Rise of the Poor

Chapter 425: Rank, Age and Virtue

“Young Master—Young Master!”The servant’s voice rang out as he hurried forward.

After receiving the slip of paper that Yan Song had passed through the narrow crack of the West Garden gate, the boy had mounted a horse at once and raced straight to the Yan residence. There, however, he was told that Yan Shifan had not yet returned. Without daring to delay, he turned his reins again and rushed to the Ministry of Works. From one of the officials there, he finally learned that Yan Shifan was present at this very place—so once more he spurred his horse, riding as though his life depended on it.

Yet now that he had finally found his young master, the servant’s heart sank.

Yan Shifan was utterly drunk.

His face was flushed a deep, unhealthy red, his eyes unfocused, his tongue thick and swollen—so much so that even his words came out slurred and indistinct. The servant’s anxiety flared at once, rising like fire in his chest.

Yan Song was already advanced in years. When matters became complicated, his energy often fell short, and it was inevitable that he would feel strained and overburdened. The reason he could sit so securely in the position of Grand Secretary was, to a great extent, because of Yan Shifan’s assistance behind the scenes. Every time Yan Song went on duty at the Inner Cabinet, he took precautions: he always stationed several household servants at the gates of the West Garden palace. Their sole task was to receive any notes secretly passed out by Yan Song and deliver them at once to Yan Shifan for interpretation and response.

This servant was one of those men on watch.

Today, it was his turn.

Remove AdsAnd now, seeing his young master drunk to the point where his tongue nearly tied itself into knots, the servant could not help but feel a cold dread creep over him. Drunk like this—how could he possibly help the Grand Secretary decipher the Emperor’s meaning?

“What are you shaking for? Shaking like that—how am I supposed to take the note?” Yan Shifan snapped irritably, his words thick with alcohol. His left hand groped, his right hand hooked clumsily, yet no matter how he reached, he could not grasp the slip of paper that was right in front of his eyes.

The servant nearly cried out in his heart: I haven’t moved at all—it’s you who’s too drunk to see straight! But faced with Yan Shifan’s fearsome reputation, he would never dare say such a thing aloud.

“Yes, yes, it’s my fault—I deserve death,” the servant said hurriedly. As he spoke, he slapped himself hard across the face, apologizing over and over, then finally pushed the note into Yan Shifan’s hand. “This… this is the message the Grand Secretary sent.”

Yan Shifan clutched the paper and tried to open it, but he was so thoroughly drunk that even the simple act of unfolding a slip of paper defeated him. His fingers fumbled uselessly, trembling and uncooperative.

“Young Master,” the servant added carefully at just the right moment, “the old master is waiting urgently.”

“Damn it—why didn’t you say so earlier?” Yan Shifan cursed. At those words, a portion of the drunken haze cleared from his head. He raised his hand and smacked the servant squarely on the head.

“Yes, yes, yes—entirely my fault,” the servant said at once. Though he had just been struck, he reacted as if he had won the lottery, grinning as he admitted his error without the slightest resentment.

“That’s enough, that’s enough,” Yan Shifan said impatiently, shaking his head. “Go fetch a basin of hot water. And a towel. Hurry! If you delay my business, I’ll skin you alive!”

The servant answered and ran out at once. Before long, he returned carrying a basin of steaming hot water, heat rising in visible waves. Behind him followed the innkeeper’s wife, a towel draped over her arm. She walked with a gentle sway of her willow-slender waist, her steps unhurried, her clothing light and thin—revealing yet concealing, suggestive without being explicit.

The crude beginnings of a transaction of power and desire were already visible. It would not be long before Yan Shifan and this proprietress became entangled with one another.

Zhu Ping’an needed only a single glance to arrive at that conclusion.

The innkeeper’s wife, perceptive enough to know this was a critical moment, handed the towel to Yan Shifan, cast him a flirtatious glance, and then swayed away once more. Yan Shifan could not help but stare after her retreating figure for several long moments, his eyes lingering greedily on her back.

The Hanlin scholars present had no idea what Yan Shifan intended to do with an entire basin of hot water. Curiosity flickered across their faces as they watched.

Yan Shifan finally tore his gaze away from the woman’s departing silhouette. He plunged the towel into the steaming basin, soaking it thoroughly, then lifted it out while it was still scalding hot. With his thick, fleshy hands, he wrung it a few times, squeezing out the excess water, and then wrapped it around his head—three full turns.

A strong stench of alcohol radiated from his body, but the deep flush on his face began to fade little by little.

Remove AdsHe’s sobering up?

Zhu Ping’an was seated right beside Yan Shifan and could clearly feel the man’s drunkenness receding.

After about ten seconds, when the towel’s heat diminished, Yan Shifan removed it from his head, dunked it back into the hot water, and once again wrapped it around his scalp.

He repeated this process three times.

By the end, Yan Shifan was fully awake. There was not a trace of drunkenness left in his eyes.

“Mm. Liu San, you did well,” Yan Shifan said calmly once he had sobered up. He nodded toward the servant who had delivered the note. “Go to the accounts office later and collect your reward.”

“Thank you, Young Master!” The servant’s face lit up with uncontrollable joy.

Yan Shifan picked up the note that had been resting on the table and slowly unfolded it, his gaze settling on the words written there. The slip contained only four characters:

“Rank, Age, and Virtue.”

Yan Shifan read them silently to himself.

Though he made no sound, Zhu Ping’an watched the movement of his lips and instantly understood the words on the paper.

Rank, age, and virtue?

These four characters were undoubtedly a coded message from the Jiajing Emperor.

On the surface, the meaning seemed straightforward: was Xu Jie’s age and moral virtue appropriate? Read plainly, it sounded like the Emperor was asking Yan Song, What do you think of that old fellow Xu Jie’s character?

But was it really that simple?

Remove AdsZhu Ping’an recalled something he had once read in Those Things of the Ming Dynasty. There was a similar anecdote recorded there. Xu Jie himself had once received a slip of paper from the Jiajing Emperor bearing four characters very much like these: Your age and virtue.

At the time, Xu Jie had been so shocked that cold sweat poured down his back. His first interpretation was, Does my age and virtue still measure up? In other words—was the Emperor dissatisfied with him and planning to strip him of office? Xu Jie had been so frightened that he did not sleep the entire night. It was only the next morning, on his way to the government offices, when he ran into Ouyang De, that he suddenly burst out laughing.

Only then did Xu Jie realize the Emperor’s true meaning: Between you and Ouyang De, whose age is greater?

The Jiajing Emperor’s riddles were not something just anyone could understand.

No wonder Yan Song had immediately sent the note to Yan Shifan. Most likely, even Yan Song himself had been unsure of the Emperor’s intent when he first read it.

Recently, Yan Song had been rather satisfied with Xu Jie. Xu Jie had softened his stance, paid frequent visits to Yan Song’s residence, and aligned himself consistently with Yan Song on matters of court policy. Whenever he felt uncertain, he even came to seek Yan Song’s advice. His political posture was impeccable. Precisely because of this, when Yan Song received the Emperor’s cryptic note, he could not grasp its true meaning—and thus dispatched someone in great haste to ask Yan Shifan for clarification.

Yan Shifan stared at the slip for several seconds.

Then he burst into laughter.

“Ouyang De is older than Xu Jie.”

After laughing, Yan Shifan took up a brush and wrote eight characters on the back of the paper. Without any attempt to conceal them from Zhu Ping’an and the others, he handed the note to the servant and ordered him to deliver it to the West Garden at once.

Yan Shifan had made no effort to hide his writing, and when Zhu Ping’an saw those eight characters, a fresh sense of awe rose in his heart. Yan Shifan was indeed cunning and razor-sharp—able to grasp the Jiajing Emperor’s true meaning so thoroughly in such a short span of time.

Zhu Ping’an himself only understood the Emperor’s code because of what he had read in Those Things of the Ming Dynasty. Yet Yan Shifan, relying on nothing but his own insight, had deciphered it almost instantly. Just moments ago, he had been drunk beyond recognition—yet after sobering up with hot water, he picked up his brush and answered the Emperor’s riddle without hesitation.

The ancients truly could not be underestimated.

This was an extremely dangerous man.

Deep in his heart, Zhu Ping’an raised his guard against Yan Shifan yet another notch.