Volume One The Youngest Among Three Hundred Chapter Fourteen Behind the Scenes of the Court

As the political heart of the Great Min Dynasty, the Dayang Palace sprawled like a mighty dragon at the core of Chang'an, nestled against the imperial family's forbidden grounds to the north, bordered by the Weishui River, and connected eastward to the Longshou Plateau. From its outermost to innermost chambers, it was comprised of three grand halls: Han Yuan, Xuan Zheng, and Zi Chen.

During the reign of Zhao Chong, the Middle Emperor of Qi, morning court was held at the hour of Mao. Officials would depart from their homes before dawn, assemble at the southern Vermilion Bird Gate, and, once the palace drum signaled the lifting of the nightly curfew, converge upon the Han Yuan Hall. The act of “checking in” referred precisely to this ritual.

Since Bai Mo ascended the throne and became emperor, whether out of consideration for allowing her ministers a few extra moments of sleep or for other reasons, the time for morning court shifted to three quarters into the hour of Chen, roughly equivalent to eight thirty in later generations.

In the height of June’s summer, the sun rose early; by this hour, its golden rays shone in splendor, having shed the rosy blush of dawn. The Dayang Palace was bathed in brilliance—from the gray stone pavement, the marble railings, to the crimson lacquered walls and glazed yellow tiles, all shimmered magnificently.

Outside the Vermilion Bird Gate, the assembled officials were all of the fourth rank or higher, easily distinguished by their attire: according to Min law, those of the third rank wore scarlet robes, and those above the third rank donned purple.

Presently, the Left Chancellor, Cheng Jianzhi, dressed in a rough, purple robe adorned with embroidered cranes and wearing a black gauze cap with wide wings, was whispering among the civil officials, discussing matters unknown. The Right Chancellor, Zhang Huaimin, whose face was aged and dignified and whose beard was meticulously groomed, did likewise, forming two distinct circles. Though both groups might address similar topics, they never exchanged words, at most rolling their eyes at one another. When their gazes met, a silent drama played out: What are you looking at? If you weren’t looking at me, how would I know you were?

Between these factions stood a man in his early thirties, one of the few dressed in scarlet, with prominent cheekbones and a square, refined face—the Prefect of the Grand Court, Wen Changming, leader of the Three Offices. He listened, intentionally or not, to the conversations of the two great civil groups, hands clasped in his sleeves, tightly gripping his memorial.

At three quarters into the hour of Chen, the drums of the Dayang Palace thundered, echoing to the Vermilion Bird Gate. The twin crimson doors swung open, and officials entered in rank order, slowly and in perfect formation.

After about two quarters of an hour’s journey, they arrived at the Han Yuan Hall. Before the golden desk, two rows of officials stood, their brows arched, eyes bright, faces pale and coldly beautiful, beneath the imperial gaze of the female emperor, Bai Mo. She wore a yellow robe entwined with golden threads and a crown of nine phoenixes playing with pearls, overlooking her ministers.

The favored eunuch, Feng Yuan, swept his dust brush in an arc, announcing in a clear voice, “Kneel!”

The officials bowed low: “Long live Her Majesty, the Empress! Long live! Ten thousand years!”

Such ritual needed no deliberate training; over time, it became ingrained habit. Yet it was well known that Zhang Huaimin, the Right Chancellor, was always the last to kneel at court, his excuse being a chronic ailment and difficulty with his legs.

Bai Mo lightly raised her right hand from the desk. “Rise.”

The officials stood, holding their tablets before them, eyes and ears alert, prepared to respond to any shift among their peers—to decide what must be said, and what left unsaid.

After Bai Mo’s ascension, a new rule was established: all memorials were to be presented during morning court. This prevented power from slipping away and left more time for her romantic intrigues with her favorites.

Thus, the morning court of the Great Min Dynasty centered around the memorials. Once Feng Yuan had collected them all and placed them upon the golden desk, Bai Mo picked up her vermilion jade pen and began her review.

When she came to a memorial stained with sweat, bearing Wen Changming’s signature, the empress paused, raising her eyes. “Beloved Minister Wen, the Three Offices have performed well in retrieving Princess Changning. Be sure to reward them on my behalf.”

Wen Changming stepped forward in his scarlet robe, bowing. “On behalf of all in the Three Offices, I thank Her Majesty.”

Bai Mo nodded slightly, drawing a small circle at the end of the memorial. No approval or denial was needed; it was merely to acknowledge, “I am aware of what you have presented.” If the memorial required a decision on policy or decree, she would mark it with a tick or a cross—the former meaning, “I agree, proceed,” the latter, “This must not be done, stop at once.”

After reviewing the documents, Bai Mo asked, seemingly offhand, “Is it certain that the one who rescued Princess Changning was the Su family’s son-in-law? Could someone have used this achievement as an excuse to escape punishment?”

At her words, the officials exchanged furtive glances and murmured among themselves. This was the very issue they had discussed outside the Vermilion Bird Gate: could a truly clever person become a son-in-law? Could a blind man find the princess? Surely someone was using this as a cover for smuggling!

The censors, ever eager, seized upon the point. Once they found a thread, they could unravel a whole tapestry of criticism.

Wen Changming knelt once more, hands sweeping down in a formal arc. “Your Majesty, I stake my official title and life on it: it is indeed Su family’s son-in-law, Chen Chang’an, who found Princess Changning.”

“Hmm,” Bai Mo replied with a neutral hum.

Feng Yuan, sensing her meaning, announced loudly, “Court dismissed!”

“Long live Her Majesty, the Empress! Long live! Ten thousand years!”

The officials bowed again and departed. Bai Mo, seated at the golden desk, was lost in thought, feeling the vibrant warmth streaming in from outside, silently reflecting, “A promising seedling, yet still blind!”

On the way home after court, the officials continued their discussion.

“In truth, my opinion matches Her Majesty’s—I suspect someone is deliberately attributing the merit to that son-in-law to clear the Su family’s name.”

“Exactly! Even the Black Robe Guards and the Blue Porcelain Attendants couldn’t solve the case—how could a blind man uncover it? If that were so, what use are we, the sighted?”

“I’m not so sure. Wen Changming vouched for it with his title, and everyone knows he’s a rather upright fellow.”

“Well, maybe the Su family just got lucky, or a blind cat caught a dead mouse—pure coincidence!”

Amidst these conversations, a purple-robed official quickened his pace, exited the Vermilion Bird Gate, entered his sedan, and returned by a different route, soon stopping before a grand mansion where bells chimed and feasts were held.

The guards at the gate immediately stepped forward to greet him. “Sir, our master has been awaiting you.”

He nodded, entered the hall with the guards, and was led to the inner chamber.

Inside, besides the master of the house, there was a tall, white-robed man, his hair tied in the style of a Daoist, face obscured.

The purple-robed official greeted the two, then sat down, pounding the table in frustration. “Princess Changning was within our grasp, but Chen Chang’an appeared midway and ruined everything. Damn it!”

The master of the house calmly sipped his tea. “Don’t be angry. Chen Chang’an is just a street urchin, a young fool. Facing a death sentence, it’s natural for him to try anything to save himself.”

The official scowled. “You’re rather patient!”

The master laughed softly. “Three years of planning, and now, just as we begin, it’s ruined by a blind man. I find it amusing.”

“Should we kill Chen Chang’an?” The official’s fists cracked audibly.

At that moment, the white-robed Daoist, who had remained silent, spoke evenly. “Kill him? There’s no need. Even without Chen Chang’an, your plan would never have succeeded, would it?”

Both the master and the official turned to him—the former with anticipation, the latter with a hint of discontent.

The white-robed man ignored them, touching his nose. “As far as I know, Princess Changning was indeed captured, but she did not reveal the secret you sought. Thus, the key lies not with Chen Chang’an, but with the method.”

“If the method is correct, what does it matter if there are ten Chen Chang’ans?”

The master clasped his hands tightly. “Please, Master Fenyang, instruct us!”

The man known as Master Fenyang played with his teacup, answering with deliberate satisfaction.

At first, the purple-robed official showed little interest, but after hearing the explanation, his face was full of admiration. The master nodded repeatedly in praise, exclaiming, “Master Fenyang, truly ingenious! With this plan, how can we fear failure?”

“Even with ten Chen Chang’ans, what could they do? Ha!”