“How are the preparations for the Meridian Gate Captive-Offering Ceremony coming along?” Emperor Jiajing asked.
“Your Majesty, we have drafted a preliminary agenda based on the formats of past dynasties’ Meridian Gate ceremonies,” replied a duty minister from Wuyi Hall, stepping forward.
“Submit your agenda to the Grand Secretariat for review. It must be finalized within three days,” Jiajing ordered with a wave of his hand.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the minister acknowledged.
“Instruct the Imperial Observatory to select an auspicious date for the ceremony. The Grand Secretariat will oversee the relevant ministries in organizing it. With the New Year approaching, the ceremony must take place before the year’s end—no mistakes,” Jiajing commanded firmly.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the officials responded in unison.
“Very well. The Grand Secretariat will remain; the rest of you may leave,” Jiajing dismissed the court with another wave.
Yan Song, Xu Jie, and Li Ben stayed behind as ordered, while the other officials bowed and exited the hall.
“I’ve kept the three of you here because I have two matters on which I’d like your opinions,” Jiajing said, descending slowly from the dragon throne, his tone casual, almost conversational.
Yan Song and the others bowed respectfully, ready to listen.
“The first matter is the establishment of an heir,” Jiajing began, standing before the trio.
At the mention of succession, Yan Song, Xu Jie, and Li Ben jolted upright. The selection of an heir was a matter of national foundation.
Jiajing had always resisted discussing it, making this the first time he’d broached the topic himself.
Though Jiajing was notoriously fond of women, producing heirs had proven difficult. Since his teenage years, he’d indulged in countless consorts, yet it wasn’t until he was twenty-six—after over a decade of effort—that he welcomed his first son, born out of wedlock. Tragically, the child died at two months old. Then came Taoist priest Tao Zhongwen’s theory of “two dragons cannot meet,” claiming Jiajing’s imperial dragon fate was too strong, overpowering the lesser dragons—his sons—whose weaker fates couldn’t withstand his presence.
After the second prince, named heir in a grand ceremony, fell ill that very day and died soon after, Jiajing became utterly convinced of this theory and adhered to it strictly.
He had only two sons left. Losing them would force him down the same absurd path as his reckless brother—adopting an heir from a collateral line. After all the fuss of the Great Rites Controversy, he couldn’t bear to see that repeated.
Thus, Jiajing had fiercely opposed naming a crown prince.
Yet succession was tied to the Ming Dynasty’s stability and the nation’s foundation. Without an heir, the realm would remain unsteady.
Prince Yu (Yuwang) and Prince Jing (Jingwang) were grown, both having come of age and established their own households. With no heir named, both had a shot at the throne. Yuwang, the elder, held the advantage of propriety, but Jingwang was the favored one. Each had strengths and flaws, fueling a heated rivalry that had long turned the succession into a public struggle.
The ministers were anxious, with some periodically submitting memorials, though their fates were rarely pleasant. Even Xu Jie had been sidelined for a time.
This had silenced most officials on the matter.
Still, some, driven by concern, risked Jiajing’s wrath to petition, for he was no longer young—at forty-five—and obsessed with alchemy and immortality. If he died unexpectedly without an heir, Yuwang and Jingwang’s fight for the throne could plunge the realm into chaos.
“Over the years, I’ve lost count of the memorials urging me to name an heir. It seems the time has come. Between Yuwang and Jingwang, who is fit to bear the great responsibility and inherit the throne?” Jiajing asked mildly.
This time, Yan Song didn’t need to signal with his eyes. Jiajing first looked at Li Ben, whose legs trembled as he hesitated for two seconds before stammering, “Your Majesty, I’ve been buried in paperwork and am unfamiliar with Yuwang and Jingwang. I truly don’t know who is more capable.”
Faced with this perilous question, Li Ben chose to play dumb.
“Sorry, I don’t know!” he said, seizing the chance to affirm he hadn’t allied with either prince, casting himself as a loyal, impartial servant.
Jiajing was clearly displeased with Li Ben’s feigned ignorance. He fixed him with a stare for a second, long enough to make sweat bead down Li Ben’s back, nearly driving him to his knees in apology.
Just as Li Ben’s legs buckled, Jiajing shifted his gaze to Xu Jie, letting Li Ben breathe a sigh of relief.
Xu Jie, seasoned by experience, was ready this time.
A fall teaches wisdom.
Having learned from his past misstep, Xu Jie had prepared his response. The moment Jiajing looked at him, he replied, “Your Majesty, as the saying goes, no one knows a son better than his father. Whether Yuwang or Jingwang is fit to inherit the throne, and who is more virtuous, Your Majesty knows best. I defer to Your Majesty’s judgment.”
Unlike Li Ben’s dodge, Xu Jie opted for deflection, tossing the decision back to Jiajing.
“No one knows a son like his father, right? You’re the clearest on this. Whoever you think should inherit, that’s who it’ll be—you’re the emperor, your word is law. I’ll follow your lead.”
Though Xu Jie dearly wanted to recommend Yuwang—citing primogeniture and his seniority—he swallowed those words after his last lesson and a deeper understanding of Jiajing.
Jiajing was a ruler who held power tightly and trusted his own judgment—or rather, he was autocratic and stubborn. Whoever he wanted as heir would be heir; the opinions of the court couldn’t sway him.
Recommending Yuwang now might even harm the prince’s cause.
So Xu Jie played it safe with deflection.
“If I were so clear, why would I ask your opinions?!” Jiajing snapped, unsatisfied with Xu Jie’s response, before turning to Yan Song.
“Your Majesty, the crown prince is the foundation of the state. Naming an heir is a matter of national importance that demands utmost caution. Yuwang and Jingwang, newly adult, are both dragons among men—equally matched for now, making it hard to discern who excels and who is more fit to rule. Time is needed to test and distinguish them.”
“Moreover, Your Majesty is in the prime of life, your health robust. There’s no rush to name an heir. Taking time to observe the two princes before deciding wouldn’t be too late,” Yan Song said, bowing as he advised delay.
In truth, Yan Song favored Jingwang and was secretly backing him.
But he kept it well hidden. On the surface, he maintained distance from both princes, aligning with neither.
He avoided recommending Jingwang for two reasons: first, to uphold his image as a loyal minister devoted solely to Jiajing, free of ties to Yuwang or Jingwang; second, he knew Jiajing wasn’t ready to name an heir, and any suggestion would be a misstep.
“No rush? Over the years, the memorials I’ve received about naming an heir could fuel a banquet fire!” Jiajing shot Yan Song a glare, his tone sharp with displeasure.
“I stand by my view: naming an heir cannot be rushed—it requires great care. True gold fears no fire, and true dragons fear no trials. Time will reveal which prince is more capable of bearing the great responsibility and inheriting the throne,” Yan Song insisted.
“Enough. It seems asking you three yields nothing. We’ll revisit this later,” Jiajing said, letting them off the hook for now.
