How Can I Bow and Scrape to Men of Power - Reviews

The central tension of these chapters is absolutely electric. Shen Yuan is convinced Xie Chengze is reborn. Xie Chengze is convinced Shen Yuan is the protagonist who will try to kill him. Both are right. Both are wrong about the details. And neither will blink first. Think about what's at stake here. Shen Yuan's entire plan hinges on keeping his rebirth a secret — it's his advantage for eliminating Xie Chengze early and saving loyal subjects from his clutches. If Xie Chengze finds out, the power dynamic flips. Meanwhile, Xie Chengze's survival depends on appearing harmless, whether that's through feigning illness or deliberately acting like a shameless romance novel enthusiast. His move to dump memorial-work on the Crown Prince isn't just petty — it's strategic positioning, weakening his brother while appearing filial. The stakes keep escalating. Shen Yuan draws his sword to test Xie Chengze's reaction. Xie Chengze's guards aren't even there — they went out to buy novels. The vulnerability is real. And that ending where Xie Chengze lies flat on his jade couch like a salted fish while cackling about the Crown Prince's misfortune? That's a man who has survived assassination and emerged not just intact but genuinely chaotic. The question hanging over everything is: when these two finally stop dancing around each other, who will break first?

The pacing in these chapters is a masterclass in controlled chaos. You start in the imperial study with Emperor Jian, Shen Yuan, and Xie Chengze all in the same room — maximum tension, every line of dialogue is a landmine. Then they exit the palace and the tension doesn't release, it just shifts. The walk together is this beautiful slow burn where Shen Yuan keeps trying to provoke Xie Chengze and Xie Chengze keeps deflecting with increasingly absurd behavior. The rumor subplot hits right after — Sheng Yiren's teahouse scene is a perfect breather that also deepens the mystery. We get outside perspective on what's happening, and it makes everything feel more real, more dangerous. The gossip is spreading, the stakes are rising, and Shen Yuan is just... tired. So tired. Then — BOOM — we cut to the Eastern Palace and the Crown Prince getting screwed out of his salary. The scene switch is sharp and funny and gives us a completely different angle on Xie Chengze's schemes. We see the consequences of his actions on a third party, which makes him feel more powerful and more dangerous. And the chapter ends with Xie Chengze lying flat on his couch like a salted fish, cackling to himself. After all that tension, that's the image that sticks with me. The author knows exactly when to ramp things up and when to let us breathe. The structure moves from confined spaces (the study, the palace gates) to wider social spaces (the teahouse) to private spaces (the Eastern Palace, Cheng Huan Palace), and each transition changes the emotional temperature in a deliberate way.

Okay so let me just say this—this world feels INCREDIBLY alive. Like, I can actually SEE the court hall. The ministers filing in, the emperor on his dragon throne, the whole bureaucratic machinery grinding along. And it's not just set dressing; the setting itself drives everything. The flood crisis in Yi Province isn't some abstract political talking point—it's the reason farmers have abandoned their land, the reason the treasury is bleeding silver, the reason corrupt officials are scrambling. The author doesn't just tell us "there's a flood problem." We get the Min River, the Jiangdu Plain, the snowmelt, the three-year cycle of dam destruction. It's specific enough that I can picture it, and it makes the political drama feel grounded in real stakes. But the scene that really sold me was the Ministry of Revenue donation ledger moment. The way the author describes the officials hovering, the ledger being announced, the tension as each name is called—that's cinematic. You can feel the room. The Minister of Revenue announcing "Supervising Censor Chen, donation silver: forty taels" and the collective reaction of the other ministers? I was there. I could feel their judgment, their relief, their sneering. And then Xie Chengze stepping up and writing down his own name—thirty-nine taels, nine mace, and ninety-nine copper coins. The precision of that detail, the exactness of being one copper coin BELOW the lowest official, it's such a vivid image. The author doesn't need to describe the room anymore; the ledger entry does the work. The world also has this beautiful layer of political texture—the Spring Examination, the Ministry of Rites, the Directorate of Celestial Observation warning of disasters. Every institution mentioned feels like it has history and weight. This isn't a generic ancient China backdrop; it's a functioning, breathing bureaucracy where every position matters and every decision ripples outward.

The stakes in this story are deceptively simple on the surface. Xie Chengze knows he's supposed to die in the original novel — pierced through the heart by Shen Yuan, pinned to the Dragon Throne. That's the external deadline hanging over him. But the real tension isn't about whether he'll survive; it's about whether he can actually disappear from the political game without triggering the very fate he's trying to avoid. Think about it: the original Xie Chengze was cruel, ruthless, killed his own siblings. That's what made him a threat. Now he's trying to be a slacker, but everyone around him interprets his actions through the lens of his reputation. When he dozes at court, Xie Jinyu sees covetousness for the throne. When he deflects the Yi Province question, the Crown Prince assumes there's a trap. The Emperor is still using him as a political tool regardless. Every attempt Xie Chengze makes to lie low is being read as a power move by people who already expect him to be scheming. That's where the real suspense lives. The author has created a situation where the protagonist's greatest challenge isn't fighting his enemies — it's convincing everyone that he's not fighting them. And the Yi Province memorial scene proves how high the stakes are even in a seemingly low-key moment. The ministers are arguing about abandoning a city, embezzlement accusations, national dignity — all while the Emperor watches and waits to see who will shine. Xie Chengze opting out isn't just funny, it's dangerous. Because in a system this rigged, refusing to play is itself a political statement. What happens when the whetstone stops sharpening the blade? Does the hand that holds it get cut?

"Preposterous! The Spring Examination is held once every three years to select the most talented individuals. How can we leak the questions in advance?" I am SCREAMING. This line alone tells me everything I need to know about this elderly official—he's a traditionalist, he's principled, and he's also clearly aligned with the Second Prince faction. The dialogue does SO much heavy lifting here. And it's not just him. Every character in this chapter has a distinct voice. The Minister of Rites? Flattering to the point of absurdity—"Your Highness is most wise!" I could hear the sycophancy in every word. The Minister of Revenue? Panicked, trembling, falling to his knees. You can HEAR his voice cracking. But the real star is Xie Chengze's internal monologue. The author gives us these hilarious asides that completely reframe the scene: "Sir! You're a good person! But no thanks—I just want to lay low right now!" This comes right after the elderly official winks at him like they're conspirators. Xie Chengze's internal voice is so different from his external performance—he's playing the court game while simultaneously commenting on it like a spectator. It's funny, it's sharp, and it makes him instantly sympathetic. The dialogue between Xie Jinyu and Xie Chengze is also incredible because of what's NOT said. Xie Jinyu reveals his full plan, expecting Xie Chengze to be furious about losing the opportunity. But Xie Chengze is just... playing with his fingers, looking bored. The silence between them is louder than any argument. And then there's Censor Chen's defiant declaration: "If I don't endure this hardship, who will?" One line. That's it. In three words, the author establishes an entire moral position and makes you respect this character instantly. The humor throughout is also noteworthy. Xie Chengze's internal complaints about being assigned to oversee the donations—"This damned emperor father—assigning him to oversee this matter? Isn't this just making him offend all the officials?"—it's relatable, it's funny, and it breaks the tension perfectly.

There's a layer to this chapter that I can't stop thinking about. The Treasure Ledger isn't just a plot device—it's a symbol of everything the original host was: greedy, hoarding, using love as a transaction. Emperor Jian gave him treasures, and he kept them all, never sharing, never giving back. The Yun Duan Jin and Cang Hai Zhu became symbols of power and favoritism that other consorts coveted. But now Xie Chengze is looking at this ledger and planning to give it all away. "He hoped the Ministry of Revenue would appreciate this generous gift." Is he being generous? Or is he strategically disposing of evidence? Or is he just... done? The author hasn't clarified his motives yet, and that ambiguity is the point. The treasures were never about wealth—they were about control. The lychees and grapes are also symbolic. The original host's rebellion was performative—he overturned the lychee tower to assert dominance even over something as simple as fruit. Xie Chengze eating the top lychee obediently is a quiet rejection of that performative cruelty. He's not rebelling because he doesn't need to prove anything. He's already won by not playing. And Chen Yushi bringing homemade food instead of silver—what does that say about genuine care versus transactional relationships in a palace where everything is bought and sold?

Okay can we just talk about how VISUALLY rich this chapter is? The government office with the silver bureau — nearly twenty chests neatly arranged, gleaming white silver visible to anyone who walks in. The Vice Minister pointing at chests while flattering Xie Chengze. Zhu Xiaobiao standing to the side, eyes squeezed shut, trembling like a leaf. The gold-threaded fan Xie Chengze uses to tap people on the head. The red court robes. The green command slips. The whole color palette of this scene is so vivid I could see it as a TV drama. And then there's the atmosphere. The incessant chirping of cicadas at night. Shen Yuan tossing and turning in a stuffy room. Two figures crouched at a corner turn — one in dark red, one in golden — whispering furtively with mischievous chuckles. That image alone gave me chills. Who are they? What are they plotting? The author drops these visual moments and just walks away, leaving you desperate for answers. The county office setting itself is fascinating — a place where official business happens (inventorying disaster relief silver) but also where personal drama unfolds (Zhu Xiaobiao's father getting pregnant news at the worst possible moment). The juxtaposition of the mundane and the dramatic is so well done. I also appreciated the details about the Jian'an Dynasty's liberal customs around female chastity — it's the kind of worldbuilding detail that doesn't get in the way of the story but makes the world feel lived-in and real. When Zhu Xiaobiao explains that the women stayed willingly because they were treated well, it makes sense in this cultural context.