At the third quarter of You Hour, the evening clouds faded, and dusk drew near.
The broad avenue stretching from the palace wall to the Ancestral Hall was packed with a dark mass of officials. Since breakfast at the end of Mao Hour, not a drop of water had passed their lips. On such a harrowing day, who had any mind to eat?
Outside the Ancestral Hall, Emperor Jingde paced back and forth, demanding again and again:
"Where is Vice Minister Cen?!"
"I want to hear that vicious fiend is dead!"
The senior ministers of the Central Court looked equally anxious.
Vice Minister Cen of the Ministry of War was responsible for conveying messages from the Capital Camp to His Majesty. He had led his men back and forth twice: first to report that the embroidered-uniform rebels were too afraid to advance, then to report that battle was about to begin and the Capital Camp's fighting spirit soared like a rainbow.
Once war broke out, communication between inside and outside ceased. No further news came.
Amid that unbearable tension, an attendant eunuch from the Directorate of Ceremonial ventured in a low voice:
"Your Majesty, could Vice Minister Cen be winning merit on the battlefield?"
At those words, the high ministers all turned toward him, their eyes seeming to agree.
This so-called "winning merit" really meant picking through corpses and claiming credit.
His Majesty's golden words were binding: securing even a palm-sized piece of the traitor's flesh would suffice to earn a marquisate. Even Vice Minister Cen would find it hard to restrain his craving for glory.
That also explained why he had not returned to report. Even if he himself could not get away, his Ministry of War subordinates would have rushed back to the Ancestral Hall-unless they were all