The Imperial Study, which had briefly been Ying Zheng's primary source of intelligence, had transformed overnight into a room of palpable tension. The air, once merely dusty and smelling of old paper, now felt heavy and cold, charged with a silent, simmering suspicion. The morning light that slanted through the windows seemed weaker, as if hesitant to illuminate the new, chilling atmosphere.
Ying Zheng knew instantly that his gambit in the throne room had been a profound tactical error. In his arrogance, in his frustration at the court's incompetence, he had allowed the ancient emperor within him to speak. He had revealed a sliver of his true mind, and the reaction from the powers that be was as swift as it was predictable. He had frightened them. And a frightened regent is a dangerous regent. He understood now that he must retreat back into the camouflage of his childish persona, more deeply and convincingly than ever before. He had shown his teeth; now he had to prove he was harmless.
His tutor, Weng Tonghe, was a different man. The kindly, patient scholar was gone, replaced by a visibly shaken and terrified servant of the state. His hands, which had once demonstrated the graceful art of calligraphy with such confident ease, now trembled slightly as he unrolled a scroll. He avoided Ying Zheng's gaze, his eyes constantly darting towards the new figure in the room.
Standing near the Emperor's desk, not by the door, was a new senior eunuch. He was an older man, tall and gaunt, with a face like a dried persimmon, all harsh lines and weathered skin. His name was Zhang, and unlike the other eunuchs who practiced a kind of invisible subservience, this one's presence was overt, solid, and menacing. He was not a servant. He was a guard. A jailer. His stillness was not peaceful; it was the coiled stillness of a predator.
"Today, Your Majesty," Weng Tonghe began, his voice strained and lacking its usual warmth, "Her Imperial Majesty, the Empress Dowager, has instructed that our lessons take a… different course. She feels we have perhaps been too ambitious." He cleared his throat nervously. "We will be focusing solely on calligraphy for the foreseeable future. On the classic, moral texts. No… no more history for now. And no more memorials."
He couldn't have made the message from Cixi any clearer if he had delivered it on an imperial yellow decree. The gate to information had been slammed shut and locked. The 'reward' of reading memorials was over. The gilded leash around his neck had been tightened. Weng Tonghe was no longer an unwitting tool to be manipulated; he was now a frightened, compliant component of the cage.
Ying Zheng received the news with a perfect imitation of childish acceptance. He did not argue. He did not protest. He simply gave a small, docile nod. He picked up his brush, dipped it in the ink, and began to practice the characters of the Thousand Character Classic, a foundational text taught to children for centuries. His brush strokes were deliberately clumsy, his form sloppy. He had to be the slow, simple-minded boy they now desperately wanted him to be.
Internally, however, his mind was a whirlwind of cold analysis. This was a setback, but it was also a source of valuable data. Cixi was afraid. Her fear was a weakness, a crack in her armor of serene authority. He had pushed her, and she had reacted not with confident power, but with fearful suppression. An opponent who fears you is an opponent who can be made to make mistakes. For now, however, his primary source of intelligence on the workings of the government had been severed. He needed a new source, and he would have to be far more subtle in acquiring it.
He continued his practice, painstakingly copying characters that spoke of cosmic harmony and filial duty, an ironic accompaniment to his own seditious thoughts. After a half-hour of this mind-numbing repetition, he enacted the next phase of his plan.
With a small, "accidental" jerk of his hand, he knocked his ink brush from its porcelain rest. It rolled off the edge of the table and clattered onto the floor, spattering a few drops of black ink onto the polished wood.
"Oh," he said, in a small voice.
The new eunuch, Zhang, moved with surprising speed. He stooped down, his movements stiff and economical, and picked up the brush. As he rose and placed it back on the table, Ying Zheng looked at him closely, studying his face, his eyes. He saw nothing. No fear, no curiosity, no kindness. The man's eyes were like chips of slate, cold and empty of anything but a grim, unwavering duty. This was one of Cixi's true loyalists. A zealot. A dead end. There would be no exploiting this one.
The lesson dragged on. The air grew thicker with unspoken tension. Weng Tonghe pointed out his student's mistakes with a strained, forced cheerfulness. Zhang the eunuch stood like a statue, his gaze a constant, unnerving weight. Ying Zheng decided it was time to deploy another weapon in his limited arsenal.
He let his brush slow. He raised a small hand and rubbed his eyes, his movements exaggeratedly weary. He let out a small, quiet yawn.
"Grand Tutor," he said, his voice laced with a convincing whine of fatigue. "My head hurts. The characters… they are starting to swim together. My eyes are sore."
Weng Tonghe looked up, his face immediately flooding with alarm. The Emperor's health was a matter of supreme, terrifying importance. A common cold could be spun into a charge of neglect. A headache could be interpreted as a sign of failed tutelage. The scholar was far more afraid of being blamed for the Emperor's ill-health than he was of Cixi's political displeasure.
"Of course, Your Majesty! Forgive me! I have been working you too hard," he said, his voice a flurry of anxious concern. "You must rest immediately! We will stop for today. Rest is essential for a growing mind."
This was a new and potent tactic for Ying Zheng. He would use the perceived frailty of his child's body as a shield and a sword. He could now end any lesson, avoid any unwanted situation, and create moments of privacy simply by feigning illness. It was a contemptible form of manipulation, relying on a weakness he despised, but in his current state, it was one of the most effective tools he possessed. He noted with a cold, internal satisfaction how quickly his "ailment" was catered to, how the tutor and even the stoic Zhang seemed relieved to end the tense charade of the lesson. They were all terrified of being held responsible if the "precious" imperial puppet were to break.
Weng Tonghe personally escorted him from the study, clucking and fussing over him like a nervous mother hen. "I shall have the imperial physicians prepare a soothing tonic for you at once, Majesty. And perhaps a nap is in order. Yes, a long nap."
As they walked down the corridor, leaving the grim presence of Zhang behind, Ying Zheng allowed himself to lean slightly on the tutor, playing the part of the exhausted child to the hilt. This proximity gave him an opportunity.
"Grand Tutor," he whispered, his voice weak. "I am sorry I was stupid today. I did not mean to displease Huang A Ma in the great hall yesterday. I was only repeating what you taught me about the great Qianlong Emperor's wisdom."
He delivered the words with perfect, childish innocence. It was a masterstroke of psychological warfare. He was simultaneously apologizing, feigning ignorance, and subtly shifting the blame for his "unnerving" knowledge directly onto his tutor.
He felt Weng Tonghe stiffen. A jolt went through the man's body. The tutor's face, already pale with worry, turned ashen. He had been afraid that Cixi suspected him of planting ideas in the Emperor's head, and now the Emperor himself had just confirmed that very narrative. He was trapped.
"Your Majesty must not say such things," Weng Tonghe hissed, his voice a low, panicked whisper. He glanced around the empty hallway, terrified of unseen ears. "You are not stupid. You are the Son of Heaven. And what I teach you is for your own cultivation, not for… not for public discussion. You must understand."
Ying Zheng looked up at him, his large eyes filled with a manufactured confusion. "I understand, Grand Tutor."
He understood perfectly. He had just turned his jailer into a reluctant co-conspirator. From now on, Weng Tonghe would not only follow Cixi's orders to restrict his lessons, but he would be personally, terrifiedly invested in making sure the boy-emperor never again displayed any sign of unnatural intelligence. The gilded leash had been tightened, yes. But in doing so, Cixi had inadvertently given him a new, powerful hold over the man who held the other end.