The Imperial Palace Is Fine, But This Minister Prefers Ninth Royal Uncle Manor

On the thirteenth day of the snow disaster and the ninth day of disaster relief, the Emperor's grain supply was finally exhausted. Grain transferred from other regions still hadn't reached the disaster zone. If they couldn't secure enough grain soon, the government's relief efforts would grind to a halt and become a joke.

The Emperor once again issued an order, demanding that the great clans and noble houses hand over their grain reserves. He promised that when the new harvest arrived next year, he would repay them in full.

Trading old grain for new is certainly a generous deal—but only if you actually have reserves to offer.

Over ninety percent of the great clans and noble houses had aligned themselves with the Emperor, but each of them had thousands, even tens of thousands, of people to feed. They had to eat too; even for disaster relief, they couldn't starve their own families.

Having been squeezed hard by the Emperor, the great clans and all the officials truly had no way out. Whenever the Emperor brought up the grain issue, they would start weeping—claiming poverty.

They themselves were on the brink of starvation—where could they possibly find more grain for the Emperor to use for relief? Recently, a sudden glut of grain on the market sent prices crashing, causing them to lose a fortune and forcing them to sell off old reserves for fear they'd become worthless. Now, their own stocks were nearly depleted; where could they scrape up more grain for the Emperor’s relief efforts?

The atmosphere at morning court these days was nothing but sorrow. The Emperor spoke of the people's misery, and the officials responded by lamenting their own poverty, leaving the Emperor with nowhere to turn. On this day, when the Emperor once again raised the issue of disaster relief, the officials, unable to withstand the pressure, finished their lamentations and tried to offer a suggestion.

“Your Majesty, we really have no more grain. This heavy snow has fallen for dozens of days—it’s deadly. No matter how much grain we have, it’s never enough. There is a batch of grain in the Jiangnan region, but it will take a month to transport it here.

Your Majesty... Isn’t there a benefactor among the people distributing porridge? He’s been serving rice porridge for nearly ten days and still has grain. Why don’t we borrow grain from him first, and when the Jiangnan grain arrives, we can pay him back?

It’s a good suggestion, but only if you can find that mysterious relief benefactor—nobody even knows who he is, so how could we borrow grain from him?

The Emperor did send people to investigate, even summoning Vincent Su to the palace and interrogating him repeatedly, but still found nothing—because Vincent truly didn't know.

Vincent Su was nearly in tears: "Your Majesty, I’m innocent! I truly don’t know who that mysterious person is. I’m just a merchant who borrowed a few workers, and it was the mysterious benefactor who paid their wages. Your Majesty, if you wish, I’ll pull my people out right away."

Following Vincent Su’s lead, investigators spent days trying to trace the source of the grain, but found nothing—the grain simply appeared in towns and cities without leaving a trace.

After Vincent Su invented the snow sled, he began resting by day and traveling at night. With the snow making nights as bright as day, and the sleds leaving only faint tracks quickly covered by fresh snow, the Emperor truly couldn’t discover the source of the grain.

The Emperor pressed Vincent Su even harder, but Vincent swore he’d rather die than keep going—he was just a small merchant, earning a hard living, and didn’t want to lose his life over this.

Quit? Of course not. If Vincent Su quit, there’d be no one distributing porridge and providing disaster relief, and the refugees would riot. Before, when there was no porridge, people had no choice; now that relief has begun, cutting it off would make the Emperor a public villain.

The Emperor was furious but helpless; he still had to rely on the mysterious benefactor for disaster relief, to stabilize public sentiment.

Ordinary people were grateful to the mysterious relief benefactor, but no one knew who he was. Now, when officials suggested borrowing grain from him, where could they even find him?

Enraged, the Emperor didn’t care whether his officials had any ideas; he simply issued a death order: by the next morning court, they must produce five thousand shi of grain, or be punished as if defying a military command.

Five thousand shi of grain—in the past, that would have been easy, but now...

“Minister Yu, where are we supposed to find five thousand shi of grain? Our whole household can barely eat enough to be seventy percent full. If this keeps up, we’ll all starve to death.” This snow disaster is killing us, and that mysterious porridge benefactor is making things even worse.

If not for this whole mess, we wouldn’t be so worried. If the refugees starved, they starved; dig a pit and bury them, that’s all. Every year, natural disasters kill tens of thousands—lowly commoners are like ants, dead is just dead, and nobody cares.

In previous years, disasters often meant mass starvation and even cannibalism. Everyone knew about it, but so what? As long as the local authorities kept it quiet and the Emperor didn’t hear, it was fine.

But this year... the disaster was worse, and someone exposed it. Now the refugees are enjoying blessings, while we’re the unlucky ones. Forget making a profit off the disaster—just keeping our official hats is hard enough.

“This time, the Emperor is serious about disaster relief. We’ll do our best to gather grain, but as long as there’s enough for our families to eat for a month, that’s all that matters. Once the Jiangnan grain arrives, we won’t have to worry.” Minister Yu, with his head full of silver hair but brimming with energy, looked every inch the leader among officials. Civil officials clustered around him, while the military men gathered around Prince Samuel Zhai.

Civil officials are sly, military men are straightforward—there’s some truth to that. After repeated imperial exactions, most military households had no grain left, barely enough to eat themselves. But most civil officials could still scrape together a little more.

It’s always the butchers who are loyal, and the scholars who are heartless. Once again, that old saying proved true. The military men all wore mournful faces: “Your Highness, we really can’t come up with any grain. My family doesn’t even have enough for tomorrow.”

“That’s right, Your Highness. The first time the Emperor called for grain donations, I gave everything except a month’s supply for my family. Then he called again, and I gave more. It’s been days since I’ve felt full.”

“As long as you can face your own conscience, that’s enough. If you can’t give grain, then you can’t.” Prince Samuel Zhai understood these men weren’t lying; military officers aren’t like civil officials. Without war, they have no chance to profit, so most are poor—how much grain could they possibly have?

“With Your Highness’s words, we’re reassured.”

The officials discussed as they walked out of the palace, civil and military men clearly split into two camps.

The Emperor stood atop a high tower, watching his officials leave the palace with anxious faces. His own expression grew even more solemn, and he seemed to age decades in an instant. “Have I gone too far?”

The Emperor sighed. He knew he’d pushed his officials nearly to the breaking point, but he couldn’t let go of his anger.

As Emperor of Eastlyn, he didn’t have much grain himself. How did the mysterious relief benefactor have so much grain, enough to keep distributing porridge? And that porridge was even thicker than what the government provided—wasn’t that a slap in the face?

Most crucially, right under his nose was someone with so much grain—how could he feel at ease? No matter what, he had to uncover that mysterious benefactor.

If that person bore no disloyalty, all would be well. But if he did, the Emperor would hunt him to the ends of the earth.

“Your Majesty, you’re thinking of the people. The officials will understand. Reports from all over show fewer deaths from the snow disaster, and the people have been properly cared for. Which refugee isn’t grateful to Your Majesty?” The eunuch tried to flatter him, but his voice faded at the end.

The main force behind disaster relief wasn’t the court—it was that mysterious benefactor, someone with enough grain to spare.

“Hmph...” The Emperor knew this well: without that mysterious benefactor, at least three hundred thousand would have died in this snow disaster. Because of his intervention, the death toll was greatly reduced—so far, only sixty thousand had died.

He should have been grateful to that mysterious relief benefactor, but the Emperor felt threatened.

The chief eunuch watched the Emperor’s expression carefully and saw it was darkening. His eyes flickered, and he decided to divert the flood: “Your Majesty, Prince Nolan has been living in the palace these days, perhaps you might...”

If you’re angry, vent it on Prince Nolan. We little people can’t bear it.

Prince Nolan?

A flash of calculation flickered in the Emperor’s eyes.

Right, how could he have forgotten Prince Nolan? Nolan was Vincent Su’s strongest supporter—maybe the mysterious benefactor was Nolan himself. But the Emperor doubted Nolan could stockpile so much grain under his nose, and doubted even more that Nolan would hand it out.

After all, it’s not easy for a prince to store up grain—if Prince Nolan was stockpiling, it must have been for rebellion. To hand it out for disaster relief now would be sheer stupidity.

No matter what, might as well test the waters first. Without another word, the Emperor headed straight for the palace quarters where Prince Nolan was staying.

The Emperor didn’t alert anyone, barging in unannounced. As soon as he entered, he saw Prince Nolan sitting by the window reading, so relaxed it was almost enviable.

Only when the Emperor approached did Prince Nolan realize he’d come. Nolan set down his book, rose calmly and unhurriedly, and offered a slight bow: “Your Majesty.”

“Ninth Brother, you’re in a refined mood.” The Emperor waved his hand, signaling Nolan to skip the formalities. He sat down without waiting for anyone to greet him, while Prince Nolan remained standing—without the Emperor’s order, he couldn’t sit. But...

Prince Nolan’s posture was nothing like the usual cringing ministers. He stood there quietly, tall and straight as a pine, without a trace of humility.

The sight infuriated the Emperor, but he couldn’t say a word. He pointed to the chessboard by his side: “Ninth Brother, play a game with me.”

“As Your Majesty commands.” Prince Nolan knew why the Emperor had come, so he wasn’t the least bit anxious. The Emperor wanted to play chess, so he played chess—he was in no hurry at all.

In one round, Prince Nolan showed no mercy, utterly crushing the Emperor. The Emperor’s face turned green—no one had dared play him so hard in ages. His Ninth Brother really was bold; even after all this time locked up, he hadn’t learned his lesson. Infuriating...

[Author’s note: Whew... This time, Prince Nolan is truly free!]