The next day, Reader Guo summoned several newly appointed officials, including Su Ming, to his private office. Su Ming stood quietly among them, wearing the teal heron-embroidered robe that signified a regular seventh-rank compiler.

Reader Guo’s gaze scanned the group, finally resting on Qian Bin.

Qian Bin had a roundabout connection to the Yongchang Marquis Manor and had always been more active within the academy.

Reader Guo tossed a rusted bronze key to Qian Bin.

“The Ministry of War is pressing. With the northern border conflict, we need to review all previous dynastic files related to the Heirong,” Reader Guo said, his tone brooking no argument.

“Qian Bin, you will lead this. The rest of you—assist Compiler Qian. Within five days, pull every piece of information from the underground archives related to the Heirong: geography, armaments, battle records, customs, and tribal origins. Categorize everything and compile it into volumes. The Ministry of War will come to collect.”

The assignment was heavy and tedious, and the conditions were harsh.

But the words “you will lead” made a flash of pride cross Qian Bin’s face. He bowed immediately, “I accept the order, I will not fail your trust, my lord!”

Su Ming and the others bowed in unison, their faces betraying no emotion.

They pushed open the wooden door to the underground archives and a fetid, dust-laden air hit them.

The others immediately frowned.

Qian Bin cleared his throat and took on the airs of the leader: “Gentlemen, this is urgent military business. A few days of hard work is as it should be. Li bro, Wang bro, you take the two rows on the east; Zhang bro, Zhao bro, the rows on the west are yours.”

Only then did he look at Su Ming and casually point, “Compiler Su, you’ll have the harder lot. Take the innermost rows and those scattered boxes in the corners. I’ll handle the final compilation.”

He handed Su Ming the messiest, dustiest section and claimed for himself the comparatively pleasant task of compiling the final report—the task that would let him appear before the Ministry of War.

Su Ming showed no displeasure. Instead he offered a gentle, almost timid smile and cupped his hands, “As Brother Qian arranges, I will obey.”

His submissive demeanor pleased Qian Bin even more. He nodded with satisfaction and found himself a relatively clean spot to begin his “supervision.”

Su Ming silently walked toward the corner of the shelves.

This place was the Hanlin Academy’s graveyard, where all forgotten knowledge was piled up.

But for Su Ming, it was a treasury.

He did not start rummaging right away. He first circled the towering bookshelves.

His spirit-sense quietly spread out.

Every scroll’s position, material, age—each formed a three-dimensional image in his mind.

“Disciple, show them a trick! Let them see what a mover of knowledge looks like… no, the master of knowledge!” Lin Yu rubbed his hands excitedly.

Though Su Ming appeared to clumsily search and move dust-covered records, the instant he touched a volume its contents flooded into his mind like running water.

Qian Bin put on performances of command in other sections while the others loafed and complained.

Su Ming, however, absorbed the sealed knowledge.

He accurately pulled useful scrolls from the mountain of waste paper.

General Li Muyun’s Northern Expedition Notes contained detailed records of the Heirong tribes’ distribution and troop strengths.

An anonymous clerk’s Northern Ironworks Survey documented the Heirong tribes’ weapon-smelting techniques and mine locations.

A moth-eaten sheepskin map, partially ruined, bore ancient script marking secret desert trade routes and water sources.

There were also unofficial chronicles about the century-old enmity between the three major clans within the Heirong—the Golden Wolves, the Silver Wolves, and the Blue Wolves…

These fragmented, messy, even contradictory tidbits were rapidly filtered, integrated, and restructured in Su Ming’s mind.

A startlingly clear strategic atlas of the northern Heirong unfurled in his head.

Its detail and precision surpassed any Minister of War of the current court, even the Yongchang Marquis himself.

While sifting through those military archives, Su Ming did not forget his private concern.

Lantai Secret Garden.

He treated that name as a keyword and hunted for it among the piles of old papers.

Finally, tucked in the margins of a miscellany recording strange court events from the previous dynasty, he found a few lines.

They contained blurry characters: “…the Secret Garden is hidden north of the imperial city; none may enter without the Son of Heaven’s edict. Within are collected courtly oddities, secret techniques, forbidden prescriptions, guarded by the Department of Ghosts and Spirits; mortals who pry therein bring misfortune…”

“Guarded by the Department of Ghosts and Spirits?” Lin Yu’s voice sounded in his mind with a hint of amusement, “Heh, the imperial library’s security is pretty high. Disciple, note it down. Now is not the time to touch it.”

Su Ming silently took note and calmly slid the book back into its place.

Five days later, the Ministry of War’s official arrived.

Qian Bin immediately plastered a smile on his face and pointed at the neatly gathered piles labeled “geography,” “armaments,” and “tribes,” eager for praise: “My lord, I have not dishonored your trust! I have supervised day and night and at last organized the required scrolls. Please examine them.”

The Ministry official skimmed a few pages and nodded, “Thank you, Compiler Qian.” The clerks he brought began to inventory and move the materials.

Throughout the process, Su Ming stood quietly in the most inconspicuous corner behind everyone else, like an irrelevant background figure. The Ministry official did not even notice him.

…

Night in the small courtyard.

A pot of warm wine, two plates of snacks.

Xu Qing arrived, looking exhausted, dark purple bruises beneath his eyes.

He took a long swig of wine the moment he entered and exhaled deeply.

“Brother Su, I… I don’t know how to be an official anymore!” His voice was hoarse, full of frustration.

“The old lords at the Ministry of Revenue are still quarrelling endlessly over northern border military funds.”

“The Yongchang Marquis Manor folk come by eight times a day, hinting and outright saying that if we don’t allocate sufficient grain and supplies for the spring campaign, they’ll submit a memorial to impeach our whole Ministry!”

“But where is the treasury money? The account books are all holes! I crunched the numbers— even if we transfer every tax from several big southern provinces next year, it won’t plug this hole!”

Xu Qing’s eyes were bloodshot as he slammed his fist on the table.

“A bunch of upright officials keep yelling ‘store wealth among the people.’ The moment you mention levying merchant taxes, they act like it’s the end of the world. But when a war erupts, the ones who die are the border soldiers and the ones who starve are the northern commoners! Where is this so-called ‘rest for the people’?”

Su Ming listened quietly and refilled his cup.

He understood that Xu Qing didn’t want advice; he simply needed a sympathetic ear.

“Brother Su,” Xu Qing had drunk too much and his gaze grew unfocused, “tell me, why is the world such a mess?”

Su Ming patted his shoulder without answering.

After sending Xu Qing off, Su Ming stood alone at the alley entrance.

Night wind blew, stirring a few fallen leaves across the ground.

His eyes scanned the dark roofs and corners on both sides of the alley.

He returned to the courtyard, shut the door, and turned the key.

…

In the following days, Su Ming’s life outwardly showed no change.

At the Hanlin Academy, he started paying attention to a few other compilers who, like him, had been sidelined.

Their leader was a young man named Zhang Yiming.

He had talent—his essays were excellent—but bitterness and resentment always shadowed his features. Two or three followers often gathered around him, whispering in corners, railing against the government and lamenting their talent being unrecognized.

Su Ming kept his distance with caution.

One afternoon, while washing his hands, Su Ming was stopped at a corridor corner by Zhang Yiming.

“Compiler Su.” Zhang Yiming called softly to halt him.

“Brother Zhang.” Su Ming cupped his hands in greeting.

“Aren’t you suffocated by copying books every day?” Zhang Yiming got straight to the point.

A chill ran through Su Ming’s heart, but his face remained wooden and calm: “I would not speak ill. Lord Guo cultivates me; I dare not complain.”

“Cultivates?” Zhang Yiming sneered, his voice hushed, “Brother Su, you and I both come from humble families. Can’t you see this world? The likes of the Yongchang Marquis are nothing but state parasites living off ancestral privilege! For their mere glory they would drive millions to the northern fields to die for no reason! They drain the treasury, and the suffering falls back on the people!”

His words were incendiary.

“Brother Su, you are a disciple of Teacher Zhou Wenhai. We admire Teacher Zhou’s integrity in standing up for the people. Now corruption rules; we scholars cannot remain bystanders.”

He stepped closer, fixing Su Ming with an intense stare.

“A few of us compilers plan to jointly submit a petition, to clearly denounce the harm of rash war and ask His Majesty to think twice. Brother Su, will you join us and raise your voice for the common people?”

Su Ming’s heart sank.

This was an attempt to recruit him, to push him to choose sides.

He looked at Zhang Yiming’s face, flushed with passion, and slowly shook his head.

A troubled, fearful expression crossed his features.

“Brother Zhang, your righteousness is admirable. I… I respect it immensely.”

“It’s just that… I am inexperienced and my words carry little weight. I am newly entering official life and ignorant of military and state affairs. Lord Guo commands me to copy books because my roots are shallow and I must be tempered.”

He took a deep breath and his voice trembled a little.

“Speaking rashly about state matters is not our role, and I fear I would betray my teacher’s counsel to ‘speak cautiously.’ I… I truly cannot. I hope Brother Zhang will understand.”

He held up his claimed “stupidity” and his teacher’s “caution” as the firmest shield.

Zhang Yiming’s expression shifted from expectation to disappointment and finally to contempt.

He stared at Su Ming for a long time, then through gritted teeth spat out a few words.

“Rotten wood cannot be carved!”

He flung his sleeve and strode away, his retreating back full of finality.

Su Ming stood alone under the corridor as the winter wind lifted his wide sleeves.

“Tsk tsk tsk.”

Lin Yu’s voice sounded in his mind, enjoying the spectacle.

“See that, disciple? Classic workplace greenhorn. All heart and idealism, but hasn’t figured out who the players are and who the pawns are. If he submits that memorial, it’s like throwing meat to a dog.”

Su Ming answered nothing and returned to Wenyuan Pavilion.

Zhang Yiming and his followers watched him with complicated looks of scorn mixed with a hint of relief, as if saying: look, that’s the coward.

Su Ming kept his eyes forward and went back to his corner, picking up his brush again.

The ink was half-dry; he dipped the tip lightly in water and roughed it on the inkstone until the nib regained moisture.

“Master, was he wrong?” Su Ming asked softly in his heart.

“In principle, he’s not wrong. An empty treasury and a rash war are indeed full of danger.” Lin Yu’s tone grew unusually serious. “But his mistake is treating the court like a debating hall. This place is not about right and wrong; it’s about interests and positions.”

“He shouted and felt catharsis, but he offended every person who wants, needs, or profits from war. The Yongchang Marquis wants military glory, the Ministry of War wants power, the emperor wants prestige. He’s striking his own future against their iron rice bowls.”

Su Ming’s brush tip touched paper and a neat character for “military” leapt onto the page.

He understood.

Zhang Yiming did not lose because his reasoning was poor; he lost because he had not learned the rules.

And Su Ming was clumsily learning those rules himself.

Copying books was the turtle shell he put on to protect himself.

…

Ministry of Revenue, Accounting Department.

The air smelled of old ledgers and the crisp clack of counters being shifted filled the room.

This place was the heart of the Great Xing Dynasty—and the most headache-inducing.

Xu Qing’s eyes were bloodshot; piles of scrolls in front of him seemed ready to swallow him whole.

He hadn’t slept well in three days.

Dispatches from the northern border came like a blizzard; each one meant astronomical expenses.

Provisions, weaponry, pensions, horse fodder… behind every line was a long row of zeros.

But the treasury’s ledgers only showed glaring red deficits.

“Clerk Xu, Clerk Xu!” A sharp voice called out.

The speaker was an old clerk in the same office, named Qian, who delighted in shirking responsibility.

“The Yongchang Marquis Manor’s chief clerk is back outside, waiting. He specifically asked to see you, to ask when the first batch of spring grain funds will be disbursed.” Old Clerk Qian’s face displayed schadenfreude. “You see…”

Xu Qing rubbed his temples in irritation.

The Yongchang Marquis again.

These veterans were the loudest when demanding funds, yet they were also the most adept at appropriating fields and evading taxes.

“Tell him I’m auditing the necessary items and to wait,” Xu Qing said without looking up.

“Oh, my Lord Xu, that’s the Marquis’s chief clerk. We can’t offend him.” Old Clerk Qian’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “Maybe you should go see him?”

Xu Qing snapped his head up, his red eyes fixing on Old Clerk Qian so fiercely that the old man involuntarily took a half step back.

“Do my words fall on deaf ears?”

Old Clerk Qian’s neck shrank and he awkwardly retreated.

The entire accounting office fell silent except for the occasional sound of counters being placed.

Xu Qing closed his eyes and leaned against his chair, feeling the world tilt.

The hole can’t be plugged—no matter what, it can’t be plugged.

He could already picture the spring: the border short of grain, soldiers’ morale collapsing, the Heirong sweeping in.

When that happened, officials from the Ministry of Revenue would be the first to be dragged out and made scapegoats.

“Open new revenue streams… open new revenue streams… where can we possibly open new revenue streams?”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep