Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen: The White-Robed Prime Minister

Zhu Wen, this great warlord—wow, the founding emperor of the Later Liang! Originally a capable commander under Huang Chao’s rebel forces, he later realized there was no future following Huang Chao and defected to the Tang Dynasty. The emperor generously accepted him, bestowed upon him the name Zhu Quanzhong, and appointed him as the Military Governor of Xuanwu, overseeing Bianliang and more than ten surrounding prefectures. Though the title of Military Governor was officially a second-rank position, the actual power was immense. In the late Tang period, Military Governors were like local emperors: nominally subordinate to the central government—though some didn’t even acknowledge that—but within their territories, they held complete control over administration, military affairs, finance, taxation, civil governance, and judicial matters. Essentially, Military Governors became sovereign rulers of their own mini-courts.

When Zhu Wen arrived in Bianliang, he swiftly eliminated rivals and firmly consolidated control over his domain. He then launched campaigns east and west, expanding his territory, and ultimately forced the emperor to abdicate. A ruthless character, indeed—undeniably ruthless! And now, Cheng Zhiyuan was undoubtedly his greatest obstacle.

Old Cheng’s situation was grim.

Looking at Cheng Zhiyuan, Duan Mingyu saw a man as lifeless as the dead. “Brother Cheng, after stepping down, what official post did you hold?”

Cheng Zhiyuan replied dejectedly, “Inspector of the Xuanwu Army.”

That was it—completely hopeless. This position was specifically meant to oversee Zhu Wen. What was the emperor thinking, assigning such a powerless yet dangerous role to Cheng? An inspector was clearly tasked with watching for Zhu Wen’s missteps, but Zhu was the local sovereign here. Attempting to confront him would be akin to an old man hanging himself—was Cheng courting death?

Judging by Cheng Zhiyuan’s tone, Duan Mingyu could sense his deep anxiety about the future.

Cheng said, “Brother, I am truly worried about my own prospects.”

Duan Mingyu replied, “Brother, there’s no need to fret. Fame and future are but external possessions, not to be forced. You should take things slowly and ease your mind for now. I’ve composed a new poem for you, as a small consolation.”

Cheng Zhiyuan said, “I shall listen with an open heart.”

Duan Mingyu took a few steps, picked up his fan, and teasingly waved it like a signature move before slowly reciting:

“On the golden list, I once missed the top spot.
The bright era temporarily forsakes the worthy—how to face that?
Before the winds of fortune rise, why not roam freely and wildly?
Why bother with gain or loss?
Talented poets and scholars are truly the white-robed prime ministers.

In the alleys of lantern-lit streets, framed by painted screens,
Fortunately, there is a beloved one to seek and find.
Lean on crimson and emerald hues,
Savoring the charm of a carefree life—youth all a fleeting moment.
How can one bear to trade fleeting fame for shallow songs and gentle sips?”

Who originally wrote this poem mattered little here; once spoken aloud in this place, it belonged to Duan Mingyu.

He then comforted, “Brother, you are a scholar caught in the chaotic power struggles of the court. How can a man of pride endure the scheming and intrigue? How can a dashing talent be bound by the shackles of officialdom? You are a refined gentleman—why trouble yourself with the mundane world of politics? Why not enjoy light drinking and gentle singing, indifferent to fleeting fame?”

Cheng sighed deeply, as if awakening from a dream. Was he truly unsuited for the turbulent life of officialdom? A free spirit who loved to compose poetry about wind and moon, yet rejected by the cutthroat world of power struggles and deceit. Was his ideal to become a marquis or prime minister?

Looking at Duan Mingyu, Cheng said solemnly, “Your poem flows so naturally and plainly, spoken like everyday words—yet its style is distinct. I truly admire it.”

Duan Mingyu shook his head, “Brother, stop flattering me. I’m but a humble performer.”

Cheng cupped his fists, “You are unburdened by worldly concerns, and I am ashamed. Yet among scholars, how many endure decades of study just to rise to power? To see fame as fleeting—that is truly difficult.”

“I do not say one should not pursue prominence. On the contrary, I too love wealth and long for a grand official’s life. But since the court rejects you, why force it? Instead, take your talents and seek the leisurely life you desire. You are, after all, a ‘white-robed prime minister’—why wear the royal robe in court?”

Duan Mingyu spoke with feigned profundity.

After a long pause, Cheng said, “Thank you for your guidance. After many years of navigating officialdom, I had forgotten my youthful aspirations. Now, hearing you reminds me that my true goal was to seek the welfare of the people, to ensure their peace and prosperity. To help the world when able, and cultivate virtue quietly when not. Titles and ranks are merely means, not ends. It is a failure on my part. True talent and learning should not be doubted. In this age, many scholars remain unrecognized. Like many, I am temporarily forgotten. When the right opportunity arises, I shall shine and fulfill my ambitions.”

Duan Mingyu smiled, “It is best you understand this. Serve well in your position, but if the court cannot accept you, then let it be. The emperor’s favor may not come, but I do not crave that life. I am content with freedom.”

Cheng admired Duan Mingyu’s righteous words and, oddly, soon after, Duan seemed to lose his breath mid-sentence, his once noble image slipping into something rather unsavory. “Brother, do not speak so lightly. We must never treat the current emperor as mere gossip.”

Duan Mingyu took a deep breath. Damn, he had forgotten how formidable the emperor was. If anyone heard such talk and reported it, he’d be executed.

“My fault, my fault. I’m just a country bumpkin, careless with words. Brother, please pretend I said nothing,” he forced a smile.

Cheng said, “I can tell you meant no harm. I heard nothing! But listen, your poem is brilliant yet carries a rebellious spirit that defies reality. You are not a man of the court. If you must enter it, think carefully lest you become a pawn in others’ schemes.”

Cheng spoke truthfully. Duan Mingyu, though a top scholar, had no official post only because the emperor fled in chaos. Now that the rebels had retreated to Shandong and the emperor was soon returning to Chang’an, Duan’s appointment was not impossible. Yet officialdom was a trap—easy to enter, hard to leave.

Duan Mingyu said gratefully, “Thank you, brother. I will consider your advice carefully.”

Fainting at the thought of how exhausting official life must be—managing countless trivialities daily, ever watchful for dangers. Why do people toil so hard for the imperial exams? The Tang dynasty only selected a few dozen at a time. Just recalling how Xu Zuye was terrified after a crash course in exam essentials and fled—how did this oddity, the top scholar, even make it? Truly a prodigious anomaly.