In the Huagai Hall of Yingtian Prefecture, the light that unfurled from the folding screen stretched outward until it rose nearly the height of two men, and as the young narrator's voice continued to drift from within it, image and sound together struck the gathered court with such force that even seasoned ministers felt their composure shaken.
Although the Son of Heaven had already warned his heir the day before, telling him to remember to greet the Marquis Wu, if the opportunity arose, the moment Zhu Biao saw the glowing curtain with his own eyes, heard the voices of distant ages, and watched the scenes unfold as if history itself had been peeled open before them, he found himself at a loss for words, and even Xu Da, who had faced battlefields without fear, stood silent.
"Father… this thing truly is…"
Zhu Biao could not even finish the sentence, for what he felt was not merely astonishment but a creeping sense of awe that bordered on reverence. According to what his father had told him, this luminous curtain could pierce through a thousand years, allow conversations with Zhuge Liang, Tang Taizong, and Song Taizu, and even reveal the knowledge of later generations. If that were not a manifestation of celestial will, then what else could it be?
Across countless dynasties, how many rulers had devoted themselves to alchemy, immortality, and the search for divine traces, only to grasp at nothing but smoke?
The thought that sprang up first in Zhu Biao's mind was simple and direct.
"Could it be… because of Father's merit in restoring China?"
The Ming Emperor lifted his chin slightly, pleased.
"This young fellow praises Our achievements quite highly," Zhu Yuanzhang said, his tone carrying the satisfaction of a man who had just been vindicated by history itself. "In judging clarity of rule, he compares Us almost to Tang Taizong."
Before this, whether sons or ministers heard such words, they might have suspected their sovereign of self-praise, but now that they had all witnessed the miraculous curtain, there was no longer room for doubt. The expressions around them shifted subtly, and feeling that change, the Emperor's mood improved further.
"Our Hongwu governance may be compared with Zhenguan," he continued, voice steady but firm, "yet in ordering the state, pacifying the people, and guarding against the remnants of the Hu, we must not slacken. Even later generations say Our Great Ming has its flaws."
Li Wenzhong, who had been sitting restlessly, could hold back no longer.
"Uncle, I have long said we should discuss pacifying the Japanese pirates and securing the seas!"
"Sit down."
Zhu Yuanzhang frowned, though not with real anger. He valued this adopted son and nephew deeply, yet Li Wenzhong's stubborn nature was something he knew well. Earlier, when the issue of Japanese raids had arisen, Li Wenzhong had clearly wished to imitate the Yuan campaigns against Japan. At the time, the Emperor, still mindful of the chaos of founding a dynasty and aware that the Yuan had exhausted themselves in those very expeditions, had pressed the memorial aside.
But now, remembering the crimes attributed to Japan in later generations, remembering the astonishing gold and silver said to lie hidden in those islands, and recalling the enormous characters of praise that had flashed across the curtain earlier when Li Shimin's achievements were discussed, Zhu Yuanzhang hesitated only a moment before waving his hand dismissively.
"This matter requires careful planning," he said. "It cannot be accomplished overnight."
Li Wenzhong grinned broadly and sat back down, satisfied. Compared with the earlier outright refusals, this was already a different answer.
Having settled that interruption, Zhu Yuanzhang turned to his eldest son again, and seeing the yearning still in Zhu Biao's eyes, his expression softened.
"Biao'er has practiced governance these four years," he said. "Later generations claim Our Hongwu reign lasts thirty-five. By that count, much of Our governing merit must include your diligence, benevolence, and decisiveness."
He paused, then added with a hint of pride.
"They even call you the Yongle Emperor, which shows your clarity as a ruler rivals Our own. You must strive."
Instead of delight, however, Zhu Biao's face dimmed with sudden sorrow.
"Father's lifespan does not reach eighty?" he murmured. "I would rather forgo any imperial title if only…"
He felt a firm pat on the back of his hand. Looking up, he saw his mother leaning lightly against the Emperor's shoulder, smiling gently, while Zhu Yuanzhang himself spoke with an easy frankness.
"Why speak such nonsense? Liu Bang died at sixty-one, Tang Taizong at fifty-two. If We reach seventy-four, that is already a long life."
He chuckled softly.
"And while alive We know Our posthumous name, and We know your good reputation. What more could We ask?"
Yet when his gaze drifted to little Zhu Xiongying nearby, the Emperor silently shook his head. Knowing the future in advance meant he could still change it. The bonds between this grandson and his uncles must be strengthened, he resolved. That tragedy of kin slaying kin must never be allowed to repeat.
While the imperial family shared this moment of warmth, Li Shanchang, stroking his beard, found himself unexpectedly envious.
Li Wenzhong, who might seem blunt but was far sharper than most realized, noticed the old minister's expression at once.
"Grand Secretary," he said with a grin, "are you wondering about your own lifespan as well?"
Li Shanchang's silence was answer enough.
"Think about it," Li Wenzhong continued cheerfully. "If this curtain truly knows the affairs of our Ming, then once we learn them, that future becomes old history, does it not? It might not come true at all."
Xu Da, sitting nearby, had also been curious, though he hid it better. Remembering that the Emperor had summoned imperial physicians to examine him earlier, a suspicion stirred quietly in his mind.
Could it be that His Majesty already knew how long he would live?
Beside them, Dai Sigong said nothing, his eyes fixed on the luminous curtain with unwavering focus, his instincts telling him that today's revelations might bring knowledge beyond measure.
At that moment, the young narrator's voice from the curtain grew clearer, and the shifting light reorganized itself into new scenes.
---
The voice spoke.
[Lightscreen]
[The Song dynasty was undoubtedly an age of flourishing culture and intellectual development.
Whenever anything develops, exploration of the unknown follows naturally, and under modern academic definitions, early human society experienced three major divisions of labor: the separation of herding from agriculture, the separation of handicraft from agriculture, and finally the separation of physical labor from intellectual labor.
Division of labor fosters independence and specialization, and this principle applies not only to production but equally to culture and scholarship.
As mentioned earlier, Song Ci was a man who truly loved whatever duty he undertook. During the four periods in which he served as judicial inspector, he came to feel deeply that the office carried enormous responsibility. Whether justice was upheld or wrongful convictions were created often depended on a single decision of the official in charge.
To ensure that human lives were treated as paramount, Song Ci, while serving as judicial inspector in Guangdong, implemented a series of regulations whose relevance can still be felt today.
For instance, failing to conduct an examination when one was required, the chief official not appearing in person, misjudging the cause of death, or concealing the true cause were all classified as serious derelictions of duty and subject to punishment.
Even this alone would have marked him as a capable and enlightened official, yet Song Ci was not satisfied.
In the year 1245, at the age of sixty, as he entered the twilight of his life, he began reflecting on his career. From what he had seen, he concluded that relying solely on conscientious law enforcement was far from enough.
In his experience, the primary cause of wrongful cases was not corruption but inexperience, which led to mistaken examinations and flawed judgments.
Simply put, officials lacked professional knowledge.
So how could that be solved?
For a scholar, the answer came naturally. Write a professional manual.
And once he began writing, forensic science in human history effectively opened a new chapter.
The work he produced, Xi Yuan Ji Lu, The Washing Away of Wrongs, was not actually the first book related to forensic study. In the preface, Song Ci clearly stated that he drew upon earlier works such as Nei Shu Lu and several others, collecting their strengths, correcting their errors, and adding his own insights until, after three years, the book was completed.
Why, then, do we still remember Xi Yuan Ji Lu today while the works it referenced have mostly been lost?
The answer is simple. Song Ci's level was truly extraordinary.
As perhaps the foremost forensic expert of his era and the chief judicial inspector himself, he incorporated numerous real cases he had personally handled into the text. This made its materials, arguments, and methods unusually detailed and practical.
Because the book was intended as a professional reference for law enforcement officials, he deliberately avoided ornate prose. Its theories were concise, its analysis clear, and its key points closely tied to real application.
Thus, in both scientific value and practical usefulness, the work achieved excellence on both fronts.
Most importantly, Song Ci placed the legal statutes of the Southern Song at the very beginning of the book and, with great caution, wrote a passage of advice that has echoed across centuries:
"Among all matters, none is more serious than capital punishment. Among capital cases, none is more crucial than the initial testimony. Among testimonies, none is more vital than examination. For in this lies the pivot between life and death, the hinge upon which hidden injustice may be revealed or buried."
The meaning, in the end, was simple.
One must speak with evidence.]