Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven: The Mastermind Emerges

The earliest documented evidence of handwriting analysis dates to the end of the Eastern Han, when Guo Yuan, the Prefect of Weijun under Cao Cao, began using it; by the Tang Dynasty, it was formally incorporated into criminal investigation methods, such as in the cases of Zhang Chujin adjudicating Jiang Chen’s false accusation against Inspector Pei Guang, Cheng Hao interrogating the Old Man case, and Xie Shiyuan resolving the land dispute case, among others.

The Ministry of Justice, the Northern Town Surveillance Office, and the Eastern Depot all maintained teams of specialized clerks to authenticate written evidence; the Ministry and the Northern Town both concluded the document was forged, but the Eastern Depot’s eunuchs refrained from a definitive verdict—though they largely agreed the handwriting was fake.

The Eastern Depot’s eunuchs knew their director wished High Arc dead, even though High Arc had already retired to his hometown; yet they dared not immediately point to the moon and call it a deer, boldly declaring the handwriting genuine.

They must wait for the Grand Eunuch’s instruction; then, whether forging another handwritten document or arresting a few of High Arc’s dismissed family members to accuse him, it would be no great feat for the Eastern Depot’s eunuchs.

The Embroidered Uniform Guard in the outer court could not easily forge such evidence, but the Eastern Depot’s eunuchs had far fewer scruples.

Zhu Xixiao hesitated slightly, taking the document to the back hall; at dusk, the sun slanted westward, and though details were indistinct, the specific discrepancies in handwriting pointed out by the clerks were still plainly visible—indeed, it was forged.

After comparing several characters, the handwriting matched High Arc’s style from before he entered the Grand Secretariat.

Zhu Yijun glanced at Feng Bao, then said to Zhu Xixiao: “The day is late. The Empress Dowager ordered me to return to the palace before the gates are locked. This case will be discussed tomorrow.”

At this point in the case, Zhu Yijun already knew who the mastermind behind it all was.

“Court adjourned!” Zhu Xixiao gathered all physical and documentary evidence, ordered all defendants detained, then slammed the wooden gavel to end today’s tripartite tribunal.

“Your servants respectfully see off His Majesty.” A group of court ministers bowed before the emperor at the entrance of the Northern Town Surveillance Office.

Zhu Yijun walked ahead; Feng Bao bent low, following step by step—a posture that was deeply uncomfortable, yet he performed it with utmost reverence.

“Feng Daban, do you know who the mastermind is?” Zhu Yijun asked with a smile.

Feng Bao shook his head. “Your servant is dull-witted.”

“I know,” Zhu Yijun said as he walked. “Chen Hong’s audacity is unsurprising—this single letter deceived him easily.”

“When a man holds no power, he merely envies and speculates. But when he loses power he once had, the desperate longing to regain it, the fall from cloud to earth, feels like a cat’s claw raking inside his heart—once even the slightest motive arises, he will act without restraint.”

“What a fall it is—when a man loses power, not even a ghost will visit his door.”

“Only Ge Shouli truly fears for High Arc’s fate, hence his constant anxiety; as soon as Chen Hong pointed the finger, Ge Shouli immediately listed High Arc’s achievements—Ge Shouli is afraid.”

Feng Bao startled sharply. “Afraid?”

Zhu Yijun’s expression turned complex. “Ge Shouli fears most that High Arc is no longer the High Arc he envisioned.”

Feng Bao, skilled in handling civil officials and well-acquainted with their nature, found this deeply agreeable—these scholars always erect internal benchmarks; High Arc was Ge Shouli’s benchmark, his accomplishments memorized like family heirlooms.

Feng Bao asked, puzzled: “Your Majesty, who is the mastermind? If that scoundrel hides at the ends of the earth, I will bring him to you, to be flayed alive!”

“You truly didn’t see it?” Zhu Yijun asked, astonished.

The young emperor’s gaze wounded Feng Bao deeply—it was the look of someone staring at a fool.

Zhu Yijun thought a moment. “You—you’ve got nine of ten senses open, yet one remains utterly closed. People change, and so does their handwriting; nothing remains fixed. That handwritten letter was nearly indistinguishable from High Arc’s script after he became Chief Grand Secretary during Longqing.”

“Let me ask you.”

“Since entering the Grand Secretariat and becoming Ming Gong, High Arc’s calligraphy was worth a thousand gold pieces. Though High Arc was domineering, he was always incorruptible—he would never leave behind the kind of evidence that could be used to sell his brushwork. True or false?”

Feng Bao pondered: High Arc was domineering, yes, but indeed an incorrupt official; even after his fall, no one accused him of corruption, unlike Xu Jie, whose downfall revealed half of Songjiang Prefecture belonged to his family.

If High Arc had been corrupt, Feng Bao would have hunted him down long ago—why wait until now?

Feng Bao hurriedly said: “Your Majesty’s wisdom is innate, your insight as clear as daylight!”

Zhu Yijun continued: “The document contains hundreds of characters, most of which match High Arc’s script after entering the Grand Secretariat. I ask you: who could have accessed High Arc’s brushwork to copy and forge it?”

Feng Bao suddenly understood, striking his right palm with his left fist. “Zhang Juzheng! It must be Zhang Juzheng, fearing High Arc’s return, thus framing him! Everything fits!”

“The Chief Grand Secretary is so overwhelmed he’s running his feet into the back of his head—if he wanted to relentlessly pursue High Arc, he has countless methods. Scholars’ minds are filthy; why risk such great danger?” Zhu Yijun snapped his sleeve and retorted.

Zhu Yijun glared at Feng Bao’s foolishness, his anger mounting—this was the Grand Eunuch, the old patriarch of the palace, blessed with a seven-chambered, brilliant mind, yet here he failed to grasp the core issue.

Zhang Juzheng, as Chief Grand Secretary and head of all officials, could have arranged for the powerless, ghost-abandoned High Arc to vanish as easily as pinching a snail between three fingers.

Must he, like High Arc, point fingers at imperial authority, meddle in affairs, and drag himself into ruin?

Feng Bao hurriedly said: “The Directorate of Palace Affairs also holds High Arc’s draft edicts—that means the Directorate itself is suspect. Does that make me the prime suspect?”

Feng Bao’s eyes widened, his cheeks puffed out absurdly—he had circled back to himself as the chief suspect.

Is the true mastermind… myself?

Zhu Yijun strode ahead, hands clasped behind his back, disdainful. “Feng Daban, why not quit being the old patriarch? One day you’ll be sold and still count the coins for the buyer—I truly worry for you.”

Could the eunuchs of the Directorate of Palace Affairs, even if they read books, truly mimic High Arc’s handwriting?

The jinshi spent their entire lives writing; during the imperial exams, their Taige script was neater than printed type, let alone after High Arc entered the Grand Secretariat, when his spirit and vigor transformed. If the eunuchs possessed such skill, they would have long since crushed the civil officials in their deadly struggle—the Grand Secretariat would have fallen long ago. Why would they need a Chief or Deputy Grand Secretary?

Feng Bao hurried to catch up, helplessly saying: “Please, Your Majesty, instruct your servant.”

Zhu Yijun, tired of Feng Bao’s guessing, gave him the answer he longed to hear: “The forger of the handwritten letter is none other than High Arc himself.”

More precisely, whether High Arc wished it or not, this letter could only have come from his hand; no matter how far the investigation went, it would always lead back to High Arc.

Once a man loses power, not even a ghost visits his door. Placing someone in the palace is simple for some, impossibly hard for others.

Chen Hong was a powerless eunuch living under the eaves; High Arc was a former Chief Grand Secretary residing in Xinzheng, Henan.

Neither Chen Hong nor High Arc had the power to place Wang Zhanglong inside the Qianqing Palace.

So who is the mastermind?

One among the Jin Faction—or rather, the collective will of the Jin Faction.

But this case must end here, for further investigation would yield only one conclusion: High Arc, and only High Arc.

All clues point solely to High Arc.

“Hah!” Feng Bao suddenly understood, his face twisted with rage. “So it’s that villain! Deceitful and treacherous beyond measure—he forged his own handwriting, shed his skin like a cicada! Your Majesty, send troops to High Arc’s hometown, capture him! He is no ordinary traitor, Your Majesty!”

After all this circling, it’s still this scoundrel!

First, he insulted the late emperor’s coffin, declaring a ten-year-old sovereign unfit to rule; then he petitioned to strip the Directorate of Palace Affairs of its power, accusing the emperor of issuing direct edicts without proper drafting, showing no reverence whatsoever—and now he has orchestrated this grand scheme! Feng Bao was beyond fury; in the assassination plot, he had come within a breath of death.

High Arc was a minister who had lost reverence for the throne—his suspicion was greatest.

But in this court, how many ministers have lost reverence for the throne besides High Arc?

Feng Bao truly didn’t guess it—was he merely playing along with the Great Ming emperor? When the emperor demands performance, the Grand Eunuch must not turn a blind eye.

Life is a play, reliant entirely on acting.

“Let me ponder,” Zhu Yijun paused, having reached the Chengtian Gate. Beneath the setting sun’s glow, the three characters “Chengtian Gate” gleamed brilliantly—originally penned by the founding Emperor Taizu, later copied by Emperor Chengzu to the northern palace.

From the moment the handwriting was forged, the case became perfectly clear.

Did High Arc know of this? Whether he did or not, he was no longer Chief Grand Secretary. His death in the assassination plot was his final utility—someone was squeezing out his last remaining value.

If the emperor, the empress dowager, the Directorate of Palace Affairs, and Zhang Juzheng moved against High Arc, wouldn’t the Jin Faction in court erupt in chaos?

Aside from Ge Shouli, the Jin Faction never sought to save High Arc—they used the guise of saving him to seize power.

Wang Chonggu still commanded the Capital Garrison; Minister of Personnel Yang Bo remained the Heavenly Official; Chief Censor Ge Shouli led the Qingliu faction. Military power, appointments, and court opinion—all rested in the hands of the Jin Faction.

Zhu Yijun gazed at the Chengtian Gate, gilded by the sunset’s glow, and finally spoke: “Wait.”

“Wait?” Feng Bao was bewildered, stunned. The emperor knew the mastermind was High Arc—why wait? Bring him to the capital, execute him by slow slicing, and restore imperial majesty!

Zhu Yijun stepped inside the Chengtian Gate; the great doors of the Great Ming palace creaked shut, severing the inner and outer worlds completely.

Not far into the palace, Zhu Yijun saw a locked iron chest placed at the gate—this was the task he had assigned Feng Bao, already completed before nightfall.

Zhu Yijun looked at the tip-off box and asked: “A assassin struck the palace. Feng Daban, besides the method I taught you, do you have another?”

Feng Bao immediately replied: “Yes. Eight rules for gate security: one, regulate market locations; two, prohibit unauthorized pathways; three, control badge designs; four, reinforce shift changes; five, clear unauthorized occupancy; six, strengthen rewards and punishments; seven, investigate internal affiliations; eight, reinforce authority. The first rule—market regulation—means palace procurement only reveals who leaves the palace when the gates open…”

“Enough,” Zhu Yijun interrupted, waving his hand. “You handle it.” He looked at the iron chest. “Do you think this method will work?”

Feng Bao bowed deeply. “I believe it will. Institutions are institutions, but this chest tests the heart. As long as the box stands here, everyone in the palace will be terrified, each fearing their neighbor might betray them for advancement.”

Human nature cannot withstand testing—this iron chest is precisely such a test.

As for false accusations—isn’t that common in the palace?

Zhu Yijun walked toward the Qianqing Palace, continuing: “You know the story of Shang Yang moving the log to establish trust? When this box is first placed, no one dares to report. Do this: plant a mole—no, an inside agent—to make the first report, then reward and promote him. Once someone leads, others will follow.”

“I’ve already done so,” Feng Bao hurriedly replied. The emperor had given the method—if he couldn’t even execute this task, what right did he have to be the old patriarch?

The young emperor’s words left Feng Bao shaken—what manner of demon was his master? To casually speak of planting moles, as if it were perfectly natural?

As if it should be so.

Zhu Yijun nodded in satisfaction. “You have some insight. The outer court has slipped many sand grains into the palace gates. Use this opportunity to clear out the sand—but don’t remove it all. Keep a few unimportant eyes; otherwise, the outer court ministers will grow suspicious, wondering what transpires within.”

“These eyes must not be in critical positions—able to hear rumors, but unable to grasp the full picture. The messages they send must be a mix of truth and falsehood, vague and unclear—that is the highest art. Know something, but only a little.”

Feng Bao was not foolish—he had merely just become the old patriarch and did not yet know how to properly wield his power.

The Qianqing Palace stood before them. Feng Bao no longer served there; he remained at the gate, bowing deeply and loudly proclaiming: “Your servant obeys.”

“Mother, I’m home,” Zhu Yijun smiled brightly, stepping into the Qianqing Palace.

Before the two Empress Dowagers, he was the bright, cheerful young emperor.