrambled to buy.
The entire city of Shengjing was stirred into a frenzy by the upcoming Spring Examinations.
...
In the Hall of Heavenly Purity, the morning court session was nearing its end.
Matters both large and small had been discussed for half a day—from personnel appointments and budgetary allocations, to military pay for the northern frontier and flood relief in the south, to the dredging of canals and adjustments to the salt tax.
Items were reviewed one by one.
Decisions were made one by one.
The debates had been had, and the arguments were over.
By now, the atmosphere in the hall had grown placid. A few senior ministers even let out quiet yawns, just waiting for the bell signaling the end of court to sound, so they could return home for a warm cup of tea.
The old emperor on the dragon throne accepted a cup of hot tea handed to him by an attendant.
He took a sip.
The tea broth was scalding, but it tasted bland as it went down. His gaze swept across the assembled ministers, and finally, he asked, "Is there anything else left to discuss?"
The Minister of Rites stepped forward, bowed, and said, "Your Majesty, with the Spring Examinations imminent, all preparations have been delegated to the various ministries according to regulations. However, the selection of the chief and deputy examiners still awaits Your Majesty's final decision."
He presented a memorial with both hands. The attendant received it and presented it to the throne.
The old emperor took the memorial.
He opened it.
It listed a long string of names—Grand Secretaries, Ministers, Vice Ministers, and Hanlin Academicians, all of whom were senior officials with a jinshi degree and deep experience. Each name was followed by a brief biography: the year they attained the jinshi degree, the offices they had held, their academic achievements, and their moral character—all written in clear detail.
As the most crucial stage of the civil service examinations, the Spring Examinations were usually prepared and overseen entirely by the Ministry of Rites.
From the repair of the examination halls and the arrangement of desks, chairs, and lamps, to the drafting, printing, and safekeeping of the exam questions, and then to the selection of examiners and support staff—all this was led by the Ritual and Ceremonies Bureau of the Ministry of Rites.
The security and logistics at the examination grounds were handled jointly by the Capital Prefecture, the Ministry of War, and the Ministry of Justice—this included managing the water and coal supply for the individual examination cells, dispatching soldiers to maintain order, and conducting searches to prevent cheating.
Supervising censors from the Censorate were responsible for patrolling the exam venue's discipline and investigating any irregularities.
The chief and deputy examiners had to be personally appointed by the emperor.
Thus, the memorial presented by the Minister of Rites listed all suitable candidates.
It was left for the Son of Heaven to select.
The old emperor's eyes passed slowly over those names, but he did not rush to pick up his brush. He leaned back in his dragon throne, his gaze resting somewhere beyond the hall, his expression distant.
In other years, this matter required no great deliberation.
It would have been enough to choose officials with profound learning, deep seniority, and the authority to command respect. The Ministry of Rites had considered all this very thoroughly; the candidates on the list were all without issue. He only needed to mark a circle to confirm his choices.
But this year, there were changes.
The Crown Prince was gone.
Some things could not be suppressed, nor avoided.
The emperor was now sixty-seven years old. He had sat on this dragon throne for nearly forty years, from his prime to old age, from high spirits to temples flecked with frost. He intended to remain on the throne until his final days, but he would not shy away from the matter of training a successor.
Only with a well-ordered line of succession could the Great Qian avoid major upheaval.
Now the Crown Prince was dead.
Selecting a new heir had to be put on the agenda.
The old emperor's gaze, without betraying any movement, swept across the princes present in the hall.
The Crown Prince had passed away!
Among the remaining sons, the only legitimate son was the sixth prince, Li Chengyu, born to the current Empress, Lady Qin.
By birthright, he was the direct heir from the imperial consort, entirely legitimate; by age, he was in his prime, strong and vigorous; by character, he was neither arrogant nor weak, handling affairs with propriety and measure.
His standing among the ministers was not poor.
He seemed the ideal candidate.
But in the old emperor's heart, one lingering concern remained.
The late Crown Prince had proven his worth over many long years of handling state affairs, never making any major mistakes. But the sixth prince—was he merely a paper strategist, or did he truly possess the talent to govern the realm?
He appeared respectable in ordinary times. But those were peaceful days.
A true sovereign must bear far greater and heavier burdens. He must stand firm in the teeth of a storm, and hold the helm through towering waves.
The sixth prince needed to prove himself.
And he needed to show everyone whether he was worthy of entrusting with the empire.
This Spring Examination would be a test!
The old emperor withdrew his gaze and looked down at the memorial. He did not mark any selection on it. Instead, he closed it and set it aside on a corner of his imperial desk.
“As for this spring’s imperial examinations—” he began, his voice not loud yet clear enough for everyone in the hall to hear, “Liuzi, Bazi, you two shall serve as deputy chief examiners.”
At these words.
The hall fell utterly silent.
The silence came suddenly, as if someone had abruptly gripped everyone by the throat. Several elder officials, who had been dozing with half-closed eyes, jolted awake, exchanging glances but daring not to utter a word. Even the eunuch attendants held their breath.
In that moment.
In the vast Qiangqing Hall.
Only the incense smoke rising silently from the bronze tripod remained, dispersing without a sound.
Sixth Prince Li Chengyu stood at the front of the ranks, clad in a dark python robe, a jade belt cinched at his waist, his expression calm. Upon hearing his father’s appointment, he gave a slight bow, his voice steady: “Your son obeys the decree.”
On the surface, he showed no ripple of emotion. Yet beneath his lowered lashes, a glint flickered briefly before once again settling into stillness.
Eighth Prince Li Chengyan stood half a step behind him, and at the words, he too bowed. But his voice carried a barely restrained excitement: “Your son obeys the decree!”
The words came quickly, as if he feared his father might change his mind.
As he straightened, his gaze darted swiftly across the assembled officials, then retreated. Yet the light in his eyes could not be hidden.
That light held excitement, triumph, and a trace of barely perceptible ruthlessness.
Deputy chief examiner.
He knew what this meant.
This was no sinecure, no honorary title; it was genuine, tangible power.
From the layout of the examination halls to the drafting of questions, from the selection of examiners to the approval of candidates, the deputy chief examiner’s voice carried weight.
More importantly.
This was his father giving him a chance.
His father was no fool. He wouldn’t have placed both him and his sixth brother in this position without reason. This was a test, a contest—who performed well, who faltered—his father would see it all.
He recalled the night of the palace coup.
He remembered how, at the most critical moment, he had seized the Crown Prince, and he remembered the look in his father’s eyes then—surprise, relief.
But above all, it was approval.
That was the moment his father began to truly see him.
The Eighth Prince lowered his eyes, suppressing the excitement within. His face returned to calm, yet his fingers tightened slightly inside his sleeve, his nails nearly digging into his palm.
The sharp sting in his palm made him more alert.
Although none of the people the other had planned to eliminate had died, although the Empress was unharmed and his sixth brother had walked out of Hanyuan Hall alive.
But so what?
He had stood before his father.
He had made everyone see that, when it mattered most, it was Li Chengyan who stepped forward to turn the tide.
He still had his chance.
And it was a great chance. When a concubine’s son vies with a legitimate son over the family estate, the concubine’s son is not supposed to have any opportunity—yet he had been listed among the candidates for succession. The hint of favor was clear! In the end, the decision rested with one man’s will alone.
The old emperor took in the reactions of both his sons.
But his face betrayed nothing.
He merely nodded slightly, his gaze moving from the Sixth Prince to the Eighth Prince, then shifting from the Eighth Prince to land on Du Hui.
“Minister Du, I shall trouble you as the chief examiner for this task.”
He paused, his tone carrying a meaningful hint: “You need not overexert yourself. Let Liuzi and Bazi gain more experience. You may simply oversee from the center.”
Du Hui smiled bitterly in his heart.
Oversee from the center?
That was easier said than done.
With two princes serving as deputy examiners and him, the Right Chancellor, ‘overseeing’—Du Hui understood well what the old emperor intended. He hadn’t spent all these years in court for nothing.
This was preparation for naming an heir!
And so, this matter would be difficult.
On one hand, he had to let the two princes act freely—could not tie their hands at every turn—only then could their respective abilities be revealed. On the other hand, he could not truly let go of the reins; if the two princes clashed openly and covertly inside the exam halls, disrupting the critical process of selecting talent through the civil service exams, the consequences would fall squarely on him.
Du Hui sighed inwardly but stepped forward respectfully, bowing: “Your servant accepts the decree.”
As he straightened, he caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye: Left Chancellor Lu Fang, standing in the left row, had his head lowered, lips slightly curled—a tiny smile, so shallow that no one else would likely notice.
But Du Hui had dealt with this old fox for over a decade. He recognized schadenfreude when he saw it.
That old bastard.
He was probably laughing on the inside.
Du Hui withdrew his gaze and returned to the ranks, his expression blank. He cursed under his breath, why hadn’t the emperor handed this hot potato to that sly old fox instead?
But cursing was useless. When the emperor appointed him, Du Hui had no choice but to accept.
He mentally schemed, thinking he’d have to carefully weigh his actions once he returned.
How to act as chief examiner—to satisfy His Majesty, keep the two princes from making too ugly a scene, and still ensure the imperial exams went off without a hitch.
Hard!
Truly hard!
God, how damned hard it was!
…
The court session ended.
The officials filed out in a slow stream, whispering in small groups about the unexpected appointment. A few old ministers lagged behind, huddling together to murmur among themselves, their voices barely audible, but their expressions betraying their thoughts—surprise, speculation, and not a few taking delight in the brewing drama.
Sixth Prince Li Chengyu walked at the front, his pace unhurried, his face as calm as still water. The sunlight fell upon his shoulders, casting a faint, dark luster over his dark python robe.
Eighth Prince Li Chengyan walked several paces behind him, his step noticeably lighter than usual. On the surface, he maintained the composure befitting a prince, but the faint upward curve of his lips gave away his mood.
The two walked one after the other out of the Qiangqing Hall.
The sunlight spilled down from beyond the hall, falling upon the white marble steps, dazzlingly bright. The distant palace walls glowed vermilion in the sun. On the walls, a few crows flapped past, cawing twice before vanishing beyond the glazed roof tiles.
Li Chengyu suddenly stopped and turned to look at his eighth brother.
“Eighth brother,” he began, his tone flat, revealing nothing, “regarding the spring examinations, we should discuss matters at length. In due course, I fear I will have to trouble you.”
Li Chengyan was momentarily taken aback, then smiled. “Sixth brother is too kind. This is my duty; why speak of trouble?” He paused, then added, “If there’s anything Sixth Brother cannot manage on his own, you need only tell me.”
The two locked eyes.
One as calm as water, the other beaming.
Their gazes met in the air for an instant, then each looked away. Yet in that transient moment, something quietly passed between them—silent, but razor-sharp.
Li Chengyu nodded, turned, and continued forward. His back was straight, his steps still unhurried, as though the glancing blow between them was a trivial matter.
Li Chengyan stood still, watching his sixth brother’s receding figure. The curve of his lips slowly faded. A complex light flickered in his eyes.
In that light was jealousy, ambition, and, above all, a ruthless desire to eliminate his rival.
After a moment, he withdrew his gaze and turned to walk in the other direction. His steps were still brisk, but beneath that briskness, there was a heavy undertone.
He was a prince, filled with a longing for that position.
On the palace path,
Two groups of people were gradually moving further away from each other.
One group was heading east, and the other west, like two diverging roads. No one knew if they would ever intersect again in the future.
The spring breeze blew past the palace wall, making the copper bells at the eaves jingle. The sound was clear and bright, carrying far, far away...
