Chapter Ten: Growing Anxious

The Governor-General of Liangjiang held a position of supreme authority. For a Han official to attain such a rank, Zhang Ji was not only capable and effective—able to patch up a decaying imperial court—but more importantly, he was known for his uprightness and strict integrity. The wicked and the petty feared him; even in the prevailing climate of xenophobia, he could stand his ground, neither servile nor arrogant, arguing his case with reason.

To earn the respect of others, one must first respect oneself.

A foreign governor had once traveled from Hong Kong specifically to meet Zhang Ji; his wife also paid a visit to Lady Zhang. Such dignified diplomacy was utterly inconceivable at the time.

Well then, since you are so capable—honored even by foreigners—the position of Governor-General of Liangjiang, which frequently involved dealings with foreigners, often required one to swallow pride and navigate tricky boundaries, would be entrusted to you.

Occupying this post, Zhang Ji worked diligently and never relaxed his vigilance. He balanced the court’s dignity and defended its honor, while carefully navigating the boundaries to avoid provoking border conflicts. Though the task was arduous, luck favored him; he accomplished much for the nation and the people, and never provoked the foreigners to violent retaliation. He had done right by everyone.

Doing so well was enough. If he did any better…

As a Han official, perhaps one day the court would find some excuse—say, a sudden ailment—and send him home to recuperate. That invisible glass ceiling hovered above, ever-present for all officials.

But Zhang Ji’s luck ran out today.

When urgent news arrived at the governor’s office that several foreign ironclad ships had been sunk on the Yangtze, Zhang Ji sprang to his feet, his vision darkening, his chest tightening, and he sank back into his seat.

Foreign ironclads sunk? By whom!?

What? Not the navy? Neither the Liangjiang nor the Guangdong fleets had moved. With their handful of dilapidated ships, if they had squared off against the ironclads, the urgent news would surely have been the annihilation of the navy, with the bloodthirsty foreigners ready to discuss treaties and security.

What? The imperial navy wasn’t involved? Could it be infighting among the foreigners?

A hint of color returned to Zhang Ji's ashen face.

Surprised and anxious, he sent men to investigate, sighing deeply as he recalled two years ago in Liaodong—the clash of titans, where as the host he had faced a brutal threat but was forced into neutrality. Such impotence and helplessness. Was history about to repeat itself here?

Zhang Ji considered leaving the governor’s office to investigate personally.

But at this moment, anxiety gripped everyone.

He feared that if he left, the office would succumb to xenophobic panic the instant he was gone.

Soon, Zhang Ji received another piece of good news.

The culprit behind the sinking of the foreign ironclads was an immortal; the immortal had flown toward the city, so the foreigners couldn’t blame them!

“Absurd!”
“Do you take me for a fool?”
“An immortal?”
“You must be possessed, scheming again with the remnants of the Red Lotus.”

Faced with the governor’s furious outburst, the officials trembled, especially since their superior had pinned such a heavy accusation; no one dared make a sound, silent as cicadas in winter.

Most of Zhang Ji’s anger dissipated, and after regaining his composure, he waved his hand to order further investigation. He planned to first call the foreign ministers and governors in the concession to test their reaction, then ponder how to report this earth-shattering event—could the governor of Liangjiang truly be so powerless as to resort to claiming an immortal did it?

Two hours later.

As he prepared a telegram to send to Tianjing, its contents boldly described a white-haired immortal wielding thunder to sink the foreign warships, Zhang Ji fell into deep silence.

“Master, send it,” urged an aide nearby.

“But…” Zhang Ji hesitated, torn.

“Master, the foreigners have said it’s none of our business—it was the immortal’s doing. We’re not crows shrieking disaster,” the aide persisted.

As long as the foreigners didn’t go mad and wage war on the court, even if the telegram seemed absurd, it wouldn’t be blamed for inciting catastrophe.

Still, Zhang Ji shook his head; the telegram in his hand felt as heavy as a thousand pounds.

“Ruisheng, I am now at an age where I know my fate—likely with only a few years left. At the end, what I want is to face heaven and earth with a clear conscience.”

As a kinsman, Zhang Ruisheng nodded in approval, his expression solemn and respectful.

His elder cousin was truly a gentleman.

“If I send this telegram, I’ll likely be judged powerless and incompetent. If that were all, so be it. But I fear the court will think me hysterical, refuse to listen or believe, missing the only opportunity, and perhaps even abetting evil. Should the immortal grow angry, how many heads in our nation could withstand his thunder?” Zhang Ji’s worry lay here.

Servant to the emperor, loyal to his duty.

After multiple verifications, visiting the site, and personally investigating, Zhang Ji had to admit—the immortal was real.

The entire city’s populace, along with the foreigners in the concession, had seen it.

It could not be fabricated.

Since it was real, and the immortal so formidable, then this was a heaven-sent opportunity! If the immortal could be invited to court as a national advisor, his power could surely sweep away decline, restore national prestige, and deter the barbarians!

“In that case, we should temporarily withhold the telegram,” Zhang Ruisheng suggested, his eyes gleaming.

“Oh?” Zhang Ji raised an eyebrow.

“Master, do you think the foreigners can win?”

“Unlikely.” If the foreigners were confident, they wouldn’t ask Zhang Ji for full assistance in capturing the attackers.

“And do you think the immortal can win?”

“Hmm, also difficult.” Xenophobia was not easily cured; the foreigners’ strength had penetrated deep into the national psyche.

Zhang Ruisheng spread his hands.

“No matter who wins, the court will not. If the immortal loses, he’s not truly an immortal. If he is, one word from him is more effective than any telegram in our hands.”

More effective than the imperial seal.

Even from a legal standpoint, the immortal was like heaven itself, and the emperor heaven’s son. Surely, a father instructing his son was better than foreigners harming him?

Hearing this, Zhang Ji looked deeply at his younger cousin—who, for years, had privately associated with the likes of Nong Jin Sun. Now, his intentions were barely concealed.

The immortal had last appeared at the International Press Club, coincidentally on the day of the founding of the Jingwu Gymnastics Association.

As Zhang Ji pondered, a phone call came into the governor’s office.

Zhang Ruisheng waited a moment before answering.

Moments later.

Zhang Ruisheng hung up, his usually modest and reserved voice trembling with excitement.

“They’re panicking! Guns are useless! Guns! Useless! Now they're going to bring in cannons! Ships!”

“Enough; say no more. I am feeling unwell and must retire to bed—do not let anyone disturb me,” Zhang Ji interrupted decisively, rising and, his figure somewhat desolate, headed toward the back hall.

Whether by accident or design, Zhang Ji left the great seal representing the governor’s authority on the desk. Without changing expression, Zhang Ruisheng slipped the seal into his sleeve and swiftly departed the governor’s office, hurrying toward the river fleet’s garrison.