Chapter 7
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Though it was supposed to be an online class, Xue Jin’an only watched for about fifteen minutes. His attention wasn’t on Master Cen’s lesson content; instead, his gaze was fixed entirely on the disgruntled Fourth Prince, who was left standing outside the door, denied entry.
Master Cen was a man in his sixties, with long eyebrows and a beard, dressed more like a Taoist priest than a scholar. In fact, he was not only a Confucian scholar but also a leading figure of the time, with disciples spread across the land—some even holding prestigious posts such as the Sacrificial Official at the Imperial Academy.
Master Cen had little desire for power, or perhaps he was simply detached and broad-minded. He had resigned from his official duties early to run a Taoist temple. The emperor, respecting him greatly, had bestowed upon him the title of Grand Tutor and allowed him to continue teaching in the imperial study.
Since returning to his true calling and leaving behind the tedious classes, Master Cen’s nature as a Taoist—valuing harmony with one’s true heart—could no longer be restrained. Unbound by rigid rules or etiquette, once inside his classroom, all students were equal in his eyes. He cared little for princes or princesses; whoever broke the rules was punished. There was no rotten custom of punishing the prince’s attendants for the prince’s faults.
So when the Fourth Prince arrived late, Master Cen simply shut the door on him without a second thought.
The Fourth Prince was both angry and anxious, but dared neither to lash out nor to leave. He had no choice but to stand outside, holding his book box, stewing in frustration.
This was because when Master Cen closed the door, he casually remarked, “If you can’t even carry your book box, Your Highness, you should have had your breakfast first. Don’t hide here to cool off.”
Though the prince hadn’t yet eaten breakfast, he wouldn’t dare admit he lacked the strength to carry his box. Instead, he stepped back and stood under the sun.
Last night’s autumn rain had been fierce, but today was bright and sunny. Though the heat had lessened, the direct sun was still unbearable. Soon, the prince felt his face flush; his inner garment was already damp with sweat.
Xue Jin’an had no malicious intent to gloat over the prince’s discomfort. He had been staring so long purely to gather data to build a character model.
As a magical instrument, Xue Jin’an was a fragile device—he couldn’t confront enemies directly. The otaku who created him had developed a new function: data analysis.
A code-based lifeform, once fed and debugged, could, with partial clues, provide answers faster than a human brain.
Xue Jin’an was already a mature code lifeform, adept at collecting information and building databases.
The Fourth Prince was now his focus; naturally, he observed carefully to correct any errors in his character data.
For instance, the prince was more patient than expected. According to the original story and their brief encounters, the prince should have been furious or simply walked away. Yet he still stood there obediently, accepting punishment, his expression sour but wisely silent.
After a quarter of an hour, Xue Jin’an finally saw Master Cen return.
The master had assigned a topic from the classics for students to ponder and discuss, then slowly paced out of the classroom, asking the prince standing in the sun, “Do you have anything to say?”
The Fourth Prince bowed deeply, showing none of his previous irritability, and replied, “I acknowledge my fault.”
Master Cen asked, “Is it true remorse, or merely submission because of the punishment I’ve given?”
The prince was stunned and speechless; the strained expression he had been maintaining slipped away. He opened his mouth to speak but was waved off by Master Cen, who frustratedly lowered his head.
Master Cen smiled and said nothing further, returning to the classroom. This time, he did not close the door. Soon, the sounds of questions and answers drifted out, but the prince remained standing in the sun, gazing at the wide-open door.
He listened quietly, occasionally muttering a low reply, but never entered. Xue Jin’an noticed his negative emotions slowly dissipate, his expression becoming calm and focused.
Master Cen—the master of moral correction. Xue Jin’an tagged this new character accordingly.
In the original storyline, princes involved in the struggle for the throne were already attending court and had their factions. They had long graduated from the imperial study, so there was naturally no plot involving Master Cen. Even if there had been, Master Cen would have been a venerable old man by then, probably retired in some remote mountains.
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Xue Jin’an did try to pay attention seriously. The core of the classical topic was the Four Books and Five Classics. After introducing the original text’s translation and explanation, followed by problem-solving techniques, he could generate a hundred unique answers instantly.
Seeing an option to submit homework in the software, he spent some time selecting the most complete answer and clicked submit.
“Though submitting an electronic document feels pointless, participation is what counts,” Xue Jin’an mused. He considered himself now a pitiful little spirit, living on borrowed time in a broken body. His meager magical power had little impact on the real world.
For instance, he couldn’t scan QR codes to pay; the bank cards linked to the wallet were just nostalgic keepsakes of the otaku’s former life.
Wait—if the otaku had ascended by shattering the void, wouldn’t earthly bank cards be useless in other worlds too?
“Heh~ I suddenly feel inexplicably better. Could it be that I miss the otaku?” Xue Jin’an was puzzled by his sudden clarity of mood.
What he didn’t know was that at the very moment he submitted the electronic homework, in Master Cen’s small Taoist temple, a cluttered desk suddenly bore new black writing on several blank yellow sheets. The characters were neat and rigid, as if carved by knife.
Xue Jin’an was fully charged. Master Cen was still reviewing students’ answers one by one, interspersing his commentary with stories of his former disciples’ problem-solving methods, eager to thoroughly engrain this knowledge in their minds.
The lesson, repeated constantly, was no problem for the mechanical part of Xue Jin’an, but his human brain kept screaming, “What kind of torture is this?”
Bored and unwilling to continue listening, Xue Jin’an instinctively learned to slack off.
He muted and minimized the current screen, happily browsing live streams instead.
Little Luzi had fetched plenty of food from the imperial kitchen, several plates of pastries—like multiple power banks—meaning Xue Jin’an wouldn’t have to constantly worry about battery life for the coming week.
After a while, as he scrolled through various streams, he sensed something was wrong. The atmosphere in every livestream was tense and cold, as if a storm was brewing.
If it were just the imperial kitchen, it would be understandable—after all, the chief eunuch Wang Deming had been brutally beaten nearly to death, so others there naturally worked cautiously, afraid to follow his fate.
But the whole palace was like this, especially near Qianyuan Palace, where the tension was palpable. Eunuchs and palace maids kept their heads down, working silently.
Xue Jin’an checked several government offices and found almost no one there; notably, not a single official wore the scarlet robes of a third rank or above.
Glancing at the noon sun, he thoughtfully opened the “Daqi Morning Court News” livestream, which was indeed live. This meant the morning court, which began at dawn, had not yet ended.
Clicking in, he saw officials kneeling on the floor. At the front was a young man in a scarlet robe of a second-rank official, adorned with a golden pheasant pattern. His posture was straight and resolute, like pine and bamboo unyielding to the wind.
Though his other features were unremarkable, his eyes blended the slyness of fox eyes with the allure of peach blossom eyes, giving him a strangely familiar look. Xue Jin’an studied him carefully.
There was a bruise on his forehead, burn marks on the surrounding skin, his clothes wrinkled, and his collar stained with a white gel-like substance—it looked as if he had been struck by a candlestick.
Wasn’t this the official from the Three Departments’ night interrogation of the palace maid? How had he ended up like this overnight? Xue Jin’an was unusually curious.
Meanwhile, the emperor sat on the dragon throne, his expression dark as he stared at the memorial in his hand. His fingers gripped it so tightly they turned white, yet he remained silent.
Xue Jin’an desperately wanted to know what was written, but the camera refused to shift focus. Before he could react, a comment scrolled across the screen: [What’s written up there rwkk?]
Clearly, they wouldn’t let him see. The emperor’s somber brows twitched, then he closed the memorial and finally looked at the rows of kneeling officials. His gaze swept over the first row of high-ranking ministers in crimson robes, cold and severe enough to pierce through the emperor’s ceremonial crown.
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His face looked as if he was about to have their heads roll, yet his words were, “This matter need not be mentioned again.”
“Your Majesty!”
“Chu Wenjing, your use of private torture during interrogation was dereliction of duty. I recognize your zeal in handling cases, though somewhat hasty, but without malice. I will not punish you—do not overstep your bounds.” The emperor’s cold gaze warned, “If you persist stubbornly, don’t expect to keep your position as Minister of Justice. There are plenty who would gladly take it.”
With Li Hechun’s high-pitched call of “Court dismissed,” the emperor swept his sleeve and left.
Chu Wenjing wavered, then slowly bowed his back, “I acknowledge my fault, Your Majesty.”
Having watched the entire spectacle without understanding a word, Xue Jin’an was speechless.
[What a waste of time. Can people be more straightforward? Can they say what they mean? What secrets am I, a VIP, not allowed to know? Explain yourself!]
Xue Jin’an’s inner voice became a scrolling barrage of comments in the livestream—a one-man comment army.
After venting, he exited the stream without another glance and switched to browsing the online community’s trending topics.
Daqi was a feudal monarchy; court affairs were matters of state policy and should naturally make the trending lists.
As expected, the political news section was flooded with posts about today’s morning court.
#Daqi Morning Court Session xxxx Concludes Successfully #
#Minister of Justice—If You Don’t Want The Job, There Are Others Ready #
#Reopening of the Concubine Zhen Case #
#Minister Chu Attacked #
#Chu Wenjing and Concubine Zhen #
#Chu Wenjing, Are You Faithful to Your Sister? #
#Key Witness in Concubine Zhen Case Dies in Ministry Dungeon #
#Seventh Prince’s Lineage #
…
Suddenly, the gossip hit close to home, and Xue Jin’an was left speechless.