Lü Chengcheng watched with his own eyes as the Empress pulled out a seedling, mistaking it for a weed. The Emperor planted it back for her—then got glared at by the Empress, so he pulled it back out. Then got glared at again—and planted it back once more, for reasons unknown.
Heavens above!
Lü Chengcheng truly wanted to cry out to the sky.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to go!
It should have been: the Empress accidentally pulled out a seedling as a weed, and the Emperor picked it up, explained to her that it wasn’t a weed, cautioned her to pay more attention to agriculture so she could be a true mother of the people—and the Empress, remorseful, humbly accepted his guidance, and together they reverently and lovingly replanted the seedling. What a perfect anecdote for the history books!
It would have shown both how harmoniously they treated each other and how approachable and caring the Emperor was!
What are you two doing now?!
How could the Empress make the Emperor stand in the sunniest spot?
How could the Empress glare at His Majesty so many times?
Your Majesty—she glares at you and you just go along with her?!
At an occasion like this, every word and action is recorded by the historiographers. How could such things be written down!
What humiliation! Your Majesty!
Are you trying to drive this old minister mad?
Can’t you even pretend? What kind of spell has she cast on you?
Lü Chengcheng couldn’t bear it. He looked away.
He was trying to protect His Majesty’s authority—but the Emperor was throwing his own dignity to the ground.
“Lord Lü, are you unwell?” Li Ji stepped forward with concern, asking from behind.
He thought to himself: Lord Lü was old, a civil official, frail—being out in the sun in the fields must be hard on him.
Lü Chengcheng was the closest to the couple besides the historiographers. He dared not let anyone else see this scene and ruin Yu Lingxin’s hard-won reputation. He shook his head repeatedly and blocked Li Ji from coming closer: “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
Jiang Nong wanted to learn a little of everything—and it happened that Yu Lingxin knew how. What was supposed to be a symbolic spring plowing turned into the two of them actually working a patch of land. They didn’t stop, and the ministers accompanying them didn’t dare stop either. Only when Jiang Nong finally looked back and saw the panting ministers did she call it quits.
The historiographers had been worried there wouldn’t be anything worth recording—now they could go all out. With a flourish of their brushes, they painted the imperial couple as unmatched paragons, praising their personal involvement in agriculture, noting how much they had cultivated in the first year of Chongning—more than all previous rulers combined—and even implying they had gained real insights.
Lü Chengcheng straightened his aching old back, panting. He thought: His Majesty must still have things well in hand—using this to gain a reputation for virtue. If word spreads, the common folk will surely weep with gratitude.
He looked up, gazing at Yu Lingxin with relief. His Majesty still has energy to spare—it must be the Empress who grew tired and called a halt. Just as I thought—without her here, His Majesty could have done even more.
Then he saw the Empress gesture to a palace maid. Before long, the maid approached him with a bowl of water: “My lord, Her Highness saw that you were exhausted and sent this servant to bring you water. She also asked how you are faring.”
So it wasn’t the Empress who was exhausted—it was her noticing his exhaustion that had brought things to an end.
Lü Chengcheng’s heart sank. He accepted the bowl and said: “Thank Her Highness for her concern.”
The Empress was certainly magnanimous—it was just a pity His Majesty listened to her too much. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been unworthy of being called a virtuous empress.
The civil officials were drenched in sweat, the drops hitting the ground like split peas. They gathered in a circle under a tree as a group of farmers approached, bearing last year’s crops.
The farmers presented wheat, rice, millet, soybeans, and some dried fruits from the previous year—jujubes, pears, apricots—setting them before the imperial couple.
Jiang Nong looked at the farmers’ clearly coarse clothing—yet their skin was fair and smooth. She could tell the Minister of Agriculture hadn’t even bothered to make it convincing. These people had never worked a day in the fields.
There was a famous story from earlier times about a farmer who, through his answers during the spring plowing, pleased the emperor so much that he was granted a title. Meeting the Son of Heaven could be a once-in-a-lifetime chance to leap to greatness. Such opportunities naturally never fell to ordinary farmers without money or influence. Their voices never reached the emperor’s ears.
“Get some different people,” Jiang Nong instructed the Minister of Agriculture.
She hoped they understood her meaning. It was better that she spoke—if Yu Lingxin were the one to open his mouth, it would mean someone’s life was on the line.
This had always been the arrangement. The minister assumed the Empress simply found these people unsatisfactory and went to fetch another group.
Still the same—soft hands without calluses, able to speak eloquently and confidently in front of nobility.
Jiang Nong frowned and told them to bring another batch.
The minister grew displeased. The accompanying officials were also dissatisfied. The weather was hot, everyone was baking under the sun—and the Empress, though a princess from Xi, was still an empress and should know her place. His Majesty hadn’t spoken yet—why was she taking the lead, giving orders once, twice, three times? Replacing people over and over—what exactly was she trying to do?
The Minister of Agriculture glanced up—but when he saw that Yu Lingxin gave no reaction, he complied and brought yet another group.
Every group was the same.
Jiang Nong stopped speaking. She picked up a jujube and quietly tasted it.
Yu Lingxin turned to look at the minister, his eyes carrying a smile that didn’t reach them, his tone unhurried and unreadable: “These are the people you found? Truly well done. I must reward you.”
The Minister of Agriculture, unfamiliar with Yu Lingxin’s temperament, took it as praise. He bowed with a face full of smiles: “Your servant dare not—this is merely my duty.”
“Let me think of what to reward you with…” Yu Lingxin tapped his brow, as if suddenly inspired, “How about a new residence?”
The minister beamed and was about to kneel in thanks—when he heard Yu Lingxin continue: “The new residence will be in the Supreme Court prison. You may choose whichever cell you like—consider it my special favor.”
The minister’s face went white as ash, his smile frozen, his kneeling motion halted mid-action.
Golden Guards stepped forward to drag him away. He cried out: “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! What crime have I committed?”
“I despise deception above all. The Empress gave you two chances, yet you showed no regard for them. Take your explanations to the Supreme Court—let’s see how much bribery you’ve accumulated over the years.” Yu Lingxin spoke slowly, as if not particularly angry—this matter wasn’t even worth his anger. With a few casual words, the man was taken away.
The rest of the ministers, sensing the shift, trembled and bowed their heads, not daring to speak.
The fake farmers’ faces also turned pale. They dropped to their knees, trembling all over.
What had been a harmless, tolerated practice in the past was no longer acceptable under this emperor. He was a man who couldn’t tolerate even a grain of sand in his eye.
The Empress had spoken earlier—she had given them room to correct themselves. Once the Emperor opened his mouth, it was final.
It turned out the imperial couple was of one mind.
And they were right to think so—they’d been blind. Without His Majesty’s tacit approval, how could the Empress have repeatedly demanded new people?
Those civil officials who had once knelt before Xuan Shi Hall and witnessed Yu Lingxin’s disposal of Situ Ming were forcibly reminded of that night. The Empress had stepped forward and pleaded for Situ Ming.
Though His Majesty had granted her request, Situ Ming—a veteran of the court—had chosen death to protect his clan.
The position of Grand Commandant remained vacant. His Majesty had taken control of all military and political affairs—clearly he had no intention of delegating power downward.
But it seemed this emperor only suppressed his ministers’ power—not the Empress’s.
Lü Chengcheng nearly choked.
Your Majesty! She is a woman from Xi!
Those not of our kind are bound to have different intentions!
I truly cannot understand you now. Are your feelings and love so important that you’d cast aside the great cause of the realm?
Again—why do you always let the Empress speak in front of so many ministers? Why do you openly and implicitly tell them that her will is yours—that she can even influence your decisions?
The fake farmers were also taken away.
This year’s spring plowing ceremony had fallen into complete disarray—likely to end in a sorry mess. The ministers waited for the order to return to the palace. But Yu Lingxin told them to stand by, then set out with Jiang Nong and a small guard escort.
He was clearly determined to find real farmers.
How could anyone be so stubborn? Just doing whatever comes to mind?
The Censor knelt and admonished first: “Your Majesty! You are the Son of Heaven—your person is priceless. This is too dangerous—you must not go!”
The rest followed, kneeling and begging him not to proceed.
Yu Lingxin swept his gaze over them and asked calmly: “Are you truly worried for my safety—or afraid of what I might find?”
Son of Heaven? Priceless person?
When he was a hostage in Xi, no one called him the Son of Heaven. He hadn’t changed—only his title. Did his flesh and blood suddenly become precious? How ridiculous.
Hearing this, none of the officials dared to advise further.
In their positions, who had clean hands? Though none had directly plundered the people, their misdeeds would surely drag others down with them.
They silently prayed the Empress would intervene. They shot her pleading glances—but she looked away as if she hadn’t seen.
The guard escorted the carriage away, moving through rural estates, gradually leaving the cordoned-off area behind.
The farther they went, the livelier it became. Farmers were working in the fields, instinctively turning to watch the carriage pass through the ridges.
Six horses with golden frontlets and bronze vermillion-embossed bits, silver-inlaid jade cruppers, gleaming lacquered shafts, and bronze bells chiming crisply—paired with the swift Langzhong Guard—left no doubt that nobility was passing. The farmers were both awed and envious.
A weaving peasant woman, headscarf wrapped, sat by her window tucking a stray lock of hair. Hearing the commotion outside, she sent her child to see what was happening.
Before long, the child came running back, jumping and shouting: “Mother, Mother! It’s the Son of Heaven! The Son of Heaven has come to our village!”
“Nonsense, child!” The woman was startled and moved to cover his mouth—but he dodged deftly. “Really, really! They asked who’s the poorest here, then headed toward Aunt Zhou’s house.”
The woman wiped her hands, grabbed her child, and ran toward the Zhou household. The shabby straw hut was already surrounded by a crowd of curious onlookers, held back by the guards.
Through the crowd, she caught a glimpse of a figure in pale green descending slowly from the carriage—a fleeting silhouette, graceful as a celestial maiden.
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