Chapter 39: In Old Age, Many Startling Dreams; As If There Are Mad Words Spoken by Someone

In Mao Wenlong’s estimation, his journey to the capital to report on his duties could only result in one of two outcomes.

The first was that he would be summoned to the palace during the morning court, only to be set upon by the assembled officials, leading to a royal decree from an enraged Emperor to have him executed as a perceived threat. The second was that the officials would attack him, but the Emperor, showing leniency, would order him back to Dongjiang to continue his defensive duties—a move that would serve to both intimidate him and win his loyalty.

He was prepared for the former, and he could understand the latter. Though he harbored a lingering fantasy of a "heroic monarch descending to save the Great Ming," Mao, having reached the age of knowing one's destiny, understood that such thoughts were merely unrealistic daydreams.

Yet, when the eunuch messenger informed him that he would be brought into the palace tomorrow night, Mao suddenly caught a critical piece of information. To be summoned at night meant the new Emperor intended to meet him in private. This act in itself was a gesture of goodwill, confirming Mao’s earlier suspicion: if the new Emperor could discern who among the many memorialists were truly meritorious, then he was not easily fooled by the officials at court.

At this thought, a ripple stirred in the depths of Mao’s heart, which had long been as stagnant as a dead pool. He found himself looking forward to tomorrow’s audience with a newfound sense of anticipation.

After a pause, Mao asked the eunuch, "Does His Majesty have any other instructions? For example, am I forbidden from leaving the relay station?"

The eunuch smiled and shook his head. "None at all. As long as Lord Mao does not miss tomorrow night’s audience, the rest is up to your own discretion."

Mao nodded, and the eunuch withdrew. Once the man had left, Mao changed into plain clothes and, leaving his attendants behind, set out alone. He had not been to the capital in many years, and he felt that the city now possessed a vitality he did not recall. Even the commoners on the streets seemed to wear smiles that did not appear forced.

Mao silently assessed all that he saw. From this, it seemed the new Emperor possessed a heart for the people. Unfortunately, that alone was far from enough to save the Great Ming. The Jin were watching like tigers, soldiers were habitually unpaid, officials ruthlessly exploited the commoners, and the powerful clans were devouring land like a plague. Beneath the weight of such internal and external decay, Mao did not know how much longer the dynasty could hold on.

He decided that when he met the Emperor tomorrow, he would speak of all he had seen. Even if such matters were too heavy and beyond the reach of a seventeen-year-old boy-emperor to resolve, he at least had to ensure the new ruler knew what the world outside truly looked like. In doing so, he would honor the memory of the late Emperor who had once believed in him.

Thinking this, Mao sighed, suddenly feeling weary.

***

He could not help it. As age caught up with him, his spirit faded, and his strength waned with it. He stopped at a noodle stall, intending to eat and rest before walking further. He had just sat down when he heard the sounds of two young children playing behind him.

"The new Emperor is really something! He cut down three or four thousand bullies in a single day—even more impressive than the founding Emperor! My mom says if I eat well and grow up strong, I can become a Jinyiwei guard and help the Emperor take down the bad guys!"

Mao, advanced in years, felt a touch of warmth at the children’s banter and their praise for the new ruler. It seemed the Emperor had indeed purged a number of local thugs upon taking office, or the children would not be speaking of it. Still, children were children; they could say anything, even spinning tales about thousands of men.

On a whim, Mao teased, "Little ones, do you know how many blades you’d need to cut down that many people?"

One child wiped his nose and said, "I know! My dad said they went through over a hundred blades that day."

Mao’s pupils constricted. Before he could process this, the other child shouted, "That’s wrong! Your dad only saw what happened at the vegetable market. The Jinyiwei headquarters is where they did the most beheading. My dad said they broke over two hundred blades there alone!"

Just then, the stall owner brought the noodles. Mao did not even glance at them; he tossed down a piece of silver worth far more than the meal and stood up to leave.

"Hey, hey! Sir, your noodles!"

...

When Mao reached the vegetable market, he saw vast patches of dried blood. He immediately turned toward the Jinyiwei headquarters and saw the same scene. There, he also saw the patrolling officers, dressed in flying-fish robes and wearing *xiuchun* blades at their waists. The Jinyiwei of today was a world apart from the dilapidated office he remembered.

Mao took a deep breath and grabbed a passerby, pressing a piece of silver into his hand and demanding to hear what had been happening in the capital recently. The passerby, delighted by the silver, began to recount the tales. As Mao listened, he turned away, his brow furrowed in deep concern.

What did they mean the Emperor had left the palace with eight hundred men? What was this talk of killing a hundred officials in a single day? And the claim of cutting down over three thousand thugs and bullies? Mao felt he must be going senile, that he had misheard. He sought out several others on the street and questioned them. After receiving the same answer from five different people, Mao realized his hands, hidden within his sleeves, could not stop trembling.

***

He took several deep breaths, relying on decades of battlefield experience to force himself to calm down. Without delay, he went to visit several former colleagues. For various reasons, he had intended to avoid them, but now, if he did not get to the bottom of these rumors, he felt he would not be able to rest even in death.

After visiting three colleagues in succession, Mao left in silence.

What did they mean the Emperor had confiscated millions of taels of silver upon taking office? What did they mean the Emperor alone had cowed the entire court into silence? What did they mean a young eunuch, serving the Emperor, had trampled a third-rank Salt Commissioner to death with a horse in front of all the officials, and yet no one dared to hold him accountable?

Listening to his colleagues speak with such conviction, Mao’s mind went blank. He had always believed that his years of warfare had imbued him with profound composure, but faced with these revelations, he could not control his emotions. The final and greatest hope—or perhaps his last will—of his life had been placed right before him so easily. Yet, Mao found himself at a loss for how to confront it.

In this state, Mao forgot when he returned to the relay station, and he forgot when he finally drifted off to sleep.

In the dead of night, Mao awoke in a daze to find a dark, shadowy figure standing outside his door, holding a long sword. His years of experience with life and death kept him from panicking. He propped himself up on the bed and asked calmly, "Who goes there, attempting to assassinate this official?"

The youth did not answer, but stepped forward, sword in hand. As the figure drew near, Mao was struck with horror: the youth with the sword was none other than his own younger self.

The younger version of himself looked at him in silence. Yet, Mao clearly saw the youth exerting all his strength, desperately shouting the wild boast he had uttered countless times in his youth:

"If I do not attain a title of nobility, I shall not rest!"