Chapter 106

“The spring breeze carried a proud rider, swift as galloping hooves, drinking in the blossoms of Chang’an in a single day.”

The young scholars, brimming with vitality and elegance, crowded the bustling streets. Rong Tang stood amidst the throng for only a short while before the jostling made him feel slightly dizzy.

Su Huaijing quickly pulled him aside, guiding him away from the crush of people. From a distance, they watched the current cohort of Linyuan Academy candidates chatting with Ke Hongxue and others.

Across the street, the crowd thinned noticeably. Finding a quiet, empty corner, they stood silently and observed their surroundings.

Opposite them stood men in Confucian robes and scholarly caps, symbols of academia and status. On their side were court officials scrutinising the scene, with occasional wafts of powdered fragrance drifting by—courtesy of the well-known matchmakers of the capital.

Whether it was the imperial examination or matchmaking for prospective sons-in-law, these affairs seemed to have little to do with women.

Rong Tang steadied himself after the earlier dizziness, though he couldn’t shake a subtle sense of sorrow.

It was for this era, a time of limited educational resources and deeply ingrained ignorance.

He turned his gaze away, avoiding the lively crowd. Instead, he focused on the small green fruits scattered under a camphor tree by the roadside. Ants were diligently carrying tiny bits of food, manoeuvring them carefully toward their nest.

Su Huaijing’s soft voice broke the silence. “A few days ago, I asked one of the deputy censors a question.”

The Imperial Censorate had two deputy heads, and though Su Huaijing had not yet reached such heights, both were his direct superiors.

Rong Tang looked up, surprised. He wasn’t sure why Su Huaijing had chosen this moment to share such a thing, but he responded instinctively, “What did you ask?”

“I asked him, since male spouses are allowed to participate in the imperial examination and serve as court officials, why can’t women?” Su Huaijing said in a calm, even tone.

Rong Tang froze, stunned by the question. He raised his head and stared at Su Huaijing in astonishment.

Su Huaijing, noticing his reaction, smiled gently. He reached for Rong Tang’s hand, holding it lightly in his own.

It was late spring, with summer just around the corner. Though the capital’s temperature wasn’t yet stifling, the midday sun was already glaringly bright.

At the gates of the examination centre, the scene was lively and chaotic. Imperial guards in shining armour moved purposefully through the throng, keeping order amid the celebration.

Su Huaijing continued, “The deputy censor said he didn’t know. But he mentioned that in his early years in court, he had seen a woman stand in the hall of officials, holding the highest rank, refuting slander, discerning truth from falsehood, and presenting sound advice.”

Rong Tang’s lips pressed together. He understood immediately who Su Huaijing was referring to. “Zumu,” he whispered.

Su Huaijing nodded, his smile softening. “Yes, Her Royal Highness the Eldest Princess.”

“Her Highness entered the court twice. Once when Mingzong ascended the throne, and again when the late emperor consolidated his power,” Su Huaijing said. He turned his gaze to Rong Tang. “Tangtang, do you know how many memorials were submitted by officials to impeach her during those years?”

Rong Tang shook his head silently.

This was a piece of history untold in the original novel. Duanyi, the princess-turned-Buddhist recluse, rarely engaged with others outside her temple. Rong Tang only knew her as the celebrated female prime minister of her era, praised by scholars across the land. But Su Huaijing’s question hinted at a tumultuous past he had never known.

They were too far from the crowd.

Mu Jingxu glanced in their direction, confirming they were all present, before turning back to chat with the students from the academy.

Su Huaijing’s voice was quiet, almost conspiratorial. “Behind Qinzheng Hall, there’s a three-story attic. Inside, it’s filled with countless rare and extinct books, political treatises, emperors’ notes, strategies for governing the country, and… some memorials the emperor refused to archive with the cabinet.”

“Some are candid advice; others, pure slander. They’re categorised neatly—perhaps because of family connections or power struggles. History books, though, often gloss over these truths.

“And some—” Su Huaijing’s tone darkened slightly—“were excluded simply because the emperor didn’t want to see them, hear about them, or deal with them. He didn’t even want the cabinet to deliberate on these matters and offer him the so-called ‘most reasonable’ solution.”

He paused, his gaze distant. “When I was young and reckless, I snuck into that attic behind my father’s back. On the third floor, there were two enormous chests… each taller than my head. Now that I think about it, they must’ve been about this tall.” He gestured to a spot near his waist. “Curious about what was inside, I climbed onto a stool, peeked in, and caught sight of a memorial.”

He hesitated, his voice carrying an indefinable emotion. “They were packed tightly. Every inch filled with memorials.”

“One chest was labeled ‘Mingde’—the era name of Emperor Mingzong. The other was labeled ‘Yuanxing.’” He continued softly, “I opened one at random. The very first line read, ‘I would rather die than be silent.’”

Su Huaijing’s lips curved into a faint smile, though his eyes were cold. “I thought it was a matter of grave importance, and I tensed immediately. I recognised the name of the person who submitted it. It was by an elder of the cabinet, renowned for his wisdom and scholarship. If you trace the connections, half the court officials could claim some relation to him.”

“But this very same man, admired by his peers and praised by the emperor, wrote a memorial condemning Her Royal Highness, the Eldest Princess. It spoke of ‘a hen crowing at dawn,’ ‘overstepping one’s station,’ ‘women forbidden from participating in politics,’ ‘the feminine nature unfit for great responsibilities,’ and ‘Her Royal Highness, the Eldest Princess, frequently entering court and government offices, threatening unrest among the people and turmoil among officials.’”

Su Huaijing’s voice grew so soft that it seemed to dissolve in the spring breeze, vanishing before anyone else could hear it.

The midday sun bore down, its heat disorienting. Rong Tang felt lost.

Su Huaijing squeezed his hand gently and said, “But, Tangtang, do you know? The military fortresses in Longxi were constructed at Her Royal Highness’s request. The tax relief for mountainous regions came after she spent countless hours in discussion with Mingzong. The policy ensuring annual stipends of two taels of silver for the elderly, disabled, and childless was her proposal. In fact, to ensure its implementation, Her Royal Highness donated the majority of her personal wealth, accumulated over twenty years.”

“Why do you think His Majesty holds her in such high regard? Why do you think, though the imperial family has nearly perished, she—a mere adopted daughter—still commands authority and resides in the Eldest Princess’s Palace?”

Rong Tang sank into prolonged silence.

In the original novel and in his previous two lifetimes, Her Royal Highness, the Eldest Princess, had always been a figure cloaked in detachment. She was a woman of quiet faith, her life centred around Buddhist meditation, removed from worldly matters.

She had children, and her descendants flourished, yet she seemed utterly indifferent. She was unconcerned with fame, power, or even familial bonds.

The original text, however, fuelled speculation among readers. Because her residence was across from the male protagonist’s post-palace home, some wondered if she was a hidden boss.

Yet even by the time the novel was locked, Rong Tang had seen no hint of Duanyi turning villainous.

Now, with Su Huaijing’s revelations, it seemed Her Royal Highness was connected to him, perhaps positioning her as an antagonist in the story’s later arcs.

But… how could such a woman be called a villain?

Rong Tang remained silent, his thoughts tangled. Even the system, observing quietly, seemed momentarily stunned.

Su Huaijing said: “After the fortress in Longxi was completed, local military expenditures decreased by a quarter. When taxes in the mountainous areas were reduced, the villagers not only gained a small surplus of money, but the neighbouring state capitals also reported a significant decline in missing women and children cases every year. As for the living allowances… Tangtang, do you know how many peasant uprisings occurred in Dayu each year before Mingzong ascended the throne?”

Though not many, and never enough to pose a serious threat, they existed.

When people cannot live securely, they naturally develop rebellious and riotous thoughts—a truth that holds across time.

Su Huaijing continued, “Take any one of these political achievements—just one—and credit it to any of the senior cabinet ministers today, and it would be enough for them to earn a place in history, beloved by the people. But when such policies originate from a woman, they’re twisted into claims of ‘a hen crowing at dawn,’ comparisons to the infamous Empress Dowager Zhang who ruled from behind the curtain, and dire warnings of courtly chaos. Memorials proclaiming, ‘I remonstrate with my death, beseeching His Majesty to revoke the Eldest Princess’s right to participate in court affairs,’ fill the records. Tell me, Tangtang, does that sound fair to you?”

Rong Tang’s heart trembled. The sunlight above him and the spirited crowd in the distance blended into a surreal, distorted tableau, their faces unclear as though part of an abstract painting.

He shook his head lightly and whispered, “How could it be fair?”

Su Huaijing tightened his grip on Rong Tang’s hand, a gesture equal parts comfort and reassurance. “Of course it’s not fair. The late emperor was not, by any measure, an ideal monarch.”

Startled, Rong Tang turned to Su Huaijing with a hint of surprise.

Su Huaijing merely smiled and nodded, “What I said is true.”

He elaborated, “His temperament was gentle and easygoing, disinclined to micromanage. He placed immense trust in his ministers and brothers, particularly in those who had accompanied him the longest, treating them with exceptional kindness.”

But an emperor cannot afford to be this way. An emperor must excel at power and the subtle art of manipulation.

However, the late emperor’s indolence meant he’d rather avoid the painstaking work of understanding and controlling his ministers’ thoughts. He’d much prefer returning to Fengqi Palace to taste the meals his eldest son had prepared for the Dowager Empress.

The harmony in the imperial harem stemmed largely from the late emperor’s luck; the concubines he chose were naturally unambitious and content.

Dayu thrived without disasters, and official salaries were ample, ensuring that even the most power-hungry noble families remained within acceptable bounds, never overstepping too egregiously.

The late emperor was deemed wise because he was a good man who coincidentally avoided missteps when critical decisions were required.

When border skirmishes arose, he entrusted Duke Xian to suppress them. When Confucianism faltered, he permitted the imperial teacher to lecture outside the palace. When natural disasters struck, he opened the state treasury to aid the victims.

“If every official could recall the ideals they wrote about during the three days and nights spent drafting essays under the symbolic sun and moon in the imperial examination with the fate of the people and the nation in their hearts, perhaps under such a ruler, Dayu might have charted a more prosperous course,” Su Huaijing mused.

“But once self-interest creeps in, a single spark can ignite chaos. An empire, no matter how grand, is vulnerable to erosion by tiny acts of corruption. Even a centuries-old tree eventually collapses under the onslaught of termites.”

Su Huaijing had revisited these thoughts countless times, seeking to understand how it all unraveled. As a child, he couldn’t grasp the complexity; with age, clarity dawned.

A benevolent heart alone cannot secure an emperor’s throne.

He smiled faintly, surprised at his own ability to shed bitterness and discuss such matters with Rong Tang in such an unguarded manner.

“That’s why,” Su Huaijing concluded, “even when he wished to protect someone, it wasn’t as simple as it seemed.”

All he could do was grant Duanyi the title of Eldest Princess, shelve all the impeachment memorials, and leave them unanswered. He was still like a student. Whenever he encountered murky political matters, he would humble himself to seek advice from his aunt and teachers.

But the Eldest Princess had already withdrawn from court once before, so it wasn’t surprising when she chose to do so again.

Her appearances in court were solely to assist her younger brother and nephew. When they no longer required her help, or when her presence would create unnecessary trouble for them, she withdrew without hesitation or regret.

The late emperor could ignore those memorials, but he couldn’t physically drag Duanyi to court and force her to participate in government discussions.

And yet, even after the upheaval in the twenty-fifth year of Yuanxing, royalist ministers still came to the Eldest Princess’s residence, accusing her of disrupting the court, failing in her domestic duties, and even raising a rebellious son.

Though Emperor Renshou executed those ministers, their words lingered, passing through the wooden doors of the Buddhist hall to be heard by ancient Buddhas amid the scent of sandalwood.

Su Huaijing sneered, “Don’t you find it ironic? When the country is stable and prosperous, they call her a hen crowing at dawn. But when the country is in turmoil, they blame her for the chaos.”

“I can’t even follow their logic,” he added.

Rong Tang’s lips felt dry. His gaze fixed on the ants under the tree, tirelessly moving camphor fruits.

Su Huaijing said, “Compared to the late emperor, xiong zhang was far more suited to the throne. He once said the first thing he’d do as emperor was establish schools for women. If men, and even male wives, can serve as officials, why can’t women take the imperial exams and enter government service?”

Rong Tang, startled, looked toward the group in the distance. Mu Jingxu and three others were surrounded by young and older students alike.

“Is it Excellency Mu?” he asked in surprise.

Su Huaijing nodded, then shook his head. “It was da ge. But san ge agreed with him on many things. They used to say that if da ge became emperor, san ge would be a loyal regent, fully supporting him in leading Dayu toward prosperity.”

At the time, the Third Prince would always laugh and say, “When the time comes, I’ll have to trouble Crown Prince gege to show pity and give this didi a six-to-nine-month holiday every year. I want to take Ah Xue and Xiao Qi traveling.”

The Fourth Princess would then rush over, grabbing his neck and threatening childishly, “Don’t forget me! If you leave me behind, I’ll set bugs on you!”

The Crown Prince, about to rebuke his san di’s teasing, glanced around at the eager faces of his siblings. With a sigh, he waved his hand. “Imperial Father said today he’s testing you on policy essays.”

At this, the Third Prince panicked and bolted to the study to cram for his lessons.

Cicadas chirped outside the palace, and the sunlight felt heavy, almost ancient.

Su Huaijing’s voice trailed off. Rong Tang glanced at him and saw he had fallen into deep thought. He didn’t interrupt, choosing instead to wait in silence.

A gust of wind rolled the fruit the ants had laboured to carry off to the side. Su Huaijing blinked, awakening from the faded, almost forgotten memories. He turned to Rong Tang with a faint smile.

“Tangtang, I originally just wanted justice for my parents and family. But now, I’ve changed my mind.”

Rong Tang felt a strange unease rise in his chest. His voice was hoarse as he asked, “Changed your mind about what?”

Su Huaijing’s expression was calm but resolute. “What xiong zhang failed to do, I will accomplish in his place. What do you think?”

He suddenly realised that san ge’s words from long ago weren’t entirely meant to tease Ke Hongxue.

Perhaps he understood now.

Standing under the bright spring sun, Su Huaijing smiled, a hint of determination in his eyes. “One day, I’ll make sure the examinees lining up at the gates of the imperial academy aren’t only in green robes, but also in flowing skirts.”

“Tangtang,” he said, turning to him, “how about you work a little harder and join me to see it?”