Chapter 337: Flattery Is a Profound Art

Jiang Tu would never be foolish enough to directly ask for an official post. He planned to mobilize a group of mouthpieces to build momentum for him—to stir up public opinion, draw the old emperor's attention, and leave the impression that he too was a qualified candidate.

Once that impression was established, Jiang Tu already had a basic strategy for what came next: flatter the emperor's preferences!

What did the old emperor like?

Nothing but money.

If appointed as chancellor, he could help the old emperor solve the empire's dire fiscal crisis.

With such a powerful asset, such an advantage, how could the old emperor possibly choose anyone else?

Unbeknownst to him, the old emperor had already settled on a perfect candidate in his mind—someone whose scholarship, credentials, experience, and lineage were all top-tier. The court ministers would surely agree.

The old emperor's choice was Yu Zhaoan.

Yu Zhaoan was only in his forties, so age was slightly off—but in every other respect, he was flawless.

Someone claims Yu Zhaoan has poor character, that he flatters superiors and bullies subordinates?

That's pure envy!

Yu Zhaoan spent years imprisoned in the Heavenly Prison, his legs broken in the Imperial Prison, yet he never collapsed or gave up. He rose strong, restored his health through astonishing willpower, and returned to court. Once back, he worked diligently, easing the burdens of the court and the Son of Heaven.

How could anyone say such a man has poor character?

Is it flattery to serve the emperor by relieving his worries?

When did serving the sovereign become flattery?

Nonsense!

Yu Zhaoan is no Jiang Tu, that ignorant fool. Even if he truly flatters, his phrasing is subtle, elegant, his posture graceful, preserving basic dignity.

Flattery is a profound art.

This clever fellow, after awakening in the Heavenly Prison, suddenly understood everything—taught himself, mastered its essence, and became a true master of flattery.

Look at him: after only a few months with the old emperor, he was sent to the northwest to oversee civil affairs. In those few months, he won the old emperor's heart. So much so that when selecting a Right Chancellor, the old emperor thought of him first.

When the old emperor announced his choice for Right Chancellor in court, chaos erupted.

To oppose him? The reasons were weak, unconvincing. All they could cling to was that Yu Zhaoan lacked sufficient experience and needed more training.

"Minister Yu has served for twenty years—his experience is more than sufficient!" The old emperor dismissed their objections with a single sentence.

Then someone else argued Yu Zhaoan was too young, his experience still limited, unlikely to command respect.

"With Grand Secretary Li present, Yu Zhaoan merely assists. All matters follow Grand Secretary Li's judgment."

When the old emperor favored someone, he protected them utterly, without a single blind spot.

Yu Zhaoan, though far from the capital, had truly grasped the emperor's sweet spot: every month he submitted two memorials, lavishing praise on the emperor's glorious achievements, briefly noting conditions in the northwest, then subtly praising his own contributions—all without a hint of boastfulness.

Month after month, never repeating himself, he made the old emperor giddy: "Minister Yu understands me!"

The old emperor was lonely.

Aside from Jiang Tu, that ignorant fool, everyone else fumbled their flattery, spoke dull, uninspired words.

Now, with Yu Zhaoan by his side—a man of real talent, witty, clever, always finding solutions, perceptive, well-read on heaven and earth, conversant in folkways and customs—he could debate like a great scholar and chat like a commoner. He was the perfect companion for the emperor.

As one grows old, one fears loneliness and craves someone to chat with—about the past, about youthful triumphs. Even an emperor is not exempt. Yu Zhaoan was the ideal conversationalist.

Unconsciously, the old emperor had grown deeply fond of Yu Zhaoan. Thus, he personally appointed him Right Chancellor.

Even with court opposition, he overruled them all.

Coupled with Yu Zhaoan's scholarship, credentials, family background, full backing from the Jixia Academy, and secret support from Prince Jin, the appointment swiftly passed through the State Council.

Throughout, Li Liangcheng never objected.

Though he watched Prince Jin scramble about as if Yu Zhaoan's entry into court would grant him an ally, he remained silent.

He thought to himself: Prince Jin is still naive.

Yu Zhaoan is no easy man to manipulate—he won't play along with Prince Jin's schemes.

Can everyone see this, yet the old emperor cannot?

Just appointed Prince Jin's father-in-law, now another sworn brother? Does the old emperor not understand the stakes here?

Wu Dashou was the real father-in-law—he would always stand by Prince Jin, lobbying for him, which is why he was dismissed from office.

But whether Yu Zhaoan acknowledges Prince Jin as a sworn brother? That's uncertain.

Yu Zhaoan is no longer the righteous, vengeance-driven man he once was.

Yu Zhaoan has transformed into a true politician.

What is a politician?

A politician has no fixed stance—only interests!

Li Liangcheng had no objection to serving alongside Yu Zhaoan, for the old emperor needed a Right Chancellor with no allegiances, only obedience to the throne.

Compared to all others, Yu Zhaoan was the perfect choice: no clear faction, intelligent, sharp, not swayed by imperial princes, yet able to please the old emperor and mediate between him and the court.

Perfect!

The appointment was officially announced nationwide, and a eunuch envoy was dispatched to the northwest to summon Yu Zhaoan back to the capital. Civil affairs in the northwest would be reassigned.

Along with the appointment edict came another: a stern order urging the Marquis of Pingjiang to swiftly quell the rebels, not delay the campaign, and not squander his bright future.

Yu Zhaoan received the edict, smiled smugly, ordered his luggage packed, and prepared to depart for the capital—he couldn't even wait for his replacement to arrive for the handover.

He knew his mission and position well, and could guess why the old emperor had defied the court to promote him. He even suspected that the first thing the old emperor would ask upon his return was: how to deal with Prince Zhong.

Though the old emperor lately showed signs of conscience, making amends for Prince Zhong—ha! The emperor's kindness is fleeting, swift to come, swift to vanish.

As Right Chancellor, as the old emperor's "confidant," he must step forward and proactively relieve the emperor's burdens.

Prince Zhong…

Yu Zhaoan was already a bit weary.

Before departing, he went to see the Marquis of Pingjiang.

The Marquis had received the edict, but had no intention of obeying it. He had his own plans for the campaign. The emperor knew nothing of warfare—always rushing, rushing, like death itself was breathing down his neck. Last time, that rush allowed Da Ming Wang to break the encirclement and flee into the mountains, giving him a chance to regroup.

This time, he intended to end Da Ming Wang once and for all.

Because he had a better candidate: the rebel Guo Dachun.

Guo Dachun came from the border army; in military skill, he outclassed Da Ming Wang by tenfold.

Da Ming Wang had the advantage of initiative, but his abilities were utterly mediocre. Even with a strategist at his side, his old comrades constantly goaded him into making foolish moves.

Such a mediocre rebel was doomed to fail.

The Marquis of Pingjiang decided to deny Da Ming Wang any further chance to grow.