The young eunuch who had gone inside to deliver the report soon returned. Without much delay, he led Zhu Ping’an into the outer hall of the great palace, instructing him to wait there. Inside, His Majesty was still receiving another person in audience, and only after that person departed would Zhu Ping’an be permitted to enter.

The moment Zhu Ping’an stepped into the outer hall, an overwhelming wave of incense greeted him. The fragrance was so dense and lingering that for an instant, if judged by scent alone, he might have believed himself to be standing within the meditation halls of a grand temple. Yet a single glance downward dispelled that illusion—the floor beneath his feet was paved not with stone or tile, but with gleaming bricks of gold. No temple in the realm could ever boast such extravagant flooring.

Raising his eyes, he saw three statues of the Daoist Sanqing enshrined within the hall, before which incense burned unceasingly. And yet, aside from these, another imposing figure stood at the eastern side of the chamber. The plaque beside it identified this image as “Xiang Yi Dijun.” The statue stood a little taller than a man, dressed in a blue Daoist robe patterned with the Bagua. Its face was thin and ascetic, but carried a natural majesty that pressed down upon all who gazed at it.

Zhu Ping’an blinked. The longer he looked, the more he felt his suspicion harden.

Wasn’t this statue’s face eerily similar to the very same face he had glimpsed during the palace examination—the countenance of the Jiajing Emperor himself?

A wry smile tugged at his lips. Truly, the Jiajing Emperor was a peculiar man. To commission a Daoist idol in his own likeness, and then to canonize himself as the “Xiang Yi Dijun”—what greater example of self-consolation could there be? It was audacious, ridiculous… and yet, in a strange way, brilliant.

Zhu Ping’an had waited for less than three minutes when he saw a man striding out of the inner hall, guided by a eunuch. The man’s chest was thrust forward, his steps bold and full of vigor. His whole bearing radiated the haughty confidence of one who believed the world already lay within his grasp.

“Ouyang Brother,” Zhu Ping’an called softly, a smile curving his lips as he cupped his hands in greeting.

Remove AdsThe man was none other than Ouyang Zishi, whom Zhu Ping’an had previously encountered at the Yan residence. Judging by his expression and lofty stride, Ouyang clearly believed his audience had gone exceedingly well.

Hearing Zhu Ping’an’s greeting, Ouyang spared him only the briefest of glances. He nodded faintly, almost dismissively, before striding out of the grand hall, his bearing still brimming with self-importance.

Not long after, another eunuch emerged from the great hall. His attire was noticeably more ornate than the one who had first escorted Zhu Ping’an—his robes brighter, his sash embroidered with finer threads. Wearing a genial smile, he approached and spoke with practiced courtesy:

“Lord Zhu, if you would follow me. His Majesty now wishes to see you.”

Zhu Ping’an cupped his hands and bowed slightly. “I am grateful, Gonggong.”

“There is no need for such formality,” the eunuch replied warmly, then turned and beckoned for Zhu Ping’an to follow.

Thus, Zhu Ping’an entered the inner sanctum of imperial authority.

At once, the fragrance of sandalwood thickened, cloying at the senses. The chamber was uncomfortably warm, the air dense from the incense smoke curling from countless braziers. Despite the brightness of day outside, tall candles burned everywhere, filling the room with a sharp, flickering brilliance.

At the center stood an enormous alchemical furnace—a “Two Dragons Playing with a Pearl” Bagua cauldron, taller than a man, its presence commanding and strange.

Before this furnace lay a Bagua cushion, gold-rimmed and jade-inlaid. Upon it sat a middle-aged man in a blue Bagua Daoist robe, cross-legged in serene composure. His features were lean yet handsome, with an air both austere and imperious. He looked strikingly similar to the statue outside.

There was no need to guess—this was none other than the Jiajing Emperor himself.

The eunuch who had guided Zhu Ping’an immediately dropped to his knees. Zhu Ping’an followed suit. Though inwardly he felt exasperated—having grown up in an era where kneeling to another man was long abandoned—he knew well enough not to flaunt modern sensibilities here. “When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” he reminded himself. He had no desire to stand out as a crane among chickens, only to be “cooked like a crane with the zither.”

Bowing deeply, he declared with due solemnity: “Your servant Zhu Ping’an, newly entered among the scholars, humbly greets Your Majesty. Long live the Emperor! Long live the Emperor, for ten thousand years!”

He struck the floor with his forehead nine times, performing the full three bows and nine prostrations exactly as the eunuch had instructed. His voice trembled faintly, his face arranged in a mask of reverent excitement—an “audience before the Son of Heaven” performance that even he thought was quite convincing.

The Emperor seemed pleased. Perched on his Bagua cushion, Jiajing surveyed him with narrowed eyes and nodded slightly. Yes… this was how one should look when seeing the sovereign for the first time—awed, overwhelmed, trembling with devotion. To the Emperor, this was as it should be. Was not the pursuit of immortality and longevity merely a means to preserve such reverence forever? To remain the axis about which all men turned?

Zhu Ping’an knelt in silence, waiting. The hall was so quiet he could hear the crackling of candle flames. At last, just as his knees began to ache and impatience stirred within him, a deep, resonant voice finally broke the stillness.

“Beloved subject… you are Zhu Ping’an?”

The Emperor’s tone was magnetic, his words deliberate, carrying both weight and grace.

Zhu Ping’an pressed his forehead once more to the ground. “Your Majesty is most perceptive. I am indeed Zhu Ping’an.”

“Mm. And you hail from the Xiahe region?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty. This humble servant’s home is in Xiahe Village.”

Zhu Ping’an kept his eyes fixed respectfully on the ground, though inwardly he was a little startled. How thorough—His Majesty had even inquired into his humble origins.

“Zhu Ping’an of Xiahe… an excellent name.”

The Emperor’s gaze softened with recognition. Slowly, he recited Zhu Ping’an’s background in detail, as if testing his memory. Then he nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly.

In truth, earlier that morning, when reviewing the examination scripts, Jiajing had paused at this very name. In that instant, it had struck him like a divine revelation—like a bolt of lightning tearing through the clouds, illuminating all.

Yes. The dream had been deciphered.

Remove AdsHe recalled: the founding ancestor, standing by a river thick with duckweed, pointing to his feet before ascending into the heavens.

Xiahe (Lower River). Duckweed banks.

Xiahe—Peace.

Zhu Ping’an.

With Zhu Ping’an, the Zhu dynasty’s rivers and mountains would remain safe and sound!

This was Heaven’s will, the mandate bestowed by the ancestor himself.

As for the other candidate, the so-called top scorer Ouyang Zishi—“Yang,” which hinted at “illness.” Could the Zhu dynasty’s empire be allowed to fall into illness? Impossible. He, Jiajing, was no foolish monarch. He would not permit the legacy of blood and steel left by his ancestors to falter.

“Your Majesty’s kindness humbles me,” Zhu Ping’an replied, his voice tinged with awkwardness. He had never before been complimented on his name, much less by the Emperor himself. It felt strange—unreal, almost.

The Emperor chuckled, amused by the young man’s simple gratitude. Others, when praised, would surely protest with false modesty, declaring themselves unworthy. But this boy? He merely accepted the compliment and gave thanks. Such honesty was refreshing.

“Rise, beloved subject,” Jiajing said with a smile.

Zhu Ping’an bowed again, murmured thanks, and then rose slowly to his feet.

The Emperor, now seated upon the Dragon Throne, leaned forward and spoke in a measured tone: “You dwell in Xiahe, where mountains and rivers are vast and treacherous. The mountains are lairs for tigers; the rivers, the hiding place of dragons. Living amidst such lands… tell me, have you ever seen a tiger or dragon?”

Zhu Ping’an’s mind raced. Tiger? Well, he had seen wild boars, caught rabbits, even fished for shrimp and minnows. But a tiger? If he truly had encountered one, would he still be alive to stand here? And dragons? That was even more absurd—where in this world was there such a thing as a dragon?

Still, he could not give such a plain answer. This was not idle conversation—it was an examination in its own right. To earn favor, he must reply cleverly.

The Emperor, after all, was known to enjoy words that pleased him.

So Zhu Ping’an’s eyes gleamed with sudden inspiration. He bowed deeply, then raised his voice with solemnity: “In answer to Your Majesty: living in the mountains, I often encounter tigers. But only today, upon entering this hall, have I been blessed to behold the countenance of the dragon.”

The words struck home like a well-aimed arrow.

The corners of Jiajing’s mouth lifted at once. The praise was subtle, elegant, without crude flattery—yet unmistakable. Tigers may dwell in the mountains, but the true dragon, the Son of Heaven, was before him now.

Unseen, the eunuch Huang Jin, ever by the Emperor’s side, regarded Zhu Ping’an anew. His eyes lingered with unspoken admiration. This young man is no ordinary scholar.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep