Chapter 34

Xue Jin’an claimed he had a busy schedule, which wasn’t entirely untrue. Although he had only left his residence to visit Yihe Palace, he had obtained one gigabyte of information data, making the day quite fruitful.

Then, the health app sent a background notification, informing him that he had taken 28,000 steps today, ranking first.

Xue Jin’an thought, “These words look so exhausting.”

Even though his device still had a third of its battery left for use, after charging, Xue Jin’an only wanted to lie quietly in bed, much like a worker returning home after a long day, yearning to do nothing. Facing the calendar’s pop-up reminders, he glanced at the time and said, “I’ll handle it at the first moment of Shen Hour.”

When that moment passed by barely a breath, he said, “Then at half Shen Hour, definitely…”

In any case, he insisted on hitting an exact time point—missing even a second was unacceptable. If he happened to be a few minutes late, he would postpone it to the next exact time, always delaying, always promising “next time for sure…” until he simply could no longer put it off.

This was his approach to work, to exercise, and even to sleep. Any necessary task inevitably fell victim to procrastination, a condition that seemed widespread among humanity. Even becoming an immortal cultivator could not cure it—just look at the typical shut-in.

There is a saying among humans: bad habits are easy to pick up, but good ones are hard to learn. Lying in bed, opening a live streaming app, Xue Jin’an thought, if even my machine spirit is lazy and procrastinates, it must be the fault of the machine’s master.

A wave of melancholy swept over him. He searched for a cached recorded video and clicked it open.

The video began with ministers entering the Hearing Hall. It was not yet the official court hour, and the ministers stood in small groups, whispering to one another; the atmosphere was rather relaxed. The morning bell struck at the exact hour of Mao, echoing like a school bell, and the court officials quickly took their places.

The Grand Chancellor, the heads of the Three Judicial Offices, and the Six Ministries who had been summoned earlier to the emperor’s bedchamber to see the “clock-in with applause and paw-press” letters now hurried out to their positions. Everyone tidied their attire, held their tablets properly, and bowed their heads in silence—the entire hall instantly fell into solemnity.

“The Emperor approaches—” With a sharp call from Li Hechun, all officials bowed thrice and shouted “Long live!” The emperor, dressed in a dark dragon robe and crowned with the twelve-lu imperial crown, strode in like a dragon and tiger, swept his sleeves, and sat down. “Ministers, I have a memorial to present; no memorial, dismissed.”

“I have a memorial.” Two voices overlapped as two Censorate officials stepped forward simultaneously.

The Censorate was the highest supervisory body in the Empire, tasked with overseeing all officials. Whether a family took concubines, or a second-generation scion dined without paying, anything involving an official—no matter how trivial—was reported in memorials as if there were quotas to fulfill. Usually, minor censors appeared publicly, but today these two key officials emerged, signaling the matter was serious.

The assassination attempt in the Imperial Study had just occurred, and Xue Jin’an had long guessed the morning court would be lively. Consort Rong and Consort Zhen, at the center of the storm, along with their powerful families, were sure to face censure—though it was unclear who would bear the brunt.

As expected, the two Censorate ministers took turns: the Right Censor impeached Consort Zhen, the Left Censor impeached Consort Rong—a clear division of labor. Their memorials were nearly identical in style and wording, obviously drawn from the same template.

[Xue Jin’an’s comment: “Master of balancing accusations x2.”]

No sooner had Xue Jin’an made this comment than the delicate balance was shattered.

The elderly Right Censor finished his memorial with an expression that said, “KPI done for today, I’m out.” The younger, darker-skinned Left Censor, however, continued, expanding on the accusations.

With fierce words, he condemned Consort Rong for her arrogance and tyranny—killing eunuchs and palace maids at will, forcing good people into crime, thus sparking the assassination attempt in the Imperial Study, startling the emperor and his princes. Especially the Sixth Prince, who suffered a neck injury. He declared her unkind, unvirtuous, and lacking in moral conduct…

This sharp, biting rhetoric was a stark contrast to the tepid, harmless accusations before. It was almost as if he was pointing at the emperor and demanding her immediate downfall. At this point, such harsh words made little difference.

[Xue Jin’an’s note: “The one who stirred up the ‘One Zhang Red’ trending topic censure of Consort Rong was probably this fellow.”] He quickly identified the man and gathered all related scenes from the original story, which amounted to little more than a thousand scattered words—either impeaching or on the way to impeach.

At the start of the original story, the aged Right Censor had long retired. His two successors, one had taken sides and was exiled after the eldest prince’s downfall; the other, promoted from the provinces, lacked foundation and failed to hold his position. Thus, the Censorate had become a one-man show under the Left Censor.

Thankfully, this Left Censor was staunchly loyal to the throne, never taking sides amid the princes’ fierce struggles. At most, he submitted memorials summarizing the lives of the defeated princes. Otherwise, with his sharp tongue and number of enemies, he wouldn’t have survived this long. He was mockingly called “The Settlement Interface.”

So far, all those Xue Jin’an had seen, except Consort Xian, differed somewhat from the original text—a minor issue caused by the time shift, well within the scope of his constructed character model.

Xue Jin’an speculated that this Censorate minister might be somewhat less mature now than in the future, constrained by higher-ups and an unstable position, causing him to temper his sharpness.

The facts proved that the “Settlement Interface” was a consistent figure like Consort Xian.

Forever young, forever harsh in speech.

The aged Right Censor’s face, lined with wrinkles, his trembling hand gripping the tablet as though afflicted with Parkinson’s, clearly revealed his surprise—this was all the Left Censor’s doing.

Xue Jin’an had no doubt that if this had not been the grand hall, the ivory tablet in the Right Censor’s hand would have come down hard on the Left Censor’s head. But under the emperor’s watchful eyes, he could only silently curse with moving lips.

Xue Jin’an tried to read his lip movements, but an anti-addiction program for minors activated, filling his mind with “beep—beep—beep” harmonious sounds.

[Comment: “Though nothing was heard, the curses were indeed harsh.”]

“Harsh? You’re not really a child, are you?” The emperor, hearing a childish, tender voice, feigned amusement and smiled gently.

He had been hearing this voice for some time. At first, his consciousness was hazy, half asleep, the voice indistinct, his eyes seemingly covered by something. Straining to open them, he gradually saw the light.

Then he found himself in the Hearing Hall during court assembly. He saw the ministers in full attendance, saw himself on the dragon throne, and listened to the proceedings of that morning’s court.

Afterwards, he clearly heard that familiar boy’s voice—not merely in his ear, but resonating in the hall, audible only to him, with no one else able to see him.

“Dream? Hallucination? Or… soul capturing technique?” The emperor tried to approach himself to verify, but found he could not control this place; what he saw depended entirely on what the voice wished to observe.

Calming himself, he suspected this unseen mastermind sought something from him. Resolving to listen carefully and seize every chance to communicate, he found no response.

Moreover, the voice always used a childlike tone, strikingly similar to that of Xiao Qi, seemingly disguising itself as a child.

The resemblance was uncanny. The difference was that Xiao Qi was steadier, spoke at a moderate pace with little emotional fluctuation, his calmness biting. This voice varied speed, slow when silent, fast when talking, often using odd words like “rwkk” and “clock-in with applause and paw-press.”

Most importantly, the emperor was convinced this was not Xiao Qi because Lu Bingzhu had personally stated that Xiao Qi possessed no inner energy.

When Lu Bingzhu was still the supervisor, he was feared throughout the martial world, regarded as one of the top five masters of the age. Only four could match him. Years later, he had reached the realm of returning to simplicity, especially skilled in internal power, with no one able to hide their martial force before him.

Xiao Qi and the master of secret voice transmission were not the same person. Suspecting a seven-year-old child to be a peerless master of secret voice transmission was absurd.

Since the other party was determined to pretend to be a child, the emperor decided to play along and see what tricks this person had up their sleeve. He concealed all defenses and guardedness.

Wearing a face of helplessness as if teased by a child, his tone gentle, he said, “I do not know what spell or special technique you have used to recreate all this before my eyes. If you merely find the morning court interesting, there is no need for such trouble. I can take you there to experience it firsthand.”

Still, no answer came. Meanwhile, the scene continued to unfold. After a lengthy censure of Consort Rong, the Left Censor abruptly shifted focus to the Ningguo Mansion, reproaching the Duke of Ningguo for poor discipline in educating his daughter. Using the argument “If one cannot sweep their own house, how can they sweep the world,” he demonstrated that the Duke was a mediocre buffoon unworthy of his high position.

The Left Censor spoke passionately. The Duke of Ningguo’s lips twitched; he had to stand and explain, “Consort is surnamed Xiao…”

He was cut off after just a phrase.

“Is Consort Rong not your Ningguo Mansion’s cousin? Did she not reside there for three years in her youth? After her parents passed, did you not publicly acknowledge her as your adopted daughter? If the bond is so deep and meaningful, what does a surname matter?”

The Left Censor emphasized “deep and meaningful,” alluding to the past rupture between Ningguo Mansion and the Grand Empress Dowager over letting Consort Rong enter the palace. That breach had never healed. Even the title bestowal for the heir had been blocked by the Grand Empress Dowager. During festivals, the ladies of Ningguo Mansion had been refused entry to Cining Palace.

The Duke’s eldest son was of age, his eldest grandson betrothed, yet the heir’s investiture remained unconfirmed. Many nobles in the capital secretly mocked this.

If the deaths of the two Empresses Zhong were the Grand Empress Dowager’s thorn, then the heir’s investiture was the Duke of Ningguo’s.

The Duke of Ningguo was speechless.

Suddenly, the scene zoomed in: his face deeply lined with wrinkles, chest heaving violently, the corners of his beard-trembling lips quivering… and the rapid flash of anger and cruelty in his eyes—never before had the emperor seen the Duke’s expression so clearly.