Spring Remains the Same - Chapter 12

Puyang’s injuries healed day by day. Her heart longed for Mount Mang, but she knew the Emperor would not feel at ease letting her leave the palace until she had fully recovered. Thus, she diligently followed the imperial physicians’ instructions and took her medicine on time.

Wei Xiu’s prescription was remarkably effective. Seeing its excellent results on Puyang, the imperial physicians, for the sake of caution, only made minor modifications and continued its use. The medicine remained so bitter as to make one shrink back in dread, yet Puyang resiliently drank bowl after bowl at the appointed times. After so many doses, she found it was no longer so difficult to accept. It was clear that a person’s ability to adapt was extremely strong.

Her convalescence was dull. She spent most of the day lying on her couch, only occasionally taking a few turns around the courtyard before resting again. Staring at the same scenery day after day was intensely monotonous. Puyang ordered her palace attendants to inquire about interesting news from within and without the capital to relieve her boredom.

Most of what they brought back concerned which of the great aristocratic families was holding a grand event, which was hosting a banquet, or which had become the subject of a praiseworthy tale.

There was a reason why all the interesting stories involved the great families.

At this time, officials were selected through a recommendation system. Each province and commandery would recommend men of virtue and integrity to the capital. After the Emperor’s assessment, if he deemed them suitable, he would grant them official posts. There were numerous categories for recommendation, such as “Filial and Incorrupt,” “Flourishing Talent,” “Scrupulous and Incorrupt,” and “Forthright and Admonishing.” In years when the court was in dire need of worthy talent, the Emperor could even create new categories to recruit scholars from across the land.

This method of selecting officials had been in use for over a hundred years.

The realm had been divided into three for sixty years. Sixty years prior, the realm was a unified dynasty named “Yan.” The recommendation system was created by the founding emperor of the great Yan Dynasty. Later, the realm fell into chaos. Warlords rose up one after another, declaring themselves independent and then annexing one another. After a decade of turmoil, the situation stabilized into a tripartite division of the realm.

The state of Zhou occupied the central plains; with its strong army and powerful cavalry, its national strength far surpassed that of the states of Qi and Song. Although Qi and Song were somewhat smaller, their founding emperors were both men of great vision and strategy who constantly expanded their territories. Qi possessed treacherous terrain and defended itself from its strategic strongholds, while Song was shielded by the natural barrier of the Long River. The courts of both nations were filled with talented individuals, and their princes, marquises, generals, and ministers were all men of mettle. It would be no easy task for Zhou to conquer these two states.

Several chaotic wars between the three states ended in a stalemate, with none able to defeat the others. This dragged on for over thirty years. The emperors of Qi and Song had changed several times, and Zhou had been replaced by Wei. The Zhou emperor was demoted to a king, living a precarious existence under the Wei court. Times had changed, and the emperors of the various states no longer seemed so keen on annexing one another.

The Qi emperor was busy indulging in pleasure. The Song emperor was a tyrant who invented various forms of punishment in his country, finding amusement in watching people suffer. As for Wei, it had only been established for eighteen years and was still fragile; the Wei emperor was busy consolidating his own throne.

Although the realm was divided into three, the recommendation system had been preserved and was even more prevalent than during the time of Great Yan. In times of war, talent was needed, and it was not uncommon for the three states to “poach scholars” from one another. Emperors would urgently command various regions to select talented individuals, and upon hearing of a gifted person living in seclusion in the mountains and forests, they would not hesitate to set aside their imperial dignity to personally invite them.

Thus, the recommendation system, already flawed, became increasingly rigid.

The flaw of the recommendation system lay in the fact that it was a method of selection based on personal judgment. The talented individuals the emperor employed were mostly recommended from below. And those who were recommended invariably had connections to their recommenders, whether through kinship, friendship, or mutual interest. In this way, the power of selecting officials effectively fell into the hands of high-ranking ministers and grandees. When one person became an official, they would recommend their relatives and friends to enter service. This family’s influence would grow ever more prosperous, and those with the same surname would band together in solidarity, supporting and protecting one another. This was the origin of the clans.

The power of the clans, at times, grew stronger than that of the state.

As a result, knowledgeable scholars from humble backgrounds who wished to dedicate their efforts to the state found that there was no path for them to do so. They were from commoner families, with no one in their households serving as an official. Who would recommend them? They could only sigh in despair, gazing at an ocean beyond their reach.

Those vested interests formed one great family after another. Because of their household’s prosperity, they controlled the best parts of the court, possessing both power and wealth. The great families passed down their status from generation to generation, forming various kinds of cultural heritages and drawing a line like a deep abyss between themselves and the commoners. This was the distinction between the gentry and the common people.

The distinction between gentry and commoner was like that between heaven and earth.

Later, the emperors also realized this was not good. An emperor was, after all, an emperor. The great families, partly to appease the emperor’s sentiments and partly to placate the commoners, would, during the selection of officials, also choose some commoner scholars who had excellent reputations and were widely known. Yet these were extremely few. Of the hundreds or thousands of scholars recommended each year, sons of commoner families accounted for less than a fifth.

The Wei Emperor had usurped the throne with the help of the great families, so naturally, he had to grant them benefits after establishing his state. But the Emperor was an ambitious and perceptive man. He could see at a glance that if these great families were allowed to develop further, the realm might not necessarily remain under the surname Xiao.

Where was the Zhou Emperor now? Under house arrest in the capital, living a precarious existence. Most of the Zhou imperial clan had been executed to prevent the danger of a restoration. But what of those great ministers of the Zhou court? They had switched their allegiance to the current emperor and continued to live lives of luxury and splendor.

Comparing the two, how could the Emperor not be alarmed?

The court was mostly filled with members of the great families; scholars from humble backgrounds were few and far between. The previous Minister of Justice, Zhang Daozhi, had come from a commoner family. He was one of the few from such a background to be ranked among the Nine Ministers, relying not only on his own outstanding ability but also on the Emperor’s strong promotion. But the Minister of Punishments, Zhao Yong, was the son of the aristocratic Zhao clan. Puyang’s maternal family, the Wang clan, was also a great family. The Emperor’s marriage to Empress Wang had been for political reasons, though the two later developed feelings for each other. Empress Wang was gentle but not without strength of character, and the Wang clan was also very dedicated. The Emperor and Empress shared a deep affection, and their daily interactions were like those of a common couple. Twelve years ago, when Empress Wang passed away, the Emperor was overcome with grief, weeping daily to the point of losing his composure. Since then, he had never appointed another empress.

Precisely because of this situation where the great families ran rampant, coupled with the fact that the sons of these families were indeed refined—their words and actions all possessing a dignified bearing—and the daughters of these families were even more gentle, with nearly all of them versed in poetry and able to play music, the great families appeared to be a riot of brocaded flowers, and the world admired them.

Puyang listened with utter boredom as a eunuch animatedly described how Liu Heng had composed another piece of music that captivated everyone present.

Liu Heng could play the qin, but in Puyang’s eyes, he was utterly useless, for that was all he could do. His entire heart was devoted to it, and he was ignorant of all practical matters.

“Bring me my xiao,” Puyang said.

A palace attendant immediately fetched a white jade xiao.

The body of the xiao, made of suet-white jade, was crystalline and pure white, resembling congealed fat. It felt cool in her hand. The xiao was two feet long, hollow and exquisitely thin, with a red tassel adorning its end. One glance was enough to know it was a rare treasure.

Puyang had acquired it three years ago, and it had been with her ever since. She was very fond of it, and in the twelve years since, she had never lost it or given it away. It was just that her skill was poor, so she rarely played it.

Puyang examined the xiao carefully, then raised it to her lips. The sound of the xiao drifted out, soft and lingering. The palace attendants throughout the hall held their breath and listened intently.

However, after only a brief opening, Puyang stopped. The attendants were puzzled but did not dare to speak rashly, merely standing by attentively.

Puyang sighed, took out a handkerchief to carefully wipe the body of the xiao, and then said, “Find a brocade box.”

The attendant who saw the white jade xiao understood immediately. Without asking what it was for, they went at once to find one.

Since Puyang’s return to the capital, the Prince of Jin had been living in a state of constant anxiety. This was especially true after Puyang’s sweeping dismissal of the palace attendants, which drew stares from both inside and outside the court. He and Puyang were born of the same father, and the Prince of Jin believed he understood her to some extent. She had always been an imperious person, unable to tolerate the slightest grievance. Having suffered so much this time, nearly losing her life, how could she not be furious? She would surely pursue the mastermind relentlessly.

Seeing that every single eunuch he had planted in the Hall of Containing Light had been uprooted, the Prince of Jin broke out in a cold sweat. If he were to confront Puyang, his father would certainly not help him. With his second brother, the Prince of Zhao, ready to kick him while he was down, he would definitely not come out ahead. It was even possible that his years of hard work would be reduced to ashes.

The Prince of Jin silently concluded that Puyang was not to be trifled with. He waited for many days, but seeing no movement from the Hall of Containing Light—Puyang was actually recovering her health in peace—and with the Emperor not summoning him to discuss the matter, his anxiety shifted. The Prince of Zhao, who had been gloating at first, became bewildered after a few days of inaction, and recently, his usually aggressive gaze was filled with indignation.

Seeing the Prince of Zhao unhappy made the Prince of Jin happy. He slowly began to understand: it was still uncertain whether Puyang knew he had ordered her assassination, but His Majesty intended to bury this matter without a sound.

The Prince of Jin felt he had weathered a crisis. He pressed his hand to his forehead and said, “By the grace of Heaven.” He immediately ordered a lavish gift to be prepared; he was going to the palace to visit the sick.

He would also take the opportunity to sound out Puyang’s thoughts. If she didn’t know, it would be easy to handle. If she did, he would have to be on guard against her from now on. Feeling that the danger had passed, the Prince of Jin actually had the presence of mind to worry about such things.

Sir Ye watched with cold eyes, not uttering a word. In any case, the Prince paid no heed to his words, so why should he speak further and make himself disliked? He had already developed the intention to leave and serve another, more enlightened master. If not for the concern that leaving immediately would cause the Prince of Jin to lose face and perhaps make things difficult for him, Sir Ye would not have been able to endure these past few days.

In the end, it was a lack of ambition.

Carrying his gift to the Hall of Containing Light, he found Puyang strolling in the courtyard. Seeing him, she stopped and offered a salute. “Why has the Prince, my brother, come?”

The Prince of Jin strode up to Puyang in a few steps and helped her up before she could fully bow, his voice gentle. “I have been constantly worried about your injuries, but your residence is always full of people, so I didn’t want to disturb you. I finally found a moment of quiet today.”

Puyang smiled. Since her return, the various princes, princesses, and imperial concubines had been visiting her from time to time. The Prince of Jin’s claim that her residence was always full of people was not wrong.

She made a gesture of invitation, leading the Prince of Jin into the hall. The Prince of Jin also said with concern, “You are injured; you shouldn’t stand for too long.”

Once in the hall, Puyang ordered the attendants to serve tea.

The Prince of Jin observed that the palace attendants in the hall followed orders without hesitation and were orderly and disciplined, possessing an air of authority even greater than that of his own princely manor. He lowered his head to sip his tea, pretending not to have seen anything.

Those few attendants he had managed to place here with his mother’s help were now all gone. It was truly infuriating.

Yet Puyang, as if knowing nothing, conversed with the Prince of Jin calmly. “Prince, my brother, you delivered my letter to His Majesty. I have yet to thank you for this matter.”

“What is there to thank? We are brother and sister; there’s no need for such pleasantries,” the Prince of Jin said with a smile.

“In that case, I will not be polite with you, my brother,” Puyang replied, readily agreeing.

As they spoke, the Prince of Jin intentionally steered the conversation toward Mount Mang.

“I heard it was a hermit who saved you? I wonder which family’s young master he is?”

Puyang feared the Prince of Jin might grow resentful and retaliate. Although she felt the Prince of Jin was no match for Wei Xiu, it would be terrible if Wei Xiu found him bothersome and simply moved elsewhere.

“I was on the mountain mostly to recuperate, so I did not see him much. Father said he wishes to bestow a reward, so I thought I would go and thank him personally after my injuries have healed.” She was implying to the Prince of Jin that the Emperor was also aware of this person and that he should not be touched lightly.

After speaking, she observed the Prince of Jin’s expression and actually detected a hint of longing. Puyang’s heart tightened. What if her third brother didn’t want revenge, but recruitment?

The Prince of Jin was a man who excelled at feigning sincerity. He loved to recruit all sorts of hermits to make himself appear virtuous, capable of attracting even recluses with their hearts in the mountains to come and work for him.

Although she felt Wei Xiu would certainly not think much of him, Puyang was still very vigilant. She smiled and said nonchalantly, “I saw the hermit once. He is very young, perhaps just having reached the age of capping, and has a disability in his legs, being confined to a wheelchair.”

The Prince of Jin had indeed been thinking of recruitment, not only out of a desire for talented individuals but also as a way to inquire about what Puyang had been doing on Mount Mang. Now, hearing that the person was young—which implied naivety—and physically disabled—perhaps exiled there by his family?—he lost interest.

Such a person was not worth a great deal of effort. The Prince of Jin immediately dropped the subject and focused on speaking with Puyang.

Puyang was very satisfied that he was no longer persistent. The Sir is mine, and no one can snatch her away! Any such thoughts must be thoroughly extinguished!

Because the Prince of Jin no longer coveted Wei Xiu, Puyang’s attitude toward him softened.

This caused the Prince of Jin to be completely bewildered by the time he left. Did she know or not? Given Seventh Lady’s intelligence, she had already dug out the spies; it made no sense that she wouldn’t have interrogated them thoroughly. But if she knew, how could she not let a single hint slip? Her interactions with him were just as they had been before.

It was truly strange.

If it were the seventeen-year-old Puyang, she would have revealed some of her true emotions, but she was not seventeen.

After escorting the Prince of Jin to the hall entrance, Puyang watched him walk away before a cold smile touched her lips.

Afterward, the Emperor also asked about the hermit. Puyang recounted the same story she had told the Prince of Jin, but the Emperor was not so easily fooled. Puyang then said, “He is young, and I couldn’t see much in him. Father, why not keep him in mind and observe him again in a few years? If he truly has talent, a worthy reputation will eventually spread. It will not be too late to recruit him then.”

The Emperor heard this and thought it made sense.

Then there was Wang Gun. He had seen Wei Xiu with his own eyes and couldn’t let the matter go. When his wife, Puyang’s aunt, came to visit, she brought it up.

Puyang’s brow furrowed. They were all coveting her. How could this be? She trusted that the Sir’s character was steadfast, but she did not trust these people who were so eager to entice her away.

The moment her injuries healed, Puyang requested the Emperor’s permission to travel. She wanted to go to Mount Mang personally to express her gratitude.

Author’s Notes:

Princess (unhappy): They all covet you.

Noble Scholar: How do they covet me?

Princess (on guard): Why are you asking? What are you planning?

Noble Scholar: To compare offers.

Princess: ︽⊙＿⊙︽ Too late, I’ve already driven them all away! I’m the only one.

Noble Scholar: ╮(╯_╰)╭