Chapter Four: The Grace of Recognition

Lord Yan did not ask this question in vain.

The current state of the court was just as Di Ying had described: though the Empress was singular in her discernment of talent, bold and wise in her appointments, and unbound by convention in delegating authority, she was also guilty of excessive favoritism.

Presently, the ranks of the court were nearly half filled with the Wus, or descendants of the Wu and Li families, while the rest either sided with them or maintained a stance of neutrality.

The Empress was ever eager to discover new talents to fill the gaps left by her own partiality. Lord Yan, along with a few devoted ministers, was similarly committed to seeking and recommending capable statesmen to remedy these deficiencies.

Thus, Lord Yan was well aware that recommending a candidate entailed considerable risk, both for himself and the nominee.

He held Di Ying in high esteem—not only for his steadfast adherence to principle but also for his prudence in the face of powerful figures like Liu Xi and Cao Ji. Rather than confronting them head-on, Di Ying had bided his time, waiting for an opportune moment to strike, which had inspired Lord Yan’s recommendation.

The court had no shortage of those who dared to admonish the ruler openly; such men were not rare, nor did Lord Yan particularly value them.

What he wished to ascertain was whether Di Ying's refusal to dash himself against unyielding stone was a mark of mere expedience born of “insufficient evidence,” or a sign of someone who remained true to his heart, choosing to act with patience and deliberation.

Human nature is ever fickle. Though young, Di Ying was now stepping onto the grand stage. Faced with adversity or temptation, what choices would he ultimately make?

He heard Di Ying’s answer—or, more accurately, he witnessed it.

Di Ying lifted his brush, dipped it in black ink, and painted clouds of darkness upon the canvas, muting the garish colors and allowing golden sunlight to strive to break through the heavy gloom. With lines both simple and profound, he gathered the diffuse hues, imposing order upon the chaos, and revealed a new clarity of structure.

The mood of the entire painting was transformed. It became more “disciplined”; the riot of colors receded—some fading into the background, others becoming subdued, transformed into different objects, or vanishing altogether.

The trunk of the tree remained unchanged, its presence accentuated by the new arrangement.

But the figure within the painting had changed as well. Now, the person held an umbrella, and the scene was filled with the suggestion of wind. The umbrella turned into the wind, and beneath their feet, the fallen petals had become a patch of vibrant, living grass and flowers.

Lord Yan sighed softly.

Indeed, this was still the heart of a youth. Though he understood the value of subtlety and discretion, his uprightness remained somewhat excessive.

Taking up the brush, Lord Yan adjusted the tilt of the umbrella, painting half of it in sunlight, half in shadow.

Di Ying understood.

Lord Yan wished him, in the days to come, to preserve his convictions, but also to remain mindful of strategy and demeanor.

In silence, Di Ying bowed to Lord Yan with solemn respect.

It was both a promise and a pledge.

Lord Yan smiled, satisfied.

With a laugh, he asked, “The winds of Henan have grown strange of late, skirting past Bingzhou entirely. Would you be willing to go and find out why?”

Di Ying straightened his attire, composed his expression, stepped forward, and answered with humility yet a clear, resonant voice, “It is the duty of an official. I am willing to go!”

“Excellent!” exclaimed Lord Yan.

Looking at Di Ying, Lord Yan felt a sudden rush of exuberance, sweeping away the weariness of age. With renewed warmth, he said, “This painting is for you. May you truly embody its spirit.”

He rolled up the painting and presented it to Di Ying with both hands.

Di Ying bent low to receive it.

Thus the bond of master and disciple was forged.

What Di Ying did not yet know was that he would be the last person Lord Yan ever recommended to the court in his official career.

A month later, when the Ministry of Personnel issued his transfer as Legal Commissioner of the Henan Circuit, Di Ying also received news of Lord Yan’s retirement.

With a heavy heart, Di Ying set out for Bingzhou in Henan.

Holding fast to his beliefs and carrying Lord Yan’s expectations, he set to work with vigor. In just a few short months, he resolved all the accumulated cases—large and small—in Bingzhou, leaving no room for dispute.

He earned the praise and support of the people; even in the depths of winter, dried dates and date cakes were delivered to his door.

Moved by this outpouring of goodwill, Di Ying grew both vigilant and busier, for in many of the cases—indeed, in most—though the facts were clear, he sensed something hidden beneath the surface, a deeper entanglement.

For example: Zhang Si killed Li Wu. There was ample evidence—witnesses, physical proof, a confession. Zhang Si admitted everything without protest.

And yet, what was the root cause? Di Ying wondered: If Zhang Si and Li Wu had not quarreled over a strip of farmland, or if the county magistrate had not been so muddle-headed, would such a tragedy have occurred?

But was the magistrate truly simply incompetent? Or was there something more?

Clad in a raincloak and bamboo hat, dressed in plain clothes like any commoner, Di Ying walked through the mist and rain. He wished to visit the surrounding counties and towns to see for himself.

It was now March, the prime season for spring plowing. Gentle, persistent rains drifted down, nourishing the earth and all living things, shrouding Bingzhou in a veil of mist.

Feeling the damp air and pondering the affairs of the fields, Di Ying wandered through a narrow alley. Turning left, he was suddenly startled by the sound of bitter weeping and wailing.

“Heavens above, how are we to survive? The cursed grain merchants are driving our whole family to ruin...”

“Call your master out here! Why would you pass off inferior seed as good grain—this stuff won’t even sprout!”

“Just look at this—what is it? Is this supposed to be seed? It’s clearly old rice, who knows how many years it’s been stored. It’s gone moldy—how are we meant to plant this?”

“They want to force us into becoming tenant farmers—how can anyone live like this...?”

A chaotic mass of people crowded before the tightly shut doors of a grain shop.

Some sat on the ground and wailed, some knelt in anguish, some pounded on the boards and cursed, while others simply gazed wordlessly at the sky...

Di Ying's heart clenched.

The quality of grain seed was a matter of life and death for the people. There must have been a hundred or more gathered there.

How many families did that represent? How many mouths to feed?

He dared not think further.

He was about to step forward and inquire when a retainer caught his sleeve.

“Master Di, leave it be. Best not to get involved.”

Di Ying spun around, his gaze sharp as arrows, and fixed it on the retainer.

In a low, steely voice, he said, “You know something.”

The retainer, cowed by his stern eyes and that tone of certainty, stepped back, head bowed in silence.

Di Ying’s hands clenched into fists.

All these retainers had been assigned to him by Bingzhou’s governor, Ma Guangjin, when he took office as Legal Commissioner. Over the past few months, they had served him well enough; being of modest means, he had not sought to hire his own men.

Only now, at this critical moment, did he realize their true nature.

Gritting his teeth, Di Ying let the matter go for now, and strode toward the distressed farmers.

“Elder, may I take a look at the bag of grain you’re carrying?”