Chapter Ten: Better to Misjudge Than to Let Go

For Shi Chaobin, the Registrar of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, issuing a certificate of eligibility to Bai Yu, a youth from the Elephant Training Institute, was a trivial task, merely a minor matter handled within the scope of his duties.

Every year, a number of youths from within the Guard apply for these certificates to sit for the imperial examinations, most hoping to change their fates by treading a different path; Bai Yu was simply one of them.

Having spent the day at the office until the sun began to dip toward the west, Registrar Shi was planning to head home. In the Embroidered Uniform Guard, no one bothered the Registrar about his comings and goings, for he held a somewhat transcendent position. The Northern and Southern Secret Service Bureaus, as well as the fourteen external offices, were all manned by military officers whose primary duties were operational and who owed their positions largely to hereditary privilege. Registrar Shi, however, was a pure civil official responsible solely for official documents and archives. He was appointed by the Ministry of Personnel and belonged to an entirely different system from the military officers. Moreover, as he had been personally recruited by the head of the Guard, Lu Bing, every faction had to show him some respect.

Just as Registrar Shi reached the front courtyard, he saw the main gates swing wide. Surrounded by a throng of attendants, the Commander-in-Chief, Lu Bing, strode into the headquarters.

Now in his fifties, Lu Bing held the titles of Grand Preceptor of the Heir Apparent, Left Director of the Rear Chief Military Commission, and Commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard. He was, without question, the most powerful figure within the organization. Looking at the entire span of history, Lu Bing might well have been the most formidable Commander the Embroidered Uniform Guard ever had. His mother had been the wet nurse to the Jiajing Emperor, making Lu Bing the Emperor’s foster brother. Twenty years prior, when the Emperor was caught in a fire during a southern inspection, it was Lu Bing who had carried him to safety. With those two factors, how could anyone compare?

Lu Bing’s influence had long transcended the scope of a typical Commander. In an era where civil officials were esteemed and military men slighted, he was even capable of going head-to-head with the Senior Grand Secretary, Yan Song.

It was rare for Lu Bing to appear at the headquarters, and for good reason. It was common knowledge that the Jiajing Emperor no longer resided in the inner palace, having lived for the past twenty years in the Renshou Palace within the Western Park, leading the reclusive life of a Daoist practitioner. Consequently, the Western Park had become the de facto political center of the Ming Dynasty, where a group of ministers remained on duty year-round, accompanying the Emperor in his devotions. In the middle and late years of the Jiajing reign, a minister’s status was not determined by his official rank, but by whether he was permitted to serve in the Western Park. Of the ministers granted this privilege, most were civil officials; only two were military aristocrats, and Lu Bing was one of them. Thus, he spent most of his time in the Western Park and rarely visited the headquarters.

Seeing him arrive suddenly, everyone understood that something extraordinary must have occurred. Realizing he could not leave for home, Registrar Shi stepped forward in his capacity as "Chief Secretary" and asked, "Commander, what brings you here so suddenly?"

"I am here for you," Lu Bing replied. "Let us speak in the main hall."

From this alone, no one could discern the nature of the matter. Lu Bing returned to the central hall of the inner courtyard, where other officials arrived to pay their respects, but he dismissed them all, keeping only Registrar Shi for a private conversation. This atmosphere made the Registrar somewhat nervous.

Lu Bing began, "Do you remember when the Emperor commanded us ministers a few days ago to compose a eulogy for his pet lion cat?"

Because the Jiajing Emperor was aging and longed for immortality, he had become obsessed with Daoist practice and had adopted a lengthy Daoist title, abbreviated as the "Longevity Sovereign." Following his lead, the ministers began referring to him as "the Sovereign" rather than the traditional "Your Majesty."

"At the time," Lu Bing continued, "I had you ghostwrite it. Was the piece submitted ultimately written by you?"

*Could there be a problem with that text?* Shi wondered. He decided to report the truth: "It was written by a young lad from our Guard. I was testing him at the time and simply used that as the topic."

"What did you think of the piece?" Lu Bing asked.

Shi replied honestly, "Aside from the speed at which it was written, the quality was quite ordinary. The overall composition felt somewhat cluttered and cobbled together; it lacked emotion and felt stiff, devoid of a human touch."

Lu Bing’s expression turned peculiar. "And yet, after that piece was delivered to the Renshou Palace, the Sovereign rated it as top-tier."

*Good heavens!* Shi was so shocked he nearly blurted out, "What kind of taste is that?" He struggled hard to swallow the words, narrowly avoiding the crime of insulting the Emperor.

"Commander, are you joking?" he finally managed to ask.

Lu Bing replied, "The very qualities you call stiff and lacking in emotion—the Sovereign views them as a kind of 'ethereal spirit.' He believes such a style, detached and cold, approaches the state of a Daoist immortal, as the saying goes: 'The highest man forgets his emotions.'"

Registrar Shi was speechless. He began to suspect that the Emperor had consumed too many elixirs and had lost his senses.

"Furthermore," Lu Bing added, "the essay centered on the theme of 'a lion transforming into a dragon.' That metaphor was truly brilliant and deeply pleased the Sovereign. It deserved its top-tier rating."

Registrar Shi felt a sudden pang of resentment. Why was it that every piece of writing or prayer text he painstakingly drafted and submitted to the Renshou Palace was always rated at the bottom? How could a piece written off-the-cuff by a youth like Bai Yu be considered top-tier by the Emperor? Was the gap between people always so vast?

After settling the matter, Lu Bing shifted his tone. "You must understand the importance of such talent."

"I understand, of course I do," Shi replied.

In the current political climate, it was fashionable for powerful officials to recruit retainers and scholars to ghostwrite for them, all to win the favor of the Jiajing Emperor. The political reality was simple: whoever presented the best prayers and essays was deemed loyal and would be promoted. This was no longer a hidden rule, but a glaringly obvious one.

Registrar Shi was the best ghostwriter Lu Bing had managed to find, but he still could not compete with the Yan family, Xu Jie, or the four mid-generation masters. Since Lu Bing was a commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard—the Emperor’s "hunting dogs"—reputable scholars and literati were unwilling to defect to him. The sudden appearance of someone whose writing could earn the Emperor’s praise was a rare and desperately needed asset for Lu Bing.

Having explained the cause and effect, Lu Bing asked, "Who is he?"

"His name is Bai Yu," Shi replied. "He is fifteen. His father is a strongman at the Elephant Training Institute, and his family has served as veteran military households of the Guard for generations."

"I never imagined such talent could emerge from a military household," Lu Bing remarked with surprise. He then issued his command: "People who can move the Sovereign with their writing are incredibly rare. It is better to be mistaken than to let this opportunity slip. You are responsible for recruiting him—spare no cost! Give him whatever he asks for!"

"I shall see to it tomorrow!" Registrar Shi vowed.