The Drum of Grievance in Great Chen had not sounded for fifty years.
Standing beneath the eastern gallery of Xuande Gate, the drum sat under a plaque inscribed with four characters: Heaven Hears Public Opinion. Penned by the Founding Emperor himself, it had served as the ultimate path for the realm’s scholars to report injustices to the throne since the dynasty’s inception.
Today, at the third mark of the Hour of the Tiger, the sky was still an ink-black void. The elderly clerk guarding the drum sat huddled in his padded cotton coat, nodding off into a light sleep.
Suddenly—BOOM!
A thunderous roar erupted from the drum’s surface, like a lightning strike shattering the earth.
The old clerk jerked awake, his head snapping up. Beyond Xuande Gate, the ground was covered by a sea of kneeling figures.
At the front stood the students of the Imperial Academy, arrayed in ranks. Their expressions were as desolate as if they were mourning their own parents, their foreheads bound in strips of white funeral hemp.
The Hanlin Scholars, dressed in white, knelt in the second row. They held blood-red petitions high, the cinnabar characters stark and macabre against the snowy night.
Students from the National Academy in blue, provincial candidates in brown, private tutors in gray…
From Xuande Gate to the Imperial Way, the crowd was a dense, dark mass of the realm’s intelligentsia, stretching further than the eye could see.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The drumbeats grew more frantic, startling the winter crows perched atop the palace walls.
The first row of Imperial Students suddenly began to recite in unison: “The Founding Emperor’s decree: Civil and martial shall remain separate!”
A thousand voices rose as one, shaking the golden halls.
The snowy night had not yet yielded to dawn. The scholars knelt amidst the swirling frost, their recitation rising in waves like a torrential river pressing against the Imperial City.
The old clerk’s legs turned to jelly, and he collapsed into a kneel.
At the very rear of the procession, several white-haired Confucian elders were being supported as they walked. These were the elder statesmen of three reigns, retired ministers of immense stature. Even they had come out.
This isn’t just a protest, the clerk thought, trembling. They’re trying to poke a hole in the heavens!
At the Pei Estate on East Flower Gate Street.
Pei Jingyi’s thin white inner robe was damp with morning dew. Holding a bow in his left hand, he drew the string with his right. As the string reached full tension, the muscles in his arm bunched and coiled, veins bulging with raw power.
Whoosh—
A feathered arrow tore through the wind. A hundred paces away, an apple exploded on impact, its juice splattering against the gray brick wall like a fresh spray of blood.
This was the archery skill he had honed since childhood. Years ago, he had used this same strength to pacify Mount Wu with three arrows, striking terror into the hearts of the Eastern Liao.
Now, in the capital, he could only shoot fruit for amusement in his courtyard.
Suddenly, a massive BOOM echoed from the direction of the Imperial City, the vibration causing the arrows on his rack to tremble.
Pei Jingyi snapped his head toward the sound. At this hour? That noise…
“The Drum of Grievance?”
Though he had never heard it in person, nothing else in the capital could produce a sound that shook the nine heavens quite like the drum established by the Founding Emperor.
Every time that drum sounded, it was a momentous event that shook the court and rewrote destiny. No one in Great Chen had dared to strike it for half a century.
Pei Jingyi set down his heavy bow and wiped the sweat from his face with a careless hand.
According to ancestral law, once the Drum of Grievance sounds, the Son of Heaven must immediately ascend the throne to handle the matter. But since the Emperor had not yet taken up the reins of personal rule, this scorching hot potato would land squarely in Gu Huaiyu’s lap.
He had already seen the Lord Chancellor’s ruthless methods during the disaster relief. He wondered what kind of tricks Gu Huaiyu would play when faced with the Drum of Grievance.
He quickly fastened his robes, let out a sharp whistle, and mounted his horse, galloping toward Xuande Gate.
The streets, usually empty at dawn, were now choked with people.
Scholars, students, and high-capped Confucians were rushing from all directions toward the palace. Some had bloodshot eyes; others were flushed with fury, shouting slogans like “Dismiss the Treacherous Minister” and “Restore Our Ancestral Laws.”
A white-haired old scholar was being shuffled forward by two young men, his voice trembling as he muttered, “Even if it costs this old man his life, I must demand justice for the scholars of the world…”
Just how big of a hornet’s nest did Gu Huaiyu kick this time?
Pei Jingyi gave a soft “tch” and steered his horse nonchalantly through the crowd.
The closer he got to Xuande Gate, the denser the throng became. The air was thick with the sounds of wailing and cursing.
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