Ch 102: Reborn to Raise My Husband

On the first day of the month, the regular court assembly convened.

Civil and military officials alike gathered at the Taiji Palace for the imperial audience. They stood in ranks according to grade, the line stretching from the great hall all the way out to the open square.

Those standing in the square could not hear the emperor’s words within, so a relay officer was assigned to repeat each command aloud.

For an official of Qi Beinan’s rank, his place should have been among those in the square—yet as a scholar of the Hanlin Academy, he enjoyed certain privileges. The Hanlin was the emperor’s training ground for close advisers, and even during morning audience, its officials were permitted to stand at the threshold of the main hall, far nearer than most.

Qi Beinan held his ivory tablet calmly, listening to the memorials being presented.

The Ministry of Revenue reported that lifting the nightly curfew had increased the treasury’s income. Then the Grand Secretariat spoke of floods rising in Jiangnan; the court proposed offering prayers for relief.

From national matters the discussion shifted to the inner palace—some ministers urged that, with the treasury now full, the emperor should select new concubines to ensure the imperial line’s continuation.

So it went—on the first and fifteenth of every month, the same recurring topics.

After about the length of one stick of incense, the chief eunuch’s shrill voice rang out: “Those with petitions, step forward; those without, you may withdraw!”

No sooner had the words fallen than an official from the Censorate stepped out of line. “Your Majesty, this minister has a memorial to present.”

At once, every official who had been standing silently straightened a little, eyes cast down, following the movement of the man with wary tension.

The Censorate spent its days watching and recording the faults of all officials—no one knew when its venom might suddenly land on one’s own head.

“This minister impeaches Commander Qiao Sheng of the Capital Guard for failure to discipline his household. His son, abusing his family’s power, assaulted a man in the street, leaving multiple rib fractures.”

Qi Beinan, who had half been listening, raised his eyes slightly and glanced toward Jiang Tangyuan standing behind him.

Jiang Tangyuan met his gaze with a brief, knowing look.

“So such a thing has happened,” the emperor remarked mildly.

Compared with matters of state, this was a trifling scandal. Still, the commander of the Capital Guard was a military officer—his son’s thuggery reflected poorly on imperial discipline.

The emperor was already aware of several similar cases: sons and nephews of high officials bullying commoners under their protection. None had been formally reported, and he, as ruler, could hardly investigate every one. But now that the Censorate had chosen to act, taking this opportunity to remind the court of its duty would do no harm.

“Your Majesty,” said the censor, “the Censorate would not accuse any official without solid evidence.”

The emperor replied, “An official must be upright. The Commander of the Capital Guard is charged with protecting the people, not oppressing them. Let the Prefect of the Capital investigate this matter thoroughly and deal with it severely, so that all officials may remember to guide their sons and nephews properly. Even if they cannot serve the court with merit, they should at least know restraint.”

The meaning was plain: the emperor intended this as a warning to the whole court. Ministers bowed their heads and echoed their assent with dutiful gravity.

Commander Qiao Sheng himself was not present that morning. He had no idea that the Censorate had just lodged a memorial against him.

But two others turned ashen—the Lesser Minister of the Court of Imperial Banquets, Lü Xiaojing, and Doctor of the Five Classics Lü Liang of the Hanlin Academy. Qiao Sheng was their kin; the impeachment struck their household squarely in the face.

After the audience dispersed, Lü Xiaojing approached the censor who had spoken. “Lord Li, you are thorough indeed—so trivial a matter, and you bring it before His Majesty himself. Those who know might praise the Censorate’s vigilance; those who don’t might think you filed a baseless charge just to remind the emperor your office still exists.”

The censor gave a cold smile. “There is no matter too small when it concerns the court. Commander Qiao’s son, by sheer arrogance, beat another man until his ribs were broken. If such savagery is a ‘small matter’ in Lord Lü’s eyes, it chills the heart. Should he kill someone next, I wonder what Lord Lü will call that.”

Then, pointedly, he added, “The Commander of the Capital Guard is but a minor military man. For his son to act so brazenly, one wonders whose power he truly relies on.”

His glance flicked toward Lü Xiaojing.

The insult was clear. Lü’s expression stiffened; he cursed the old viper inwardly but said nothing, sweeping his sleeve as he left the hall.

That very day, the son in question—Qiao Jin—was arrested on imperial order by the Prefect of the Capital himself.

When the officials arrived, Qiao Jin was still sprawled in a drunken stupor in a courtesan’s chamber, half-naked and senseless.

Dragged from bed, he kicked and wailed, cursing and sobbing like an animal as he was hauled through the streets to prison.

Madam Lü, witnessing such disgrace for the first time, was aghast. However exalted her household’s guests had been, none had ever dared treat them so roughly.

She was furious and panicked, but before the Prefect’s iron face, even her influence faltered. She dared not speak out.

As her son was led away toward the city jail, she immediately sent servants to summon her husband and rushed by carriage to her parents’ home to plead for help.

She waited there like an ant on a hot pan until her father and brother returned from court. Before she could speak, they scolded her harshly—rebuking her for failing to raise her son properly.

Madam Lü protested tearfully, “He only ever liked his winehouses a little too much! Father, brother, you both knew this. When he’s drunk, he loses his head and gets into scuffles—it’s happened before without trouble. Why has it turned into such a disaster now?”

In the past, her father and brother had always covered things up for her. Why scold her now, and so severely, when this was hardly the worst of his offenses?

Hurt as she was, she could not ignore her son’s plight. She pleaded, “Father, brother—you must save Jin’er! The prison is harsh. He’s been pampered since childhood, dressed in silks and fine food—how can he possibly endure such suffering?”

“How could I not want to intervene?” Lü Xiaojing said grimly. “But this time it was His Majesty himself who spoke in court, ordering a strict investigation. The emperor means to warn the ministers to discipline their sons and nephews—and he’s chosen Jin’er as the example!”

Madam Lü went pale. “Then whom have we offended? Someone must be deliberately trying to ruin us!”

Hearing this, Lü Liang and his father Lü Xiaojing exchanged glances, unease passing silently between them.

When the trial of Qiao Jin began at the Capital Prefecture, neither the Lü family nor the Qiao family sat idle. Both scrambled to pull strings wherever they could.

The Lü family had cultivated wide connections over the years; in past troubles, those ties had always smoothed things over. But this time every road was barred.

Madam Lü went from house to house, finding every door shut. Former noble acquaintances refused even to receive her. Those of lesser rank whispered that the emperor himself had given the order—no one dared meddle under such an iron decree.

While she was still struggling to find a way, the prefect’s investigation deepened. Not only did they confirm that Qiao Jin had assaulted a man in the street, they uncovered an old homicide linked to him as well.

The more they dug, the more they found. How could the son of a mere military commander have committed so many crimes without exposure?

Within days, the inquiry reached straight up to the Lü household.

“A nest of snakes and rats,” the clerks said. “After only a few days of digging, the Capital Prefecture discovered that Lü Xiaojing had embezzled and taken bribes amounting to over a hundred thousand taels during his years in office. Even funds from the state banquets at the Court of Imperial Banquets—he dared to pocket money under the emperor’s very nose.”

“They found he extorted silver from the farmers who regularly supplied vegetables to the palace—every delivery, he demanded ‘gifts.’ If they didn’t pay, he accused them of offering spoiled produce, denied payment, even charged them with deceiving the throne until they were forced to submit.”

“With the silver he bled from them, his family hosted endless banquets, using food and wine to court influence.”

After court that day, Jiang Tangyuan invited Qi Beinan to his home for tea, the two discussing the fall of the Qiao and Lü families.

Seeing those two houses brought low, Jiang felt no pity—only grim satisfaction and relief that his own family had never been drawn into kinship with them.

Qi Beinan sipped his tea leisurely. “Families like the Lü clan think themselves secure because of their connections. Yet when disaster strikes, who truly stands by them? Every official in the capital now avoids their name. Many must be regretting ever having eaten at their table.”

“Before, they flaunted their glory, trusting that their allies would cover their tracks whenever they blundered. The more they deceived themselves, the bolder they grew. But corruption leaves a trail—once one thread is pulled, the whole fabric unravels.”

The Capital Prefect submitted his report to the throne. The emperor had meant only to issue a warning—strike the mountain to frighten the tiger—but what began as a street assault had unfolded into homicide and, beyond that, massive corruption.

Faced with such an unexpected “revelation,” the emperor’s anger flared.

Qiao Jin was convicted of murder and sentenced to exile. His father, Qiao Sheng, was demoted and stripped of command.

As for the Lü family: Lü Xiaojing was dismissed from office and imprisoned for embezzlement; Lü Liang, implicated through association, was expelled from the Hanlin Academy and reassigned as a minor county magistrate in the provinces.

The once-proud Madam Lü was left utterly disgraced. Both her husband’s and her own family’s fortunes had collapsed. With no face left to show in public, she shut herself indoors, seldom seen again.

“This time, I owe it to your reminder,” Jiang Tangyuan said, “that I gathered evidence of Qiao Jin’s crimes and handed it to the Censorate. Lord Li of the Censorate has long disliked Lü Xiaojing—once he saw a case linked to the Lü family, he leapt to impeach.”

“I only worried the evidence might not be enough to make them act,” Jiang continued. “But as you foresaw—truly, the enemy of one’s enemy is a friend.”

Qi Beinan smiled. “You also deserve credit. Without your family’s connections, we couldn’t have learned which officials opposed the Lüs. It was your information that made this possible.”

“And fortune was with us,” he added. “Had the emperor not been intent on disciplining his officials this season, the Lüs might have bribed their way free again. But stand too long by the river, and your shoes will get wet. This time, they finally slipped.”

Jiang Tangyuan nodded.

With Lü Liang exiled from the Hanlin, no one remained to obstruct him. His own days grew much easier, and the ordeal drew him even closer to Qi Beinan.

Before, they had been friendly colleagues, respectful but not intimate—mere acquaintances bound by shared rank.

Now, having weathered intrigue together, their understanding deepened. They trusted one another as true confidants.

When Qi Beinan returned from the Jiang household that evening, it was already late.

In the kitchen, Xiao Yuanbao was preparing supper.

Qi Beinan changed out of his court robes and stepped inside, drawn by the scent of stir-fried tender gourd shoots—fresh and faintly sweet.

Beside it, a small pot simmered gently. Inside, he saw pig’s jowl, duck feet, duck wings, and intestines—all steeping in a rich spiced broth.

The aroma of the braised meats filled the air. After a long day of talk and tea, Qi Beinan found himself suddenly hungry.

“Why are you making luwei tonight?” he asked.

“It’s from Teacher,” Yuanbao replied. “Now that the weather’s warm, the night market’s growing livelier. After closing shop, he plans to sell some braised dishes there for extra coin. He bought fresh offal and duck this morning—the feathers came off clean, the meat’s good—so he made plenty and sent us some to try.”

Xiao Yuanbao had already heard that morning that Qi Beinan would be stopping by the Jiang household after work. Since he hadn’t mentioned dining there, Yuanbao guessed that he’d come home hungry.

He ladled out a round porcelain bowl. “Here, fill your stomach first.”

Qi Beinan glanced down—it was a bowl of soft, milky-white pig’s brain. Taking it, he sat at the small kitchen table. “Perfect, just what I need to nourish my mind.”

He scooped a spoonful, mixed it with the rich soy sauce, and found it delicious.

Seeing that, Yuanbao simply laid out the rest of the dishes there in the kitchen, and the two ate together.

Over the meal, Qi Beinan told him about the Lü family’s downfall.

Yuanbao sighed as he listened. Though he wasn’t one to rejoice at others’ misfortune, he couldn’t help feeling a small satisfaction at the thought of the Lüs’ collapse.

It wasn’t just because of that banquet when Madam Lü had nearly made a fool of him; it was the memory of the young fulang they had mocked that day—the embarrassment on the man’s face had lingered in Yuanbao’s mind. Who knew how many others the Lüs had humiliated before? Now they themselves had become the talk of the town, subjects of ridicule over tea and wine. Perhaps that was simply retribution.

“I went to visit Tangtuan at the Jiang house two days ago,” Yuanbao said. “He never cared much for that match with the Qiao family, so when it fell through, he didn’t seem particularly upset.”

Because of the broken engagement, however, Madam Lü’s brother in the Hanlin Academy had begun to make things difficult for Jiang Tangyuan. Though Tangyuan never complained, he was gentle and perceptive—his younger brother noticed the change right away, how busy he had become, how the smile had faded from his face. With a bit of asking, he learned the reason, and guilt weighed heavily on him, believing his own failed marriage had brought Tangyuan trouble.

Troubled and restless, he caught a chill and had been coughing badly for several days.

“A broken engagement is nothing rare,” Qi Beinan said. “It was Madam Lü’s own deceit, hiding her son’s debauchery, that caused it. If anyone is to blame, it’s them. And to hold a grudge afterward, using their influence to make life hard for others—such a family has neither decency nor breadth of heart.”

Yuanbao nodded. “A household like that was never upright to begin with.”

Qi Beinan picked up a piece of stir-fried vegetable with his chopsticks and smiled. “Then we may call it fitting retribution.”

“Did you see Tangtuan today?” Yuanbao asked.

Qi Beinan shook his head. “Not today.”

“Maybe he’s still unwell. I’ll go check on him tomorrow.”

“All right.”

Yuanbao placed a duck foot in Qi Beinan’s bowl. “Try one—smells amazing. Teacher said even at three coppers apiece, people buy them eagerly at the night market.”

Qi Beinan laughed. “Then Jiang Fulang will soon be rich.”

“Teacher said he’s saving up. When Zhao San-ge gets married, he’ll help with the wedding—and when we have children someday, he wants to set something aside for them too.”

Qi Beinan chuckled. “Your teacher does think far ahead.”

At the mention of Zhao Guangzong, Yuanbao suddenly remembered. “A letter came from home today—it’s from Zhao San-ge.”

Qi Beinan’s brows lifted slightly. He had written to that young man some time ago; it was about time for a reply.

After the meal, he went to read it.

“What does he say?” Yuanbao asked. The room was warm and close—the heat of early summer made it stifling, though it wasn’t yet the season to use ice. Using it too early spoiled one’s health, and the expense was no small matter.

He opened the window for air, but the mosquitoes were relentless, buzzing in from the courtyard. Grumbling, he fetched a fan, and by the time he turned back, Qi Beinan had already finished reading.

Fanning gently, Yuanbao leaned closer. “So? What did he write?”

“He says he’s giving up the hui examination,” Qi Beinan replied. “He’s going to sit for the xuan’guan selection instead.”

Yuanbao’s eyes widened. “He’s taking the official appointment exam? Then if he passes, he can become a magistrate?”

Qi Beinan nodded. “Yes. If he passes, he’ll officially enter the bureaucracy. But an appointment through the xuan’guan system—what we call a ‘juren posting’—doesn’t carry the prestige of the jinshi degree. Such officials can’t rise as high.”

He went on, explaining patiently, “For example, jinshi can often stay in the capital after passing, or at worst be assigned as county magistrates or prefectural officers. But juren must start from the lowest ranks—as assistant magistrates, prefectural clerks, and the like. The ceiling is low. A truly talented one might reach the level of prefect, but none have ever risen to the Grand Secretariat. Most, lacking connections or brilliance, spend their lives in provincial posts and retire as county magistrates.”

Yuanbao frowned. “Then the prospects truly aren’t as bright as those who pass the hui exam and earn the jinshi title.”

“Of course not,” Qi Beinan said. “Those who labor through two more rounds of imperial exams deserve their greater honor. If it were otherwise, no scholar would bother striving beyond the xiangshi.”

He folded the letter. “Still, I agree with his choice.”

Zhao Guangzong came from modest roots. As a juren, he lived comfortably enough—no want for food or clothing—and could afford to study for years if he wished. But Qi Beinan knew him well: he was not the kind to idle away life in endless preparation.

“To enter government young,” Qi Beinan said, “to serve early and do some real work—that’s worth more than a lifetime chasing titles. If he succeeds, he’ll bring honor to his whole clan.”

After all, the entire Zhao clan pinned their hopes on him.

Moreover, Qi Beinan, who had already lived through one lifetime, knew well how the imperial examination system would change in the years to come. That knowledge only made him more inclined to support Zhao Guangzong’s decision to pursue an official appointment now.

If Zhao Guangzong were certain to pass the next hui examination, then joining the xuan’guan selection this time might seem a waste. But if he failed, the path would only grow harder with time.

Before long, the bureaucracy would overflow with idle officials; scholars would no longer be rare or precious.

Then it wouldn’t just be juren who struggled for appointments—even jinshi would find it difficult to secure real posts. Most would be assigned to ministries as probationary clerks, serving for years without ever being confirmed.

If Zhao Guangzong could take advantage of the present favorable tide to gain an official post, then after years of steady work he would have a solid footing by the time those lean years came. He would have no reason to worry.

Still, such talk was premature. It all depended on whether Zhao Guangzong could pass the selection in the first place; without that, every plan was empty speculation.

The letter said he was already preparing for the prefectural-level exam, though it was impossible to know how ready he truly was.

Qi Beinan’s feelings toward Zhao Guangzong were mixed. He had watched the young man study and take exams year after year—watched him grow from a timid boy into the warm, confident youth he was now. It had not been an easy journey.

To call them mere friends wasn’t quite right, for there was always a certain distance between them.

Rather, Qi Beinan regarded him as a personal student—someone whose progress he could not help but care about.

He sat down that night and wrote a letter in reply, affirming Zhao Guangzong’s decision and offering words of encouragement and hope for his future.

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