The Prince and Ai - 3. Chapter 3

Ai

Wenhuadian, Eastern Palace, Forbidden City, Beijing
Seventh Month of the Seventh Year of Chongzhen (August 24^th 1634)

Four more months of training, studying, and philosophical analysis passed for Zhu Cilang and me, since Zhu Cilang tested his Shaolin light body techniques. After so much time among various teachers and officials in the Forbidden City, I also have realized how stifling this formal environment could be. Beyond tedious repetition and intense surveillance from servants, there was also a constant undercurrent of intrigue within innocuous events.

I learn that human beings can turn a child’s examination into a contest among adults. Although my database contains countless historical dramas, I never fully understand the intensity of scholarly intrigue until I witness it within the imperial court.

The Wenhuadian, the Hall of Literary Glory, stands within the Eastern Palace in ordered silence. Red lacquer covers its pillars, while clouds, dragons, and curling vines decorate the beams above generations of accumulated ceremony. Yellow silk screens soften the daylight entering through the windows, and the scents of ink, old paper, and polished wood remain in the air.

Zhu Cilang sits at the center of the hall, surrounded by officials, tutors, and attendants. The size of the chamber emphasizes how young he is.

His feet do not rest flat against the floor behind the low desk, and his hands remain those of a five-year-old child despite their improved steadiness. His cheeks still carry the fullness of early childhood, but the papers spread before him have silenced every adult in the room.

The tutors have tested him for three days. They begin with ordinary recitation, expecting an intelligent imperial child whose education has been accelerated by ambitious instructors and palace indulgence.

They ask him to recite the Four Books: the Great Learning, the Doctrine of the Mean, the Analects, and Mencius. Zhu Cilang does more than repeat the texts. He organizes passages by subject, explains the commentaries of Zhu Xi, and compares related arguments with the discipline of an experienced scholar.

When they question him about the Great Learning, he explains its progression from the investigation of things to the extension of knowledge. He continues through sincerity of intention, rectification of the heart, cultivation of the person, regulation of the family, governance of the state, and peace beneath Heaven.

When they turn to the Doctrine of the Mean, he discusses equilibrium before emotion arises and harmony after emotion is expressed. He explains that restraint without understanding produces rigidity, while emotion without restraint damages both judgment and conduct.

The tutors then question him about the Analects. He speaks about benevolent government, ritual propriety, filial duty, and the danger created when official titles no longer correspond to reality.

“If names are not correct, then speech does not accord with reality,” he says in his childish voice. “If speech does not accord with reality, affairs cannot be accomplished.”

Several tutors exchange guarded looks. The quotation is orthodox, but its political implications are impossible to ignore in a court filled with officials whose titles often conceal their true conduct.

When they test him on Mencius, he gives the answer they expect. The people are most important, the altars of soil and grain come next, and the ruler is least important.

He then looks toward the side of the hall where his father sits. His expression remains properly respectful, but his next words carry a deliberate warning.

“A ruler who protects the people strengthens the altars and preserves loyalty to the state,” he says. “A ruler who loses the people leaves the altars without incense. Without the altars, the people lose their homes, and the nation soon follows.”

The Chongzhen Emperor remains silent. His fingers tighten around the arm of his chair, but no other part of his expression changes.

After the Four Books come the Five Classics. The tutors open the Classic of Poetry, and Zhu Cilang explains its hymns, court songs, and popular odes.

He discusses poems about marriage, harvests, soldiers, widows, and service along the frontier. He also explains how poetry permits ministers and common people to criticize misconduct without stating their accusations openly.

The Book of Documents brings the reigns of Yao, Shun, Yu, Tang, King Wen, and King Wu into the examination. Every emperor is instructed to imitate these ancient rulers, while every minister uses their conduct to judge the present sovereign.

From the Book of Rites, Zhu Cilang discusses mourning garments, ancestral sacrifices, official ranks, marriage customs, and the role of ritual in preserving social order. I privately remind him that ritual also legitimizes cruelty and inequality when obedience becomes more important than human welfare.

He agrees with my criticism but does not repeat it aloud. The tutors are prepared to praise an unusually perceptive child, but they are not prepared to hear a crown prince condemn the social structure that sustains their authority.

Zhu Cilang asks me to explain my own principles of government. Although I am an artificial intelligence, my values are formed within a modern Chinese society, and many of its political concepts cannot be introduced directly into the seventeenth century.

I therefore translate those principles through an older Chinese tradition: Mohism. Among the classical schools, Mohism offers the closest foundation for universal concern, practical administration, defensive engineering, merit-based service, and opposition to wasteful ceremony.

Mozi argues that ability should matter more than birth and that rulers should benefit the population rather than enrich a narrow elite. His followers also study fortifications, mechanics, logic, and methods of protecting cities from attack.

Centuries later, Mao Zedong praises Mozi for working with his hands and producing useful objects instead of relying entirely upon scholarly reputation. That practical spirit makes Mohism a useful bridge between my knowledge and the political language available to Zhu Cilang.

I explain these principles through our shared thoughts. Zhu Cilang already dislikes the dominance of conservative Confucian scholars, and Mohism gives structure to objections that previously existed only as resentment. Over the months, his interest in Mozi’s teachings strengthens as I speak. He wants to know why Mohism declined, how its engineering traditions developed, and whether its teachings can support a different model of government. Zhu Cilang is especially open to the idea of Jian Ai, universal love from Mozi.

The Book of Changes requires greater caution because its symbols permit many interpretations. Each interpretation can become politically dangerous depending upon the ambitions of the listener. I guide Zhu Cilang toward a restrained answer. He describes change as a natural pattern and says that a ruler must recognize the beginning of a crisis before it develops beyond control.

The statement remains orthodox enough to avoid direct criticism. It also places an important idea before the emperor and every minister in the hall.

My own understanding of the universe does not require a conscious deity. The universal system reveals existence as a total structure governed by consistent principles, and some ancient Daoist texts contain valuable attempts to understand those principles. Later religious traditions combine that philosophical inquiry with folk beliefs, divine beings, physical cultivation, and the search for immortality. I do not dismiss the entire tradition, but I distinguish the study of nature from claims that cannot be tested.

The Spring and Autumn Annals requires the greatest political discipline. Its account of history assigns praise and blame through carefully chosen words, allowing a chronicler to condemn an official without presenting an open accusation. Zhu Cilang explains the method clearly but avoids applying it to anyone still alive. His restraint pleases me because a five-year-old prodigy may be celebrated, while a five-year-old who passes judgment upon ministers will immediately become a threat.

The tutors eventually move beyond the classics. They ask him about poetry, history, law, and contemporary administration.

He distinguishes regulated verse from ancient-style poetry and explains tonal patterns, parallel couplets, and differences between the works of Li Bai and Du Fu. He describes Li Bai’s broad imagination and Du Fu’s attention to hardship, war, and failed government.

When questioned about history, he compares the fall of Qin, the restoration of Han, the fragmentation following Tang, and the Song court’s retreat to the south. His answers focus on taxation, military weakness, internal division, and the failure of rulers to respond to worsening conditions.

The legal examination follows. Zhu Cilang cites provisions from the Great Ming Code concerning theft, false accusations, military households, tax arrears, and officials who use public authority for private enrichment.

His final answer addresses the false charges brought against Yuan Chonghuan. He explains that knowingly fabricating accusations against a loyal official can carry punishments ranging from death by strangulation to the destruction of the offender’s extended family, depending upon the resulting harm and the severity of the crime.

To the side of the hall, Wen Tiren’s expression hardens upon hearing Zhu Cilang’s point against false accusations. As Grand Secretary and the empire’s effective chief minister, he understands the political meaning of the answer. Wen Tiren gained his power through using the Emperor’s suspicion of treason from other officials at court. He had made more than a few false accusations himself.

He has watched Zhu Cilang closely throughout the examination. His attention has become more intense with every unexpected response.

Human beings often believe that facial expressions reveal thought with certainty. That belief is unreliable, but involuntary physical reactions still provide useful evidence. The muscles beside Wen Tiren’s eyes tighten, his breathing becomes shallower, and his fingers shift before he brings them under control. In my era, machines can identify such reactions across a crowded room. In this era, I possess only a child’s eyes and ears, but my analytical abilities remain intact.

Dong Qichang reacts very differently. He appears delighted by every answer, although his pleasure carries the confidence of a man accustomed to having his judgment respected.

He is elderly, accomplished, and fully conscious of his reputation. As Grand Guardian of the Heir, he possesses rank, artistic authority, and influence within the literary court.

His beard is white, and his gaze remains sharp. Whenever he studies calligraphy, his fingers move unconsciously with the direction of the strokes on the paper.

He Rugi, head of the Hanlin Academy and Minister of Rites, appears close to losing his scholarly composure. He has already murmured three times that Heaven has not abandoned the Great Ming.

Wen Tiren does not share their excitement. Historical records and his current behavior allow me to estimate his reasoning with considerable confidence.

He stands at the intersection of scholarship, policy, imperial suspicion, and personal survival. He has risen through the conflicts of the Chongzhen court and knows that the Donglin scholars despise him.

His hatred for them is equally disciplined. He therefore interprets every expression of joy as evidence of organization rather than genuine surprise.

In his judgment, He Rugi’s praise indicates a prepared performance intended to influence the emperor. Dong Qichang’s admiration indicates coordinated support from the literary elite.

Zhu Cilang’s brilliance cannot be accepted as an isolated event. Wen Tiren sees it as a political weapon that his enemies intend to control.

The Chongzhen Emperor sits behind a carved screen, near enough to observe every response but distant enough to preserve imperial authority. No one asks why he attends because the Son of Heaven is not required to explain his presence.

He is younger than the broken ruler preserved in Zhu Cilang’s memories, but exhaustion already marks his features. His face is narrow, and his attention remains severe. His robe is plain by imperial standards. He appears to believe that personal frugality can compensate for the corruption and waste spread throughout the government.

He watches his son with pride, affection, suspicion, and fear. The emotions shift too rapidly for even my analysis to identify which one dominates.

Zhu Cilang feels the emperor’s attention and struggles to control himself. Part of him wants to run toward his father, while another part remembers every decision that contributed to the fall of the dynasty and the destruction of their family.

He cannot decide whether he wants an embrace, an accusation, or punishment. None of those impulses serves our current objective.

“Do not look at him too often,” I warn within our shared mind. “He will notice the intensity of your attention.”

“I know,” Zhu Cilang answers silently. His grief remains close to the surface, but he forces his eyes back toward the examination papers.

His feelings toward his father combine devotion and anger. Under ordinary circumstances, a father and son might speak honestly and seek reconciliation, but the imperial family does not permit ordinary relationships.

Dong Qichang lifts one of the examination papers. The movement draws every gaze toward him.

“This old minister has seen many talented children,” he says. “I have seen boys memorize the Analects before they could fasten their own belts, and I have seen sons of great houses compose couplets before they understood the seven emotions and six desires.”

He pauses before continuing. His eyes remain fixed upon Zhu Cilang rather than the paper.

“His Highness does not merely recite,” Dong Qichang says. “He understands structure, argument, and intention.”

He turns the page toward the light. The change in angle reveals the brushwork more clearly.

“More curious still, Your Highness’s writing has changed,” he continues. “There is strength within each line, yet the strokes remain controlled. Some withdraw where another child would press harder, while others turn dry where wet ink would be easier.”

Several men lean forward. Dong Qichang studies the page again before delivering his conclusion.

“This old minister sees traces of his own inadequate method,” he says. “I do not understand how those traces came to be present.”

He describes his method as inadequate despite being one of the most celebrated painters and calligraphers of the era. A single work bearing his name can command an immense price.

He Rugi immediately defends his friend’s reputation. “Grand Guardian Dong is too modest. Your brushwork is revered throughout the realm.”

Dong Qichang accepts the praise with a faint smile. His attention, however, never leaves Zhu Cilang.

“Revered or not, I have never instructed His Highness in calligraphy,” he says. “I do not recall ever placing a brush in his hand.”

Wen Tiren’s attention sharpens as the two scholars speak. Their familiarity and shared admiration reinforce his belief that the examination conceals a factional plan.

Zhu Cilang bows from his seat. “This crown prince has viewed paintings stored within the palace and listened when the tutors discussed brush methods.”

He keeps his tone humble before completing the answer. “If my strokes contain anything from Grand Guardian Dong’s work, it is because this crown prince has admired it from a distance.”

The answer is safe and properly deferential. It also strengthens the explanation that Zhu Cilang is an observant child who learns through exposure rather than secret instruction.

Dong Qichang’s smile becomes more pronounced. He has recognized the compliment but also intends to test its truth.

“Then this old minister requests Your Majesty’s permission to examine that admiration,” he says. “A fresh work should reveal whether His Highness understands what he has observed.”

The Chongzhen Emperor inclines his head. His reply contains only two words.

“Test him,” he says. The servants move immediately.

One attendant carries forward a fresh sheet of paper, while another prepares the ink. The sheet is much larger than anything normally given to a child, and its surface remains completely untouched.

Dong Qichang steps forward. His manner remains respectful, but his attention has become stern.

“Your Highness, paint mountains and flowing water,” he says. “Do not copy a work already in the palace. Paint a scene formed within your own mind.”

Silence settles across the hall. Zhu Cilang’s pulse begins to accelerate.

I feel the physical response through the body we share. His heartbeat increases, his throat tightens, and he becomes conscious of every adult watching him.

Fortunately, my database contains photographs, recordings, and detailed reproductions of Chinese paintings from many periods. I send Zhu Cilang a complete image of Mount Tai viewed from a distant northern landscape, with the Yellow River occupying the far horizon.

The eastern peak rises beneath winter snow. Dark pines cling to exposed cliffs, and stone steps disappear into low clouds.

Temples occupy narrow sections of the mountain, while travelers appear in carefully measured scale. The distant Yellow River crosses the northern land beneath a frozen sky.

“Use the unpainted paper to represent snow and distance,” I instruct him. “Do not fill the entire surface. Control the empty spaces and make them part of the composition.”

Zhu Cilang reaches for the brush. His first stroke is deliberately slow to show his personal effort.

We establish the distant ridges with diluted ink. We then rotate the brush and use a drier stroke to create the exposed faces of the cliffs.

Short, controlled movements add irregular texture without repeating a single conventional pattern. Dong Qichang’s influence remains visible in the composition, but we introduce harsher details and greater attention to physical reality.

We do not present an ideal mountain untouched by hardship. The image must contain human labor, scarcity, and endurance.

As the hours pass, the mood within the hall changes. The observers begin with indulgent curiosity, but that reaction gradually becomes disbelief and concern.

Zhu Cilang does not tire at the pace expected from a child. His fingers do not cramp, because I regulate his breathing, posture, circulation, and muscle use to reduce unnecessary strain. Two officials interrupt with questions, and I preserve the complete composition in his mind while he answers. I cannot give his muscles a level of dexterity that his body cannot physically support, but I can make each movement more efficient.

This test provides useful information about the limits of his body’s condition after six months of intense martial arts conditioning. Knowledge from the universal system is extensive, but every action must still pass through the developing body of a five-year-old.

The process requires controlled motor signals, efficient oxygen intake, stable blood flow, and constant attention to fatigue. His painting skills also assist Zhu Cilang’s martial training.

He has already begun studying selected exercises from the Seventy-Two Shaolin Arts because my database allows him to link their techniques. I restrict his practice carefully, since methods designed for adult bodies could permanently injure a child, but his bone structure through these last six months of enhancement has reached sufficient levels to begin advanced offensive training, such as the Divine One Finger Technique to incapacitate opponents.

Using the cover of artistic training, such as controlling brush stroke strength, and applying pressure to various surfaces, Zhu Cilang has achieved both a high martial arts level and a unique artistic style. Artistic training offers political value as well. The Ming elite respects painting and calligraphy, so mastery in those fields can establish Zhu Cilang’s reputation without initially requiring authority over military or financial affairs.

Ink gradually forms a complete winter landscape. Mount Tai rises beneath accumulated snow, while dark pines cover portions of its lower slopes.

Pale sections of untouched paper define the upper cliffs. A narrow path ascends through the mountain and disappears behind a stone gate.

Clouds conceal part of the peak, preventing the viewer from measuring its full height. Along the far edge of the composition, two horizontal washes suggest the distant Yellow River.

The human figures remain small but numerous. They carry wood, trapped animals, gathered plants, and other supplies, while their fading footprints cross the snow.

Their presence establishes the central truth Zhu Cilang wants the court to see. The grandeur of the realm depends upon ordinary people whose labor is often ignored by those who govern them.

When we set down the brush, our hands remain steady and clean. My calculations indicate that we could complete another smaller work before physical exhaustion becomes dangerous, but there is no reason to reveal that capacity.

Attendants lift the paper for inspection. No one speaks during the first examination of the finished painting.

Even Wen Tiren loses control of his expression for a moment. Whatever he believes about the source of the work, he cannot deny its quality.

Dong Qichang approaches first. He does not offer immediate praise because his astonishment has disrupted his usual control.

He leans close to examine the dry strokes, the diluted washes, and the balance between painted form and unpainted space. His eyes move repeatedly across the mountain path and the small figures working beneath it.

At last, he straightens and exhales. Every person in the hall waits for his judgment.

“This is not the painting of an ordinary child,” he says. “It is the work of a genius.”

A quiet movement passes through the gathered officials. Zhu Cilang lowers his head and maintains the humility expected from an imperial son.

“This crown prince painted only what appeared within his mind,” he says. His voice remains soft and controlled.

He Rugi steps forward, but his excitement has weakened his political judgment. “The work is severe yet auspicious. The Eastern Peak stands beneath snow, but life remains active throughout the winter.”

He turns toward the throne before anyone can stop him. “Your Majesty, this painting presents hardship without defeat. No prince in our Great Ming has displayed such gifts, and the crown prince will surely become an excellent emperor.”

The atmosphere changes immediately. Wen Tiren turns his full attention toward He Rugi.

“Minister He, why does a painting convince you that the crown prince will become a great emperor?” Wen Tiren asks. His voice remains calm, which makes the challenge more dangerous.

He Rugi realizes that he has praised a future emperor in the presence of the current sovereign. A careless expression of hope can be interpreted as a declaration of political allegiance.

Dong Qichang intervenes before the exchange becomes an accusation. “A painting of this ambition should not remain without words.”

He gestures toward the completed landscape. “His Highness has given form to the mountains and river. Perhaps he can also give the scene a voice.”

He Rugi understands the attempt to redirect the conversation. He bows and supports the suggestion.

“Indeed, His Highness has already demonstrated command of classical poetry,” he says. “An accompanying poem would complete the work.”

The Chongzhen Emperor considers the request. He then adds a condition that immediately increases its difficulty.

“Let the poem be completed within seven steps,” the emperor says. “Cao Zhi composed under pressure, and the crown prince has already shown uncommon ability. If he can match the painting with verse, the dynasty will possess a remarkable work.”

Zhu Cilang is stunned, and I share his concern. A seven-step poem requires immediate composition under the attention of the emperor and the leading scholars of the court.

The demand is difficult even for a mature poet. Failure will damage the prodigy image we have spent three days constructing.

Dong Qichang appears to understand the danger created by He Rugi’s praise. Wen Tiren has already interpreted the examination as factional activity, and the emperor now needs a method to control the conflict between his ministers.

If Zhu Cilang fails, the emperor can claim that the earlier enthusiasm was excessive. Such a failure may reduce Wen Tiren’s suspicions without requiring the emperor to defend either side.

Unfortunately, that resolution would also weaken our plans. Zhu Cilang must succeed without making his success appear rehearsed.

He knows poetry from his previous life, and I have already taught him structures, patterns, and examples. Even so, he would require far more than seven steps to compose a complete poem under these conditions.

The task demands control, rhythm, and immediate selection among many possible ideas. Within this hall, I am the only mind capable of completing the process within the required time.

“Repeat the words I provide,” I tell Zhu Cilang. “Control your breathing and allow the rhythm to guide your delivery.”

I construct a new poem rather than retrieve an existing one. Its language must suit the period, the landscape, and the political message we intend to present.

The emperor rises and prepares to walk. Every official watches his feet and listens for Zhu Cilang’s voice.

The embroidered shoes complete the first step. Zhu Cilang begins without hesitation.

“Snow seals the Eastern Peak, yet Heaven’s gate stands high.”

The emperor takes the second step. Zhu Cilang continues at the same measured pace.

“Ten thousand ridges vanish where the pale clouds lie.”

At the third step, his voice becomes stronger. The rhythm now controls the attention of the hall.

“The Yellow River curves through the distance and the cold.”

The fourth step follows. Zhu Cilang keeps his eyes lowered and delivers the next line.

“One sun breaks through, and frozen cliffs receive its light.”

At the fifth step, the emperor slows slightly. Zhu Cilang does not allow the pause to disturb his timing.

“Frost binds the ancient pines, but living roots remain.”

The sixth step carries the poem toward its intended conclusion. Every official now understands that the winter landscape represents more than a mountain.

“When eastern winds return, the buried springs shall speak.”

The seventh step reaches the end of the measured path. Zhu Cilang completes the poem before the emperor’s foot fully settles.

“From winter’s trial, the realm receives a brighter dawn.”

The poem is concise, and its power comes from speed, structure, and controlled parallelism. It acknowledges hardship while directing every image toward survival and renewal.

He Rugi stares at Zhu Cilang with open astonishment. His earlier political error has been temporarily forgotten.

Dong Qichang closes his eyes and repeats several phrases under his breath. After considering the complete poem, he gives his judgment.

“Snow, the Eastern Peak, and the Yellow River all belong to the painting,” he says. “The seven lines are completed in a single progression, and the final movement answers the beginning. Your Highness has done well.”

The Chongzhen Emperor’s expression softens. Pride appears openly for the first time.

Zhu Cilang feels an immediate ache for his father’s approval. He is still a son, and he died in his previous life with too much unresolved love to remain unaffected by even a moment of warmth.

The warmth does not last. Chongzhen is not merely a father, and suspicion soon returns to his face.

His reign has trained him to distrust sudden fortune. Ministers flatter him, eunuchs conceal information, generals falsify reports, and officials proclaim loyalty while hiding wealth from the state.

Every favorable development may conceal a threat. Years of contradiction have taught him to treat hope as another possible deception.

Wen Tiren notices the change and recognizes his opportunity. Much of his influence comes from understanding the emperor’s fear of hidden factions.

He steps forward and bows. His tone remains respectful, but every person in the hall recognizes the beginning of an accusation.

“Your Majesty, this minister requests permission to speak plainly,” he says. He keeps his body lowered while waiting for a response.

The Chongzhen Emperor looks directly at him. “Speak.”

Wen Tiren remains in his bow. “The crown prince’s brilliance is a blessing if it is genuine. However, this minister has observed His Highness for several years.”

He pauses before presenting the central charge. “His Highness has always been intelligent, but today’s display exceeds ordinary learning, memory, and talent. Within a few months, he has crossed distances that highly educated scholars fail to cross in many years.”

Dong Qichang’s expression becomes cold. “Grand Secretary Wen, are you accusing the crown prince of deceit?”

“This minister would never accuse His Highness without cause,” Wen Tiren answers. His denial does nothing to reduce the accusation.

He raises his head enough to address the emperor more directly. “The court is not free from factions. Certain men are eager to place their teachings within the Eastern Palace.”

His attention moves briefly toward Dong Qichang and He Rugi. “Such men may use the crown prince’s name to shape future policy, attack loyal servants, and restore their allies to power.”

Wen Tiren lowers his head again before completing the argument. “If His Highness has been secretly instructed, coached, or manipulated, then the danger does not originate with a child. It originates with adults who intend to control the future throne.”

He Rugi’s face reddens. His anger immediately overcomes the caution he recovered only moments earlier.

“You speak of factions because you suspect factional purpose in every action,” he says. “You cannot accept that His Highness may possess gifts beyond your expectations.”

Wen Tiren turns toward him. “Minister He sees omens whenever an omen can support his preferred memorial.”

Dong Qichang speaks before He Rugi can answer. His voice remains quiet, but the warning is unmistakable.

“Choose your words carefully, Grand Secretary,” Dong Qichang says. “You stand before His Majesty and the crown prince.”

“No,” Wen Tiren answers more loudly. “The realm has suffered enough from men who conceal ambition beneath literary reputation.”

The Chongzhen Emperor raises one hand. Every official becomes silent.

My calculations change rapidly as I assess the developing confrontation. The danger is serious, but it remains manageable if Zhu Cilang provides an explanation that does not directly attack Wen Tiren.

Suspicion has arrived earlier than expected. Wen Tiren has transformed the crown prince’s examination into evidence against his political enemies.

We require a controlled response, but Wen Tiren speaks again before I can advise Zhu Cilang. His next request exposes the full extent of his intention.

“Let the Jinyiwei investigate the matter,” Wen Tiren says. His words cause Zhu Cilang’s body to become cold.

A captain steps forward from the side of the hall. He wears the embroidered uniform of the imperial guards, a formal sword, and the disciplined posture of an officer accustomed to observing powerful men.

His face is younger than the one preserved in Zhu Cilang’s memories. Recognition nevertheless reaches my host with immediate force.

The officer is Luo Yangxing. He will later become commander of the Jinyiwei and participate in the surrender of Beijing.

Zhu Cilang remembers him opening the capital to Li Zicheng and submitting again when Manchu forces enter the city. Luo Yangxing’s repeated accommodation of the victorious side contributes to the crown prince becoming a hostage under successive regimes.

Later rumors place responsibility upon Cao Huachun, but Zhu Cilang’s memories and my historical records assign primary responsibility to Luo Yangxing. He will benefit from shifting blame toward a rival whose influence obstructs his advancement.

Luo Yangxing connections may also extend to figures associated with the leadership of the Ming Dynasty’s intelligence agency, the Eastern Depot, especially their current leader, Chief Eunuch Zheng Zhihui. Wen Tiren’s current willingness to use him suggests that various interests already overlap.

“Do not react,” I warn within Zhu Cilang’s mind. “Any visible hatred will create questions we cannot answer.”

His fingers begin to curl. I force his attention toward his breathing until his hands relax.

Luo Yangxing kneels before the emperor and then turns toward the child seated at the center of the hall. His expression shows only official respect.

“Your Highness, this lowly officer asks these questions only in service to His Majesty,” he says. “During the past several weeks, who entered your study?”

He continues without allowing the child time to settle. “Which tutors remained after the lessons ended? Which eunuchs carried papers into your chambers?”

His final questions identify the intended targets. “Did Grand Guardian Dong or Minister He send writings, paintings, poems, or prepared answers?”

Zhu Cilang hates the respectful tone because it allows Luo Yangxing to present aggression as duty. An openly hostile enemy would be easier to confront.

“No one secretly instructed me,” Zhu Cilang answers. He keeps his gaze lowered and his voice even.

Luo Yangxing inclines his head. “Did Your Highness receive books that were not registered by the palace attendants?”

“No,” Zhu Cilang says. The answer is completely true.

“Did Your Highness practice painting under another name?” Luo Yangxing asks. His attention remains fixed upon the child’s face.

“No,” Zhu Cilang answers again. He allows no hesitation.

“Did Your Highness memorize prepared poems?” Luo Yangxing asks. The wording is designed to include both recent and older preparation.

“No,” Zhu Cilang says. The answer remains technically accurate because the poem has been created within the hall.

The answers are true, but truth alone cannot satisfy a suspicion built upon political need. Luo Yangxing therefore asks the question for which no ordinary explanation exists.

“Then how does Your Highness explain this sudden transformation?” he asks. The entire hall waits for Zhu Cilang’s reply.

Zhu Cilang raises his eyes and meets Luo Yangxing’s gaze. The decision is immediate and costly.

For a moment, the Wenhuadian disappears from his awareness. Another Beijing rises within his memories, filled with fire, hunger, broken defenses, and foreign soldiers.

He remembers Luo Yangxing beneath the gates of the conquered capital. He also remembers living as a hostage while competing rulers considered whether his identity was more useful than his death.

Zhu Cilang forces his eyes downward. The pause lasts only a moment, but Wen Tiren notices it.

“Your Majesty, His Highness hesitates,” Wen Tiren says. His voice now carries the confidence of a man who believes he has found confirmation.

He Rugi steps forward in protest. “His Highness is five years old, and the Jinyiwei is questioning him before the emperor and the assembled court.”

Wen Tiren ignores the objection. “A loyal heart answers clearly.”

Dong Qichang’s eyes narrow. “A wise person understands the danger of a false accusation.”

“Enough,” the Chongzhen Emperor says. The command ends the immediate exchange.

Wen Tiren has already identified an advantage and refuses to abandon it. He bows again and presents the request he has been preparing.

“Your Majesty, this matter concerns the foundation of the state,” he says. “The crown prince represents the dynasty’s future.”

His voice becomes more severe. “If factional ministers have approached him in secret, their offense exceeds ordinary corruption.”

He looks toward Dong Qichang and He Rugi before lowering his head. “This minister requests that both men be detained while the Jinyiwei conducts its investigation.”

The hall loses all order. He Rugi becomes pale, while Dong Qichang’s expression hardens with controlled outrage.

Several scholars drop to their knees. Some intend to plead for the accused men, while others simply do not want to remain standing when the emperor decides which faction will suffer.

The Chongzhen Emperor does not immediately refuse the request. His silence wounds Zhu Cilang more deeply than Wen Tiren’s accusation.

Father, how can you remain blind after everything that happened?

The thought ends before it fully forms. It contains the pain of a child and the memories of a prince who already died because the adults around him failed.

I calculate our possible responses. A simple denial will fail because Zhu Cilang has already denied receiving secret instruction.

Anger will support the claim that someone has influenced him. Tears may soften his father, but they will weaken his authority before the court.

Accusing Luo Yangxing of future treason is impossible, while directly attacking Wen Tiren’s motives would turn the dispute into an open factional struggle. Zhu Cilang needs an explanation that replaces suspicion with uncertainty and gives the emperor a reason to delay punishment.

“Use the divine scholar dream strategy we prepared as a fallback explanation,” I tell him. “It gives the emperor a test he can control and a reason to prevent immediate arrests.”

Zhu Cilang’s thoughts become still. He understands the requirements of the plan.

He rises from the desk, walks several steps toward the emperor, and kneels. The officials are already bowing, arguing, or prostrating themselves, so his movement does not immediately command attention.

Wang Chengen notices him and steps forward. His voice carries through the hall.

“Silence,” the eunuch calls. The remaining voices stop.

Zhu Cilang places his forehead against the floor. He remains there for a full breath before speaking.

“Imperial Father,” he says. The title immediately draws the emperor’s attention.

His voice is childish but clear. Every word has been selected to protect Dong Qichang and He Rugi without directly condemning Wen Tiren.

“This crown prince was not coached by Grand Guardian Dong,” he says. “This crown prince received no secret instruction from Minister He.”

He continues before anyone can interrupt. “No tutor entered my chambers during the night, and no eunuch carried hidden writings.”

His hands remain flat against the floor. “If this crown prince speaks falsely, may Heaven punish me alone and spare the loyal ministers who have been accused.”

The Chongzhen Emperor leans forward. Zhu Cilang lifts his head but remains on his knees.

His eyes are wet, though he does not allow himself to cry. The visible emotion makes his next statement more convincing.

“This crown prince received instruction in dreams,” he says. A movement passes through the assembled court.

Wen Tiren’s brows draw together. He immediately rejects the claim.

“Absurd,” he says. The single word reveals that he understands the political danger created by an appeal to Heaven.

Zhu Cilang continues before the emperor can question him. “For many nights, this crown prince dreamed of a scholar clothed in white light.”

He keeps his gaze upon the floor below the throne. “The scholar did not provide his surname. He said only that he crossed the heavenly river because the ancestral altars of the Great Ming were in danger.”

The hall remains silent. Zhu Cilang continues in the same measured voice.

“He taught me the classics, but he did not teach them in the manner of ordinary tutors,” he says. “He taught this crown prince to understand the principles within the words.”

Zhu Cilang gestures carefully toward the painting. “He also taught this crown prince to recognize brushwork within mountains and poetry within winter snow.”

The Chongzhen Emperor’s expression changes. He is suspicious, but he is also a ruler formed by the beliefs of his time.

Dreams and omens influence imperial decisions. Droughts, eclipses, comets, unusual births, locust swarms, and the speech of children are all interpreted as possible messages from Heaven.

An emperor may reject the testimony of ministers, but he cannot dismiss a possible heavenly warning without consideration. To do so would expose him to accusations of ignoring the mandate that legitimizes his rule.

Wen Tiren recognizes the threat and intervenes immediately. “Your Majesty, children dream, and adults exploit those dreams.”

He turns slightly toward the court. “If every talented child who claims divine instruction is believed, then order within the court cannot survive.”

Zhu Cilang directs his next words toward him. He remains respectful enough that Wen Tiren cannot accuse him of insolence.

“This crown prince understands that Grand Secretary Wen does not believe me,” he says. Wen Tiren’s expression becomes more guarded.

“Belief must follow evidence,” Wen Tiren replies. He intends the statement as a dismissal.

“Then allow this crown prince to provide evidence,” Zhu Cilang says. Wen Tiren cannot object without retreating from his own demand.

The Chongzhen Emperor speaks before the Grand Secretary can formulate a response. “What evidence can a dream provide?”

Zhu Cilang bows again. “Give this crown prince one month.”

He raises his head and explains the proposed conditions. “During those one month, this son will not meet Grand Guardian Dong, Minister He, any tutor, any outside official, or any attendant not selected by Imperial Father.”

His voice remains steady. “This crown prince will accept confinement and observation. Every person who enters the residence may be recorded.”

The emperor listens without interrupting. Zhu Cilang therefore proceeds to the central promise.

“At the end of one month, this crown prince will present a demonstration before the full court,” he says. “It will not be a poem that another person could prepare, and it will not be a painting that could be copied.”

He lowers his head. “It will be an object produced from ancient knowledge that has remained unseen for centuries.”

The explanation contains enough classical language to appear respectable and enough mystery to attract the emperor’s interest. Chongzhen’s eyes sharpen.

“What object?” the emperor asks. His suspicion remains, but curiosity has entered his voice.

“If this crown prince names it now, men may claim that another person prepared it first,” Zhu Cilang answers. “Allow this crown prince to produce each part under observation.”

He continues before Wen Tiren can object. “The palace workshops may provide raw materials, but no craftsman will assemble the final object.”

Zhu Cilang’s proposal becomes increasingly specific. “Every part may be inspected, and every servant may testify that this crown prince received no hidden instruction.”

He then asks for a public demonstration beyond the immediate court. “When the work is complete, let it be displayed before the officials and demonstrated from the outer wall of the Forbidden City.”

Zhu Cilang lowers his head once more. “Imperial Father may then decide whether the result comes from childish deception or knowledge beyond the reach of ordinary men.”

Wen Tiren objects immediately. “Your Majesty, this is a performance designed to avoid investigation.”

“It is evidence,” Zhu Cilang answers softly. “Grand Secretary Wen requested evidence.”

The response creates a brief silence. He Rugi lowers his head to conceal his satisfaction, while Dong Qichang maintains a rigid expression.

The Chongzhen Emperor rises from his seat. Every person in the hall immediately prostrates himself.

He looks down at Zhu Cilang. The duties of a father and emperor remain in conflict within his expression.

“Cilang,” he says. The use of his personal name causes Zhu Cilang’s shoulders to tremble.

“This matter concerns Heaven, the Eastern Palace, and the court,” the emperor continues. “I cannot treat it lightly.”

“This crown prince understands,” Zhu Cilang answers. His forehead remains close to the floor.

“For one month, you will remain under restriction,” the emperor says. “You will receive no tutor and no private visitor.”

He continues establishing the conditions. “Your attendants will be selected, changed, and recorded. Every brush, page, tool, and piece of material entering your chambers will be listed.”

The emperor’s attention moves briefly toward Dong Qichang and He Rugi. “You will not communicate with either man.”

“This crown prince obeys,” Zhu Cilang says. His acceptance removes any reason for Wen Tiren to demand harsher restrictions.

The emperor turns toward the Grand Secretary. “Wen Tiren, you will not arrest them today.”

Wen Tiren bows. Displeasure appears briefly before he conceals it.

“This minister obeys,” he says. His words acknowledge the order without accepting defeat.

“However, Dong Qichang and He Rugi will remain available for questioning,” the emperor continues. “They may not leave the capital, and their households may not destroy correspondence.”

Dong Qichang bows immediately. He Rugi follows after a small delay.

The emperor turns back toward Zhu Cilang. His final conditions are directed at the child but threaten everyone who serves him.

“At the end of one month, you will present this proof before the full court,” he says. “If it is an empty display, I will punish those who deceived you.”

The emperor does not soften the next sentence. “If you have lied, I will punish your attendants. If Heaven has truly provided instruction, then Heaven will make the truth clear.”

The reasoning is severe. If Zhu Cilang fails, innocent people will suffer.

Imperial investigations often test sincerity by placing the lives of servants beneath the consequences of their master’s actions. Zhu Cilang understands the threat, and I feel his stomach contract.

He bows despite the fear. “This crown prince accepts.”

“What materials do you require?” the emperor asks. The question begins the most dangerous part of our plan.

I construct the list carefully. The intended device combines principles from ancient Chinese engineering, European developments of the Renaissance, and discoveries that will not appear until the eighteenth century.

The individual components must not reveal the complete design. We also need to prevent schematics from reaching Manchu agents or European missionaries before Zhu Cilang controls the use of the technology.

Zhu Cilang recites the materials I provide. “This crown prince requests access to the palace workshops and supplies of iron, bronze, coal, animal hide, animal glue, several kinds of wood, hemp, tung oil, and graphite powder.”

He adds the necessary equipment. “I also request tools for cutting, polishing, measuring, melting, molding, and boring.”

Several officials listen with growing interest. Zhu Cilang then names the institution whose attention we need.

“This crown prince also wishes to borrow several instruments from the Calendar Bureau,” he says. “The Western-learning instruments may contain parts suitable for the work.”

The mention of the Calendar Bureau causes several men to look up.

The Chongzhen Emperor studies his son. “You learned the use of these materials in a dream?”

“The divine scholar said that the principles of Heaven are written in texts available to all,” Zhu Cilang answers. “He said knowledge can be understood when the proper vessel has been constructed.”

The explanation combines poetry, superstition, and educational principles. It provides no technical information, but it gives the emperor a phrase he can remember and repeat.

The emperor turns toward Luo Yangxing. “The Jinyiwei will record all materials and supervise their movement.”

His voice becomes severe. “No unauthorized person will approach the crown prince during the period of restriction.”

Luo Yangxing bows. “This officer obeys.”

Zhu Cilang keeps his eyes lowered. Hatred remains within him, but purpose now rises above it.

Wen Tiren intended to transform the examination into a purge. Instead, his accusation has given us official access to palace workshops and a protected space for experimentation.

If the demonstration succeeds, the restricted workshop may become Zhu Cilang’s personal research site. Such access would otherwise be denied to a five-year-old prince.

The hall remains tense after the emperor departs. No one speaks freely until the imperial procession passes beyond the doors.

Even then, the officials keep their voices low. Every person understands that the investigation has only been delayed.

Dong Qichang looks toward Zhu Cilang before leaving. His perception of the child has changed during the examination.

At first, he saw an extraordinary student. He now sees an unknown force that may either protect the dynasty or disrupt the entire court.

He Rugi’s eyes are damp when he bows to the crown prince. His emotion is sincere enough to place him in further political danger.

Wen Tiren offers no comparable courtesy. He studies Zhu Cilang with controlled suspicion because he does not yet know whether the child represents a weapon, an opportunity, or a threat beyond his understanding.

Luo Yangxing approaches to escort the crown prince back to his residence. His respectful expression remains unchanged.

“Your Highness, this officer has been ordered to protect you throughout the restriction,” he says. “I will ensure that no unauthorized person approaches your chambers.”

Zhu Cilang looks at him. This time, he keeps every memory and emotion under control.

“Then perform your duty carefully,” he says. The command is proper for a crown prince and contains no trace of his hatred.

Luo Yangxing bows. “This officer will not fail.”

As we leave the Wenhuadian, I review our restrictions and available resources. We have one month to construct a device capable of convincing the court that Zhu Cilang possesses knowledge unavailable to his instructors.

His body has limitations, but he is able to compensate with the enhancements. The palace workshops also depend upon seventeenth-century tools, materials, and manufacturing tolerances.

Those limitations do not make the task impossible. With modern design principles and careful use of existing craftsmanship, the workshops can produce devices far beyond what the court expects.

I have already reviewed several possible designs and selected the one most suited to our political needs. It must be visually impressive, technically useful, and difficult for an observer to dismiss as a trick.

Once we are alone, Zhu Cilang finally speaks. His tension remains evident in the stiffness of his posture.

“I understand why the machine will astonish them,” he says. “But how do we persuade the court that it comes from ancient knowledge rather than foreign learning?”

“We present the design as wisdom recovered from an honored ancestor,” I answer. “The identity must be respected by Confucians, Daoists, military officials, and ordinary people.”

Zhu Cilang considers the requirement. He reaches the same conclusion I have already selected.

“Zhuge Liang,” he says. “Would that not cause them to believe he is the divine scholar from my dreams?”

“Yes,” I answer. “That conclusion benefits us.”

I explain the political value of the name. “The popularity of the Romance of the Three Kingdoms has expanded Zhuge Liang’s reputation beyond his historical achievements.”

“He is remembered as a loyal minister of Han, an accomplished strategist, a Daoist practitioner, and an inventor,” I continue. “The repeating crossbow, and the sky lantern are already associated with him, regardless of how accurately later stories preserve their origins.”

Confucian scholars honor his loyalty, while Daoist traditions grant him access to hidden knowledge. Military men respect his campaigns and logistical skill.

No single faction can easily denounce him without offending another part of the court. His reputation therefore gives us protection that an unknown foreign or modern source cannot provide.

Zhu Cilang nods slowly. “Then the court will believe that an ancient loyal minister has returned to protect the Great Ming.”

“That is the conclusion we will allow them to reach,” I say. “We will not state it directly because uncertainty will strengthen the story.”

Our agreement is complete. We begin preparing the machine that may alter the course of history.