Chapter 62: A Bit Too Harsh (Revised)

…

Within the princely circle, there was consensus on who should become emperor and who was more suited for the throne.

That consensus was Zhao Yu.

In fact, during the last meeting at Wende Hall, the outcome among the princes had already been decided—even Zhao Shi, who still harbored ambitions to challenge Zhao Yu, had to admit Zhao Yu was more fit to be emperor.

As for Zhao Bi and Zhao Si, who had no desire and no right to contest the throne, they sincerely hoped Zhao Yu would ascend, so they could enjoy wealth and honor under the protection of a capable emperor.

Now, seeing how close Zhao Yu had become to Empress Dowager Xiang, it was clear he was not merely fit to be emperor but also powerful enough to compete for the throne; Zhao Bi and Zhao Si willingly ceded the center stage to Zhao Yu and spoke to him with respect.

Zhao Yu politely declined, but when he could not refuse, he calmly stood between Zhao Bi and Zhao Si.

Then, Zhao Yu abandoned his earlier avoidance of politics and asked Zhao Shi, who had remained silent: “The Western Xia, seeing Your Highness’s illness worsen, have abandoned their former subservience and now posture for war; the Liao have sent envoys claiming the Bai Gou border is unclear and are demonstrating troops at Xincheng; our court is torn by factional strife; state finances are depleted, with official salaries and military rations long overdue. Given all this, what counsel does Prince Duan offer?”

Zhao Shi, though forcing composure, could not hide the sweat on his temples—Zhao Yu and the other two saw it plainly.

Zhao Yu thought: “Am I being a bit too harsh?”

These problems were beyond even Zhao Xu’s ability to solve—how could he expect a half-grown boy raised deep in the palace to have solutions?

But then again, whoever inherits Zhao Xu’s throne must face these very challenges.

As for the latter two chronic ailments, they’ve persisted so long they won’t be resolved overnight—but the first problems are urgent.

Crucially, the Liao have twice demanded border revisions, and each time the Zhao Song dynasty suffered losses.

Both incidents became stains on the reputations of the reigning emperors at the time—the well-regarded Song Renzong and Song Shenzong.

Whether Song Renzong or Song Shenzong, both were already in the middle of their reigns, with stable rule, so they could endure such political blemishes.

But the next emperor will ascend the throne and immediately confront these delicate diplomatic and even military crises—if mishandled, the Liao and Xia might unite to invade Song…

Zhao Shi dared not think further; his mind was filled with: “If I become emperor, will I be the one to lose the empire?”

Instantly, Zhao Shi felt the throne held no appeal—he might become the scapegoat, nailed to the rack of historical shame.

At that moment, Zhao Ji’s voice spoke: “State affairs are handled by the chancellors and ministers; major matters are decided by the Empress Dowager and ancestral precedent; the ruler need only make the final choice.”

Indeed, Zhao Ji saw more clearly than Zhao Shi. He knew that whoever became emperor would first have to endure Empress Dowager Xiang’s regency—short-term, he would be a puppet, not required to directly confront these difficulties.

Moreover, Zhao Ji was clever: he deliberately avoided saying the emperor merely needed to appoint the right people, for fear of offending those in power and making them obstacles to his own ascension.

Zhao Ji believed he had grasped the essence of rulership.

Zhao Yu looked at Zhao Ji, who thought himself capable, and smiled: “I have nine questions. If you can answer them, I yield the throne—how?”

“Yield?!”

Zhao Ji quickly understood: Zhao Yu meant that if he answered the nine questions, Zhao Yu would surrender the throne to him.

Zhao Ji’s breathing quickened; he was eager to accept.

But Zhao Ji knew Zhao Yu was formidable—and since these were Zhao Yu’s questions, how could he rashly accept?

So Zhao Ji hesitated.

Seeing this, Zhao Yu smiled: “I’ll make it easier—I’ll give you ten days. You may consult others. If you answer all nine, you win—how?”

Zhao Ji felt insulted. He had read countless texts, was learned beyond measure—nine questions, ten days, with help? If he still lost, he had no face left to compete with Zhao Yu for the throne.

Zhao Ji longed to say: “No need for ten days, no need to consult anyone—I’ll answer you now.”

But what little reason remained made him swallow the words already on his tongue, replacing them with: “Ask away.”

“First question: How many mu of land does a peasant household need to survive?”

“This…”

The first question stumped Zhao Ji.

Was it hard?

Not at all.

It was common knowledge among the lower classes—but Zhao Ji, a prince raised deep in the palace, had no idea.

Unable to answer such a simple question, Zhao Ji’s face flushed crimson; he bluffed: “I’ll answer you later.”

“Second question: What monthly income does an urban resident need to survive?”

Zhao Ji clearly could not answer this either, so he turned his head aside: “I’ll answer all later.”

“Third question: How do you classify poor peasants, middle peasants, rich peasants, and landlords?”

Zhao Ji closed his eyes: “All together.”

“Fourth question: How many social strata exist in our Great Song, what are they, and what are their attitudes toward reform?”

Zhao Ji had never even heard the word “strata”—how could he answer? He simply stayed silent.

“Fifth question: Why does our Great Song initiate reforms so frequently?”

Zhao Ji knew a little about this, but he knew his knowledge was far too shallow to answer Zhao Yu’s question—so he said nothing.

“Sixth question: Why is military reform so difficult to break through?”

Zhao Ji regretted his decision. Zhao Yu’s questions were precisely those an emperor must face—and yet all were beyond his understanding.

“Seventh question: What were the core measures and reasons for the failure of the Qingli Reforms?”

“Eighth question: Why did the Xining Reforms fail?”

“Ninth question: What is the fundamental reason for the failure of reform in our Great Song?”

Zhao Ji was utterly stunned. He could not answer a single one of Zhao Yu’s nine questions—he felt all his reading had been wasted.

He also felt tricked. These questions clearly reflected deep reflection on reform—court officials had debated them for years without resolution; how could a detached prince like him possibly answer? Who could?

“If you answer these nine, I truly yield. But if you cannot, fulfilling your ambition will solve none of our Great Song’s problems—only harm yourself and others.”

With the words, “Making choices is never easy—if you choose wrongly, the consequences are unthinkable,” Zhao Yu stepped into Cide Palace.

Zhao Bi and Zhao Si exchanged glances at Zhao Ji and Zhao Shi—one sighed, one shook his head—then hurried after Zhao Yu, leaving only the flushed Zhao Ji and the anxious Zhao Shi standing alone…

(End of chapter)