Chapter 119: The Document

Chapter 119: The Memorial

Jiang Xun: "..."

As the role demanded, he was an inept ruler who couldn’t comprehend Shen Que’s words at all. So Jiang Xun paused and remained silent.

Seeing that the Emperor neither pushed him away nor interrupted, Shen Que assumed his "sincerity" was insufficient. Steeling himself, he took Jiang Xun’s hand.

Jiang Xun: "?"

The emperor had elegant hands—slender, graceful fingers with a thin callus on the side of his middle finger, a leftover from years of writing countless exam papers. The callus was hard and rough, pressing against Shen Que’s palm with a rough, tingling scrape.

Shen Que held those hands and placed them on his own thigh.

He bent his leg slightly, matching the shape of Jiang Xun’s palm, and hinted, "Your Majesty, if you like... you may... go ahead... touch."

He couldn’t continue.

His eyes were tightly shut, and steam beaded on the ends of his hair, leaving them damp.

As the Imperial Tutor, to be bare in the baths—naked before the Emperor, even attempting to brush his leg against him—was already the limit of his endurance.

Jiang Xun: "..."

Jiang Xun remembered the sensation of those legs—warm and yielding. Back then, he must have liked them very much. But now, with his mind on famine and floods, he had no thoughts for romance.

Yet breaking character would be inappropriate. So Jiang Xun rested his palm on Shen Que’s knee, giving it a light touch.

He curled his fingers slightly, feeling the bone beneath the knee.

In his past life, Shen Que’s kneecaps had deformed from prolonged kneeling. But now, though the skin was inflamed, the bones remained intact.

Shen Que trembled, his thigh tensing for a moment before relaxing again.

Jiang Xun: "You’ve swollen."

After kneeling for so many hours, of course they were.

Shen Que was startled. "Yes."

He didn’t understand the Emperor’s meaning but persisted. "Your Majesty, regarding the matter of the Zhenbei Marquis Heir Apparent, I implore you to reconsider. The heir has been imprisoned without explanation for so long—a decision must be made."

Had this been his past life, Jiang Xun would have seethed. As fellow disciples, Shen Que’s concern was always for Xue Jin, even sacrificing his pride to plead for him. Meanwhile, Jiang Xun’s head was bleeding from a wound, yet Shen Que paid it no mind.

Jiang Xun remembered—he had indeed been both angry and aggrieved then. In truth, even now, a quiet ache lingered within him, buried beneath the overwhelming weight of national crises—small, faint, and insignificant.

Yet it existed nonetheless.

Jiang Xun’s expression remained unreadable as he replied, "Hm."

Of course, he couldn’t possibly harm Xue Jin. Xue Jin was the Founding Emperor of Liang, the celebrated general of the dynasty, destined to ascend the throne in Jiang Xun’s place.

Jiang Xun would relinquish the throne to him. But unlike in his past life, this time, he would keep the Northern Di beyond the Shanhai Pass, sparing the land fifty years of devastation.

The Emperor’s prompt assent left Shen Que momentarily speechless.

But Jiang Xun didn’t look at him. Instead, he turned and reached for the soap at poolside.

Agitated, his movements were rough, his long hair tangled into a knot. Just as Jiang Xun was about to pull it apart, another pair of hands intervened.

Shen Que stood behind him, gently taking the soap. "Let me, Your Majesty. Your forehead is injured, and you can't see it yourself. If it gets wet, it could get infected."

Jiang Xun stiffened.

This hadn’t happened in his past life.

Back then, he had been agitated, impatient with Shen Que, reacting to every touch like a startled hedgehog. Shen Que had to weigh every word carefully, speaking with utmost caution—never would he have taken the initiative to wash Jiang Xun’s hair.

Now, Shen Que had already gathered his long hair, lathering the soap through it carefully, carefully avoiding the wound on his forehead. Then, he scooped up warm spring water, rinsing it downward. His fingertips brushed Jiang Xun’s scalp, parting the strands to ensure the roots were clean. After a final check, he said, "Your Majesty, it’s done."

Jiang Xun didn’t move.

He was unaccustomed to Shen Que’s sudden breach of boundaries, his skin prickling with unease. At that moment, 66 came swimming over and displayed: *Host: Task complete.*

This much intimate contact was enough.

Jiang Xun stood. "Call someone to help me dress."

Shen Que instinctively reached for the clothes on the shore, but Jiang Xun stepped past him, wrapping himself in a towel and walking behind the screen. Raising his voice, he called, "Wang An, summon someone to assist with dressing."

The robes were complicated—without help, Jiang Xun truly couldn’t manage them.

Servants filed in, helping the Emperor dress, while Shen Que remained behind the screen, sinking deeper into the water.

Only after Jiang Xun was fully dressed and escorted away by the servants did Shen Que emerge from the hot spring. Lowering his gaze, he tidied everything, fastened his robes, and once again resumed his composed scholar's demeanor before re-entering the Emperor’s bedchamber.

Jiang Xun was already in bed.

He lay on his side atop the imperial bed, fingers gliding over 66’s screen, lingering on the script interface.

66 wriggled under his prodding—as an intelligent system, his previous hosts had rarely tapped on him like this. But Jiang Xun, perhaps because he was a high school student, was used to tapping on learning devices and computers, treating 66 like any ordinary device.

Shen Que hesitantly knelt at the edge of the bed, only to hear Jiang Xun say, "Get up. Come to bed."

If not for the system’s requirements, he wouldn’t have let Shen Que kneel at all.

Shen Que lay down beside the Emperor, taking up minimal space at the edge, an arm’s length away. His fingers clutched the brocade quilt, silently tightening.

He was prepared for what might come next.

But Jiang Xun only stared at the screen, tapped it again to bring up the lines. "Cunxi, if you want me to spare Xue Jin, you'll need to give something up."

Shen Que replied, "Naturally."

Jiang Xun said, "From now on, you will live within the palace, forbidden to leave without summons. There is a Yaoguang Palace in the western part of the palace—that will be your residence henceforth."

He tilted his head, not looking at Shen Que’s expression.

Yaoguang Palace had a dubious reputation—it was adjacent to the inner palace yet outside it, the late Emperor's quarters for his male consorts. For an upright scholar-official to be confined there was nothing short of humiliation.

Shen Que said, "Very well."

After a pause, he asked, "Your Majesty, what of my official duties?"

Jiang Xun replied, "They stay the same. You will perform them as normal during the day."

In his past life, his relationship with Shen Que had been strained. He had confined him to the palace, stripped him of all duties, and cut off his communication with the outside world. But the story hadn't shown this part, only stating that the Emperor had humiliated the Imperial Tutor, trapping him in the palace and assigning him to Yaoguang Palace.

Jiang Xun had the man confined to the palace, granting him residence in Yaoguang Hall. After all, the cabinet officials were already required to come to the palace for work—toiling by day, serving as a consort by night, with neither duty interfering with the other.

Before the current dynasty, Jiang Xun's elder brothers had fought fiercely among themselves, causing repeated upheavals in the court and the country. Due to factional struggles and political infighting, waves of officials fell.

Now, there were few capable ministers left in the court. In his previous life, when Jiang Xun had removed Shen Que from power, the court had spiraled into chaos for quite some time. Many policies were enacted and then abolished, with decrees reversed by dawn, leaving the people of the capital in misery. This time, Jiang Xun was unwilling to repeat the same mistakes.

Number 66 whispered, "Working during the day and serving at night too—isn’t this just exploitation?"

Jiang Xun had been stroking him with his fingers but paused at these words. Shen Que, however, had already replied, "Understood."

He waited for the Emperor to issue further instructions, but Jiang Xun had finished speaking and refused to say another word. He didn’t even look at Shen Que, maintaining his side-lying posture, though it was unclear whether he was asleep or not.

Shen Que waited until his breathing steadied, then drew the quilt over him.

Early the next morning, Wang An was already waiting outside the palace.

With Jiang Xun’s order the previous day, the long-dormant Yaoguang Hall had been thoroughly cleaned and furnished anew.

When Shen Que rose, the Emperor was still asleep. Following Wang An, he crossed most of the palace grounds and entered Yaoguang Hall.

The charcoal had already been lit—the most expensive silver-filament charcoal—filling the hall with warmth akin to spring. Maintaining such a hall required no small expense.

Shen Que asked, "Wang An, isn’t this a breach of protocol?"

The palace had fixed allowances for food, clothing, and other necessities, with each rank entitled to specific standards. Given Shen Que’s current ambiguous status, he ought to keep a low profile.

But Wang An replied, "His Majesty instructed that the charcoal in your hall be kept warm."

Shen Que paused, then asked, "Did His Majesty say anything else?"

Wang An: "Only that. Nothing more."

Shen Que’s legs were afflicted by cold and rheumatism, but certain future events would require him to kneel. Jiang Xun had to plan ahead.

Wang An: "Please inspect the hall. Are there any shortages in food, clothing, or other necessities?"

Shen Que shook his head. "None."

The hall was fully furnished, surpassing even his own home’s comforts.

After taking stock of the hall, he returned to the Wenyuan Pavilion to review memorials. The other Grand Secretaries, seeing him emerge alive, were greatly astonished. Their gazes lingered on Shen Que for a long time, particularly on his legs. Only when Shen Que took his seat did they cough lightly and avert their eyes.

Having knelt for so long, Shen Que walked with a barely concealed limp—a fact everyone noted but politely overlooked.

At his seat, someone was already waiting for him.

It was Shen Que’s nephew, the newly minted scholar Shen Xiu, whom Shen Que had watched grow up and remained close to. When Shen Que had entered the palace the previous day, the Shen household had been in turmoil. Shen Xiu had sought the help of a familiar Grand Secretary to wait here for news of Shen Que.

Seeing Shen Que finally emerge, Shen Xiu let out a relieved breath and stepped forward, scrutinizing him. "Uncle, are you alright?"

Shen Que shook his head. "I’m fine."

Shen Xiu: "The entire palace is abuzz—you knelt for hours before the Emperor would even see you."

He muttered, "In such times, he still troubles you. The young Marquis Xue remains imprisoned, and now he wants to remove you from office too? Honestly, among the late Emperor’s many children, all were outstanding—except him, the most inept and witless. Why did he have to be the one to inherit the—"

Before he could finish, Shen Que snapped sharply, "Mind your tongue!"

Shen Xiu, having only recently come of age, still retained a youthful indiscretion around his beloved uncle, blurting out whatever came to mind.

Shen Xiu was startled by Shen Que's tone and argued, "Little Uncle, but everyone says so!"

Throughout the court and beyond, no matter how reverent they appeared toward the new emperor in public, who didn’t whisper behind closed doors, "Heaven has no eyes, the world is unjust"? The late emperor had so many outstanding princes, each accomplished in both scholarship and martial prowess, brilliant and talented—yet Jiang Xun, the one disgrace unfit for public view, was the one who ended up on the throne.

Not only was he barely literate, but his calligraphy was worse than a dog’s scrawl. He was utterly ignorant of the classics, history, philosophy, and literature—truly worthless. How could such mediocrity inherit the throne?

Shen Que’s brows furrowed deeply as he lowered his voice sharply, "Shen Xiu, the palace is hallowed ground—how dare you spout such nonsense?"

Shen Xiu was somewhat indignant but dared not openly defy Shen Que, muttering instead, "But it’s not nonsense... Little Uncle, you tell me—you were the tutor to all the princes. After teaching so many, who was the worst?"

"..."

Shen Que gripped the Huzhou brush, avoiding a direct answer. "Shen Xiu, your words today are improper. Later, go kneel in the ancestral hall for half an hour. If you dare spout such reckless talk again, don’t blame me for invoking the ancestral family rules."

Shen Xiu sat down awkwardly, murmuring, "You know it too, deep down."

The current emperor was an ignorant fool—everyone knew it.

Shen Que ignored him and simply opened a memorial.

The topmost one was urgent, sent from the Lianghu region, concerning drought conditions. Though spring had not yet arrived, the weather was already showing anomalies. The Lianghu governor, Song Zhizhang, requested advance funding to prepare for potential floods and droughts.

Shen Que read word by word, his frown deepening.

Since ancient times, natural disasters had plagued dynasties. Droughts and floods inflicted immense suffering on the people, and effective countermeasures were scarce. As for allocating funds—how much, and how to use them—was another thorny issue. After a long silence, Shen Que cautiously wrote, "This requires careful consideration."

*

In the palace, the moment Shen Que left, Jiang Xun opened his eyes.

Even in modern times, he had suffered from mild neurasthenia—insomnia and restless dreams. After arriving in Great Wei, it had only worsened. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the capital in flames, the night ablaze, the lamentations of myriad spirits. He couldn’t sleep deeply, only rousing himself from bed at the usual waking hour for a dissolute emperor. His expression was weary as Wang An approached to assist him in dressing, bowing and asking, "What are Your Majesty’s plans for today?"

Jiang Xun had established a pleasure den in the palace for banquets and revelry. He seldom attended to state affairs, devoting his days to revelry. Wang An’s question was essentially asking what amusement he desired today.

But Jiang Xun replied, "I’m tired today. I’ll sleep longer. You may leave."

Wang An was startled but bowed and withdrew.

Jiang Xun shut all the doors tightly, fetched ink and brush, and spread out a sheet of xuan paper.

The writing implements in the palace were untouched—the dissolute emperor’s handwriting was poor, and he disliked writing. A thin layer of dust had settled over them.

He wiped away the dust, added water to grind the ink, then lifted the brush, poised his wrist. Taking a deep breath, he began to recall.

66 peered over nearby: "Host, what are you writing?"

Jiang Xun: "Practical solutions for dams and bridges in Lianghu."

In his past life, he had journeyed throughout the realm. Whenever he encountered hydraulic engineering, he would study it carefully, then adapt it to Great Wei’s circumstances.

Though modern engineering was far more complex, the principles remained the same.

After decades of this, Jiang Xun had thorough knowledge of Lianghu’s water conditions. His brush moved swiftly, covering pages with thousands of characters in moments.

66 peered over: "Host, your handwriting is quite refined."

Jiang Xun: "Is it?"

66: "Yes, more so than my previous hosts... Well, Bai Yu’s would be comparable if he wrote carefully. Xiao Shao’s is a bit worse, and Xie Yu and Lin You are not even close."

The system rattled them off like a pro, and Jiang Xun laughed, "Because I practiced before."

In his later years, he had specifically honed his calligraphy skills, meticulously copying the surviving stele inscriptions of masters like Yan Zhenqing and Liu Gongquan. His brushwork, though not quite "piercing the paper with its vigor," was crisp and flowing, carrying the dignified style of a true master.

Using "light sleep" as an excuse wouldn’t fool Wang An for long. As the Emperor's chief eunuch, he had to constantly monitor the Emperor’s condition to be ready for any needs. He peeked in every half hour, leaving Jiang Xun pressed for time.

Unable to write too much, he simplified and condensed his thoughts, dashing it off in one go. He deliberately used the faster cursive script, his characters dancing across the page with unconstrained elegance.

By the time the article was completed, Wang An was quietly pushing the door open to peek inside.

Jiang Xun blew on the ink to dry it, then tucked the document into his sleeve.