Zhu Ping’an, with his knowledge of history, knew that Emperor Jiajing needn’t worry about the issue of establishing an heir. According to historical records, in a few years, King Jing would pass away prematurely, leaving King Yu as the emperor’s only surviving son. Whether or not an heir was named, it would be King Yu—there was no choice to make. Worrying about it now was simply a waste of effort.
Moreover, Emperor Jiajing, obsessed with cultivating immortality and refining elixirs, harboured ambitions of ruling for ten thousand years. Deep down, he had no real desire to establish an heir.
He was unwilling to let even a sliver of power slip from his grasp, possessing an intense desire to control the empire and its supreme authority.
In feudal society, the crown prince held a position truly second only to the emperor, above all others. The Eastern Palace of the crown prince functioned as a miniature court, attracting many officials who would pledge loyalty to the prince, betting on his future reign. The prince also commanded his own guards, though far fewer than the emperor’s. In times when the emperor was away on campaigns, touring, or too ill to govern, the prince would act as regent, handling state affairs on his behalf. In short, while the emperor needed a prince to ensure the stability of the dynasty’s succession, the prince also shared a portion of imperial power, posing a potential threat to it.
Additionally, given Emperor Jiajing’s superstitious belief in the prophecy of “the two dragons shall not meet,” he was reluctant to name an heir to protect his only two sons.
With just two sons, if he named a crown prince and the prophecy came true, he’d be left with no one to mourn.
The only reason Emperor Jiajing was even considering the issue was due to unavoidable realities.
The empire was vast, and he was no longer young. If he delayed naming an heir, his subjects would grow anxious about the succession. Should he pass away without designating a crown prince, his two sons and their respective supporters might wage war, potentially fracturing the empire into warring states, with rivers of blood flowing—an outcome detrimental to the state’s foundation.
Perhaps his recent ill health also played a role.
Thus, the question of establishing an heir was truly a deadly one. Naming an heir was problematic, not naming one was problematic, and choosing *who* to name was even more problematic. No answer seemed right…
When he returned to the capital, Zhu Ping’an would surely have an audience with the emperor, and it was entirely possible that Jiajing would pose this question to him.
He needed to prepare in advance.
If Emperor Jiajing asked him about establishing an heir, how should he respond?
After seeing off Eunuch Wang and his entourage, Zhu Ping’an returned to his study and began pondering this perilous issue.
He couldn’t possibly tell Jiajing, *Don’t worry yourself sick. In a few years, your younger son, King Jing, will die, leaving King Yu as your only heir. You’ll have no choice, so there’s no need to fret over it now, is there?*
That would be tantamount to cursing the imperial heir and invoking charges of witchcraft and treason—enough to get him executed seven or eight times over.
As for recommending a prince to be crown prince, based on reason, sentiment, and history, it would undoubtedly be King Yu.
But while he could think it, he couldn’t say it.
Sitting in his study, Zhu Ping’an pondered until a sudden spark of inspiration struck him: the secret succession system of the later Qing Dynasty.
Emperor Yongzheng, who emerged victorious in the Nine Dragons’ Struggle for the Throne, learned from the chaos caused by open competitions for the crown prince position across generations—rivalries, scheming, and fratricide among princes and consorts. To prevent this, he devised the secret succession system, abolishing the practice of publicly naming a crown prince.
The method was as follows: the emperor personally wrote the name of the chosen heir, preparing two copies. One was sealed in a box and placed behind the “Zhengda Guangming” (Upright and Bright) plaque in the Qianqing Palace, while the other was sealed in a box carried by the emperor. Upon the emperor’s death, the designated regents would publicly retrieve both boxes, open them, verify their contents, and announce the successor.
The secret succession system’s greatest feature was that the emperor held absolute authority in choosing the heir, reinforcing imperial power.
Another advantage was that the emperor could change the heir at any time without repercussions. He simply needed to replace the name in the box he carried and the one behind the plaque.
This system addressed numerous risks related to the state’s foundation, bypassed the limitations of primogeniture, prevented the “tallest tree in the forest” from being targeted, and eliminated the issue of the crown prince amassing power. *No public crown prince, no division of power, and no ministers betting early on a successor…*
It also prevented princes from killing each other to seize the throne and consorts from scheming for their sons’ ascension.
In truth, Emperor Jiajing didn’t genuinely want to establish an heir; he only wished to reassure his subjects and stabilise public sentiment.
By convening his ministers, announcing the secret succession system, and making a show of it—preparing two boxes, writing two names, placing one behind the “Zhengda Guangming” plaque and carrying the other—the hearts of both ministers and the populace would be settled. The ministers would stop nagging, and there’d be no fear of Jiajing dying from his elixir pursuits without a named heir, sparking a succession crisis.
Even if Jiajing, wary of the “two dragons shall not meet” prophecy, chose to leave the boxes empty, it wouldn’t matter.
No one would dare verify the contents of the boxes.
And Jiajing could open the boxes at any time to add or change a name—writing one when he wished or swapping it out as needed.
It was a solution that addressed multiple issues at once.
The more Zhu Ping’an thought about it, the more he felt the Qing Dynasty’s secret succession system was tailor-made for Emperor Jiajing, who believed in the “two dragons shall not meet” prophecy, pursued immortality through elixirs, and clung tightly to power. It perfectly suited his practical needs.
Absolutely perfect.
If Emperor Jiajing asked him, Zhu Ping’an would present this secret succession system as a grand surprise.
Time to finish tidying the study. Only his handwritten manuscripts remained to be packed. Once done, he could set off for Shaoxing tomorrow. With Li Shu’s due date approaching, the sooner they departed for Shaoxing, the better.
“Brother Zhu, have a bowl of spicy and sour soup—it’s good for sobering up and soothing the stomach,” Li Shu said as she entered with Hua’er and Qin’er. Hua’er carried a small bowl of appetising, spicy, and sour soup.
“Heh, thank you, Sister Li. No need to worry—I only had one cup of wine at the start of the banquet. Eunuch Wang, who came to deliver the edict, is a friend of Eunuch Feng Bao, whom I know. When I mentioned I’m not much of a drinker, they tactfully refrained from pressing me,” Zhu Ping’an said with a smile, taking the soup from Hua’er.
Though he hadn’t drunk much, the spicy and sour soup was quite tempting. Zhu Ping’an finished it in a few sips.
“Brother Zhu, have you finished packing? Let Hua’er and Qin’er help,” Li Shu said with a smile, her eyes warm after seeing him finish the soup.
“Just these manuscripts left. I’ll sort them, and I’ll be done. Have you packed your things?” Zhu Ping’an asked.
“Everything’s ready. The boats and carriages are prepared, and we can set off anytime,” Li Shu replied, her eyes crinkling with a smile.
“Good. Let’s depart tomorrow then. We’ll take our time on the road—no need to rush,” Zhu Ping’an said.
“Mm, everything’s up to you, Brother Zhu,” Li Shu said, touching her belly, her eyes curving into crescents.
