Daming: Brother, there is no future for monks, let's rebel

Zhu Han said calmly, "If you don't want two sedan chairs parked in front of your house, then go home and sleep."

"Whose Censorate is it?" Lu Ting hardened his voice. "Does Your Highness think the Censorate doesn't belong to me?"

"It doesn't matter whose it is."

Zhu Han turned and left, saying, "Tomorrow at 1:00 AM, at the Fengtian Hall, I still need you."

Lu Ting watched his retreating figure, his teeth clenching until they ached, but he finally tugged at the boy's sleeve: "Go back."

He returned to his residence without even lighting the lamps, went straight to his study, pulled out a pile of old documents from the desk, shook them off, and two thin wooden plaques fell out.

The wooden plaque was inscribed with the old terms for "paying for writing" and "borrowing a seal," both of which were private items.

He glanced at them, then finally stuffed the two cards into the bottom of the stove and weighed them down with a piece of charcoal.

With a crackling sound, black smoke rose up along the chimney.

Evening, a side courtyard of Ciyun Temple.

The host closed the door latch, holding a small, folded piece of paper in his hand. On the paper were written four words: "Do not speak more."

He folded the paper into a small crane, tucked it into his sleeve, and turned to leave when someone suddenly kicked the door twice.

"Which pilgrim is here?" The abbot opened the door a crack. Two men stood outside, both dressed in coarse cloth, their feet still covered in mud and snow.

One carried a cloth bag, and the other carried a bamboo tray on his back.

"Burn paper money for the old lady." The man carrying the bag smiled kindly.

"Burn paper money in the main hall." The abbot stepped aside. "The side courtyard is inconvenient today."

"The front hall is prestigious," the sign behind the plaque said coldly, "the side courtyard is quiet."

The host felt a pang of anxiety, but still smiled and said, "The price of incense is the same."

"Speak less." The man with the bamboo hat lifted the brim, revealing half an inch of his sharp eyes beneath. "What are you hiding in your sleeve?"

The host subconsciously pulled his hand back into his sleeve.

The other person glanced at him and his smile grew even colder: "Take it out."

The host had no choice but to take the little crane out.

He unfolded the plaque on the back, glanced at it, and said, "You can read."

The person carrying the bag replied, "Has anyone been here in the last two days?"

The host tried to smooth things over, saying, "They're all for burning paper money."

"Who?" The person behind the plaque stared into his eyes.

The host swallowed hard: "One is wearing a straw hat, and the other isn't."

"Speak like a human being." He twisted the hand carrying the plaque inside his sleeve, making the cuff bulge by one finger. "Name."

The host waved his hands repeatedly, saying, "I don't know the name. I only care about money."

The other person stared at him for a moment, then suddenly laughed: "That's true."

Then, changing the subject: "Don't turn on the lights in the backyard tonight. If anyone comes, charge them more and talk less."

The two men left. The host stood for a long time, leaning against the door frame, until he felt his knees had stopped shaking, before he finally lowered the latch.

When he turned around, he saw a small black mark on the wainscoting behind the door, which looked like a bit of smoke.

He gently fanned himself with a palm-leaf fan, but the black marks did not disappear.

"Amitabha," he murmured, daring not to think of anything else.

It was late at night, in the rear warehouse of the military armory.

A small lamp illuminated the more than ten small seals neatly arranged on the table.

The warehouse clerk was carefully covering each item with mud, matching the patterns, while outside, snow fell silently.

"Are your hands steady?" someone suddenly spoke from behind.

The storehouse clerk was startled and turned around to see that the person who had come was the Marquis of Nan'an. He quickly knelt down and said, "Your Highness, please forgive me!"

"Get up." Zhu Han walked to the table, picked up a small seal, and gently rubbed it in the red ink. The seal surface landed on a piece of white paper, and the lines were clearly visible.

"From now on, whenever a seal is issued from the warehouse, two people must be present to check it. If there is even a slight discrepancy, you will be held accountable."

"Yes, sir." The warehouse clerk's forehead was covered in sweat.

"Get another box of fire talismans," Zhu Han said.

"The fire talisman... has already been used twice today."

“Use it one more time.” Zhu Han glanced at the lamp. “Burning it again at Mao time tomorrow morning in front of the Meridian Gate.”

The storehouse clerk was stunned: "Your Highness, are you really going to burn the Meridian Gate down into a fire pit?"

"They burned until they forgot who started the fire."

Zhu Han said calmly, "Fire wasn't meant to be seen, but rather to be used again."

The clerk didn't understand, but dared not ask.

He presented a small box containing sealed scrolls of saltpeter and pine resin prepared in precise proportions. Zhu Han took the scrolls, put his hands behind his back, and left.

A draft blew in through the doorway, and the lamplight flickered on and off.

Deeper still, in the library of the Marquis of Nan'an's residence.

"Your Highness." Hao Duiying gently pushed open the door and placed two letters on the table, "One from Yanmen and one from Juyong."

Zhu Han opened the first letter, which contained sixteen characters: "The third exchange is complete, the fourth exchange is not yet opened, and the fox fur is not here."

The second letter contained eight characters: "Bai San made a mistake, retreat."

"Retreat?" Hao Duiying frowned. "Retreat to where?"

"Retreat to Yan." Zhu Han put down the bamboo slip. "We will not linger in the city any further on this journey."

"Then we'll defend the city?"

"Keep watch for one day," Zhu Han said. "Tomorrow at 1:00 AM, burn the incense in the palace again."

"Who to burn?"

"The copy of the 'Registered Personnel Records' in the hands of the Censorate was not theirs; it was sent to them by someone. — Only when you take your hand out of the fire do you realize how hot it is."

"The Censorate will refuse to hand it over," Hao reminded Ying.

“If he doesn’t hand it over, the Ministry of Justice will.” Zhu Han chuckled lightly. “Once the Ministry of Justice gets angry, the Censorate will know—the anger isn’t just about stamping an official seal, it’s directed at the person.”

He raised his hand and pushed the half-closed paper window open.

A sliver of night breeze slipped in, carrying a faint, cool fragrance.

"I'll collect another sum tomorrow."

He said, "Once the collection is complete, and the three-day period is up, the Crown Prince will ascend the throne."

"What does His Highness want to say?" Hao asked Ying.

"Just four words." Zhu Han closed the box. "Fake. Burn."

At the hour of Mao (5-7 AM), at the Meridian Gate.

The brazier was lit as promised. Chen Shu, a censor from the Censorate, held a copy of the "Collection of Household Registrations," his fingertips growing cold.

He looked at the fire, his throat bobbing: "Your Highness, this book was submitted anonymously."

“The anonymous ones are the dirtiest.” Zhu Han ignored him. “Vote.”

Chen Shu gritted his teeth and pushed the corner of the book into the fire.

The fire licked at him, and the paper burst into a small spark, burning the back of his hand and causing a small blister to form at the base of his finger.

No one else saw it, but he remembered it well in his heart.

"Remember this," he thought to himself, "Today the fire burns my hand, tomorrow it will burn someone else's face."

The fire slowly engulfed everything. Ash drifted out of the hall with the wind, squinting the eyes of a few onlookers.

"Disperse." Zhu Han waved his hand.

He turned and went up into the hall, remaining silent the whole way.

The Ministry of Rites had just finished setting up the registers in the hall when a new head of the Imperial Clan Court stood to the side, his face ashen.

Zhu Han stopped at the steps and glanced back in the direction of the Meridian Gate.

The fire was still burning, its flame low, like an inextinguishable thread. He withdrew his gaze and stepped into the hall.

Inside the hall, Zhu Biao stood upright, his robes perfectly straight. The two exchanged a glance, but neither spoke.

That moment of silence was like an iron bolt, locking the door shut from the inside.

At Shenshi (3-5 PM), in the old house of the Right Chief Secretary of the Imperial Clan Court, all the doors and windows had been removed. The ink on the desk was still wet, and the water in the inkstone had already gone cold. The wind blew up the scraps of paper pressed against the corner, revealing the bottommost one—circled with the words "Second Son" in fine red lines.

A shadow stood outside the window, glanced at the paper, gently stretched it out, folded it into a thin strip, and tucked it into its sleeve.

As he turned around, a flash of light appeared on the wall.

The shadow ducked down, the knife whizzed past his ear, and slashed through the window frame.

"Who?" The person outside the window chuckled softly. "The Censorate is meddling in other people's business."

The person inside did not answer, and the knife struck a second time.

The shadow neither retreated nor yielded, delivering a powerful elbow strike to the opponent's ribs, causing the knife to fall to the ground and the man to bend over.

Shadow casually pulled something out of the man's sleeve. Upon closer inspection, it was a thin piece of wood with a small character "陆" (Lu) carved on it.

"Oh." Shadow sighed. "So it's someone from your family."

He grabbed the man by the back of his collar and threw him out into the courtyard with a thud.

The shadow tumbled down from the windowsill, landing as lightly as if it had no bones. With a light touch of the toes, the person disappeared around the corner.

Night, the rear corridor of Fengtian Hall.

Zhu Han stood under the eaves, looking at the dim light outside the palace walls.

He stretched out his hand and caught a little snow. The snow was very fine. It landed on the back of his fingers, melted into a drop of water, and slid down the lines of his knuckles.

"Your Highness," Hao Duiying said in a low voice as he came from the side corridor, "the etiquette procedures for tomorrow have been arranged. His Highness will enter at the beginning of the morning, bow at the end of the morning, read at the beginning of the morning, and receive the seal at the beginning of the morning."

"The Grandson's seal cannot be used." Zhu Han shook his head. "Use the Crown Prince's seal instead."

"Your Highness is already the betrothed." Hao Duiying hesitated.

"Propriety must not be disordered," Zhu Han said calmly. "Whose hands it is in is under everyone's watchful eyes."

"Understood," Hao replied. "There's one more thing—Lu Ting didn't go out tonight."

“He won’t dare to do it again.” Zhu Han put his hand back into his sleeve. “Let him sleep for three days. He’ll wake up on his own after three days.”

What do you want to do when you wake up?

“To write characters,” Zhu Han said. “Even without him, someone else would still have to write them.”

He turned and walked into the shadowy corridor. The wind swept across the roof tiles, making a soft "whistling" sound, like someone whistling in the distance.

The corridor lights dimmed and then lit up intermittently.

The next day, before dawn, the drums at the corner of the palace sounded first.

City dwellers, donning their coats and venturing out, saw the brazier at the Meridian Gate resting peacefully in its place, emitting a wisp of smoke, like breakfast on someone's stove.

On the third day, we will ascend.

All the items in the hall were in their places, the people were in their places, and the seals were in their places.

Outside the main hall, the snow had stopped.

The ice under the tiles cracked open piece by piece, and sunlight shone into the cracks, like thin lines spreading out and connecting together.

Someone whispered from the corner of the corridor, "Look, the sky has opened up."

No one answered. Everyone was looking at the temple gate.

On the east side of Fengtian Hall, an official from the Ministry of Rites straightened the last curtain, his palms sweaty.

"Enter at the beginning of the morning, bow at the end of the morning, read at the beginning of the morning, and receive the seal at the beginning of the morning." The Minister of Rites repeated in a low voice, as if reciting the Book of Life and Death, "Not a moment's deviation is allowed."

“Just a quarter of an hour,” Hao Duiying chimed in, “someone is counting you from outside the door.”

The Minister said "Yes," his forehead even wetting, and turned to face Yue Zhang and the others.

Outside the palace gates, civil and military officials stood in their respective ranks. The Secretariat was on the left, the Ministry of Rites in front, the Censorate in the west, the Embroidered Uniform Guard guarded the gate, and the Arsenal and the Imperial Household Department each guarded one corner.

Lu Ting, dressed in a fox fur coat, stood at the head of the Zhongshu (Secretariat) column, his face pale, though a thin line of red blood had not yet faded from his eyes.

He kept his eyes fixed on the golden nails on the palace gate.

"My lord," the young servant called softly, "your hands are trembling."

"It's cold." Lu Ting hid his hands back in his sleeves, his voice hoarse. "Watch the door, not the people."

The bell rang again, and the chief official in charge of the hall called out, "Please summon the Crown Prince—"

Almost simultaneously, Zhu Han entered from the west wing, dressed in black robes and a plain belt, without a crown but bound, his steps neither fast nor slow, perfectly timed with the etiquette.

His gaze shifted, not landing on anyone, but sweeping across all the corners as if he were looking at four invisible bolts.

Zhu Biao entered the hall to the sound of music, his robes flowing like water, each step steady and deliberate.

They stopped a zhang (approximately 3.3 meters) from the palace gate. The Minister of Rites, holding the register, took a small step forward and lowered his voice: "Your Highness, please read the inscription."

"The character '照'," Zhu Biao replied almost inaudibly.

"Knock." The person in charge raised their hand.

Zhu Biao bowed deeply, once and twice, until the music stopped and the drums ceased.

The wind in the hall seemed to have died down, and even the few corners that had been refusing to comply were forced into silence.

As he rose, his gaze swept across the golden table—only the Crown Prince's seal was on it, not the Emperor's seal.

“Read it,” Zhu Han said.

The Minister of Rites held the edict, separating each word: "By the late Emperor's will, Crown Prince Zhu Biao shall inherit the throne. All princes, both inside and outside the capital, shall be subject to his authority. The central government shall appoint a regent, who shall be dismissed after three months. Those who disobey shall be punished according to the law."

"Announce it," Zhu Han continued. "The Ministry of Rites will read the proclamation, the master of rites will sing the praises, and the music will begin."

As the music resumed, three men dressed in coarse clothes, wearing leather hats and carrying incense sticks, squeezed into the crowd from behind, moving forward step by step.

Someone in the Imperial Guard stopped them, and the person handed over the incense, chanting repeatedly, "Incense facing the heavens, incense facing the heavens—for the new emperor, to celebrate."

The end of the incense stick was wrapped with a thin strip of light-colored silk, on which two lines of small characters could be faintly seen.

The imperial guards blocking the way couldn't tell anything, only that the aroma was too strong and they were afraid it would be too pungent to burn.

"Stop." Zhu Han saw this and flicked the hem of his robe.

Two imperial guards had already moved in, grabbing the three men by the wrists and shoulders, one on each side. Before the incense could be lit, they had already been dragged to a dark corner.

The first person tried to break free by clenching his fist, but Hao Duiying gently gripped his tiger's mouth with the back of his hand, causing his wrist to go limp, and he knelt down, his face turning deathly pale.

"Who sent them?" Hao asked, his voice low and menacing.

"A man from Yan." Hao handed it over.

"That's impolite." Zhu Han tore the silk in half. "Drag him down, and don't make a sound."

The second movement begins with a hymn of praise, and Zhu Biao bows again to the ancestral tablet.

When the ceremony reached the "receiving the title" section, the Minister of Rites raised the title high, took a half step back, and Zhu Han stood beside the table, holding the seal without handing it over, his voice steady: "The Crown Prince's seal is here. Use the Crown Prince's seal first. The main title of the ancestral temple will be changed, and we will inform the ancestral temple again later."

"As per the protocol," the Ministry of Rites replied.

"Wait." Lu Ting stepped forward from the innermost ranks of the Secretariat, cupped his hands in greeting, and called out loudly, "Your Highness—"

Dozens of eyes in the hall fell on him at the same time. Zhu Biao raised his eyelids but did not speak.

"What does Prime Minister Lu say?" Zhu Han asked.

"The Crown Prince is to be enthroned today," Lu Ting said, enunciating each word clearly, "and should rightfully receive the imperial seal. However, the regulations for using the Crown Prince's seal in place of the imperial seal are unclear. I request that—either the seal be issued or the process be postponed."

Several eyes at the corner of the hall nodded in agreement.

The Minister of Rites was on tenterhooks, fearing that the rhythm would be disrupted, and his hands were sweating as he gripped the booklet tightly.

"The imperial seal is in the Imperial Ancestral Temple." Zhu Han said without any anger or displeasure. "According to the system, the imperial seal is placed before the ancestral seal."

“The order of offering sacrifices is first the ancestral tablets and then the imperial seal,” Lu Ting said. “When ascending the hall, the imperial seal is not present—the name is yet to be determined.”

These words were risky. The atmosphere in the hall immediately became tense, and a subtle glint appeared in the eyes of several censors.

Zhu Han didn't turn his head, staring at the Crown Prince's seal on the golden table. He raised his hand, opened the seal box, placed the seal on the vermilion clay, but didn't press it: "Prime Minister Lu wants the seal?"

“Your Majesty, I request to follow the established rules.” Lu Ting did not back down. “If the imperial seal is present, the entire country is at peace. If the imperial seal is absent, the court is in danger.”

Zhu Han's fingertips paused lightly on the back of the seal, and he said calmly, "According to the regulations. —Gatekeeper!"

A thunderous response came from outside the hall: "Here!"

"The Imperial Ancestral Temple opens its gates to welcome the Imperial Seal," Zhu Han uttered.

"According to the order!"

The gatekeeper led seven men out, and a small drum sounded urgently outside the hall, heading straight towards the Imperial Ancestral Temple.

What followed was a period of silence within the hall that had to be endured. (End of Chapter)