Chapter 52: Reciting the Manuscript
In the rooms of the Marquis of Wenyuan’s residence, Chu Yu clutched Han Min’s waist tightly, dragging him to the bamboo couch.
Wen Yan propped himself up with his hands, his eyes slightly red, glancing at him.
Han Min wasn’t afraid of Chu Yu hitting him; he was afraid of Wen Yan crying.
Even though Wen Yan had only cried in front of him once.
But when Wen Yan cried, he looked pitiful, stubborn yet restrained.
Han Min stopped struggling and timidly looked at him, cautiously coaxing: “Don’t cry.”
Wen Yan said nothing, only glancing at Chu Yu.
Seeing this, Han Min pursed his lips, swallowing the words of surrender he had prepared.
Could these two be scheming against him together?
He felt he hadn’t made any mistakes these past few days—there shouldn’t have been any flaws to discover.
Han Min calmed himself and asked again: “What’s wrong with you? Don’t cry. What did I do wrong to upset you? Speak, please.”
Wen Yan’s expression darkened as he exchanged a glance with Chu Yu.
Pretending, still pretending.
Chu Yu tossed Han Min over. Although Wen Yan had a broken leg, his hands were still strong, gripping Han Min’s arms tightly.
Han Min increasingly suspected they were scheming. He settled his mind and, turning to Wen Yan, feigned crying: “Bianzhang, it hurts so much, boohoo…”
Wen Yan held his hands and guided him to sit on the bamboo couch, giving him a glance, and said lightly: “It’s fine, you’ve been in fights since childhood.”
Han Min sniffled miserably: “I was young back then, I’ve been imprisoned in the heavenly prison. My body is weak, boohoo…”
“If you’re innocent, I’ll help rub it later.”
Han Min met his gaze, too afraid to ask, “What if I’m not innocent?”
He didn’t ask, and Wen Yan continued: “If you’re not innocent, I’ll twist your hand over, then back again, then twist it again, and back again.”
A certain young master Wen, with red eyes, looking pitiful, about to dislocate someone’s arm.
Han Min dared not move, not even make a sound.
Wen Yan chuckled lightly and whispered in his ear: “Look over there, who’s that?”
Han Min followed his gaze.
Chu Yu had already walked to a bamboo screen at the side, which had wooden wheels at the bottom.
Seeing Han Min look, he pushed it aside, folding the screen, revealing the person sitting behind reading—
It was Xie Yan.
Xie Yan held a book, glanced at Han Min, and smiled at him.
Han Min froze.
Xie Yan knew he was the “Pine Smoke Ink Guest.” They had met in the backyard of the Baishi Bookstore. But Xie Yan wasn’t one to talk much, and Han Min had specifically asked him and Mr. Ge to keep it secret.
“Eh? No way? Xie Yan, you…”
Before Han Min could ask, Chu Yu closed the screen.
Chu Yu stepped forward, patting his cheek: “Little Min Min, confess and be lenient, resist and face strictness. Reform early and start anew.”
Han Min calmed himself internally again. On recalling, Xie Yan hadn’t said a word just now; he only shook his head slightly, perhaps saying nothing at all. And Chu Yu and Wen Yan’s words had been vague.
They were still tricking him.
He resolved firmly: I won’t admit it no matter what.
Chu Yu pinched his face: “Still not speaking?”
Han Min’s eyes reddened instantly, voice breaking: “Xie Yan, why are you here too? What are you doing? Are you teaming up to bully me?”
Sensing Chu Yu loosening his grip and Wen Yan easing his hold, Han Min blinked hard, trying to hold back tears.
“You won’t even tell me what I did wrong! How would I know? I’ve done so many bad things. When I first left the palace, I even ate one of Chu Zhuoshi’s pastries, then split another in two to pretend I didn’t eat any.”
Wen Yan and Chu Yu exchanged a glance.
They tried to calm him: “Don’t cry, this…”
After a moment, Han Min began sniffling dramatically: “You didn’t say anything, locked the door as soon as you came in, pinned me down, anyone would think I was being punished. I was so scared, my heart… ah, my chest hurts…”
The two were startled and quickly released him.
Wen Yan patted his back; Chu Yu patted his chest.
“All right, all right, it’s okay, it’s our fault.”
Covered by his sleeve, Han Min hiccupped like crying, yet it sounded almost like laughing.
He really was smirking—if the manuscripts he wrote that afternoon hadn’t slipped from his sleeve, he would have laughed last.
The papers fell to the floor. Han Min twitched, before he could pick them up, Chu Yu bent quickly and took the manuscripts first.
He unfolded the papers.
Han Min nervously moved aside, thinking that if they started fighting, should he protect his head for plotting the story or his hand that wrote the manuscript?
Chu Yu just glanced and knew.
He handed the manuscripts to Wen Yan, who also looked through them.
Now it was certain.
At Zui Xian Residence that day, Han Min had said the “Pine Smoke Ink Guest” was a little rascal. The two had discussed and thought something seemed off.
Han Min had previously scolded the Duke of Gong with such rich vocabulary; how could “Pine Smoke Ink Guest” just be a little rascal?
So they began to suspect Han Min.
The descriptions Wen Yan speculated about the “Pine Smoke Ink Guest” matched Han Min. The writing style and sentence construction in the manuscripts also resembled Han Min’s work.
Yet in later tests, Han Min never slipped up.
Yesterday at Jianguo Temple, Chu Yu had gone to see Xie Yan.
They knew if Han Min was Pine Smoke Ink Guest, Xie Yan would definitely know.
But Xie Yan was loyal and didn’t reveal it.
Today, they set a trap. Chu Yu brought Xie Yan early, didn’t ask him anything, just let him sit and read, to make Han Min think he had spoken.
Xie Yan shook his head subtly, Han Min was clever, turning the tables with a dramatic complaint.
Finally, seeing him so pitiful, Chu Yu and Wen Yan hesitated.
If not for the manuscripts, they would already be consoling Han Min.
The two looked slightly angry, four eyes glaring at him.
Han Min moved aside, holding his chest like a damsel, whispering: “Ah, my chest hurts again.”
Chu Yu patted his chest, snorting: “Yes, your conscience should hurt. Who knew you were such an actor? I should recommend you to the theater.”
He sat beside Han Min, draping his arm over him: “Come on, Han Min, if you have grievances with me or Bianzhang, say them now. We’re all here; no need to write manuscripts, just speak.”
Han Min weakly shrank aside, shaking his head: “No grievances, no grievances.”
The two sat on the bamboo couch, their backs to Wen Yan.
Suddenly, Han Min was tapped on the back.
He turned; Wen Yan coldly said: “Why involve me in your jokes with His Majesty?”
After saying this, he tapped Han Min’s shoulder again, supporting his injured leg, and turned inward, resting on his arm, ignoring him.
Han Min blinked, then looked at Chu Yu, pointing at Wen Yan.
— I’ll soothe him first. I wrote four volumes about him; I only wrote one one you. He’s angrier about that.
Chu Yu generously understood, but wouldn’t forgive later.
Han Min kicked off his shoes, climbed onto the bamboo couch, nestled behind Wen Yan, hugged him, and softened his tone: “Bianzhang, Yan Yan—”
He didn’t say anything else, just kept calling him in different ways until he responded.
Xie Yan, behind the screen, scoffed, unconvinced.
But Han Min called about ten times; probably annoyed, Wen Yan finally said coldly: “I’m not dead, why are you calling?”
Han Min shook him: “Come on, Bianzhang, don’t talk about life and death.”
Wen Yan glanced at him: “I said I’m dead, not you. What does it matter to you?”
Han Min shook him: “I worry so much about you. Naturally, it’s my concern.”
He held Wen Yan’s hand, tilting aside: “Ah, I’m dead.”
Wen Yan didn’t move; Han Min grabbed his hand weakly: “Touch me, I’m almost cold.”
Wen Yan withdrew, pushing him away: “If you’re dying, stay far away.”
Han Min moved a bit, pitiful: “Far enough?”
“Further.”
“Oh, like this?”
“Further.”
“Okay.”
Each time Wen Yan said “further,” Han Min moved back, stepping off the couch, retreating one step at a time until the door.
Leaning against the door, Han Min fiddled with the lock: “Bianzhang, the door’s locked, I can’t back up.”
After a pause, Wen Yan said calmly: “I want tea.”
“Understood.”
Han Min poured tea, holding the cup with both hands, offering it to Wen Yan.
“So thirsty after all that ‘further’ talk, right? Hungry? Want something to eat? I’ll ask Chu Zhuoshi to get it.”
Chu Yu gritted his teeth: “Han Min, I’m a victim too.”
Han Min said: “Then I’ll ask Xie Yan to get it. What do you two want? Sweet or savory?”
By now, Xie Yan had put down his book, pushed the screen aside, and seriously observed Han Min, trying to secretly learn a trick or two.
Turns out he was right; acting cute really works.
And Han Min was so good at it; this could calm any storm.
Wen Yan drank half a bowl of tea, pushed Han Min’s hands away, and, finally composed, began interrogating: “Kneel. Why did you write this? Was it fun?”
Han Min knelt on the bamboo couch, scratching his head awkwardly: “No… just for money.”
The two glanced at each other, clearly not expecting that reason.
Chu Yu’s family was rich; money was never a concern. Wen Yan—
“His Majesty didn’t give you money?”
“Huh?” Han Min blinked, then realized: “Oh, if you mean the record officer’s stipend…”
“No, before you were a record officer, in Tongzhou, he didn’t give you silver?”
Han Min remembered: “He did. Last time I went to Liuzhou, he slipped me three silver notes.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else.”
Actually, Fu Xun had secretly given him a stack of silver, but Han Min hadn’t discovered it yet.
Wen Yan was shocked, asking again: “He didn’t give you money? Leaving you alone to take care of a family in Tongzhou?”
He always thought Fu Xun liked Han Min. Liked him so much he would defy the late emperor, even burn down the Duke of Gong’s residence for him. That’s why Wen Yan hadn’t liked Han Min at first, feeling he held Fu Xun back. Later, their bond deepened, and he realized Han Min wasn’t a “demon concubine” type, so he let it go.
But Han Min said, in Tongzhou, Fu Xun only gave him three silver notes.
And during the Liuzhou earthquake, Han Min had raised money himself for dozens of carts of grain and medicine.
Tch, that’s a bit much!
Wen Yan’s expression changed, holding Han Min’s hand: “Stop kneeling, come sit beside me.”
Han Min didn’t know how Wen Yan’s mood had changed, but seeing him calm down, he relaxed, leaning against the same pillow.
Wen Yan asked: “So you wrote the manuscripts to earn money alone?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Two years. But don’t worry, previously they were all sequels. I only wrote these few volumes of….”
Wen Yan’s family was poor; he understood completely, hugging him and caressing his face: “Enough to live on?”
Han Min leaned into him: “Still… okay. Actually, His Majesty has been very good to me, he…”
A loud cough interrupted him.
Chu Yu signaled Wen Yan: too soft-hearted too quickly.
Wen Yan realized, pushed him away, holding his shoulders, continuing: “Even if the death sentence is waived, I ask again: why write about me and Zhuoshi?”
“You started in Tongzhou. I thought… you and His Majesty…”
Ten-plus years as ruler and minister, a perfect match.
Not daring to speak that out loud, Han Min explained softly: “You are his top scholar; I thought it fit… so I started the first volume. Later, realizing few wrote this subject, I…”
His voice grew smaller, finally burying his head in Wen Yan’s lap.
Wen Yan, always hard-mouthed but soft-hearted, calmed down and patted his hair.
Chu Yu, however, grabbed his shoulder, pulling him: “What about me? I’m no top scholar. Did I provoke you?”
“Zhuoshi, you perform plays in free time, you understand these better than Bianzhang.” Han Min sincerely met his gaze. “Don’t you think a charming, witty record officer and a decisive emperor make a good match?”
Chu Yu angrily: “Match my foot!”
Someone whispered in agreement: “I don’t think so either.”
That was Xie Yan.
Chu Yu remembered him: “None of your business now, you can leave.”
Xie Yan went to the door, mimicking Han Min earlier, fiddling with the lock: “Zhuoshi, the door’s locked, I can’t leave.”
Chu Yu frowned: “How old are you, how old is Min-Min? He hasn’t even come of age; look at your youthful temples. Copy him?”
Xie Yan choked; Han Min didn’t tell him—flirting requires age.
But it was a bit much, so Han Min nudged him with his elbow as a reminder.
“Xie Yan, don’t bother, go back to reading.”
Chu Yu turned to Han Min: “I’m not defending you. I’m not as lenient as Bianzhang. Today, if you don’t clarify the manuscript business, you can’t leave.”
“You really don’t think His Majesty and the Record Officer…”
“Don’t think so,” Chu Yu snorted. “I only know you sold me out for money.”
Han Min tried to explain: “I always thought literature and reality should be separate. There was a story ‘The White Ape,’ saying Ouyang Xiu was the son of a white ape; Ouyang Xiu didn’t get angry.”
“You still have reason? I’m not as magnanimous as Ouyang, okay?”
“Then I’ll apologize, don’t be mad.”
Chu Yu: “Never write Third-Ranked Scholar again.”
Han Min hesitated: “I’ve written halfway; stopping suddenly isn’t good.”
Chu Yu thought: “Limit it to one volume, then write others.”
“Write about whom?”
“You figure.”
His question left Wen Yan and Xie Yan looking at Han Min.
Wen Yan: “If you dare write about the censor again, no amount of coaxing will work.”
“I know.”
Xie Yan: “I’m not familiar with him, never met him.”
“I know.”
Both quickly distanced themselves. Han Min scratched his chin: “I’ll think carefully…”
He couldn’t think. Chu Yu helped: “Write about yourself.”
Han Min: “Huh?”
Mimicking Han Min’s earlier questioning style, Chu Yu said: “You write manuscripts, you should know best. Don’t you think a charming record officer and a decisive emperor are more compatible?”
He dug a hole for himself.
Han Min shook his head: “Don’t think so.”
“I think they’re perfect. Right, Bianzhang?”
Chu Yu pushed him aside, sitting closer to Wen Yan.
Wen Yan smiled after thinking: “More compatible than us two.”
“More than compatible, a perfect match. When I was record officer, His Majesty never let me eat. You even have midnight snacks in the palace—strange, right?”
“And you and His Majesty have known each other since childhood…”
Han Min: “But that was fighting.”
Chu Yu laughed, his hands moving: “Fighting, yes, but after fighting, you reconcile. Ups and downs, back and forth, in the struggle you find your heart deeply attached, unable to extricate.”
He reminded Han Min: “We’re explaining the writing outline of His Majesty and the Record Officer, write it down.”
Han Min pounded the couch: “I won’t write this!”
“You don’t have to. You don’t, Bianzhang and I will. You wrote a few volumes, we’ll write the same number.”
“I won’t write.” He thought, then glared, “Don’t tell Fu Xun.”
Chu Yu laughed: “You make demands?”
Han Min softened: “Don’t tell him.”
“Why not? You two don’t get along? Tell him, let’s annoy him. You annoyed us.”
“Don’t tell him.”
“Later. Such fun, how can we not tell His Majesty?”
They laughed at each other. Han Min, furious, dragged his shoes and went to Xie Yan.
Xie Yan looked helpless—he could have let it slide, but Han Min had the manuscripts. Caught red-handed. How could he help?
Han Min sat beside him, silent.
Angry.
They sat quietly for a while.
On the bamboo couch, Chu Yu and Wen Yan exchanged a glance, looking at Han Min.
They teased him too much, he seemed a bit angry.
Who knows why he gets angry mentioning Fu Xun?
Wen Yan signaled Chu Yu, who got up and gently pushed Han Min’s hand: “Hey, little one, don’t be mad.”
Han Min didn’t move.
Knowing what annoyed him, Chu Yu said: “We won’t tell His Majesty if you want.”
Han Min glanced at him, then looked away.
The manuscripts swayed in front of him.
“Read what you wrote to us, and we won’t tell His Majesty.”
He twitched, looking up: “Really?”
“Really.”
Chu Yu glanced outside.
“It’s late. Read a section first, then we’ll eat.”
Too simple. These were his words; reading them aloud was easy.
Han Min grabbed the manuscripts, glanced at them, cleared his throat: “This…”
So difficult. Too embarrassed to read aloud.
Chu Yu rubbed his head: “Read, remember to replace ‘Third-Ranked Scholar’ with ‘Record Officer’.”
Han Min wiped his face, stiffly read: “…The record officer’s face immediately flushed red, voice like a mosquito.”
“Even acting?” Chu Yu pinched his cheek, “Face red, voice like a mosquito. Hmm, very similar.”
Han Min waved his hand: “Stop messing.”
He tried reading with no emotion: “Born charming, wandering among flowers, how could he not hear such words? Yet now pressed against the wall by Emperor Qi, the emperor’s two strong arms blocked his sides, gaze burning…”
After two lines, he couldn’t continue.
Writing didn’t feel strange; reading it aloud did…
Han Min tossed the manuscript, wailing, face in his arms:
“If you want to write the Record Officer, then write it; if you want to tell him, then tell him. I’m not reading it anymore.”
Waaah, I want to go home.
—
That evening, Chu Yu sent a servant to fetch dinner from an outside restaurant.
Before dinner, Han Min read some of the manuscript; after dinner, he read a few more sections.
Han Min held a scroll of The Emperor and the Third-Rank Scholar standing pitifully, like a storytelling scholar.
But he tried to keep a neutral tone, concealing his inner collapse.
Seeing he was about to break down, Wen Yan said: “Enough, stop reading.”
Han Min tossed the manuscript onto the table, sitting angrily.
Now, he regretted everything. Deeply.
As night fell, Chu Yu sent him back; Xie Yan returned to Jianguo Temple.
Exiting the alley of the Wenyuan Marquis residence, Chu Yu tugged Han Min along.
Han Min glanced back: “Hey, about Xie Yan…”
“I don’t know him.”
With that, Chu Yu pushed Han Min into the carriage, joining him.
Leaning back: “I have a clear conscience. He dared to say in front of the scholars that he didn’t know me. I also dared not know him. I invited him here today, and I just treated him to dinner to settle the score. I was merely using his own methods…”
He turned to see Han Min lifting the curtain, signaling Xie Yan.
Xie Yan smiled warmly, waving; it was fine.
Chu Yu got annoyed, grabbed Han Min’s sash, pulling him back into the carriage, lowering the curtain.
Chu Yu declared: “You’re my scholar; why are you signaling him?”
The carriage rolled, Xie Yan stood in the alley under the pale moonlight.
He stood there, like a tutor seeing off a young master, bowing respectfully.
—
The next day, Han Min wasn’t on duty. He wanted to continue the manuscript but couldn’t.
After reading at Marquis Wenyan’s mansion yesterday, he dreamed of that scene last night.
— Fu Xun pressed him against a wall, arms pinned at his sides, eyes burning.
As Fu Xun began to speak, Han Min instinctively said: “No way, Your Majesty? You can do this to me?”
He didn’t mean to say that.
But after saying it, he woke up. Thin sweat soaked his inner garments, chilling against his back.
He still held Fu Xun’s long sword, scabbard cold yet slightly warm.
Author’s notes:
Min-Min: “No way?”
Fu Dog: “??? I miss one chapter, and my wife doubts my ability?”
Chu Yu: “I want to co-write His Majesty and the Record Officer with Bianzhang!”
Min-Min: “Please don’t”
Fu Dog: “Promotion and rank”
Min-Min: “I also wrote Censor and Third-Rank Scholar, I also want promotion and rank”
Fu Dog: “Know your place, and be crowned empress.”
