Chapter 33: The Eunuch Faction

The affairs of the Battalion Command were settled, and the outcomes for the convicted officials were publicly announced.

Aside from a few unlucky individuals targeted with remote exile locations, most fared relatively leniently, with the nearest exile destinations just a hundred li from the capital.

Some officials were even exiled to places right outside their own doors.

Regardless, measured from the capital, hundreds or even thousands of li had been covered in exile distances.

It should have been a universally pleasing outcome, but the eunuch faction acted disgracefully, dragging in vast numbers of the convicts’ families.

Whole-family exile was standard practice; direct blood relatives within three generations were mostly named on the lists, and entire clans were even exiled en masse.

Through these maneuvers, the number of exiled people reached tens of thousands.

The scale of collateral damage was rarely seen in Great Yu’s history.

Had they not spared executions, this case could have ranked among the Great Yu’s Top Ten Crimes.

The convicted officials naturally could not endure this outcome.

Especially those whose entire clans were exiled—spit from their own kin could drown them; it was even more unbearable than death.

The civil official bloc also erupted in collective outrage—this kind of play was simply too deadly.

In officialdom, everyone suffers bad luck at some point.

In the past, exile applied only to the guilty official himself; who had ever targeted families like this? It was clearly deliberate torment.

If we don’t help now, what if we ourselves fall into misfortune later? Will we not suffer the same treatment?

The court erupted in heated debate; under pressure from the ministers, the eunuch faction produced mountains of evidence and wielded the Great Yu Code as their weapon.

The legal basis was overwhelmingly solid—all sentences had been mitigated.

In the early days of the dynasty, these men wouldn’t have qualified for exile—they’d have been beheaded on the spot.

The civil officials, always known for their sharp tongues, never imagined one day they’d be silenced and humiliated in return.

Some things can’t be spoken of openly; just because everyone normally ignores the law doesn’t mean the Great Yu Code has no power.

To deny the Great Yu Code is to deny the legitimacy of the court.

When political correctness is involved, no one dares publicly attack the law.

The only way to alter the outcomes was another maneuver—amending the law.

The reformists supported this; amending the law was itself part of reform.

Once the law was revised, ancestral precedent would be broken.

“Ancestral laws must not be broken” became a false proposition; the conservatives could no longer invoke ancestral law, effectively clearing the legal obstacles to reform.

Given core interests, conservative officials naturally wouldn’t let the reformists succeed.

Then a curious scene unfolded in court: first, the civil officials united to denounce the eunuchs; then the reformists and conservatives turned on each other.

Standing near the back of the crowd, watching everyone hurl insults, Li Mu became a contented bystander.

Throughout, it was the senior civil officials who did all the speaking.

According to the Great Yu Code, only officials of fourth rank or higher had the right to speak; others, unless granted permission by the Emperor, were to remain silent.

There could be no scene of sixth- or seventh-grade junior censors shouting at the Emperor—they didn’t even have the right to speak.

Almost every court session involved civil officials tearing into each other.

Unless directly tied to their own responsibilities, military officers generally stayed silent.

The eunuchs suffered similarly, often seeing Zuo Guang’en forced into debates against a host of scholars, then driven into silence.

No wonder the eunuch faction was so eager to target civil officials—their daily humiliations in court would drive anyone to seek revenge.

…

“Court is dismissed!”

The eunuch’s voice rang out; Li Mu knew it was another day with no resolution.

Before the court reached a decision, the convicted officials had already begun their journey into exile.

Protests were useless—they were under direct escort by the Embroidered Uniform Guard and dared not resist after barely escaping the Imperial Prison.

The most tragic were the scholar candidates: they’d shouted in righteous fury, only to have their degrees stripped and be thrown into the exile columns.

With so many convict families gone, the once-crowded cells grew quiet again.

With ample funding from the Battalion Command, Li Mu ordered a new row of cells built; his instinct told him they’d surely be needed in the future.

“Sir, a scholar candidate has arrived outside, claiming to be the private secretary you hired.”

Secretary Yan reported in a low voice, a hint of envy in his expression.

Though both served in the yamen and Yan held an official government post, his actual status fell far short of that of a private secretary.

While Li Mu’s private secretary position remained vacant, Yan had performed much of the secretary’s duties, and his standing in the yamen had soared.

Even officials of official rank treated him with courtesy.

Now that the real man had arrived, those good days were likely over.

“Bring him in.”

Li Mu said calmly.

He no longer held the initial anticipation for this tardy private secretary.

Shaoxing was over a thousand kilometers from the capital; if traveling by land, the journey would indeed take time—but there was the Grand Canal.

He had personally asked his uncle to arrange that, once the man reached the dock, he’d be given passage on any official or merchant vessel.

Had he been earnest, he should have arrived in the capital a month ago.

At that time, factional strife was at its fiercest, with officials frequently arrested and imprisoned.

To arrive only after the dust had settled? He was clearly waiting to see which way the wind blew.

Chasing advantage and avoiding harm—this is human nature.

Had he been in Li Mu’s place, with no clear picture of the situation, he too would have chosen to wait and observe.

The man would still be employed—but he must be tested first.

This had nothing to do with loyalty; employment was a transaction, and one shouldn’t expect too much.

The test focused primarily on political acumen.

In Great Yu’s officialdom, political acumen mattered more than personal ability.

Political misjudgments due to information gaps were understandable.

But if one lacked political acumen altogether, no matter how capable, he could only ever be an advisor, never a chief strategist.

In an instant, Secretary Yan led in a middle-aged scholar dressed in a blue round-collar robe.

“Student Lan Linjie bows before the Battalion Commander!”

Before Lan Linjie could finish his bow, Li Mu swiftly grabbed his arm and replied with a smile:

“Master Lan, you’ve kept me waiting long indeed.

Before leaving the capital, Master Ouyang repeatedly recommended you, saying you possessed extraordinary talent and lofty ambition!”

The Master Ouyang mentioned by Li Mu was his uncle’s private secretary.

Also a scholar from Shaoxing, he was a full generation older than Lan Linjie; after repeated failures in the imperial examinations, he had long since lost his ambition.

Recently, numerous official vacancies had opened due to personnel reshuffles.

He accepted the Marquis’s recommendation and entered officialdom directly as a scholar, appointed as county magistrate in a district under Tongzhou.

The position of county magistrate in Great Yu was no easy one; while it wasn’t unusual for a scholar to hold it, such appointments were typically in remote prefectures.

Better locations were reserved for jinshi graduates.

His posting to a district under Tongzhou clearly involved the Hou Fu’s influence.

“Master Ouyang has entered officialdom!”

After initial surprise, Lan Linjie quickly regained his composure.

Failing repeatedly in the exams and unable to endure their hardship—choosing officialdom was not uncommon.

Theoretically, there was no age limit for taking the jinshi exam, but the age at which one passed directly affected one’s future career trajectory.

A jinshi in his sixties or seventies might even be older than his own mentor; meeting would be awkward.

Even if the court wished to cultivate him, they’d worry whether his body could withstand the strain.

If he died en route to his post, the Ministry of Personnel would be held accountable.

(End of Chapter)