The number one sycophant of the Ming Dynasty

It took a long time before Prince Yu finally lowered his hand.

His eyes were red-rimmed, and his nose was red, but his expression was calmer than before.

It felt like something that had been bottled up for 22 years had finally been released; a void had been lifted from my heart, but also a sense of relief.

He picked up his pen again and finished writing the final words of his fast for the day.

"Today is the first day of fasting. Your subject bathed and changed clothes, abstaining from meat and fish, and only rested briefly at noon."

"Dinner will still consist of vegetarian porridge. It's cold, so I had someone send a basket of charcoal to Consort Zhao."

"After my mother's death, Consort Zhao treated me as her own son."

"Your subject cannot visit the palace often, and can only express his regards during festivals."

"If Your Majesty sees Consort Zhao, please convey my regards to her. Your son, Zaiji, kowtows."

He put down his pen, picked up the paper, and read it from beginning to end.

The handwriting is ugly.

The ink was crooked and uneven, with some spots bleed, some smudged by tears, and a few strokes that looked like earthworms due to trembling hands.

But that's just who he is.

He was not the man polished by Xu Jie, not the man taught by Gao Gong, and not the man silently watched over by Zhang Juzheng.

It was himself, Zhu Zaiji at the age of twenty-two, Zhu Zaiji with poor handwriting, Zhu Zaiji who missed his father but dared not say it.

Zhu Zaiji, who had studied for twenty-two years, still hadn't learned how to please his father, the emperor.

He folded the paper, put it in the envelope, and sealed it with wax.

On the envelope, he wrote stroke by stroke: Your subject Zaiji respectfully reports to Your Majesty the Emperor.

"Feng Bao," he called out.

Feng Bao bowed as she entered from behind the curtain, her head lowered, and said, "This servant is here."

"Send this to the Ministry of Rites." Prince Yu handed over the envelope. "Follow the usual procedure for document circulation; there's no need to expedite it."

"This servant understands." Feng Bao took the envelope with both hands, carefully put it into his bosom, bowed and withdrew.

Prince Yu leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath.

He didn't know if his father would read the letter he had written.

I wonder what Father Emperor's reaction will be after seeing this.

You might find his handwriting ugly, or his words too much, or you might simply toss it aside without even looking at it.

But he didn't care anymore.

He just wanted his father to know that he was learning slowly.

I learned slowly, but I never stopped.

When Feng Bao delivered Prince Yu's memorial to the Ministry of Rites, Shen Zhiyu was sitting in his office reviewing documents.

The moment she took the folding book, she recognized Prince Yu's handwriting.

It's crooked and not very pretty, but every stroke is written with extra effort, like a child afraid of making a mistake.

She checked the regulations, confirmed that the format was correct, affixed the seal of the Siyansi (司言司), and, as usual, submitted it to the Silijian (司礼监).

When the memorial was delivered to the Directorate of Ceremonial, it was already late afternoon.

Huang Jin was sitting in the duty room drinking tea.

He served in the Directorate of Ceremonial for more than a decade, rising step by step from a court eunuch to the Grand Eunuch. He had seen all kinds of storms and seen through all kinds of human nature.

But today he felt uneasy, though he couldn't quite put his finger on why.

Perhaps it was because the winter solstice was approaching, or perhaps it was because Jiajing had been in a bad mood these past few days, or perhaps it was because he was getting old and tended to think about random things.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Eunuch Huang, the memorials from Prince Yu's residence and Prince Jing's residence have arrived."

"Bring it here." Huang Jin put down the teacup.

The young eunuch presented the two folded documents with both hands, placed them on the table, bowed, and withdrew.

Huang Jin first picked up the portion from Prince Jing's residence.

The envelope was made of the finest Chengxintang paper, sealed tightly with vermilion lacquer, and stamped with the bright red seal of the Prince Jing's Mansion.

He opened the seal and took out the letter.

The paper is top-quality Xuanzhou tribute paper, smooth and delicate, with a subtle pearly sheen;

The characters are written in a neat and orderly style, with straight horizontal and vertical strokes and strong, powerful strokes, as if they were written with a ruler, without the slightest flaw.

Huang Jin glanced at it and knew that it was definitely not written by Prince Jing himself. At the very least, the draft was prepared by a master from the Hanlin Academy at the request of the Yan faction, and even the characters might not have been copied by Prince Jing himself.

Huang Jin unfolded the letter and read it from beginning to end.

The folds are beautifully written.

It begins with "Your subject Zaizhen respectfully reports to Your Majesty the Emperor," followed by a lengthy report on fasting and purification.

Your subject has fasted, bathed, changed clothes, and abstained from meat and fish today;

Your Majesty has read through the Daoist Canon and deeply feels that Your Majesty's selfless cultivation and prayers for the well-being of all people are of great merit.

Your subject has prepared the ritual for the Winter Solstice Heaven Worship Ceremony, personally selecting the firewood for the burning ceremony and personally wiping the sacrificial vessels;

He said, "Your Majesty, I know that you cultivate Taoism for the sake of all the people. Although I cannot share your burdens, I pray for you day and night."

May our Father Emperor enjoy good health, eternal bliss, and a lifespan as long as the heavens.

The language is ornate, the allusions are apt, and the parallelism is perfect; it is clearly written by someone from the Hanlin Academy.

Every word hits the nail on the head for Jiajing: "pure cultivation," "fasting and ritual," "Taoist scriptures," "all living beings under heaven," and "eternal bliss of immortality"—Jiajing would surely be pleased to see these words.

But after reading it, Huang Jin felt a vague and inexplicable emptiness in his heart.

It's not that the folding paper is poorly written; quite the opposite, it's exceptionally well-written.

It was so good it looked like it was made from a mold, just like the poems Yan Song always presented.

The language is lavish, the allusions are elaborate, every word is flattering, and every sentence is fawning.

You can't find a single fault with it, but you also can't see a single trace of sincerity in it.

It was just a beautifully written article, not a letter from a son to his father.

Huang Jin put down the commemorative document from Prince Jing and picked up the one from Prince Yu's residence.

The envelope was made of ordinary mulberry paper, sealed with plain beeswax, and the words "Your subject Zaiji respectfully reports to Your Majesty the Emperor" were written crookedly on the cover.

The strokes are uneven in thickness, and some characters even tremble slightly. Compared to King Jing's exquisite folding paper, it looks like a child's homework.

Huang Jin opened the seal and took out the letter.

The paper was also Xuanzhou paper, but it was slightly thinner than the paper used by Prince Jing. He unfolded the letter and looked down at it.

My first thought was: My handwriting is really ugly.

The paper is crooked and uneven, with varying shades of ink. Some areas are smudged, while another is stained with some liquid. The paper is slightly wrinkled.

There were also a few strokes that looked like earthworms because of shaky hands; they were extremely ugly.

But as Huang Jin watched, the gentle smile that had remained unchanged for years on his face gradually faded away.

He saw the passage about Consort Du.

"While bathing today, I thought of my mother... When she was alive, she would fast for three days before the winter solstice every year to pray for my father's well-being..."

Huang Jin's fingers paused slightly.

Consort Du.

Consort Du died in the thirty-third year of the Jiajing reign.

He remembered that woman. When she was in the palace, she was not favored, did not compete for anything, and lived quietly in her own palace.

When Jiajing visited occasionally, she would happily serve him.

Since Jiajing didn't go, she lived alone with Prince Yu.

Her handwriting wasn't good either; it bore a resemblance to Prince Yu's handwriting.

Emperor Jiajing once casually remarked, "Consort Du should practice her calligraphy." She practiced every day for several years, but still couldn't improve it.

She later passed away.

Emperor Jiajing did not attend the funeral; he simply instructed the Directorate of Ceremonial to conduct the funeral according to custom.

Huang Jin lowered his head and continued reading.

"Your subject only ate a bowl of vegetarian porridge this morning, and did not eat anything at noon. It wasn't that I deliberately avoided eating, but that I simply couldn't eat..."

Huang Jin's heart felt as if something had gently tugged at it.

He lived most of his life, serving Emperor Jiajing since childhood.

From the Prince of Xing's residence to the Forbidden City, from the prince's mansion to the Western Garden, he served the Jiajing Emperor for over thirty years.

Over the past thirty years, he has witnessed countless people performing in front of Jiajing.

Yan Song performed loyalty, Xu Jie performed respect, the Taoist priest performed otherworldly elegance, and the Qingliu group performed uprightness and incorruptibility.

Everyone was putting on a show; everyone was saying what Jiajing wanted to hear.

But no one ever wrote in a memorial to Jiajing that they "looked in the mirror and saw only a face full of sorrow."

This is not a performance.

This is the tone of voice a person uses when speaking to their closest loved ones.

Huang Jin continued reading.

"Your Majesty, I sat in the study all afternoon today... because I missed you, Father..."

Huang Jin's fingers suddenly stopped...