Chapter 14

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Ministry of Rites, side chamber.
Incense coils curl gently, sandalwood fragrance drifting, smoke rising and spreading throughout the room.
On the long huanghuali table, neat stacks of memorials lie arranged. Four senior officials, dressed in silk court robes, sit calmly around the table.
On the right, a middle-aged official speaks first, his tone measured and casual:
“Your Majesty’s recent measures indeed show extraordinary courage. Yet disaster relief is always delicate, where a single thread can affect the entire fabric. Perhaps it would be wiser to stabilize the court first before proceeding further?”
The elder seated to the left slowly raises his eyes, stroking his beard with a smile: “Minister Xu, you jest. This is not mere courage; since Your Majesty took the reins, there is a certain boldness reminiscent of the Late Emperor’s early reign.”
“However,” he shifts his tone, “excessive zeal requires careful thought. After all, flood control consumes vast sums. We are unaware how Your Majesty intends to finance such immense expenditures.”
“Your Majesty surely has a plan,” a younger official interjects with a teasing tone.
“Building dams, mobilizing refugees—these arrangements sound solid enough. Yet whether they can address the urgent needs remains to be seen.”
“Constructing embankments is commendable, but Your Majesty’s edicts were issued without consulting us at all,” the last official taps the table lightly with a folding fan and speaks softly: “We are only informed, not involved. How can we loyally serve under such circumstances?”
Though his tone remains gentle, all present understand “being informed” is a veiled critique of the Empress’s current governing style.
The elder chuckles, steering the topic more obliquely: “Nonetheless, the newly promoted young officials are energetic. Yet can flood control projects be managed by enthusiasm alone? Seasoned ministers with deep experience are unlikely to accept a subordinate role quietly.”
“If these young men lose the people's support, whether they can stand firm is uncertain,” the middle-aged official adds, glancing subtly around, seeking further advice.
The young official chuckles lightly, casual but probing: “If the people's hearts grow restless and flood control fails, might someone need to step forward... to remind Your Majesty where true talent lies?”
“Only Your Majesty can judge true merit; self-praise is unseemly,” the elder smiles in rebuttal, then shifts: “Still, when the realm’s welfare is at stake, loyal ministers must help shoulder the burden. Even us old bones may yet manage some small tasks.”
The conversation seems to pause there. The first official resumes: “If upheaval follows disaster, court ministers must demonstrate loyalty. Your Majesty is young; this is a time to test our fealty. What do you all think?”
Before anyone replies, the study door creaks open softly. A tall, slender man appears at the entrance.
Clad in deep purple robes, he walks with measured steps, his calm gaze revealing a faint pallor of illness.
He stops at the door, clears his throat twice softly, then bows:
“Apologies for my tardiness, Lords.”
His voice is low but commands respect. The four officials rise in unison, bowing and addressing him reverently: “Lord Liu.”
He waves off the formality and takes the seat beside the main position.
Silence falls. He lifts his eyes to the tea cups, frowning slightly at the cooled tea but says nothing, only asking quietly: “What were you discussing?”
“One was speaking of Your Majesty,” a man replies deferentially, wary of angering him.
The man in purple frowns and coughs softly again, voice lowering further: “The Empress.”
The single word lands heavily, like a hammer striking the four men’s hearts, stirring gravity and inscrutable meaning.

*

Meanwhile, the Empress, disturbed by the political murmurs, furrows her brow in her private tent.
Chu Yingzhao sits upright, maps and scrolls spread across the table before her—
Alongside a system interface visible to her alone.
Numerous candles flicker, casting a soft glow.
Military maps, population flows, topographic charts unfold in layers, data streaming rapidly into her sight.

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Her expression remains composed as she shifts swiftly between screens.
On the map, embankment zones are zoomed in, red and blue markers overlap with real-time progress; dense numbers and annotations fill the display.
With a charcoal pencil, she quickly marks and outlines areas, weaving personnel distribution and supply logistics into a network. Where resources are scarce, where labor is excessive, and where hidden dangers lurk gradually become clear.
Yet it is not enough.
Her gaze sweeps the screen, layering water flow against planned embankment shapes. Soon, she circles several locations—high-risk zones and blind spots in resource allocation requiring immediate reinforcement.
Then, her eyes shift again—to areas with lower water levels and stable terrain, yet still consuming some resources.
She commands decisively: “Zhang Yanli, where are the resource allocation documents? Withdraw half the personnel and supplies from the southeast.”
“The water there won’t breach,” she continues, pointing to a low-risk river section, “Concentrate resources in the southwest.”
“Inform Qi Wangzhu to evacuate the sick to here immediately.” She gestures to a relatively high ground and instructs a guard: “Send reliable men to assist and fortify defenses.”
The messenger departs. Chu Yingzhao’s eyes return swiftly to the interface.
Her gaze darts between maps and system data, hand moving rapidly with the charcoal pencil—adjusting resources, refining plans, redrawing priorities. Each decision precise, made without hesitation.
Finally, she stops, inhales deeply, and surveys the updated progress map with calm scrutiny.
A breeze stirs outside. Chu Yingzhao looks up toward the tent entrance.
Unnoticed, a shadow waits there. Seeing her glance, he silently kneels on one knee, presenting a thin scroll: “Your Majesty, an urgent secret report.”
Thanks to the vast array of historical records, strategic chronicles, and every high-stakes political drama she has watched, the Empress need not unfold the scroll to grasp its urgent contents.
“The aristocratic clans are scheming again, aren’t they?” she sighs. “So realistic.”
“Yes.” The shadow bows his head, voice low and edged with subtle chill: “Three factions mainly spreading rumors and inciting rebellion.”
Wonderful! At minimum, four factions are now vying for power at court—
If she counts as one.
More likely, there are far more players, and she has yet to truly take her place at the table.
Chu Yingzhao falls silent a moment, then asks: “Can the secret guards disguise as ordinary refugees and infiltrate these groups?”
“Affirmative.” The shadow’s reply is swift and sure.
“Good.” The Empress casually sets the report aside, eyes fixed on the map marking refugee camps: “Watch these people carefully. No hasty arrests—record every word they say. I don’t want petty skirmishes; I want to know—whose voices are they carrying.”
The shadow inclines his head without hesitation: “Understood.”
She dismisses him with a wave. His figure fades like a ghost into the night outside, vanishing without trace.
Candles flicker within the tent. Chu Yingzhao reclines gradually, her eyes returning to the report. After a moment, a faint smile appears.
Someone is anxious.
So, her path is the right one.
Besides, was she truly unprepared?

*

The night wind is chilly. People huddle close, warming themselves by the fire, resting. The distant sound of sandbag loading echoes intermittently from the embankment.
“Did you hear?” a gaunt young man whispers conspiratorially to his companion. “They say, down south there, the officers whipped to death a dozen or so… Hey, they just carried a few off here too.”
“Dead? Then carried off?” Old Wang No. 4 replies indifferently. “I just came down from the dam; didn’t see any whips. Zhao Liu said someone knows a secret path to escape tonight, so whatever.”
“No!” The young man’s eyes widen, voice low but urgent. “I sneaked a look—guess what?”
“What?” Wang yawns, clearly uninterested.
“A doctor treated them!” The young man says, astonished. “Even gave them medicine!”
“Nonsense.” Wang snorts, skeptical. “We’re dirt poor; no doctors here… can’t even afford Zhao the shaman’s charms.”
“It’s true!” The young man is desperate, slapping his thigh. “I saw it myself! They wore the kind of clothes only officials have—the imperial doctor, as Scholar Li once said! The imperial doctor, you know?!”
Their low conversation halts when Li Shan, who has been hauling sandbags, suddenly stops.
Tall and sturdy, covered in mud and looking disheveled, he drops a sandbag and wipes sweat from his brow.
“It’s true,” he says hoarsely. “My mother was taken too.”
The young man freezes, and Wang stops yawning, staring at him: “What?”
“My mother,” Li Shan breathes, staring at his mud-caked hands. “They gave her medicine, treated her. When it got dark, before I came to repair the dam, I spoke with her briefly.”
“Wasn’t she dead?” the young man says incredulously. “How could she speak?”
“Don’t know.” Li Shan looks at them steadily, then continues as if recalling something: “But she really came back to life. I saw it with my own eyes. Zhao Qi’s father was there too, and he lived.”
He returns to hauling sandbags, then adds weakly: “I’m no one special, don’t know what to say. But the Emperor saved my mother—that’s true.”
Shouldering a sandbag, he heads back toward the embankment, his steady, resolute figure like a tree deeply rooted in the earth.
Wang No. 2 and the young man sit by the fire, staring silently after him.
“Do you think it’s true?” the young man finally whispers, barely audible, eyes fixed on Li Shan’s departing form as if confirming a dream.
Wang No. 2’s voice is rough; after a long pause he replies: “Li Shan’s the most honest man; he wouldn’t lie.”
“But…” the young man mutters, half to himself, half to Wang No. 2, “Why? Why would she save us?”
Silence returns, broken only by the crackling fire.
After a while, Wang No. 2 snorts, half mocking, half venting inexplicably: “So what? Building dams means people die!”
“But I saw—there was a doctor,” the young man counters softly, hope faint even to himself. “If… if I collapse, will they save me?”
Wang No. 2 snorts, glares at him, but says nothing more.
After a pause, the young man asks again: “…So, are we running tonight?”
Wang No. 2 remains silent longer. The firelight flickers on his gaunt face, reddening it.
“Tomorrow morning,” he says hesitantly and slowly, “there will be a food relief—right? Tonight’s meal was solid: half a bowl of soup, half a bowl of rice…”
The young man watches him, flames dancing in his eyes.
Wang swallows and finally says with effort: “If no whip-carrying officers come, then… let’s work one more day.”
Dark clouds loom, the wind howls low, the world is vast and bleak.
The water’s misty weight presses down; the river rushes, footsteps and voices on the embankment blending into the night.
In the approaching storm's dark hours, such conversations quietly spread.

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