Never once had anyone suspected that the Treatise on Statecraft might have been penned by another hand.
This discourse, revered as a “Grand Canon of Statecraft,” had been suspended in the main hall of the Hanlin Academy since its debut, transcribed and studied by every aspiring scholar under heaven. Between its lines flowed the benevolent ideals of universal brotherhood and the Confucian ambition to lead a monarch toward the legendary heights of the Sage Kings.
For such a magnificent masterpiece to bear the name of Qin Zijin—the brilliant young talent of the Pure Stream faction and the ultimate paragon of scholars—seemed as natural as water flowing into a channel.
Who could have imagined that this sacred text, the north star of the literary world, actually originated from the hand of Gu Huaiyu?
Currently, Chancellor Gu’s reputation among the common folk was soaring. From his skillful disaster relief and the execution of Wu Wei to his stabilization of grain prices, every action he took struck a chord with the people. Among the denizens of the market stalls and alleys, who wouldn’t call him a “Clear Sky” official?
Yet, in the eyes of the literati, this Chancellor remained a figure of polarized repute. He had not entered service through the imperial examinations, nor did he revere the Way of Confucius and Mencius. His conduct in court was reckless and unrestrained; he had even publicly abolished ancestral systems, driving the entire scholarly class to wail in collective grief.
How could such a man have written the Treatise on Statecraft?
But the Grand Empress Dowager’s words were absolute, her golden decree beyond doubt. When Qin Zijin turned ashen and confessed in open court, the scholars of the world had no choice but to believe, however much they wished otherwise.
The brilliant young talent they had deified and praised a thousand times over was nothing more than a charlatan who had built his career on the stolen fruits of another’s labor. Meanwhile, the “treacherous sycophant” they had spent years reviling was the very pillar who had single-handedly supported the state through its darkest hours.
Nothing fuels rage like the discovery of a betrayal. And when the deception comes from the person one trusted most, admired most, and defended most fiercely—that rage spreads like a wildfire across a prairie, turning the world of the scholars upside down.
The first to flip the tables were the very people who had once waved flags for him and shouted loudest in defense of his reputation.
That night, countless bonfires were lit throughout the capital. The fuel for those flames was the Treatise on Statecraft bearing Qin Zijin’s name. Once the sacred text on every scholar’s desk, it had become a shameful mark of their own humiliation.
Bookstore owners worked through the night to remove every volume associated with the Qin name, fearing that a moment’s delay would invite disaster. The Hanlin Academy was even more desperate, hurriedly grinding Qin Zijin’s name off the commemorative stone tablets as if trying to erase his very existence from history.
On the day of the execution, the Vegetable Market was a sea of people. These scholars, who usually couldn’t bear to watch a chicken being slaughtered, crowded the front rows of the execution ground. They wanted to see every inch of Qin Zijin’s flesh carved away by the blade. They needed to witness the man who had deceived them for a decade pay the ultimate price for his grand deception.
During that dismemberment, as blood and flesh flew, not a single soul looked away. On the contrary, it was said a scholar composed a poem on the spot entitled On the Death of a Hypocrite.
The final line was chillingly cold: “Once Confucian robes hid the rot within; today, the executioner is the truest lord.”
The news reached Pei Jingyi’s ears that same day.
He had naturally read the Treatise on Statecraft years ago, though he was no scholar and cared little for the Way of Confucius and Mencius. When he looked at those grand principles about the “people being more precious than the sovereign,” he found the prose elegant and the sentiment respectable, but nothing more.
“Worrying before the rest of the world” and “benevolent governance”—scholars loved those empty platitudes, but how many in history had actually achieved them?
Pei Jingyi had seen too many scholars who spoke of righteousness in times of peace, only to be the first to drop to their knees in surrender when chaos arrived. Qin Zijin merely confirmed his belief: at their core, men of letters were spineless hypocrites who said one thing and did another.
Thus, upon hearing the news, Pei Jingyi’s first reaction was a subtle, indescribable feeling.
He pushed open the door to the study. A certain someone was lounging lazily in a rattan chair, a volume of the Classic of Mountains and Seas spread across his face.
Hearing the movement, a muffled voice drifted from beneath the book. “This Chancellor is closed to visitors today. I shall not answer for state affairs, nor shall I be questioned on right and wrong. If General Pei is here to ask about the Treatise, then get lost.”
Pei Jingyi hadn’t come for the book. He crossed his arms and sauntered over to the chair. “Does the Chancellor wish to go and watch Qin Zijin’s execution?”
Gu Huaiyu never had much interest in bloody spectacles. Furthermore, he didn’t even harbor much hatred for Qin Zijin. He had seen plenty of people who used grand pretenses to justify their cowardly existence.
