Chapter 140: You Take the Fall

Wen Tiren, just released, absolutely did not want to go back to that hellhole of the Imperial Prison.

Though no one had tortured him, listening to the tortured prisoners' ceaseless howls and wails every day, Wen Tiren felt that the fact he hadn't gone mad by now was simply a testament to his iron nerves — or perhaps his ancestors' blessing and his own great fortune.

Wen Tiren, a born sycophant, had long since figured out Chongzhen's temperament. This lord, though moody and unpredictable, had his mind filled entirely with Ming supremacism; toward foreign peoples, his attitude had always been to wish them all dead.

Now, by bringing up this matter, whether sincere or feigned, he was at least making a show of extending an olive branch to the foreign tribes, demonstrating his stance as the Son of Heaven who ruled over all the eight directions.

Thinking of this, Wen Tiren replied bluntly: "Reporting to Your Majesty, since ancient times, the Son of Heaven has dwelled in the center and ruled over the eight directions and the six harmonies.

Under Heaven, no land is not the sovereign's land; to the shores of the realm, no man is not the sovereign's subject."

Seeing that although Chongzhen still wore that expressionless face, the corners of his eyes had lifted ever so slightly — a detail the all-discerning Wen Tiren caught — his heart steadied, and he continued: "Now Your Majesty wishes to bring all the eight directions into one body.

This is an unparalleled benevolent governance. Yet there remain a few small matters that must be resolved; otherwise, this matter of assimilation will still be difficult beyond difficulty."

Chongzhen, a shut-in from the later age, could never have imagined so many twists and turns. In the later age, didn't they say something about fifty-six flowers? Was he supposed to learn from the later age and give preferential treatment to fifty-five of them?

No — if he did that, the one remaining flower that currently dominated would likely turn into a man-eating flower and devour him, the Emperor, first. Besides, if that was what it took to unify the eight directions, then what the hell had he transmigrated here for?

Chongzhen's mind churned with many thoughts, but in reality only an instant had passed. Still not having figured it out, he asked curiously: "What small matters? Speak, my beloved minister."

Wen Tiren discreetly observed him and found no sign of imminent rage; the Emperor's expression remained unchanged. Steadying himself, he replied: "Reporting to Your Majesty, take our Great Ming as an example.

As the saying goes, the speech differs every ten li, the customs every hundred li — to say nothing of the vastness of the entire world."

At Wen Tiren's words, Chongzhen cursed inwardly — Damn. He had still oversimplified things.

What era was the later age? Television, radio — what didn't they have?

Wherever you went in all of China, whether you knew the local dialect or not, as long as you spoke Mandarin, you'd get by without a problem.

But in the Great Ming? Once you left the capital and got to Tianjin Garrison, if you said something, the Tianjin folk could still figure out what you meant.

But if you went to the Datong and Xuanfu region, or all the way to Sichuan, someone would probably take it as a greeting to their family members — a single sentence might well spark a homicide.

Yet understanding was one thing; the matter still had to be solved. Even without Mandarin, didn't the Great Ming still have its official speech?

Try pushing it hard? With this thought in mind, Chongzhen said to Wen Tiren: "Hmm, We did indeed oversimplify things.

In Minister Wen's opinion, would there be difficulty in spreading our Great Ming official speech?"

Wen Tiren gave a bitter laugh.

"Difficult!

Difficult! Difficult!

Your Majesty, our Great Ming's official speech is not something everyone can speak. In some remote and barbarous regions, how many can even understand it is a question in itself.

To spread it, we would first need enough literate men to go down to the county schools, even the community schools, and teach children to speak the official speech from childhood. Otherwise, it is merely trying to scoop the moon from the water."

Mother of his! Chongzhen cursed inwardly.

Where in this era were fine things like television, radio, and cassette tapes to help him spread the Great Ming's official speech? The guys who invented those things — who knew where they were, or whether they'd even been reincarnated yet.

Who was he supposed to count on? He'd originally meant to strike hard against Confucianism, and now, damn it all, he couldn't get away from Confucianism.

The Gongyang school fellows who'd emerged so far were just two or three small cats — utterly unreliable.

But to rely on the Lu Confucian faction to handle this, Chongzhen was deeply worried they'd smuggle in their own agenda and chant a twisted scripture once they got down to the local level.

After all, he couldn't possibly assign one Embroidered Uniform Guard to every Confucian scholar, could he? The Embroidered Uniform Guard wouldn't have to do anything else — just keeping an eye on these fellows would work them to death.

As Chongzhen was agonizing over this, he heard Wen Tiren raise a second issue: "Furthermore, since the First Emperor standardized the script and the axle-width, weights and measures were also unified long ago.

Yet now among the common people, though all use sixteen liang to the jin, these sixteen liang vary in size. Three chi make one zhang, yet the zhang also varies in length.

This is extremely inconvenient, and the exchange of goods between regions is much hampered by it."

Chongzhen, already irritated, blurted out: "Unify it, unify it." In his agitation, even the catchphrase of Ying the Fatty from a novel he'd read in his past life — The Greatest Chaos in History — slipped out, lacking only the same Xi'an accent to go with it.

Wen Tiren gave a bitter laugh. "Your Majesty, this matter has been worked on since the time of the Exalted Emperor, our Great Founder, yet to this day it still has not been fully unified. The standards used by the common people in various places remain utterly chaotic."

"Mother of his" was no longer sufficient to describe Chongzhen's mood at this moment; adding a "damn it all" probably wouldn't cut it either.

In the later age, they'd played it so well — ten millimeters to a centimeter, ten centimeters to a decimeter, ten decimeters to a meter; fifty grams to a liang, ten liang to a jin. That stuff was so easy to remember — simple and convenient.

What the Great Ming used now was still the base-sixteen system that had been in use since the pre-Qin era. This thing, though it conformed to some yin-yang and eight-trigram progression rule, was damn inconvenient to calculate.

Damn it — no wonder the Great Ming's mathematics never advanced; the root of it must lie right here.

Growing ever more irritated, Chongzhen said: "Change it! From now on, let ten qian be one liang, and ten liang be one jin.

Whether between jin and liang, or between chi and cun, subdivide them further, and then use base-ten. Using base-sixteen, the common people's calculations are quite inconvenient — this must be changed."

Having said this, he gave Wen Tiren a deeply meaningful look and said flatly: "Tomorrow's court assembly, Minister Wen?"

... What kind of "damn" was going through Wen Tiren's heart at this moment, no one could possibly know. So you dragged your humble minister out of the Imperial Prison just to do this?

All the various black pots, you're planning to have your humble minister carry every one of them, is that it? This damn system has been in use for several thousand years — you, the Emperor, just touch your upper lip to your lower lip and say change it, and it's to be changed?

Won't the common people curse me, Wen Tiren, to death? A thousand years from now, I, Wen, will probably have a reputation worse than that of Grand Official Qin, won't I?

The crime of toadying to the sovereign and deluding the government — I can forget ever washing that stain away!

No matter how unwilling he was in his heart, this matter still had to be done. Otherwise, if this lord, in a fit of rage, threw him back into the Imperial Prison, that would be the real injustice.

Wasn't Xie Jin, Academician Xie, from the time of the Exalted Emperor, our Great Founder, impressive enough? By the time of the Chengzu Emperor, didn't he still inexplicably lose his life inside the Imperial Prison?

What was the cause of death again? Admiring the snow?

Mother of his!

Fellow students who have recommendation tickets on hand, please cast them for Wind Rises in America. An author in the same group is charging the rankings and urgently needs fire support.

(This chapter is complete)