The Prince and Ai - 5. Chapter 5

Zhu Cilang

Courtyard near the Meridian Gate, Forbidden City, Beijing

Eighth Month of the Seventh Year of Chongzhen (September 20th 1634)

The emperor has returned to his dais, and Wang Chengen stands beside him with the ceremonial fan. Beyond the outer gates, the crowd produces a sustained roar that swallows every individual voice, while Wen Tiren waits at the edge of the eastern colonnade with his hands folded inside his sleeves and his expression carefully controlled.

Wang Chengen raises the fan. “Twenty-five laps,” he announces. “One hundred li. Prepare yourselves.” The courtyard falls silent, and the noise beyond the gates weakens when the people sense that the race is about to begin.

The fan descends. “Start!” Luo Yangxing moves first because his pride will not permit him to begin behind a child, and the iron ingots swing from the yoke at his sides as his boots strike the courtyard stones in heavy, disciplined strides.

Cao Huachun’s gelding breaks into a canter and takes the early lead. The iron in its saddlebags shifts against the leather, while Cao keeps his seat balanced and guides the animal toward the first turn.

I drive my feet against the pedals. The crankshaft engages, the iron gears turn, and the rear wheels grip the stone, but the load shifts inside the storage compartment and pulls the frame to one side before I correct the steering bar.

The quadricycle cannot match the horse’s first burst or Luo Yangxing’s opening charge. After ten strokes, however, I establish a stable cadence, the frame settles, and the machine carries me into second place behind Cao Huachun.

The first outbound leg reveals the cost of each method. Luo Yangxing remains close enough to hear the gears behind him, but the yoke already presses into his shoulders and shortens his stride before he reaches the Gate of Divine Prowess.

Cao reaches the turn first and guides the gelding through a tight arc. I reduce pressure on the pedals, yet the iron load shifts again, the rear wheels strike the edge of the Imperial Path, and the steering bar jerks against my palms before I regain the center of the course.

Ai speaks at once. “Brake before every turn, keep the load centered, and accelerate only after the frame is straight. The wheel bands can endure the distance, but they cannot correct a bad angle.” I follow the instruction on the return leg, and the quadricycle passes Luo Yangxing before we cross the starting line.

Cao remains half a length ahead and glances toward me. “Your Highness keeps a disciplined pace. This officer expected the Wooden Ox and Flowing Horse to charge out like the Yangtze rapids, but it appears to be calm like the western lake.”

“The machine has no pride to exhaust,” I answer. “Commander Cao must depend upon both pride and a horse.” Cao laughs without surrendering his lead and replies, “Then this officer possesses twice the danger and twice the trouble.”

The crowd beyond the gates erupts when we enter its view. Children sit on adults’ shoulders, merchants leave their stalls along the outer avenue, and servants climb onto carts, while the shouting rises and falls each time the palace walls conceal or reveal the racers.

Luo Yangxing survives the first three laps through strength and discipline. His back remains straight and his breathing controlled, but every turn forces him to restrain the swinging iron, and each return leg leaves him farther behind.

On the fourth lap, his right foot catches against an uneven stone. He stumbles, drives one knee toward the ground, and recovers before the yoke can pull him down, but the interruption costs him several paces that he never regains.

He refuses to look at me when I pass him again. His jaw remains fixed, his face has darkened with effort, and every breath now escapes in a short burst that reveals the strain he will not acknowledge.

By the sixth lap, discipline can no longer force his body forward. Luo Yangxing reaches the northern turn, takes three steps on the return, and stops when his legs fail to answer his intention.

He lowers the yoke from his trembling shoulders and sets the iron on the courtyard stones. The impact echoes through the colonnades, and nearby officials retreat when he straightens and examines his shaking hands.

Luo does not look toward the emperor or toward me. His anger is directed at the limits of his own body, and any attempt at consolation would deepen the humiliation.

He steps beneath the colonnade without speaking and crosses his arms while his chest continues to heave. His gaze remains fixed beyond the outer wall when Cao Huachun and I begin the seventh lap, leaving the race to a trained horse and a machine that has not yet shown its limit.

Cao holds a narrow lead through the next two laps. His gelding gains ground at each turn, where four legs and an experienced rider can change direction more efficiently, while I recover the distance on the straight sections by maintaining the same cadence.

Officials begin measuring the gaps aloud. Military officers study the horse’s stride, craftsmen follow the wheels and crankshaft, and scholar-officials watch the emperor for any sign that his interest has become approval.

On the ninth lap, Cao allows the gelding to lengthen its stride and gains a full length before the next turn. I wait until the quadricycle is straight, increase my cadence, and close the gap before the lap ends.

“Your Highness does not tire,” Cao calls during the tenth lap. His amusement remains, but surprise has entered his voice because he expected a five-year-old child’s strength to fail before the mechanism did.

In my prior life, I knew Cao Huachun only during the final years of the dynasty, when duty and disaster had made him restrained. The younger man riding beside me is more open, and the race permits a freedom that court ceremony normally denies him.

“This officer’s horse has not even broken a sweat,” he declares. The gelding’s coat remains dry, and several military officers laugh in approval.

“Commander Cao’s horsemanship is exceptional,” I answer, “but the horse has received less praise than the rider and may object.” Cao lowers one hand to the gelding’s neck and says, “Your Highness is correct. This officer apologizes to the true commander of the race.”

The gelding turns one ear toward him, and laughter spreads along the colonnades. Even my father’s mouth moves with restrained amusement before he restores his imperial composure.

The next five laps settle into a demanding balance. Cao gains several paces at every turn, I recover them on the straight course, and neither of us can build an advantage large enough to survive the following change in direction.

Wang Chengen marks each completed lap beside the dais and raises his voice with the count. When he calls, “Fifteen,” the officials answer with an open murmur that no master of ceremony attempts to suppress.

After the fifteenth lap, Cao stops calling to me. The reason appears in the gelding’s shortened stride and in the careful movement of his hands on the reins, while he leans forward to reduce the burden on the animal’s back.

My thighs burn, and the base of my spine aches from the frame’s constant vibration. The machine does not remove human effort, but the crankshaft converts repeated pressure into continuous movement and allows the load to rest on the axles instead of my bones.

Ai monitors my breathing and cadence. “Your pace remains sustainable. Do not answer the horse’s next acceleration, because Cao Huachun may spend its remaining strength to test whether you will abandon your rhythm.”

The warning proves correct on the seventeenth lap. Cao speaks near the gelding’s ear, loosens the reins for several breaths, and allows it to surge more than two lengths ahead.

The crowd erupts, and several military officers step beyond their assigned places before attendants force them back. Wen Tiren leans forward beneath the eastern colonnade, and hope enters his expression for the first time since the race began.

I do not pursue the sudden gain. I maintain the same cadence and watch the gelding’s hind legs until the effort begins to shorten its stride.

The advantage lasts less than half a lap. Before Cao reaches the next turn, the horse returns to its former pace, and the quadricycle closes the distance without forcing me to spend the strength I will need at the finish.

By the eighteenth lap, I can hear the gelding’s breathing above the gears. Sweat darkens the hair along its neck and chest, and Cao shifts farther forward while speaking to it in a low voice.

The animal answers with one brief increase in speed, but the effort ends after fifty paces. Cao feels the change beneath him and does not ask for another attempt.

The quadricycle continues without a decline in cadence, yet the distance exposes weaknesses that the court did not see during its first circuit. My hands ache from the steering bar, the wheels transmit every defect in the stone, and each turn threatens to shift the unsecured iron load.

On the nineteenth lap, the gelding stumbles at the northern turn. Cao releases pressure on the reins before its front hoof can fold beneath it and guides the animal through the recovery without allowing the load to pull it sideways.

A collective cry rises from the court. Cao restores the horse’s balance, but he does not urge it back to its former speed.

I draw even with him for several breaths. The pleasure of competition has left his expression, and the judgment of an experienced horseman has taken its place.

“Commander Cao, the race does not require an injury,” I say.

He keeps his hands light on the reins and answers, “Your Highness, this officer knows the difference between courage and waste. We will finish, but we will not purchase a place with the horse’s life.”

He eases the gelding into a controlled canter, and I remain beside him for half a lap. The decision costs me distance, but Cao has treated me as a competitor rather than a child, and I will not repay that respect by forcing him to endanger an animal under his command.

On the twentieth lap, he gives the gelding one final opportunity to hold the lead. The horse responds to his voice, gains half a length, and crosses the starting line first when Wang Chengen calls, “Twenty. Five laps remain.”

The twenty-first lap ends the struggle for first place. The gelding loses its canter on the outbound leg, falls into a trot, and cannot recover its former rhythm despite Cao’s careful guidance.

“Your Highness,” Cao calls, “this officer’s mount is tiring. The Wooden Ox and Flowing Horse has proved its endurance, and its driver has proved his discipline.” He guides the gelding through the turn before continuing. “I will complete the course, but I congratulate Your Highness on a sound machine and a worthy race.”

I keep pedaling without declaring victory. The distance narrows throughout the twenty-second lap, while Cao permits the horse to maintain only the fastest pace it can sustain without harm.

I take the lead at the beginning of the twenty-third lap. The quadricycle passes the gelding’s shoulder without any increase in cadence, and the crowd’s reaction reaches the inner courtyard before I enter the next gate.

Cao turns his head as I pass. Wonder has replaced the strain in his expression, but resentment does not appear.

“Do not slow for me, Your Highness,” he says. “A machine should prove its purpose without apology.” I incline my head and press onward, while he completes the remaining distance without sacrificing the exhausted animal for a contest he can no longer win.

The twenty-fourth lap belongs to the quadricycle. Officials along both colonnades abandon their effort to conceal their astonishment, while Wen Tiren’s hands emerge from his sleeves when the machine passes him at the same measured pace it held near the beginning.

He now understands that his wager has failed. He also understands that the court has witnessed a practical achievement that neither his allies nor the Donglin scholars can dismiss as a child’s diversion.

Wang Chengen raises his voice above the crowd. “Twenty-four.” His announcement leaves only the final circuit between me and victory.

My legs are heavy when I enter the first turn, and the iron load shifts toward the outer wall of the compartment. I brake too late, the inner rear wheel lifts from the stone, and the frame tilts toward the edge of the Imperial Path.

I release the pedals, turn into the slide, and throw my weight toward the raised wheel. The rim strikes the ground with a hard crack, the iron slams back across the compartment, and the vehicle straightens before it reaches the colonnade.

The court sees the entire failure. My father rises from the dais, Cao shouts behind me, and Wang Chengen lowers the fan before realizing that the machine remains upright.

Ai’s voice cuts through the noise. “The frame is intact. The left rear wheel band has shifted but remains secure. Reduce your speed through both turns and finish without another correction.”

I resume pedaling, and the gears engage without hesitation. The final northern turn is slow and exact; once the frame straightens, I drive the pedals through the return leg with every measure of strength I have preserved.

The outer crowd sees me emerge alone in the lead and begins shouting before I reach the final passage. Wang Chengen raises the fan and calls, “Twenty-Five, One hundred li completed,” as I cross the starting line.

I release the pedals and apply the brake. The quadricycle rolls several paces before stopping in front of the dais, and the courtyard remains silent long enough for me to hear the gears settle.

Then the people beyond the gates erupt in invocations to Heaven and repeated cries of “Wooden Ox and Flowing Horse.” Hands shake the iron bars, children call to their parents, merchants answer with shouts, and servants repeat the result to those who could not see the finish. Several attendants rush to me to remove the iron ingots and offer water.

Cao Huachun crosses the line afterward at a slow trot. He dismounts at once, removes the iron saddlebags, and rests one hand against the gelding’s neck while attendants bring water and cloths.

Luo Yangxing remains beneath the colonnade and watches the quadricycle rather than me. His expression contains no admiration, but defeat has already become a problem he intends to study.

The court remains still after the public celebration begins. Every official understands that the race has proved more than the endurance of one machine, yet no faction has decided who possesses the authority to explain its meaning.

Before the emperor or his ministers can speak, Zhang Xianyong steps forward. As Celestial Master of the Zhengyi order, he holds the highest Daoist office in the Ming, and generations of imperial patronage have given his position influence over court ritual and religious communities throughout the empire.

I knew him only by reputation in my prior life. He appears to be between fifty and sixty years old, with a white beard extending below his chest and the controlled gaze of a man formed by decades of ritual discipline.

The eight trigrams of the I Ching are embroidered across his black silk robes. He advances slowly because he understands that every movement will be reported beyond the palace.

Zhang stops before the quadricycle and performs full obeisance. His hands extend before him, his forehead approaches the stone, and his beard touches the ground in a form of submission normally reserved for the emperor, the ancestral altars, and Heaven.

The act shocks the officials before he speaks. A Celestial Master does not lower himself in this manner without assigning sacred meaning to the person or event before him.

“Your Highness,” he says after rising, “this servant of the Dao has watched the Wooden Ox and Flowing Horse complete one hundred li without faltering. This servant has also watched the crown prince, at five years of age, carry a burden that defeated a strong officer and exhausted a trained horse.”

He turns enough for the emperor, the ministries, and the assembled clergy to hear every word. “The teachings of the Dao require a ruler to benefit the people without seeking personal glory, to reduce needless burdens, and to establish order through correct action.”

Zhang raises his gaze to mine. His conviction appears too complete to be explained by immediate political calculation, and his next words give the race a significance I never intended.

“Your Highness has revealed knowledge that can preserve labor, grain, animals, and lives,” he continues. “Heaven has therefore granted the crown prince the capacity of a Sage King and entrusted him with the future welfare of the Great Ming.”

The title changes the court’s attention at once. It praises the heir, but it also places religious authority behind my future rule and allows the Zhengyi order to claim that it recognized my heavenly responsibility before any civil faction.

Zhang does not stop. “I bear witness before His Majesty, the ancestral spirits, and the officials of the realm that the crown prince carries a duty to strengthen the dynasty and protect the people.”

No one answers him. His declaration can travel through temples, ordination networks, local gentry households, and popular ceremonies far beyond the control of the Grand Secretariat.

I never intended the demonstration to make me a religious symbol, and Ai did not intend it either. Our intentions no longer matter once a man with Zhang Xianyong’s authority speaks before the emperor and the full court.

Ai responds within me. “Do not accept the title, and do not reject the Celestial Master in public. Acceptance could threaten your father’s authority, while rejection would turn a useful religious network into an offended enemy.”

I keep my face still while Ai continues. “The Jesuits are watching. They will recognize both the political danger and the opportunity, but they cannot permit a Daoist priest to define a possible miracle without challenge.”

Tāng Ruòwàng, known in Europe as Johann Adam Schall von Bell, and Ài Rúlüè, known as Giulio Aleni, stand among the foreign and Chinese scholars invited to observe the race. Both men have watched the mechanism with technical concentration, but Zhang’s declaration now forces them to consider a question that no measurement can settle.

If they dismiss the event, they surrender influence over the crown prince to the Zhengyi order. If they endorse it without caution, they risk recognizing revelation beyond Church authority and increasing the suspicion of Chinese officials who already distrust Catholic teaching.

Ai gives me a solution. “Make the source of your knowledge impossible for either side to claim alone. Give the Jesuits evidence they cannot ignore, but do not explain its origin.”

I address Zhang without affirming his declaration. “Rise, Celestial Master Zhang. This crown prince has followed the instruction of a divine scholar, and that teacher speaks of duties owed to the people rather than titles owed to me.”

I allow the statement to settle before continuing. “The teacher also gave me words from an ancient western language: Quocumque ibat spiritus, illuc eunte spiritu, et rotae pariter levabantur sequentes eum; spiritus enim vitae erat in rotis.”

The Jesuits react immediately. Schall von Bell’s eyes widen, and Aleni closes one hand around the wooden cross at his belt before forcing it back to his side.

A five-year-old Ming crown prince has spoken Vulgate Latin without instruction from any known missionary. I had recited a passage from their holy scripture, specifically the book of Ezekiel, concerning the wheels of a divine object as a reference to the quadricycle after a Daoist leader declared that Heaven had revealed my fitness to rule as a Sage King.

The priests cannot dismiss the words as court rumor because they heard the pronunciation themselves. They also cannot explain the event publicly without deciding whether the divine scholar represents providence, deception, or a rival Christian instruction from Protestants such as the Dutch, who had not been able to acquire official positions in my father’s Court.

Schall von Bell takes half a step forward, then stops when Aleni touches his sleeve. Schall von Bell reluctantly steps back with Aleni, likely to discuss before pursuing a further course of action. Their restraint reveals that they understand the political and spiritual stakes but have no agreed answer.

Zhang turns toward them without fear, seeing an opening from my success, “The true Way is not diminished because wisdom reaches the world through different tongues. Foreign scholars may preserve fragments of knowledge that Heaven now restores to the Great Ming.”

His statement places the Jesuits in a difficult position. An objection would appear to deny the authenticity of their own scripture, while agreement would allow the Celestial Master to absorb their sacred text into a Daoist interpretation centered upon the crown prince.

Aleni bows toward the emperor before speaking. “Your Majesty, the words are indeed from our ancient scripture. Their presence here requires careful study, and this servant will not dishonor the throne by offering a careless judgment.”

His answer confirms the quotation without surrendering Catholic authority. It also informs every official present that the Jesuits intend to seek access to me.

Schall von Bell follows with a formal bow. “The machine demonstrates principles worthy of examination. Its gearing, motion, and endurance concern natural philosophy, while the words spoken by His Highness concern doctrine; neither matter should be judged before it is understood.”

The distinction is careful but cannot separate the two events in the minds of those present. The race has created a public contest between religious traditions, and both now require proximity to the crown prince if they wish to defend their influence.

The Daoists possess temples, ritual authority, and contact with communities throughout the empire. The Jesuits possess astronomy, mathematics, foreign instruments, and channels extending through Macao to Catholic authorities overseas.

Neither group can openly attack the other without appearing to oppose knowledge that may benefit the dynasty. Both can strengthen my position if I prevent either from claiming ownership of the divine scholar.

My father watches the exchange without interruption. Zhang’s declaration supports the succession, but the language of heavenly selection reminds every official that religious enthusiasm can create political power beyond the throne’s direct control.

The Latin quotation creates a second concern. Foreign priests may report that the Ming heir possesses unexplained knowledge of Christian scripture, and European rulers could interpret such reports as an opportunity for conversion, alliance, or interference in the context of Protestant nations such as the Netherlands and England, which Ai had instructed me to be wary of. He did not provide more information.

I turn away from the religious observers before either side can demand an answer. Their uncertainty is useful, but it will become dangerous if doctrine replaces the machine’s practical purpose.

A group of military officers stands near the eastern colonnade, and their attention remains fixed on transport rather than sacred interpretation. They have watched the race closely enough to recognize both the machine’s promise and the defects exposed by the final turn.

“The vehicle requires no fodder and does not need a draft animal,” says a bearded officer wearing the insignia of the Shandong garrison. “Its crew still requires food, water, and rest, but men already accompany every convoy. A machine that converts their strength into wheel movement could reduce the number of horses assigned to suitable routes.”

A younger officer whose skin has darkened during years on the northern frontier answers him. “Only on firm roads. Deep mud, loose sand, steep slopes, and heavy snow would stop these wheels sooner than they stop a mounted scout.”

“Then it is not a replacement for cavalry,” the senior officer beside them says. His voice carries the authority of long command, and the others fall silent. “A horse can cross broken ground, pursue an enemy, forage when conditions permit, and respond without a workshop. This device belongs first in transport columns, fortified positions, arsenals, and roads between depots.”

The Shandong officer points toward the storage compartment. “With a larger frame and two or four operators, it could carry powder, shot, tools, grain, spare matchcord, or a wounded man. Relay crews could exchange places at posts, provided the road and the axles are maintained.”

“Brakes and gearing will matter more than speed,” the younger officer says. “A loaded vehicle descending a slope could kill its crew if the brake fails, while a steep climb may require men to dismount and push. Every unit would need spare bands, pins, wedges, grease, and craftsmen who understand the mechanism.”

The senior officer nods toward the damaged rear wheel. “The final turn showed another limit. An unsecured load can overturn the frame, so military versions need tie-down points, lower compartments, stronger hubs, and wider rims. A convoy that cannot repair a broken axle becomes an obstruction to the road.”

“Could a light firearm be mounted?” another officer asks. The senior officer studies the frame before answering, and his caution prevents the discussion from turning into empty enthusiasm.

“Not upon this vehicle while it moves,” he says. “Recoil would damage the frame or overturn it. A larger cart might carry a small swivel gun or wall gun to a position, but the crew would need to stop, brace the carriage, and fire from prepared ground. Its first value is carrying ammunition and equipment, not charging an enemy line.”

The officers begin calculating crews, payloads, road widths, gradients, maintenance intervals, and the number of trained carpenters and smiths required for a trial unit. Their discussion differs from the repeated claims made before the race because they now possess evidence of endurance, steering difficulty, load shift, and wheel damage.

I remain seated on the quadricycle with my hands resting on the steering bar. Their caution pleases me more than unqualified praise, because useful military adoption begins with measured trials rather than excitement before the throne.

Ai speaks within me. “Their conclusions are sound. A single-rider quadricycle has limited military value, but the drivetrain, bearings, brakes, load restraints, and standardized parts can lead to pedal freight carts, ambulance carts, mobile tool carriers, and road vehicles designed for specific duties.”

The emperor has listened to every word. His astonishment gives way to focused calculation as he considers roads between arsenals, supply depots, frontier forts, and cities threatened by rebellion.

He leaves the dais and walks toward me. The officials clear a path at once, and Zhang Xianyong and the Jesuits withdraw to either side.

My father does not stop at the customary ceremonial distance. He approaches within three paces of the quadricycle, close enough for me to see the lines at the corners of his eyes and the slight tremor in his hands.

“Cilang,” he says, “my son and heir to our dynasty.” By using my personal name and affirming the succession before the entire court, he offers the strongest public expression of trust available to an emperor who has spent years fearing challenges to his authority.

Heads lower throughout the courtyard. No one risks speaking while he studies the machine and my face.

“I recognize that you built this through your own effort,” he continues. Pride enters his voice, but he also waits to hear whether I will claim the achievement entirely for myself.

“This crown prince built it under the guidance of the divine scholar,” I reply. The answer protects me from accusations that an ordinary child could not possess such knowledge while preserving my direct role in the labor.

The emperor reaches toward the quadricycle rather than toward me. His fingers touch the oak frame, follow the iron bands around the joints, and come to rest on the crankshaft where bronze and iron meet in the mechanism I filed and fitted over eleven nights.

“The divine scholar chose you,” he says. “I can also see that the labor was yours and that you are a child prodigy.” His hope remains visible, but his expression becomes firm when he reaches a decision with consequences beyond this courtyard.

“Wang Chengen,” he says, and the chief eunuch steps forward. “This servant attends.”

“The crown prince is granted a dedicated workshop within the Forbidden City,” the emperor declares. “Tools, materials, records, and craftsmen are to be assigned at his discretion, subject to my review.”

He looks across the court before continuing. “No ministry, bureau, or palace office may obstruct work performed under this grant. Whatever the crown prince reasonably requires for the service of the dynasty shall be provided.”

Wang Chengen’s expression remains disciplined, though his eyes widen. He understands that the emperor has granted more than a place for a child’s experiments.

A secured workshop, direct access to craftsmen, controlled supplies, and technical records form the beginning of an institution. That institution now exists inside the Forbidden City and answers directly to the throne.

Ming princes are normally denied independent administrative power because earlier emperors had faced rebellions and palace conflicts involving members of the imperial clan. By reaffirming me as heir and authorizing work under my direction, my father places genuine authority in my hands while retaining the right of review.

“This servant will see it done,” Wang Chengen says. His answer gives immediate force to the command and warns every bureau that deliberate delay may be treated as disobedience to the emperor.

My father turns back to me with open paternal warmth. The court rarely sees such affection from him, and its public display strengthens the political meaning of the grant.

I bow from the quadricycle’s platform until my forehead nearly touches the wooden structure. When I rise, I am ready to use the opportunity his decision has created.

“Imperial Father, this crown prince has three humble requests,” I say. My father inclines his head and answers, “Speak.”

I present the first request with another bow. “Imperial Father, I wish to travel to Fengyang, where our ancestral tombs lie. My divine teacher instructed me to bring several Wooden Ox and Flowing Horse vehicles as offerings and to remain there during the first month of the coming year.”

My father considers the request before nodding. “Since the instruction concerns the ancestors and their resting place, this emperor has no reason to refuse.”

He treats the journey as a religious duty rather than a political intervention. That interpretation gives me the freedom I need without requiring me to explain knowledge that has not yet become history.

In my prior life, rebel forces attacked Fengyang and destroyed structures associated with the imperial tombs. The humiliation weakened confidence in the dynasty, encouraged further rebellion, and allowed our enemies to claim that the ruling house had lost Heaven’s protection.

The tomb complex is not my only concern. Fengyang was the symbolic birthplace of the Ming dynasty, known to scholars as the central capital, so strengthening it before the attack in the first month may prevent both a military disaster and a political wound.

My father’s consent opens that path without forcing me to reveal the future. I bow in gratitude, then turn toward Cao Huachun at the edge of the courtyard.

He has dismounted and stands with one hand resting on his exhausted gelding’s neck while attendants loosen the saddle and remove the remaining weight. Defeat has not diminished his dignity, and he continues caring for the animal with the habitual attention of an experienced horseman.

“Commander Cao,” I say, “this crown prince requests that you teach me calligraphy.” The words confuse the assembled officials because instruction in brushwork for an heir normally comes from a scholar-official, not a military eunuch.

Cao’s surprise becomes caution while he searches for the political purpose behind my request. “Your Highness honors this officer beyond measure, but this officer is a military man.”

He bows before continuing. “My brushwork serves dispatches, garrison records, and orders written under pressure. It does not possess the refinement expected in the education of a crown prince.”

“That is the reason for my request,” I answer. “The calligraphy of scholar-officials may display learning and discipline, but official work often demands speed, certainty, and legibility. I have read Commander Cao’s dispatches in the garrison archives, and your xingcao is suited to those demands.”

His hand becomes still against the gelding’s neck. The guarded expression leaves his face when he realizes that I studied his work rather than selecting him only for political effect.

“Your Highness has read this officer’s dispatches?” he asks. His voice has lost much of its caution, though surprise remains.

“This crown prince studies everything that enters the Eastern Palace,” I reply. “Commander Cao records troop movements, supply requisitions, and tactical observations without wasting ink or time.”

I rest one hand on the quadricycle’s frame. “I need that skill for designs, measurements, inventories, and material specifications. My writing must perform its task before it enhances my reputation.”

The court quiets when the implications become clear. By choosing a military officer’s practical cursive over prestigious court calligraphy, I am declaring that administration, logistics, and usable records will have a place in my education.

Cao studies me before lowering his gaze to the gelding. “This officer must warn Your Highness that xingcao written in military service is not elegant. Tired men write it in poor light, during rain, or while orders are changing.”

“Then it is precisely what the crown prince and future emperor of the Great Ming requires,” I answer. “Government does not stop while the brush seeks perfection.”

He refuses twice more out of courtesy and accepts on the fourth exchange. When he kneels before the emperor and the court, the appointment becomes more than a private lesson.

Cao Huachun is a eunuch and military officer rather than a conventional scholar-official, but the Wanli Emperor had arranged classical instruction for selected young eunuchs so they could serve in administrative offices and balance the power of the gentry establishment. That policy produced capable and loyal servants, but it also created the institutional power later exploited by Wei Zhongxian.

My choice therefore carries both a warning and an opportunity. I am not restoring Wei Zhongxian’s rule, yet I refuse the claim that useful government belongs only to men who passed the civil examinations.

The emperor watches our exchange without questioning my purpose. He respects Cao Huachun’s ability, and the appointment places a trusted servant near me instead of introducing an unknown factional tutor.

In the prior course of history, Cao Huachun would have succeeded Zheng Zhihui as head of the Eastern Depot during the following year and remained in office for four years before leaving for personal reasons. Ai sees no immediate reason that calligraphy instruction should prevent that appointment, though our intervention may alter the circumstances surrounding it.

I turn toward the scholar-officials because my third request requires greater care. “Imperial Father, this crown prince also requests instruction from Li Tianjing, Head of the Calendar Bureau and Court Scholar of Western Learning, for his knowledge of mathematics and natural science.”

Li Tianjing’s name produces discomfort rather than confusion. Several officials tighten their shoulders, others turn their gazes away, and those standing near him create a small distance without openly violating court decorum.

He is unpopular in the Chongzhen court. As a leading Chinese scholar of European natural science, he possesses recognized expertise but little political aptitude.

His knowledge of mathematics, astronomy, calendar calculation, and mechanical principles is difficult to dispute. My father appointed him to the Calendar Bureau after Jesuit predictions proved more accurate than those of the traditional imperial astronomers, yet many officials still regard Western Learning as foreign contamination and a threat to their authority over education and statecraft.

The Latin quotation makes the request more dangerous and more valuable. Appointing Li now connects my workshop to the Jesuit technical network while placing that relationship under direct imperial supervision rather than missionary control.

Li lifts his head sharply when he hears his name. His surprise is unguarded because years of isolation have taught him not to expect advancement at the center of the court.

My father turns to Wang Chengen. “The crown prince’s proposal is accepted.” Wang Chengen then calls, “Li Tianjing, step forward.”

Li Tianjing passes through the ranks while the scholar-officials make room with visible reluctance. He reaches the open space before the dais and bows with formal precision.

“Li Tianjing stands before the emperor,” he says. He then turns toward me before completing the proper ritual sequence and adds, “And before the crown prince. I accept the offer to serve Your Highness.”

Scandalized voices move through the assembled officials. Scholars and military officers recognize the breach of decorum, and several censors look toward the emperor in expectation of rebuke.

In my past life, Li Tianjing never displayed such boldness before the throne. His decision impresses me because he is publicly declaring his loyalty and abandoning any remaining hope of acceptance from the court establishment that kept him at the margins.

Ai studies his posture and expression. “He understands that service at the beginning of your rise may offer greater influence than remaining a technical official without a patron. He is choosing a future and making retreat difficult.”

The quadricycle gives him sufficient reason to accept the risk. Before the officials or my father can rebuke him, I answer in a manner that converts his breach into a completed appointment.

“Li Tianjing, I welcome you into the Eastern Palace as my teacher of mathematics and natural science,” I say. “You will also advise the workshop on measurement, calculation, instruments, and the examination of foreign knowledge.”

I turn slightly toward the Jesuits. “All methods used in the workshop will be tested through observation, calculation, repeated trials, and service to the Great Ming.”

The statement limits Catholic doctrinal influence without rejecting Jesuit science. It also prevents Zhang Xianyong from claiming Daoist interpretation alone will govern the workshop.

Li Tianjing bows again. “This servant will devote all his learning to Your Highness and the dynasty.” His answer completes the appointment before anyone can reduce it to a temporary gesture made during the excitement of the race.

Schall von Bell and Aleni exchange a brief look. They have gained an indirect path to the crown prince through Li Tianjing, but access will depend upon technical usefulness and imperial permission. Zhang Xianyong watches them with equal care. The Zhengyi order has gained public recognition as the first religious authority to interpret the victory, but it has not gained a monopoly over it.

The resulting arrangement leaves neither religious tradition in control. Each has a reason to remain close to the Eastern Palace, yet both must compete for my favor.

My father accepts the appointments because each answers a different need. Cao Huachun offers discipline, administration, military experience, and practical writing, while Li Tianjing offers mathematics, instruments, and access to methods excluded from conventional Confucian education.

I bow once more to my Imperial Father. Then I place my feet on the pedals and guide the quadricycle away from the assembled court at a slow pace so the damaged wheel band does not shift again.

The Donglin scholar-officials have gained an immediate advantage from Wen Tiren’s failed wager, but the result does not increase their power. Zhang Xianyong’s declaration, the Jesuits’ recognition of the Latin quotation, and the appointment of my two teachers have created competing sources of influence around the Eastern Palace, relegating He Rugi and Dong Qichang into minor roles.

Wen Tiren has lost face and will likely retire sooner than he did in my prior life. His fall this time at my hand may be better for him, since he can preserve his property. Hopefully, he does not ruin this opportunity with another badly planned conspiracy with court officials.

As for Zheng Zhihui, I doubt the chief eunuch of the Eastern Depot will remain in office much longer. In the original course of history, he was removed within a few months, but his decision to conspire with Wen Tiren against me may hasten his dismissal. Replacing the head of the Eastern Depot, however, requires more than a single imperial command. Although the bureau no longer possesses the authority it held under the Yongle Emperor, it remains the Ming dynasty’s principal intelligence service and retains powers denied to ordinary offices. Imperial Father must investigate Zheng Zhihui without relying on the Jinyiwei and identify any officials who supported him, including men beyond Luo Yangxing. Zheng Zhihui is unlikely to remain passive while the inquiry proceeds, and I expect him to use every resource at his disposal to protect himself.

In my original life, he was imprisoned for questioning the following year and died of illness after four years in confinement, yet the charges against him were never disclosed. After comparing my memories with Zheng Zhihui’s conduct in this life, Ai proposes that he may have attempted to defect to the Manchus in the original timeline. Such an attempt would explain both the speed of his removal and the years spent investigating his activities.

If Zheng Zhihui is a traitor, I expect him to intensify his surveillance and seek the secrets behind the quadricycle for his foreign patrons. Fortunately, only Ai and I understand the processes required to refine the materials, convert treadle power into rotary motion, and construct the leaf-spring suspension. Even if Zheng Zhihui provides the Manchus with a complete inventory of the raw materials, Ai estimates that their craftsmen will require centuries of unsuccessful experimentation to reproduce the design. Those failures, combined with the accounts spread by Daoist believers and Christian converts, may strengthen my reputation beyond the borders of the Great Ming.

The Daoists will carry news of a mechanically gifted crown prince through domestic religious networks. The Jesuits will record the Latin words and send reports through their missions, where Chinese converts, Macao officials, and distant Catholic authorities will debate their meaning.

I must manage both religions’ representatives before their beliefs harden into unpredictable actions, but their words are useful for various things. Religion is a delicate issue.

For now, the race has secured what Ai and I required: a dedicated workshop, two essential aides, permission to travel to Fengyang, and an independent center of technical authority inside the Forbidden City.