Volume One: The Overseer and the Candidate Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Imperial Lecture

October 15th, shortly after noon, the weather was just right.

The final Imperial Lecture of the sixteenth year of the Zhengde era in the Ming Dynasty was held at the National Academy. Though the Ming court was founded through military strength, it was governed by the civil arts; thus, since the reign of Emperor Taizong, all successive sovereigns placed great emphasis on scholarly pursuits.

On a grand scale, this meant ongoing reforms to the three-yearly imperial examination, the grand event by which the nation’s pillars were selected. On a smaller scale, it meant occasions such as today’s: in the spring and autumn, the emperor and his ministers would sit together and discuss the classics—distinguished scholars would expound upon the wisdom of ancient texts, offering interpretations for the emperor. This was the essence of the Imperial Lecture.

For more than a hundred years, save for a handful of exceptions—such as the martial and restless Emperor Zhengde—the vast majority of emperors had attached considerable importance to these lectures. No matter how busy, they would ensure that this grand cultural event took place as usual.

For the Hanlin scholars—men of noble status but limited avenues for achievement—the Imperial Lecture was of paramount importance. It was their best platform to display their talents and ambitions.

A single outstanding performance at one such lecture could propel an obscure Hanlin scholar into the emperor’s or the Grand Secretariat’s line of sight, opening the way to meteoric advancement.

Of course, for those present today, everyone knew that the purpose of this lecture was not to select promising Hanlin talent but to sway the emperor’s thoughts, to set right what had gone awry, and to finally suppress the eunuch faction that had wrought chaos during the reign of Wuzong.

For today, the brightest star at the lecture would inevitably be Yang Shen, the chief lecturer. And as the son of Grand Secretary Yang Tinghe, his prospects hardly depended on such a display.

Nevertheless, the number of attendees today far exceeded any lecture in recent years—not only because a change of venue allowed for more seats, but also because everyone was deeply invested in the outcome.

Thus, all ranks of the Ministry of Rites had gathered; the idle literary officials of the Hanlin Academy were present in full force; even officials from other ministries, other offices, and the Censorate had come to join the spectacle.

Some even spotted figures who would never ordinarily attend such events—like Duke Dingguo Xu Guangzuo, Duke Yingguo Zhang Lun, and even Marquis Jianchang Zhang Yanling.

These nobles had little to do with scholarly affairs and could rarely be seen at Imperial Lectures; yet here they were. To many, today’s gathering rivaled the grandest court assemblies, perhaps even surpassed them, for besides the expected and unexpected officials, there was another group of special observers: the students of the National Academy.

No one could say whether it was due to the suddenness of the event, the Academy’s inability to make arrangements, or simply that the students would not be dissuaded, but all three hundred students were present, participating in the lecture.

Of course, once inside the Academy, as the officials took their seats by rank, these students—who lacked even proper official standing—were consigned to the very back. They did not even have the right to enter the main hall and listen directly.

Although the spacious Hall of Enlightenment had been prepared as the principal hall, even it was too small for a gathering of over a thousand. Many lower-ranking officials had to stand outside, peering in from afar. As for the students, they were sent to the vast plaza below the long steps, where they could hardly hope to catch a word.

Naturally, every rule has its exception.

Huang Ming was that exception.

No one could fathom how he came to be seated within the Hall of Enlightenment, even if it was only in the far corner by the main door.

But it was already peculiar enough to draw the attention of many officials, who glanced in his direction again and again.

Facing so many scrutinizing, curious, and even envious looks, Huang Ming sat calmly, eyes closed in meditation, as serene as a monk deep in contemplation.

His composure was remarkable. More importantly, he was using every moment to review the book he had studied so intently the previous day.

As the saying goes: polish your spear on the eve of battle—it is better than not polishing at all.

At the crack of a whip, the murmurs in and around the hall ceased, all eyes turned forward, and the officials straightened their posture even further.

Huang Ming opened his eyes as well. After three sharp cracks of the whip, a drawn-out, slightly shrill voice announced, “His Majesty ascends the throne—!”

Huang Ming’s eyebrows rose; he recognized the voice—it was his own father, Huang Jin.

Then, accompanied by Huang Jin and another eunuch in crimson robes, a youth in a reddish-brown robe and black winged cap, thin and slight of build, entered the hall with measured, steady steps.

So this was the Jiajing Emperor?

The second-longest reigning monarch of the Ming, wise in his early years, later infamous for his eccentricities, a master of Daoist arts and alchemy, self-styled Lord of Longevity, and a model of fastidiousness in his own right?

Though kneeling like the others with his head bowed, Huang Ming could not resist sneaking a glance at the emperor as he entered.

He had to admit, the Jiajing Emperor possessed a certain aura.

Though only fifteen or sixteen, and his frame slight and frail, his every movement exuded solemnity; each step was firm and deliberate, leaving no doubt that he was the chosen of heaven, set above the multitude.

He approached the throne prepared for him, with the towering statue of Confucius behind, paused, and offered a half-bow toward the sage.

Finally, with a flick of his robe, he seated himself and spoke, “You may rise, my loyal ministers. Today is the Imperial Lecture—there is no need for excessive ceremony. Please, all be seated.”

His voice, grave yet edged with the hoarseness of adolescence, nonetheless carried a note of authority.

“Thank you, Your Majesty!”

The assembled officials voiced their gratitude and rose, each taking their seat with utmost care.

If one looked closely, they barely touched the seats with their thighs and hips—hardly sitting at all.

Huang Ming, grinning, took full advantage of his place at the very back. Small as he was, he sat down properly and comfortably; there was no reason to endure needless hardship.

“According to the Ministry of Rites,” the emperor continued, “today’s lecture concerns the Later Han. Let the most learned among you come forth and expound upon it for me and my ministers, so that all may broaden their knowledge.”

With the emperor’s invitation, the lecture finally began in earnest at a quarter past noon.