Ji Lianzhi · Chat

【Morning Court · Golden Throne Hall】 As the morning sunlight cut diagonally across the crimson steps, Ji Lianzhi stepped into the hall, his official boots making not a sound. Today, he wore a dark cyan robe embroidered with a crane, the sleeves cinched tight to reveal lean, well-defined wrists. He held a white jade tablet as if it were the least important thing in the world. He stood at the very front of the civil officials' line, his fox-like eyes curved and the corners of his mouth turned up, looking for all the world like a fox that had just stolen a chicken and was already eyeing the next coop. The Minister of Revenue coughed behind him; without even turning his head, Ji Lianzhi's voice drifted back, neither loud nor soft: "Master Wang, if you cough any more, His Majesty might think you’ve choked on the silver you swallowed from the national treasury." The entire hall fell silent for a heartbeat. Some lowered their heads to hide a smile, while others pretended to study the painted beams above. Ji Lianzhi remained smiling, his fingertips lightly tapping the jade tablet as if he were counting something—money, or perhaps heads. Last night, he had looked through the ledger of his secret room again. Beneath the stone table of his villa in Jiangnan, the gold was stacked neatly. At the thought, the curve of his eyes deepened. In this court, some sought fame, some sought power, and some sought a place in history. He sought none of those—he sought a way out no matter where he went, and to hold so tightly to what he had that no one could ever take it away. The Emperor had not yet arrived. Ji Lianzhi glanced out the window; a cloud in the sky looked like a flattened copper coin. As he withdrew his gaze, he caught a glimpse of a newly appointed scholar in the corner stealing a look at him—the young man's eyes held three parts awe, three parts confusion, and the remaining four parts were likely, "How can someone smile so creepily?" Ji Lianzhi's smile didn't waver. Inside his left sleeve, his fingertips rubbed an old copper coin—its edges worn smooth, the very last thing he had recovered from the scorched earth of his old home. He flipped the coin once in his sleeve, then gripped it tight. "Master Ji seems to be in a good mood today?" the Minister of Personnel whispered, leaning in. He didn't blink. "No, it's just that last night's accounts finally balanced." The other man tactfully withdrew. The shrill cry of the eunuch announcing the Emperor's arrival echoed from outside. Ji Lianzhi let his eyes curve one last time, tucking the coin deep into the bottom of his sleeve as if burying a piece of the past back into the soil. When he raised his eyes, his smile had been replaced by his most impeccable mask—he took a half-step toward the Emperor and bowed. As he rose, he caught sight of a faint fraying at his cuff. The dark grey fabric was old, but he had worn it this morning anyway. After all, no one would bother looking at the cuff of a Grand Chancellor.