Chapter 49: The Grand Tutor
The green-robed youth beside them chuckled. "If you two keep humbling yourselves like this, the rest of us might as well jump into the Moat River." This was none other than Mo Cong, who seemed to be in excellent spirits. He waved his hand dismissively. "I’ve been studying so much lately my head aches. Why not have some fun? Today, my treat—let’s gather at the East Wind Pavilion. What do you say?"
As he spoke, the surrounding students overheard and crowded around with grins. "Brother Mo, if you’re treating, why not invite us too? How stingy!"
Mo Cong burst into laughter. "Calling me stingy, are you? Fine! Today, I’ll be generous for once. Let’s all go together—it’s only right after years of camaraderie!"
The group chatted and laughed as they headed out, brimming with youthful exuberance. Yet behind them, at the gates of the Imperial Academy, one figure lingered. Tall and slender, he wore a faded blue robe, his delicate features pale and refined but tinged with an air of solitary indignation. Watching the others from afar, a flicker of disdain crossed his face.
This was Liu Min, the very student mentioned by Registrar Song and Chancellor Chen. Unlike the other noble-born students at the Imperial Academy, Liu Min came from a poor family—his widowed mother was all he had at home. Through an old acquaintance of hers, a noblewoman in the capital, she had managed to secure his enrollment. His mother, a woman of immense pride, had swallowed her dignity for the first time to seek help from her former friend. From the moment he entered the academy, Liu Min vowed to rise above his station and repay his mother’s sacrifices.
Most of the noble youths at the academy were idle and undeserving of their reputations, and Liu Min despised them from the bottom of his heart. The only one he found tolerable was Mo Cong, but as a wealthy scion, Mo Cong had no interest in befriending someone as impoverished as him. Thus, Liu Min became the academy’s oddity—always alone, always apart.
Returning to his dormitory, Liu Min found it empty. Though the academy provided lodgings, they paled in comparison to the mansions the noble students called home. Unwilling to stay in such modest quarters, they left the spacious room to Liu Min by default.
He set his books on the desk, then froze. An envelope lay there, though he had no idea when it had been placed. Only the academy’s servants entered to clean—who could have left it? Hesitating briefly, he picked it up and opened it. A sheet of pristine white paper slipped out.
It was ordinary xuan paper, a rarity compared to the fine pear-blossom stationery favored by the noble students. Bending down, Liu Min picked it up and unfolded it. Bold, sharp strokes greeted him:
It is said that in ancient times, sages governed through rites, and the nation flourished. When the sages departed, the nation declined. Thus, governing through rites is the true path. Yet others claim: Though rites are noble, they cannot bind the people. Only law can constrain, and only then will the world follow order, ushering in an era of peace. I, a fool, have pondered this endlessly without resolution. I seek your wisdom. This was a request for scholarly exchange. It was common for students of the Imperial Academy to engage in such practices—whenever they encountered unresolved questions needing discussion, they would write a letter attaching their queries. It was considered an elegant and refined method among scholars, as well as a source of enjoyment. However, due to Liu Min's status, no one had ever taken the initiative to discuss academic matters with him in this manner. The letter bore no signature, leaving Liu Min clueless about its sender. After pondering for a while, he still couldn't figure out who it might be. The handwriting was bold and unrestrained at first glance, yet upon closer inspection, the strokes revealed a smooth and rounded quality, giving an elusive impression. Intrigued, he felt a competitive spark ignite within him. He fetched a sheet of rice paper from his desk, ground some ink, and began writing swiftly with his brush.
Once finished, he lifted the paper from the desk and blew on it to dry the ink, only to realize another dilemma—since the sender was unknown, he had no idea whom to address his reply to. After a moment of hesitation, Liu Min shook his head, amused at his own absurdity. He placed the paper into an envelope and, after some thought, simply left it on his desk, treating the whole matter as a jest.
He wasn’t the only one engaged in writing that day. In the Jiang residence, Jiang Ruan set down her brush, while Zisu lifted the rice paper from the table and blew on it. Lianqiao asked, "Are you sending it with the page boy again?"
Jiang Ruan nodded. "Later. There’s no rush—it can wait until after today."
"This really isn’t proper, miss," Luzhu said hesitantly. "What if someone finds out? After all, it’s a letter to a stranger, and such private correspondence..."
"There’s nothing to fear. I didn’t sign it," Jiang Ruan replied dismissively. "Besides, no one would ever connect me to him. We’ve never even met."
Lianqiao frowned. "That’s what’s so strange. If you’ve never met him, why are you writing these things to him?"
Jiang Ruan smiled faintly but didn’t answer. She imagined Liu Min was likely reading her first letter by now. In her past life, she remembered the top three candidates in the imperial examinations clearly: Wang Ziling, Mo Cong, and Jiang Chao. Liu Min had only ranked eighteenth. However, three years later, news broke that the chief examiner had accepted bribes. Enraged, the Emperor personally reviewed the examination papers and was particularly impressed by Liu Min’s essays. From then on, Liu Min rose swiftly through the ranks, eventually becoming the Grand Tutor of the court.
In her past life, although Wang Ziling had won the title of Zhuangyuan (top scholar), he was only appointed to a lowly sixth-rank position as a Hanlin Reader. Later, for reasons unknown, his career stagnated completely. However, Jiang Ruan had heard from the Eighth Prince that despite Wang Ziling’s scholarly brilliance, his vision was narrow, and he had a tendency to curry favor. Nowadays, though the Wang family was still regarded as nobility in the capital, their reputation was hollow—a mere shell of its former self.
As for Jiang Chao, there was no need to elaborate. Mo Cong, however, was a true talent. The youngest son of Minister Mo of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices, Mo Cong was spirited and unrestrained, a headache for many. Yet his political insights were refreshingly innovative, offering the Emperor—who was accustomed to the rigid, conventional answers of his ministers—a breath of fresh air. After the palace examination, Mo Cong was named Bangyan (second-place scholar) and appointed as a fourth-rank Vice Minister of the Court of Imperial Studs, just two ranks below his father. Mo Cong was sociable and adept at navigating court politics, making it impossible to discern which faction he truly supported. He appeared neutral, but the Eighth Prince had once confessed that this very ambiguity had given him endless headaches.Of course, neither of these two could compare to Liu Min, who rose to prominence later. The one seated in the imperial palace, revered as the Son of Heaven, was far from the increasingly senile ruler people assumed he would become with age. Instead, his actions were unpredictable, and he was deeply suspicious. While Mo Cong and Wang Ziling still had their families to rely on, Liu Min came from humble origins and was known for his integrity—such a person could be trusted and employed without worry. Liu Min himself was also highly capable, and this rising star of the court quickly became the emperor’s most trusted minister. If Jiang Ruan could establish a connection with Liu Min in this lifetime, it would be akin to having a voice within the palace.
Most importantly, Liu Min had always steadfastly supported the Crown Prince’s faction. He valued traditional rites and turned a blind eye to the Eighth Prince’s overtures. However, Liu Min’s opportunity would only come three years later. Three years was enough time for too many things to happen. What Jiang Ruan needed to do was lend a hand to this future Grand Tutor in his current poverty and bring his opportunity forward.
Seeing Jiang Ruan lost in thought, Luzhu pursed her lips and suddenly remembered something. “Come to think of it, there’s some good news. Granny Zhou woke up today and seems much more spirited.”
(End of Chapter)
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