Chapter 53: Sails Unharmed, Streets Empty

Li Chengming and Chen Yinzhao were unexpectedly called out, both momentarily stunned.

Chen Yinzhao quickly recovered, stepping forward to speak.

Li Zhi suddenly whispered: “Though I don’t know your identities, I still recognize the Embroidered Uniform Guard.”

“The Son of Heaven’s eyes and ears mustn’t hide when they’re needed.”

Chen Yinzhao glanced at his bodyguards behind him.

He couldn’t tell if the man had sharp eyes or had noticed something during check-in.

He spoke cautiously: “You’re mistaken, sir—we’re merely merchants.”

The man before him was clearly no old scholar; he adjusted his tone accordingly.

Li Zhi gripped his hand and whispered: “I’m heading to Beijing too. Don’t blame me if I speak up later and cost you His Majesty’s favor.”

Chen Yinzhao’s expression turned uncertain.

It wasn’t that the words carried much threat—after all, no one would be punished over such nonsense.

He simply couldn’t gauge this man’s background.

Such insight, and such speech, clearly meant he was no ordinary man.

Seeing Chen Yinzhao still hesitating, Li Zhi explained: “Don’t worry—it’s no trouble. I just need you two as witnesses, so you won’t be beaten senseless by Wang Zhigao.”

Chen Yinzhao shot him a glance.

Upstairs was a Minister of Justice, a man even meritorious nobles avoided—he’d be mad to provoke him.

He asked in a low voice: “Why not be straightforward, sir?”

Li Zhi sighed: “I’m a juren by degree, Li Zhi, former Director of the Nanjing Ministry of Justice. Last month, I was appointed Director of the National Academy, and now I’m coming to Beijing to assume office.”

Chen Yinzhao froze.

Director of the Ministry of Justice and Director of the National Academy were both sixth-rank posts—though promotion from Nanjing to Beijing was a step up, he was still a minor official.

A sixth-rank nobody trying to pressure him? Ridiculous!

This fellow acted as if he feared no Minister of Justice—he’d almost been fooled.

Now reassured, he spoke calmly: “Then just go to your post, Director Li. Why linger here?”

?￠o

Seeing his expression, Li Zhi understood his thoughts.

He immediately pulled out the tiger skin again: “I am indeed on my way to assume office, but I still have an unresolved case from my time in the Ministry of Justice—one that requires the Minister’s attention.”

Then he grew cryptic, whispering: “It concerns His Majesty.”

Those final words instantly silenced Chen Yinzhao.

Though the Great Ming was open-minded, no one dared speak ill of the Emperor before the Embroidered Uniform Guard.

If he said that, he probably couldn’t avoid this after all.

He was caught between two difficult choices.

The two men murmured among themselves; the page had long grown impatient.

He restrained his temper and reminded: “Who are you? And why do you wish to see my master?”

Li Zhi hurried over.

Pointing at Chen Yinzhao and Li Chengming, he whispered urgently.

Then he patted his chest and showed some kind of credential.

Only then did the page nod hesitantly: “Follow me upstairs.”

Li Zhi pulled the two nobles behind him up the stairs.

The page then led the clerk into the room, asking the three to wait a moment while he announced them.

Seeing they had to wait behind a mere clerk, all three were displeased.

Only now did Chen Yinzhao have a chance to ask.

He whispered: “Director Li, be clear.”

Since Li Zhi had lured them up and opened the door to Wang Zhigao, he no longer concealed anything.

He spoke clearly: “I’ll be brief.”

“Last month, His Majesty held his first Confucian lecture.”

“The lecturers naturally introduced various schools of Confucian thought—such as innate moral awareness, cultivation and verification, and so on.”

“One lecturer happened to mention the theory of good and evil.”

“His Majesty grew curious and asked: Is human nature inherently good, inherently evil, or neither good nor evil, as the School of Mind teaches?”

“The lecturers argued among themselves; His Majesty grew displeased.”

“At that moment, the Joseon Kingdom sent envoys to pay tribute and were summoned by His Majesty, who mentioned a wild man in their mountains—abandoned as a child, raised by nature.”

“His Majesty was delighted, declaring that doubts must be tested—let us see whether such a primordial being is good or evil.”

Here he swallowed, pausing.

Li Chengming seized the opening to interject: “So what’s this got to do with you?”

Chen Yinzhao also stared at Li Zhi, eyes full of confusion.

Li Zhi shook his head: “Originally, it had nothing to do with me—but certain rotten men in Nanjing heard of it and rushed to curry favor.”

“I had a case involving a mentally impaired prisoner.”

“I was about to close it and release him when I heard he’d been taken away by this Minister Wang.”

Combined with his earlier words, the two understood what “taken away” meant.

Li Chengming asked: “A mentally impaired person and an uncivilized savage aren’t the same, are they?”

Chen Yinzhao, however, understood the motive.

They weren’t the same, but it was still a gesture of flattery.

His concern lay elsewhere: “If you’re here to retrieve the man, why drag us along? We decline.”

He’d been fooled by the flag-waving earlier; now he realized there was no imperial involvement and prepared to leave.

Li Zhi grabbed him.

He’d anticipated this.

He spoke slowly: “To be honest, this does involve you.”

“His Majesty personally wrote to urge me to proceed. If I fetch the man and send him back, the round trip will waste time and keep His Majesty waiting.”

“So I need your men in the Embroidered Uniform Guard to escort him.”

Chen Yinzhao frowned. What was this man’s background? Why did His Majesty personally urge his arrival?

At first he thought him a powerful figure; later, hearing his rank, he assumed him a nobody.

Now, hearing this, he was uncertain again.

Li Chengming, not thinking deeply, retorted: “Let His Majesty wait—that’s your problem, not ours.”

The logic held.

But Li Zhi grinned, pulled off his Confucian cap, revealing a bald head.

From beneath it, he pulled a slip of paper bearing six characters: “Long admired, I await your arrival.”

He waved it casually.

He grinned: “The bald don’t fear the capped. I’m sticking to you now.”

Chen Yinzhao and Li Chengming’s expressions changed.

They exchanged a glance—both had seen the Emperor’s private seal.

Anyone so favored by His Majesty, regardless of rank, was not to be trifled with.

They immediately realized this man could not be ignored.

After Li Zhi promised not to offend Minister Wang and merely serve as a witness, the two reluctantly agreed.

Li Chengming suddenly asked curiously: “Are you a monk who returned to lay life?”

“The body and hair are gifts from one’s parents—Confucians never treat their hair this way.”

That’s why he couldn’t help asking.

Li Zhi waved it off: “One day my scalp itched terribly, and I was tired of combing it—so I shaved it all off, keeping only my sideburns.”

It wasn’t carefree—it was heretical.

Chen and Li kept glancing at his bald head, silently marveling at this mad scholar.

Li Chengming couldn’t resist: “The Classic of Filial Piety says, ‘The body, hair, and skin are received from one’s parents…’”

Li Zhi looked at him strangely: “Confucius barking, and later Confucians echoing him—I can understand that. But you’re a nobleman—why are you parroting it too?”

As soon as he spoke, both men were startled.

Chen Yinzhao instinctively flinched, quickly scanning the surroundings for listeners.

Seeing everyone was far away, he exhaled in relief.

He tugged Li Chengming, signaling him not to speak to this man again.

He was terrified—he’d never met anyone so reckless.

If this remark spread, Confucians might debate it internally—but any outsider caught in the fallout would be vilified mercilessly.

For a moment, the three fell silent.

After a long while, the page emerged.

He addressed the three: “My master invites you in.”

…

The next day.

At dawn.

Chen Yinzhao and Li Chengming had risen early, slipped quietly out of the official inn, and headed for the dock.

They were acting so furtively precisely to avoid Li Zhi.

He had claimed yesterday he meant no offense, yet after meeting the Minister of Justice, his tone had grown no more courteous.

It left the two of them sitting on pins and needles, forced to feign calm.

In the end, they had merely satisfied Li Zhi’s wishes, even sending the Embroidered Uniform Guard to escort him back.

But instead of being grateful, he had now clung to them.

He kept insisting on late-night candlelit talks and sharing a bed.

Sometimes he probed them about the Emperor, other times he preached his own interpretations of the classics, driving them to desperate lengths to evade him.

So they decided to leave early this morning, to avoid being trapped again.

The two hurried like fugitives, striding swiftly to the dock.

The boat was already moored; they paid the fare and boarded the vessel bound for Beizhili.

After selecting their cabin upstairs, Chen Yinzhao warned: “We don’t know if the Director of the National Academy and Minister Wang are on this same ship—better keep to our room and avoid moving about, lest we run into them again.”

Li Chengming nodded vigorously.

He admitted with a shudder: “No wonder my father said one must travel to gain experience—these people are all far from simple.”

Chen Yinzhao shook his head: “Even a lowly clerk surprised me—let alone the rest. We’d do best to stay out of it.”

“From what I see, Li Zhi’s affair with Wang Zhigao may have deeper currents beneath.”

Li Chengming froze.

He asked, puzzled: “What do you mean?”

Chen Yinzhao’s expression was unreadable: “Yesterday, I sent someone to inquire at the Provincial Military Command. Li Zhi isn’t just some wild scholar.”

“At twelve, he wrote an essay denouncing Confucius himself, and since then has repeatedly spoken disrespectfully, calling Confucius nothing but a barking dog.”

“After passing the provincial exam, he served as a tutor in Huixian, Henan, then as a Doctor at the Nanjing National Academy, openly promoting his heterodox doctrines.”

“He preached gender equality, denounced falsehood and sought truth, and attacked his colleagues, saying, ‘They speak of morality but seek only to steal,’ and ‘They care not a single li for others.’”

“He even dared to claim the Sage-Kings were wrong, loudly proclaiming, ‘Heaven establishes rulers for the sake of the people,’ and openly declared, ‘The highest governance is silent; the highest teaching is wordless,’ to imply the court governs too much.”

“Such a man was personally summoned to the capital by His Majesty—do you think Wang Zhigao has no ulterior motive?”

Li Chengming suddenly understood.

He frowned in thought: “Brother Chen, are you suggesting Minister Wang intends to manipulate Li Zhi, to probe his true intentions?”

“No wonder Li Zhi was received so easily—Wang Zhigao was waiting for him all along.”

Chen Yinzhao gave no direct answer, instead said something unrelated: “Wang Zhigao is also from Chu.”

Seeing Li Chengming still didn’t grasp it, he fell silent.

Some things need only be hinted at.

Wang Zhigao was from Chu—he was surely promoted to the capital by Grand Secretary Zhang Juzheng.

Yet Li Zhi, a heretic, was personally invited by the Emperor.

It’s hard not to suspect: is the Emperor’s scholarly leanings making the court’s old Confucians wary? Are they using Li Zhi to test what the Emperor truly thinks?

It seems… the Emperor’s lectures have seen much happen.

The two then turned to other matters.

Soon, shouts rose from the deck above.

The sailors were pulling ropes in unison.

Then the great ship slowly pulled away from shore.

After leaving Jining’s southern city inn, the journey sped up.

Passing twenty-two minor and major ferry points—Dong’an’s Anshan Ferry, Eastern Depot’s Chongwu Ferry, Dezhou’s Ande Ferry, Cangzhou’s Zhuanhe Ferry, Tianjin’s Yangqing Ferry—finally disembarking at Tongzhou, they would reach the capital.

This was a fast vessel; most ferry points were skipped, so it moved quicker.

They would reach the capital in roughly ten days.

For the next five or six days, all remained calm, no further incidents.

The two grew less cautious, occasionally leaving their cabin to walk the deck.

On the seventh day, the ship docked at Jinghai’s Fengxin Ferry and took on more passengers.

This was Jinghai County, under Tianjin Guard—the capital loomed clearly ahead.

At noon, Li Chengming went to find Chen Yinzhao to disembark and rest—he had become seasick again.

He knocked on Chen Yinzhao’s door and found his brother still lying on his bed.

He approached, puzzled, only to see Chen Yinzhao absorbed in reading a small newspaper.

Li Chengming called out: “Brother, come on, let’s disembark and get something good to eat.”

Chen Yinzhao waved him off: “Wait a moment—I need to finish this.”

Li Chengming grew even more puzzled: “Brother, what are you doing? Why are you reading gossip sheets?”

Besides official bulletins, the people also had small newspapers.

But they mostly carried lewd content, unfit to behold.

He wondered if his brother, having traveled so long, had grown depraved.

Chen Yinzhao, distracted: “It’s not gossip—it’s a novel serialized in it.”

He tossed the previous issues to Li Chengming and returned to his reading with delight.

Li Chengming automatically took them.

The top read “Riyue Zao Bao”—the paper was mediocre quality, but the woodblock printing was superb.

The handwriting clearly belonged to a seasoned master craftsman.

The layout was elegant, with ornate borders carved around the edges.

The date at the top, and the official seal in the lower right corner, bore the Tongzheng Office’s stamp.

Most strikingly, every word was written in plain vernacular.

Li Chengming marveled: What extravagance—wasting paper like this.

His curiosity flared.

He shut the door, sat at the table, and picked up an issue at random.

The lead story: Former Director of the Palace Secretariat, Feng Bao, had been raided by the Shuntian Prefecture constables, who seized twenty thousand taels of silver.

He knew Feng Bao had fallen from power; his home being ransacked was expected.

The paper also carried political news: official appointments and new edicts—all in plain vernacular.

Yet he saw no novel, as Chen Yinzhao had claimed.

He flipped to the next issue.

The Grand Secretariat ordered Shuntian Prefecture to re-raid Feng Bao’s home, checking for hidden assets.

Shuntian searched again—and found another forty thousand taels of silver.

Li Chengming clicked his tongue. Same old game.

He kept reading.

This issue began the novel Chen Yinzhao had mentioned.

The headline: five bold characters—“Baihua Xiyouji.”

Author unknown; annotated by Huayang Dongtian Master, Shirang Sanren; translated by Banlu Jushi.

Li Chengming blinked. Wasn’t this the same story told by storytellers in taverns?

They’d turned it into a novel?

He read the first chapter: “The Spiritual Root Nurtures Its Source; Mind and Nature Cultivate the Great Dao.” Hmph—a disciple of Mind Learning.

He settled in, reading slowly.

He had begun with indifference, but soon became utterly absorbed.

When he reached “The Four Seas and Thousand Mountains Bow in Submission,” he couldn’t help applauding.

When he read “The Heavenly Court appoints him as Stable Master,” he sneered at the heavens—how petty, how lacking in magnanimity.

Unaware, hours passed.

When he finally looked up, evening was near.

Only then did Li Chengming realize he had finished the entire issue.

He muttered to himself: “Six chapters in two months!? That’s simply unnatural.”

He set down the paper and rubbed his aching eyes.

He looked up to see Chen Yinzhao glaring at him in exasperation: “Brother, how can you be so wasteful? I called you to eat and you ignored me.”

As he spoke, his stomach growled loudly.

He pointed to it: “See? You’ve made me wait so long I’m starving.”

“Come on, come on—let’s disembark and get something to eat.”

Li Chengming wasn’t thinking about food.

He couldn’t help asking: “Where do these small newspapers come from? Why are they all in plain speech? Why print novels on them? Isn’t that a waste of paper?”

Of course, his unspoken meaning was: who runs this paper? I must bind this author to my household and demand daily updates.

Chen Yinzhao led him ashore, his expression odd: “Didn’t you see the Tongzheng Office seal at the bottom?”

Li Chengming paused in surprise.

Then he realized.

I just saw it, but got so absorbed I forgot about it.

But… is the Tongzheng Office not only issuing official bulletins, but now also publishing tabloids?

Li Chengming nodded: “Just now I saw it was all plain speech, rather vulgar, and I forgot about it for a moment.”

The two disembarked and went to find something to eat.

The sailor reminded them the boat would depart at night, urging them to return quickly; the two bowed in thanks.

After disembarking, Li Chengming added casually: “The Tongzheng Office has official bulletins—why bother with these tabloids, especially in plain speech? Doesn’t that demean scholarly dignity?”

In his mind, every Confucian scholar wished to speak in convoluted, obscure language, savoring every character, hoping no one could understand—so he could cite classics and lecture from above.

Chen Yinzhao was unsure: “Perhaps… it’s meant for the common folk?”

If so, the problem is grave.

Whether the common folk should have the right to read is a question with no open debate, yet one that is deadly in secret.

The two chatted idly, half-heartedly.

Suddenly, the crowd surged, pressing toward one direction.

Many cried out in alarm and ran forward.

The two froze.

Curiosity stirred in both.

They hurried forward and stopped a passerby: “Brother, what’s happening ahead?”

The man’s face glowed with ecstatic joy; though suddenly grabbed, he didn’t mind—instead, his expression turned fervent: “Sea Qingtian… Sea Qingtian has been reinstated! He’s now entering the capital to meet His Majesty and is passing through here!”

Saying this, he wrenched free and sprinted ahead.

Before long, the street where the two stood was empty.

Even street vendors hastily packed up their stalls, shouldering their goods to rush toward the commotion.

Li Chengming stared in awe: “This is what they call ‘empty streets’? Hai Rui truly commands such popular devotion.”

Anyone who calls him “Sea Qingtian” knows who he is without needing his name.

Chen Yinzhao shook his head.

To have prestige among the local populace and among scholars is one thing—but how could the common folk of Tianjin even know Hai Rui?

He handed Li Chengming the folded tabloid he’d held earlier: “Told you not to just read novels.”

Li Chengming took the tabloid.

He glanced at his senior, then slowly unfolded it, turning to the passage he’d ignored before.

He skipped the novel and immediately seized the key point.

The paper didn’t just carry news of Hai Rui’s reinstatement—it detailed his past, even included a plain-language excerpt from his “Memorial on State Affairs”!

He opened his mouth, unable to hide his shock: “They’re… they’re using the Shizong Emperor as a pawn?”

Where did Hai Rui’s clean reputation come from?

It came from when the Shizong Emperor ignored the realm, and Hai Rui, with sincere devotion, submitted his “Memorial on State Affairs” to advise him.

In that memorial, he declared: “The realm has long deemed Your Majesty unjust,” and “Jiajing, Jiajing—every household is empty.”

He risked his life to speak truth to power, voicing the suffering of the people—such deeds naturally won the whole realm’s approval.

Not to mention how he sent away his wife and children and placed his own coffin at home—such acts embodied the highest scholar-official spirit.

Whether among scholars or commoners, none failed to praise him.

Now, published in this tabloid, it instantly stirred admiration across an entire county, drawing crowds to line the streets in welcome.

Chen Yinzhao could not suppress his awe: “A thread stretched a thousand li.”

“To go this far, someone must have placed a tremendous burden upon this Sea Qingtian.”

He pulled Li Chengming toward the commotion.

Yet in his heart, he thought: the court is about to grow lively.