Jiang Nong woke up in a daze. She rubbed her eyes, stretched her arms, and it took her a moment to realize where she was—she’d clearly fallen asleep in the side hall with the Empress Dowager last night.
She patted Yu Lingxin’s face and asked: “How did I get back?”
Yu Lingxin wasn’t fully awake yet, cradling his warm, soft prize. He nuzzled against her: “Don’t know. Maybe you sleepwalked back on your own.”
“Nonsense—I’ve never sleepwalked.”
“Then how would I know? It’s not like I carried you over in the middle of the night, is it?” Yu Lingxin understood human nature well—stating the truth in a teasing tone would automatically clear him of suspicion.
He sounded so certain and self-righteous that Jiang Nong actually began to wonder if she’d sleepwalked. Should she ask the imperial physician for some medicine?
The Empress Dowager had been awake for a while. It was her first time in Xuan Shi Hall—knowing this was Nongnong’s home, she wasn’t too nervous. Rong Mian gave her some pastries, and she shared them with the attendants around her. No one dared to take any—except Rong Mian, who helped herself and ate several pieces with her.
Xunliang told her to stop—hadn’t she already had morning tea in the corridor? Why was she still eating?
Rong Mian, thinking he wanted some too, handed him a piece.
During breakfast, word came that Marquis Chengen had confessed.
When the Supreme Court had interrogated the young nobles yesterday, the matter hadn’t seemed serious. But the Wen boy had a rabbit’s heart—in his terror, he’d blurted out things he shouldn’t have, exposing some hidden connections to the land consolidation issue. His account was vague—clearly he didn’t know the full story. Marquis Chengen had been strung up the moment he entered the Supreme Court. After a night of interrogation, three pages of confession were produced. Along with trivial offenses, the main focus was the land issue.
Some wealthy households and large estate owners in Fengye had already been executed. But those who remained weren’t all innocent either.
These wealthy families had household servants—some bound by irrevocable contracts. The rich and powerful would register land under these servants’ names to evade the Capital Magistrate’s scrutiny. They’d long anticipated that excessive land-grabbing would eventually be investigated—hence this strategy.
After all, hereditary household servants were different from hired ones: their lives and deaths belonged to the master’s house, their property was the master’s property. They couldn’t run—they were themselves part of the master’s assets.
The dynasty didn’t prohibit servants from managing private property, and the Capital Magistrate wouldn’t specifically investigate which servant belonged to which household—or to whom the land in their name truly belonged.
Ingenious. Where there were policies, there were countermeasures.
Yu Lingxin waved his hand and dismissed them.
As the Supreme Court officers were leaving, he called them back: “Oh—and I did promise the Wen family an official post as an act of grace.”
Jiang Nong sensed it wouldn’t be a good post. She quietly sipped her porridge.
Sweet. Who secretly put sugar in my bowl?
“After they’re castrated, send them to the imperial mausoleum—to serve as officials before the late emperor’s tomb. Marquis Chengen failed to discipline his son—send him along too.”
Jiang Nong choked on her porridge, coughing into her hand. Yu Lingxin patted her back: “What’s the rush?”
“Cough, cough—eunuchs count as an imperial favor?”
“Are eunuchs not officials?”
Jiang Nong coughed so hard she couldn’t speak. She gave him a thumbs-up in admiration.
She’d never met anyone as shameless and word-twisting as Yu Lingxin.
Imperial favor? What kind? Eunuch.
Family reunion? Where? In the underworld.
New residence? Where? In the Supreme Court prison.
How could one say such wicked things?
Xunliang, long accustomed, praised: “Your Majesty is wise. Father and son of one blood—fitting and complete. Since they received their titles by the late emperor’s grace, serving loyally before his tomb is only right.”
The Censorate officials were all fined six months’ salary for dereliction of duty—for failing to supervise and allowing the powerful to run rampant.
Yu Lingxin’s praise might not be real, but his punishments certainly were.
By now, they should have figured out his style. Yu Lingxin didn’t need flattering ministers. Lay out the facts honestly, and he’d decide accordingly. If you tried to second-guess him, pander, or deceive—you’d suffer the consequences.
If even the Wen family got no leniency, why would anyone else?
Shen Chunlou was appointed Agricultural Commandant. Three days later, he set out for Fujing to pilot the land tax reform. Yu Lingxin tossed him Marquis Chengen’s confession: “Servant registrations are also recorded in the Household Bureau. Work with them to collect land taxes per household.”
Shen Chunlou was sharp—he understood Yu Lingxin’s meaning immediately. He accepted the order and left.
There was a simpler solution: simply rule that those in servitude couldn’t own land. That would resolve things easily—and it wasn’t beyond Yu Lingxin to do.
But Jiang Nong felt that people sold into servitude, driven by others, their very lives controlled by their masters—they were already powerless. To forbid them from owning property seemed inhumane.
Some servants saved silver for years precisely to buy land and housing, so they’d have security in old age. With prices rising daily, their savings might buy less and less—land was a better investment.
The old tax system was uniform—one flat rate of one-thirteenth per mu. The new reform was initially drafted as: per household, combining all land owned by master and servants. Below ten mu—tax exempt; ten to fifty mu—one-twelfth; fifty to one hundred mu—one-tenth; and so on. Above one thousand mu, the rate reached eight-tenths.
Meaning if you owned over a thousand mu, eighty percent of the harvest had to be handed over. The more land you had, the higher the tax rate—until all crops were effectively state property, meaning you worked the land for the state for free.
This curbed the wealthy’s land consolidation, narrowed the wealth gap, and eased the burden on poor peasants. In short: squeeze the rich.
Those with money paid more tax; those without paid less. It would actually collect more revenue than before.
There was another benefit: in rural areas, clans often lived together—one household could have over a dozen people. Now, to avoid taxes, they’d be forced to split early, dividing their land. Breaking up households would also weaken clan power.
The pilot would inevitably face setbacks. Three months later, Shen Chunlou submitted his memorial.
There were wealthy households and powerful clans who pressured their slaves not to purchase land—so they could preserve more land quotas for themselves. While strict laws could temporarily curb this, in the long run, there were still underlying risks.
He mentioned it in passing. Though he hoped the emperor and his ministers might actually come up with a solution, he knew it was unlikely. In the traditional view of the powerful, slaves were slaves—no longer considered human. No one had ever cared about a slave’s life or death, let alone such a minor matter as whether slaves could own land.
Slaves’ lives were in their masters’ hands—they were a group that could not stir up trouble.
Jiang Nong’s impression of Shen Chunlou improved.
Most officials wouldn’t have reported such a matter.
Yu Lingxin summoned the ministers to discuss countermeasures. In truth, most didn’t see what there was to discuss. When pressed for solutions, they offered only superficial remedies.
The newly appointed scholars, however—young and fearless—spoke more boldly. One even suggested that when household slaves reached old age, their masters should purchase three mu of land for their care.
The intention was good—but in reality, those slaves would likely never live to see old age.
Yu Lingxin asked Jiang Nong. She said it would be ideal to abolish the lower-status register entirely.
He asked Shen Chunlou for his thoughts. Shen Chunlou was bold enough to suggest piloting the abolition of slave registries altogether.
Their views happened to align.
One person had no reservations with Yu Lingxin—nothing was off-limits. The other was indifferent to life and death, and preferred to speak honestly.
Aside from Jiang Nong, the entire court opposed Shen Chunlou’s idea. Memorials of protest piled up on Yu Lingxin’s desk, one after another—fearing he might actually agree to this absurd proposal. Some even demanded Shen Chunlou be punished.
At the root of it all, slavery had existed for a thousand years, deeply ingrained in people’s minds—even slaves themselves upheld the system. It underpinned the stability of every feudal dynasty. Reckless change would invite unknown chaos.
Why take such risks for the sake of a lowly register?
Too many memorials for Yu Lingxin to read—Jiang Nong had to help him. Every single one opposed Shen Chunlou.
Yu Lingxin tossed Shen Chunlou’s memorial to her as well.
“If your views align with his, approve it. I’ll hold back the court for you.”
Jiang Nong pointed at herself in disbelief. Reading memorials was one thing—deciding something this monumental was another.
Her throat tightened. Her heart raced. Her head spun. For the first time, she tasted the weight of such power—terrifying, like standing on a cliff in the wind, yet intoxicating. Her actions could determine the course of a nation, the fate of millions.
She thought Yu Lingxin was joking—but his expression said otherwise.
He handed her his official seal.
You’re serious!
Yu Lingxin leaned back in his chair, lifting his eyelids to glance at her lazily: “Why the disbelief? Would I get money out of tricking you?”
“What if it fails?”
“It’s just a pilot. If it fails, we stop.”
He said it so casually—as if the kingdom were a plaything he could let her try anything with.
As idealistic as Jiang Nong was, she knew she had to be cautious. A pilot could be halted, but constantly changing policies undermined authority.
Rushing it would invite too many obstacles—just look at the ministers’ opposition.
She turned the seal in her hands a few times, then said: “I have another idea. Since the root problem is the low status and disenfranchisement of the lower register, we could find ways to elevate their standing—not openly, but subtly. That way, no one would raise too much objection.”
Yu Lingxin propped his forehead on his hand and raised an eyebrow at her: “What do you mean? Change the laws? Even bolder than Shen Chunlou.”
Jiang Nong pinched a small distance between her thumb and forefinger, laying out her thoughts: “Add a little. Hereditary household servants and those bound by irrevocable contracts cannot be sold or killed at will—such actions must be reported to the authorities and judged by them. Violators shall be punished by flogging. Additionally, repeal the law forbidding slaves from accusing their masters.”
Once slaves could accuse their masters, the powerful would have to think twice.
Not no reform—but structured reform. Gentle reform. Step-by-step reform.
Add a little today. Remove a little tomorrow. Each day would be a little better than yesterday.
Yu Lingxin didn’t hesitate. He dipped a brush in vermillion ink and handed it to her: “Then approve it.”
“My handwriting doesn’t look like yours.”
Yu Lingxin drew the brush back, smiling: “Then what would you like? Write with my hand over yours.”
Jiang Nong thought that was a good idea. She leaned in from behind, wrapping her arms around him, holding his hand. But Yu Lingxin was too tall, his hands much larger than hers—she couldn’t grip properly. Her nails even scratched the back of his hand, leaving faint red marks. After barely writing two strokes, she let go awkwardly: “Never mind—you write. I’ll dictate.”
Yu Lingxin was dissatisfied—though he didn’t know why. Instead, he pressed the brush into her hand and covered it with his: “Then I’ll hold yours and write.”
Jiang Nong wondered: why did they have to write together? Couldn’t she just tell him what to write?
But before she could say anything, Yu Lingxin leaned over from behind, enveloping her.
His hands were long and cold, his palm large enough to completely cover Jiang Nong’s. He bent down, bracing himself on the desk, cradling her from behind. From the back, she was completely hidden by him—like one person. His breath brushed past her ear. Stroke by stroke, Jiang Nong’s own strength carried through—yet the characters came out in Yu Lingxin’s forceful hand.
It was both hers and his. The golden-red ink seemed almost tender and lingering.
For Yu Lingxin, power was the ultimate freedom—not just to control others’ fates, but his own, unshackled by anyone.
The wish Jiang Nong had written for the New Year was freedom. He didn’t know what her freedom meant—or how to give it to her—so he could only share his own freedom with her.
Leave a Reply