The Hanlin Academy was the intellectual soul of the empire. It was not merely a library or a school, but a hallowed institution, a forest of minds where the brightest scholars of the Great Qing competed, collaborated, and engaged in the fierce, silent warfare of academic rivalry. For centuries, appointment to the Hanlin was the highest honor a scholar could achieve, a gateway to the most powerful positions in the grand bureaucracy. The air within its ancient, hallowed halls was thick with the scent of ink, the rustle of paper, and the immense weight of intellectual pride.
It was here that Weng Tonghe, the Imperial Tutor, now walked with a heavy heart. His regular visits to consult with his scholarly peers, once a source of pleasure and collegial debate, had become another source of anxiety. He felt the eyes of his colleagues on him, their whispers ceasing as he passed. He was now a marked man, the tutor to the strange child-emperor, the reluctant confidant of the confrontational Prince Gong. He was a man caught in a dangerous current, and he did not know how to swim.
Today, his task filled him with even more dread. He was acting on another of the Emperor's "childish whims." A few days prior, during a calligraphy lesson, the boy had looked up at him with his unsettlingly intense eyes.
"Grand Tutor," the boy had said, "you told me the scholars at your academy are the finest in all the land. I wish to have a new scroll made, to hang in my study. I want the Classic of Filial Piety written out for me by the very best calligrapher at the academy. Find the one with the most beautiful, most perfect brushwork."
Weng Tonghe knew immediately who the boy, wittingly or not, was asking for. The title of "finest young hand" at the academy was universally, if grudgingly, acknowledged to belong to a brilliant, proud young scholar named Shen Ke. But Shen Ke was a man living in disgrace. Just a month prior, during a formal academic debate, he had utterly humiliated a much older, more senior official over a nuanced point of classical history. The problem was that the senior official was a known sycophant of Cixi's faction. Though Shen Ke had been intellectually correct, his public thrashing of a powerful loyalist was seen as an act of profound arrogance. His career, once on a meteoric rise, had been stalled. He was ostracized, ignored, his applications for promotions and appointments mysteriously lost in bureaucratic limbo.
To seek out Shen Ke now was politically risky. It was to associate with a man who had been unofficially blacklisted by the Empress Dowager's faction. But the request came from the Emperor himself. It was a command wrapped in the guise of a childish wish, and Weng Tonghe, now caught between the perceived power of Prince Gong's "hidden faction" and the overt power of Cixi, felt he had no choice but to obey.
He found Shen Ke exactly where he expected to: in a dusty, forgotten corner of the academy's vast library, tasked with the menial work of cataloging duplicate texts. He sat alone, a picture of proud, resentful isolation. When he saw the Imperial Tutor approaching his table, his eyes widened in surprise, and he immediately stood and bowed deeply.
Weng Tonghe maintained a formal, distant air. "Scholar Shen," he began, his voice low. "I am here on behalf of His Imperial Majesty, the Emperor."
Shen Ke's head shot up, his face a mask of disbelief.
"His Majesty has a desire for a new scroll for his personal chambers," Weng Tonghe continued, choosing his words with extreme care. "He wishes for the Classic of Filial Piety to be transcribed. He has requested that the work be done by the finest hand at the academy." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "Your name was mentioned as a possibility for this great honor."
The young scholar was stunned into silence. He, the disgraced outcast, was being sought out for an imperial commission. It was a lifeline thrown from heaven itself, a sign of immense honor that could single-handedly rehabilitate his stalled career and silence his detractors. After a moment of shocked silence, he bowed again, so low his forehead almost touched his desk.
"This humble scholar is unworthy of such an honor," he stammered, his voice thick with emotion. "But I will serve His Majesty with all the meager skill I possess."
"Very good," Weng Tonghe said, a sense of relief washing over him. The most dangerous part of his task was done. But there was a second part to the message he had been instructed to deliver. As Shen Ke reverently cleared his desk, preparing the fine ink stone and a fresh stick of pine-soot ink, Weng Tonghe lingered.
"It is a curious thing," the tutor said, his tone now musing and conversational, as if making a scholarly observation. "His Majesty has been very interested in the lives of the great historians lately. Just this morning, he was asking me about the Grand Historian, Sima Qian."
Shen Ke paused in his work, listening intently.
Weng Tonghe stared at a distant shelf of books, as if lost in thought. "A strange question he asked me. He said, 'Grand Tutor, I wonder… did Sima Qian write his greatest works before or after he was unjustly humiliated and punished by his emperor?'"
The words fell into the quiet air of the library with the weight of stones. Shen Ke's hand, which had been grinding the ink, froze. The message was as sharp, clear, and painful as a dagger to the heart. It was not a random historical question. It was a direct, unmistakable reference to his own public disgrace. It was a statement that equated his own suffering with that of one of the greatest and most wronged scholars in the nation's history.
It told Shen Ke three things at once. I know you are brilliant. I know you were wronged. And I, the Emperor, value you despite, or perhaps because of, your unjust treatment.
The young scholar's hands began to tremble. A wave of emotion, far more powerful than simple gratitude, washed over him. In his darkest moments of frustration and humiliation, he had feared his talent would be left to rot in this dusty corner forever. He had cursed the corrupt, sycophantic system that rewarded flattery over genius. And now, from the very apex of that system, a hand was reaching down. Not a hand offering pity, but one offering recognition and, implicitly, retribution.
He looked at Weng Tonghe, but he knew the tutor was merely a messenger. This message came from a much higher, much more mysterious source. It was a power that saw his worth when all others saw only his disgrace.
With a newfound fire in his eyes, Shen Ke bowed once more. "Please inform His Majesty," he said, his voice now steady and filled with a fierce, unwavering resolve, "that this scholar will create a work worthy of the Son of Heaven. It will be the greatest work of my life."
Weng Tonghe nodded and departed, leaving the young scholar to his task. He did not understand the full depth of the game he was a part of, but he knew he had just delivered a message that had forged a powerful, unbreakable bond.
Ying Zheng, back in his palace, had just recruited his second key operative. He had not offered the man silver or a promotion. He had given him something far more valuable: he had restored the proud scholar's honor. And for that, he had earned his absolute loyalty.