Chapter 100: Master Yuanfu Has No Such Incompetent Disciples!

Hai Rui never joined the censorial officials in impeaching Zhang Juzheng; this greatly disappointed the court’s speech officials, though it was largely because Zhang Juzheng had never truly overstepped the emperor’s authority—he did not exploit the young emperor’s youth to oppress the widow and orphan.

The screen placed in the Wenhua Hall was the strongest proof of this.

On other matters, Hai Rui rarely voiced an opinion, but on the land-return decree, he would always lend his support; after receiving the imperial edict and returning to the capital, his sole desire was to compel Xu Jie to return his land—now he sought to force the southern gentry to return theirs.

“What are the specific regulations?” Hai Rui supported the land-return decree, but the precise method of implementation was highly debatable.

Zhang Juzheng spoke solemnly: “Once the powerful families of the southern court have surrendered their arms and armor, we begin land restitution. Confucius said governance begins with sufficient food; Guan Zhong, as minister to a hegemon, also taught that propriety and righteousness arise from abundance.”

“The southern court’s abuses have festered for generations. Forcing immediate land return would provoke excessive scrutiny; seizing land outright would replicate Jia Sidao’s public land law—sparking universal resentment and uproar. This is not a sustainable solution.”

In the late Southern Song, Jia Sidao implemented the public land law to rescue the court’s fiscal crisis, seizing all landholdings. Before the policy could be fully enforced, Jia Sidao was branded a traitorous minister; after his downfall, the seized lands became Kublai Khan’s military provisions, grain transports, and grants to meritorious officials.

“If we truly purchased land exceeding limits, it might be acceptable,” Wang Guoguang sighed. “But the imperial treasury is empty—how could we afford it?”

During the Jingding era, Jia Sidao did not seize land outright—he used huizi, paper currency. Southern Song paper money, like today’s Great Ming treasure notes, was so worthless it couldn’t even be used to wipe one’s backside.

Had Jia Sidao paid in real gold and silver to buy back the land, he would not have drawn such bitter resentment.

This is the single largest matter before the court this year—it must be done, and done well. Otherwise, the new policies are mere fantasy; national wealth and military strength become mirages.

The atmosphere grew heavy. All eyes turned to Zhang Juzheng, awaiting his decision.

In the late Southern Song, Jia Sidao’s policies stirred uproar; if the southern court mishandles land restitution, the entire gentry class will erupt in fury—so much so that even Zhang Juzheng may not be able to contain the chaos.

“Precisely so,” Zhang Juzheng nodded in agreement. “The abuses have accumulated over generations. A single imperial decree ordering outright seizure of ancestral lands will breed resentment. Excessive pressure, forced restitution—this is precisely how corrupt men stir unrest and deceive the ignorant, but never the wise.”

Tan Lun spread his hands. “I say: confiscate their homes! Whoever refuses to return land—confiscate their estate!”

“If they dare rebel, we crush them. Yu Shuai is stationed in Songjiang, Qi Shuai in the north—I refuse to believe they can defy us. Issue a direct order: return the land or lose your home. I hold strong troops—why fear their defiance?”

“Then let it be as the Grand Secretary says: enforce land restitution by decree,” Zhang Juzheng replied, seemingly in agreement.

Tan Lun smiled broadly. “Master, you’re too hasty. I was merely speaking out of turn. You handle it as you see fit. I only noticed your tension and tried to lighten the mood. Let’s resume the court deliberation—as if I never spoke.”

Tan Lun’s interruption eased everyone’s nerves. He knew himself to be impulsive—his words were merely an outburst.

The very purpose of the court is to mediate class conflicts. If every issue is pushed toward outright confrontation, the realm will be unstable—better to abandon the new laws than to ignite chaos.

Zhang Juzheng then spoke: “Last time, Xu Pan proposed at the Kunshan poetry gathering that ship permits be exchanged for land. I find this idea excellent. The Songjiang Maritime Office has just been established; the Fujian and Nanjing Provincial Governors report that a three-masted ship permit now fetches over 100,000 taels in the south—prices rise further when demand increases.”

“One ship permit exchanges for ten thousand mu of prime land; inferior land at one-quarter value, medium land at half. They settle trades among themselves, then present their consolidated claims to the court for permits.”

“The Songjiang Maritime Office will issue no more than two hundred permits annually.”

Ship permits require matching seals. The two halves of the permit are torn randomly from a single sheet; the jagged edges are aligned, and the seal and text are written across the seam. This practice, established after the Hongwu era’s blank-seal scandal, makes forgery nearly impossible—no torn edge can be perfectly replicated, and seam-sealing is exceedingly hard to counterfeit.

Two hundred permits must be reissued each year.

The first year’s land-return quota is twenty thousand hectares—first come, first served. Latecomers get nothing.

“People do not fear scarcity, but inequality,” Hai Rui understood instantly upon hearing Zhang Juzheng’s quota system.

Without a ship permit, one is a pirate. To trade, one must live in constant dread—from shipbuilding to final sale—every step must be flawless. A single mistake means violation: confiscation is minor; execution is the real danger.

By limiting permits in the first year, those who return land earliest gain permits and gain legal access to overseas trade.

This is manipulation—Zhang Juzheng is a master of human psychology.

A mature statesman does not merely act himself—he must compel others to act voluntarily, to cooperate with policy. Clearly, this is Zhang Juzheng’s ruthless cunning.

Zhang Juzheng has lost in minor matters, but in the twin goals of enriching the state and strengthening the military, he has never lost.

So—did he truly lose those few battles, or did he never intend to win them at all?

"Then let us try it?" Ge Shouli paused before speaking. "If it works, fine; if not, we'll find another way."

“Does anyone oppose?” Zhang Juzheng looked around.

The court does not seize land outright—it accepts land in exchange for ship permits. The Yuegang permits total only 110; each is priceless. Songjiang’s two hundred permits per year will dilute prices, but they will remain stable at a non-loss level.

This court deliberation was brief—after all, the metropolitan examinations were the capital’s paramount concern.

Zhang Juzheng was gathering his materials for the lecture when Zhu Yijun, after long deliberation, finally asked: “Master, was this intentional?”

“Your servant does not understand,” Zhang Juzheng bowed. What did the young emperor mean?

Zhu Yijun said: “Your two sons are taking the metropolitan examination—is this to divert the censorial officials’ attention, easing the passage of the land-exchange decree?”

“This…” Zhang Juzheng, rarely at a loss for words, hesitated—his stammering was answer enough. He had deliberately exposed his sons to draw fire.

“Master Zhang is truly ruthless!” Zhu Yijun was genuinely awestruck.

Zhang Juzheng considered, then clasped his hands: “Children grow beyond paternal control. They have held the juren degree for years. If I forbid them from taking the exam, they nag incessantly. So I let them try—to learn there is always a higher mountain, a wider sky.”

“What if they pass?” Zhu Yijun smiled.

Zhang Juzheng paused. “They won’t.”

“Begin the lecture,” Zhu Yijun said, dismissing the matter. “Proceed, Master.”

“One must study regularly to delight in learning; one must review the old to understand the new. We have carefully re-examined last year’s lecture texts, revised unclear explanations, and removed digressions. We have compiled one volume on the Great Learning, one on the Book of Yu, four on the Comprehensive Mirror, and presented them bound.”

“We humbly beg Your Majesty, in moments of leisure, to review these old teachings, lest you forget new insights. May they gradually illuminate Your Sacred Person and serve your governance.”

It took a full year to lecture on the Analects—not because Zhang Juzheng taught poorly, nor because the emperor learned slowly, but because the emperor asked too many detailed questions. As a novice reader, he needed every phrase explained. Future texts will be less complex.

Zhang Juzheng bowed: “Today we begin the Mencius.”

“Mencius met King Hui of Liang. King Hui, originally a marquis of Wei, had usurped the title of king. Mencius, upholding the Dao, refused to meet rulers. But King Hui, humbling himself and offering generous gifts to attract talent, presented Mencius with an opportunity to spread his doctrine—so Mencius went to him.”

“Upon seeing Mencius, King Hui asked: ‘Sir, you have come a thousand li—what strategy can benefit my state?’”

“Mencius replied: ‘I say the king must not speak of profit, for the king is the ruler of the state, the people’s example.’”

“If the king seeks only profit, saying ‘How can profit benefit my state?’—this sets a precedent. Ministers will ask, ‘How can profit benefit my household?’ Commoners will ask, ‘How can profit benefit me?’ The upper exploits the lower; the lower exploits the upper. Mutual exploitation breeds rebellion. The state becomes perilous.”

“Thus, in a ten-thousand-chariot state, those who kill their ruler are often families of a thousand chariots; in a thousand-chariot state, they are families of a hundred chariots. Ten percent taken from a thousand, a hundred from a hundred—this is not insignificant.”

As Zhang Juzheng lectured on Mencius, it directly mirrored today’s land-return issue: a ruler who seeks only profit invites rebellion.

Tan Lun, a jinshi, understood this well. His call to confiscate homes was merely to ease tension—during the land-return discussion, the atmosphere had been so suffocating, no one could breathe. This matter was too grave.

Zhu Yijun agreed: “To seek only profit invites rebellion. A thousand-chariot state kills the ten-thousand-chariot; a hundred-chariot state kills the thousand-chariot. Soon, rites, music, and warfare will originate from feudal lords and ministers—chaos will reign.”

“But should a ruler not speak of profit?”

Zhang Juzheng immediately denied: “Of course not.”

“Mencius said: ‘Why must the king speak of profit? There is only benevolence and righteousness.’ Benevolence is the virtue of the heart, the principle of love; righteousness is the heart’s restraint, the appropriateness of action.”

“The word ‘also’ here is crucial. Mencius did not say the king must not speak of profit—he said he must not speak of it alone. He must also uphold benevolence and righteousness.”

Like the unity of knowledge and action, like Confucius’s pure, unblemished childlike heart—over centuries of interpretation, the original meaning faded. When we open these classics and read them as intended, we see: Confucius and Mencius did not reject profit—they simply prioritized benevolence and righteousness.

But scholars, reading on, came to regard speaking of profit as shameful—something one must never mention.

Zhang Juzheng continued: “Mencius told King Hui that governance requires benevolence and righteousness because, at that time, the Way was obscured, hearts were corrupted, and wandering scholars all flattered rulers with profit-driven rhetoric—mere expedient lies. Mencius alone championed benevolence and righteousness to curb rampant desire and preserve heavenly principle as it teetered on collapse—his achievement was immense.”

“Throughout the seven chapters, this is the sole intent. Readers must ponder it deeply.”

Mencius spoke only of benevolence and righteousness because, in his era, profit-driven discourse was already overwhelming—not because he rejected profit. To read only the Analects and Mencius rigidly, ignoring historical context, is to misunderstand the sages entirely.

“Master, your wisdom is profound,” Zhu Yijun said. “Minister of Rites Wan Shihé once said, when defending southern gentry: ‘Only benevolence and righteousness—why speak of profit? It invites ruin!’”

“‘Only’—Wan Shihé meant: benevolence and righteousness alone suffice; profit need not be mentioned.”

“Wan Shihé, fifth-eighth ranked jinshi of the Jiajing twentieth year, rose to Vice Minister of Rites in Longqing’s early years. Yet even he reads poorly—only quoting dogma, as if any deviation from the sages’ words is a crime against heaven, a violation of cosmic order, as if tomorrow the Great Ming will collapse.”

Zhang Juzheng thought carefully: “Wan Shihé has recently improved his reading. Just as one must eat to live, the court must govern the realm—and thus must speak of profit.”

Hai Rui twice outmaneuvered Wan Shihé; Feng Bao thrice quoted Confucius and Mencius to rebuke him for reading without understanding; Zhu Yijun twice reprimanded him. Wan Shihé’s reading has finally improved—he now practices what he learns, and even uses contradictions to analyze the sages’ teachings.

This is a good change.

Zhang Juzheng is a practical official. Gentlemen shun talk of profit—but Zhang Juzheng does not. He advocates enriching the state and strengthening the military—every policy speaks of profit, even intensifies it.

The lecture ended. Zhu Yijun bowed slightly, concluding today’s session.

Zhu Yijun did not leave immediately. “Master, Hai Zongjian said you are skilled at planning for the state, but clumsy at planning for yourself. As the foremost censor of the realm, his judgment carries weight. Forcing your two sons to bear such public scrutiny—they have not entered office; can they withstand it?”

“To achieve extraordinary feats, one must do extraordinary things. But if those who bear the burden are not in office, it becomes private gain—not righteous. The court’s storms should not fall on ordinary people.”

Zhang Juzheng bowed: “My sons wished to take the exam—not entirely for public good, but for private ambition as well.”

“Then so be it,” Zhu Yijun said, walking out of the Wenhua Hall with measured steps.

“Your Majesty, farewell,” Zhang Juzheng bowed deeply. This young emperor was cunning indeed—he had used the golden cicada strategy: shifting all censorial attention to his sons’ examination, while quietly advancing the land-return decree in the south.

Zhang Juzheng understood the scholar-officials’ game: when they cannot solve a problem, they eliminate the one who raised it. He knew how to play it too.

Thus, the censorial officials would fixate on Zhang Juzheng manipulating the imperial examinations—reducing pressure on the land-return policy, making it easier to proceed.

Could he withstand the censors’ attacks? Could Song Yangshan and Wang Daoqun withstand them?

Song Yangshan still bore the burden of Hu Zongxian’s wrongful case—the forged edict nearly broke him. Wang Daoqun was Hu Zongxian’s close friend and comrade—he knew of Song’s ordeal. Could they still work together?

As Zhang Juzheng divided the southern gentry, Xu Jie and other powerful families were dividing the officials implementing the policy.

They divided by court faction: Zhang Cheng and Zhang Jin had assaulted censor Wang Yi in the south—that was division.

They divided by identity: Wang Daoqun was Zhe Party, Song Yangshan was Zhang Party, Yu Dayou was Imperial Party, Zhang Cheng and Zhang Jin were eunuch faction.

They divided by enmity: Song Yangshan was Hu Zongxian’s enemy; Wang Daoqun was his closest friend.

If Song Yangshan and Wang Daoqun split, the southern land-return decree would collapse. Zhang Juzheng would make no compromise.

Tan Lun, Grand Secretary, had said: issue a direct order—return land or lose your home!

The two provincial governors, unable to withstand pressure, had surrendered—or been divided. The policy had stalled. Zhang Juzheng now planned to intervene personally, using force to seize the land illegally occupied by the powerful.

He would drown it in blood.

The court, from its founding, was violence.

Zhang Juzheng knew how treacherous this path was. He gave everything—used every means—to walk it.

When the metropolitan examination results were posted, the censorial officials realized they had been tricked again by Zhang Juzheng’s treachery!

Of the three hundred jinshi selected, neither of Zhang Juzheng’s sons appeared on the list. His two famously gifted sons had failed.

Zhang Maoxiu, brilliant from childhood, had mastered composition early—far surpassing the young emperor’s progress. At seven, he wrote essays; at sixteen, he passed the juren exam. His youthful talent was famed across the realm.

And yet—he failed.

“Master Zhang is truly… a scholar! He deceived us all!” Wang Jiaping, leaving the examination hall, had prepared an impeachment memorial against Zhang Juzheng—only to fire a dud.

The target had vanished.

Inside the Quanjin Hall, Ge Shouli sipped tea calmly and said, “They remember being fed but not being beaten. Yuanfu has mastered this trick of feigning one route while attacking another—Zhang Siwei and Wang Chonggu both fell for it, and the censors and remonstrating officials have no memory at all.”

“How many times have I emphasized this? How many times have I said it? Attacking Yuanfu must be grounded in concrete action—always secure irrefutable evidence. When I warned you not to stir up trouble over Zhang Jingxiu and Zhang Maoxiu taking the exam, what happened? Who’s the one embarrassed now?”

“Shooting arrows at no target invites ridicule.”

Fan Yingqi thought for a moment and said, “Ge Gong truly understands the greater good. By seizing Gao Qiyu as leverage, you caught Yuanfu completely off guard—remarkable!”

“Isn’t that right? The chief examiner was Lü Diaoyang—Yuanfu’s top lackey—and yet he gave not the slightest favor to the party leader’s two sons, letting both fail the exam. Tsk tsk.”

“No poison, no true man. Zhang Juzheng is a ruthless one.”

Ge Shouli frowned and said, “It’s not ‘no poison, no true man’—it’s ‘no breadth, no true man.’ Don’t speak nonsense. The decline of scholarly virtue, the rampant distortions, all stem from such idle talk spreading by rumor. The empire’s troubles come from exactly this.”

After scolding the two members of the Jin Party, Ge Shouli sat upright, squinting at Wang Jiasping and Fan Yingqi: “I told you not to take silver from juren and grant favors. Did you listen? Did you grant favors?”

“I suspect Yuanfu will use his sons’ failure to raise the banner of rooting out examination fraud, to halt the corruption in the imperial exams.”

“If you did, tell me now—don’t wait until Yuanfu comes after you, then come crying to me.”

Wang Jiasping and Fan Yingqi exchanged glances, then smiled. Wang Jiasping said, “I took the silver.”

Fan Yingqi echoed, “I took the silver too.”

Just as Ge Shouli’s face turned pale, both Wang Jiasping and Fan Yingqi spoke in unison: “But we did nothing.”

“Huh?” Ge Shouli stammered, “You took silver but did nothing? Who taught you this? This… this…”

“We learned from Li Le, the Censor of the Border Inspection Bureau,” Wang Jiasping said firmly. Li Le tricked Zhang Siwei and Wang Chonggu—collected their bribes, then still exposed the massive corruption in the Great Wall construction at Xuanfu and Datong. What could Zhang Siwei and Wang Chonggu do to Li Le?

Li Le is protected by Yuanfu. If Zhang Siwei and Wang Chonggu dared retaliate with underhanded tactics, Yuanfu would show them what true underhandedness means.

“In truth, we learned it from Yuanfu,” Fan Yingqi said with a strange expression. “It’s not so bad—take the silver, do nothing. These failed juren will come back again, bringing more gifts, begging for guidance.”

After hearing this, Ge Shouli sighed in awe: “You two truly have done every evil under heaven.”

“Since you took silver and tuition, they are your disciples. You must guide them well, offer thorough instruction—don’t hide anything. If they keep failing, they’ll harbor resentment. But if they pass, you gain the reputation of virtue, don’t you?”

“Mutual benefit brings mutual reward. We Jin Party cannot match the Zhang Party’s unity. Since we form our faction through shared hometown, school, and master, don’t act so vilely—you’ll invite future ridicule.”

“Remember this: those who bring ruin upon themselves shall perish.”

“We humbly accept Ge Gong’s teaching,” Wang Jiasping and Fan Yingqi said quickly.

Wang Jiasping and Fan Yingqi dared not disobey—Ge Shouli attended court deliberations and knew far more than they did, understood the court’s senior ministers better. This information gap meant Ge Shouli, standing higher and seeing farther, could warn them and spare them disaster.

True enough, the next day, Zhang Juzheng submitted a memorial urging the purification of exam ethics and the eradication of fraud, summoning four thousand juren to begin a sweeping investigation into examination corruption—unprecedented in scale.

Under this storm, officials from the Ministry of Rites, the Censorate, the Hanlin Academy, the Five City Military Commands, and even the Embroidered Uniform Guard’s Tiqi were exposed. The Tiqi had been assigned to inspect for concealed notes since Longqing 2, and three of them were identified—causing shock throughout court and realm.

Lü Diaoyang and Wang Xilie submitted memorials requesting resignation due to guilt, but the Emperor issued an edict refusing their request and forbidding further discussion.

The situation was far better than Zhu Yijun and Zhang Juzheng had anticipated.

Examination fraud had persisted since the Zhengtong era of Emperor Yingzong. In Zhengtong 4, Hanlin Academician Pei Lun served as chief examiner; fraud ran rampant. Pei Lun refused to align with Yang Shiqi and refused to cheat—even denying favors to his own son-in-law. After overseeing the metropolitan exam, he was immediately dismissed.

Zhang Juzheng expected to catch either the chief examiner, like Wang Xilie, or a deputy examiner, like Wang Jiasping or Fan Yingqi.

Every juren was scrutinized meticulously, no trace overlooked—even within the Tiqi , internal traitors were uncovered. Yet not a single deputy examiner was caught, let alone the chief examiner.

Only minor players were caught. No large-scale, systematic fraud was uncovered.

More precisely, the Great Ming’s Grand Secretary Zhang Juzheng had cast his net—but caught no fish, only shrimp.

Wang Jiasping and Fan Yingqi were deeply relieved. Thank heaven they’d heeded the party leader’s advice and stayed out of trouble—otherwise, they’d be reporting to the execution ground tomorrow.

“Was Gao Qiyu’s case a trap set deliberately by Yuanfu?” Wang Jiasping asked Ge Shouli, still shaken.

Ever since the metropolitan exam, Wang Jiasping had visited the Quanjin Hall three times a day, even renting a study room there—not because he needed it, but to stay close to the party leader and be ready to speak.

Wang Jiasping actively supported the party leader.

Ge Shouli was furious at Wang Jiasping’s timidity. Zhang Juzheng’s cunning and ruthlessness had truly intimidated Wang Jiasping and Fan Yingqi.

Ge Shouli tapped the table: “Don’t be paranoid. Gao Qiyu’s case—Yuanfu didn’t even know about it. How hard is it to get a pass from the Quanchu Hall? Only ten were issued this year. If Yuanfu had known and arranged for Gao Qiyu’s misconduct, would he have furiously revoked his pass?”

“How much damage did Gao Qiyu’s case cause Yuanfu? Had the Emperor not personally defended him, openly excusing and favoring him—even refusing to punish Gao Qiyu—Yuanfu would have been forced to resign over that provincial exam question alone.”

“Where have you read your contradictions? We can only decide the beginning—not the course or outcome of events.”

“Don’t be spooked by every whisper. If the facts are solid, impeach as you must.”

Fan Yingqi, bewildered, said, “Ge Gong is truly formidable. Every time you’ve clashed with Yuanfu, you’ve emerged victorious. We should follow Ge Gong’s lead.”

“Yang Taizai is formidable—he taught me everything,” Ge Shouli said modestly. His actions followed the principles Yang Bo had laid out before retiring.

“Knowing and acting as one is easy to say, hard to do. Ge Gong embodies it—truly a model for us all,” Wang Jiasping immediately flattered. A party leader who can resolve crises, withstand pressure, and still get things done—find one like him with a lantern?

Ge Shouli merely smiled. Yang Bo had spent his life teaching him by example: when all around you bloom with splendor and praise, that’s when you’re most in danger. To drown in flattery is to lose yourself, your heart, your direction.

Had the young Emperor not blocked Zhang Siwei’s return to court by citing his unseemly appearance, and had Zhang Siwei seized control of the Jin Party’s finances, Ge Shouli’s position as party leader would have become unbearable.

All affairs under heaven boil down to fame and profit.

Meanwhile, the young Emperor was on his way to the Baoqi Office. Spring had come, and plowing season was beginning. Zhu Yijun’s personal involvement in farming wasn’t just about building the Baoqi Office—it was a daily ritual. Rain or shine, he visited every day to check on Xu Zhen’s agricultural writings and whether better seedling methods had been found.

As Zhu Yijun exited Xuanwu Gate, he saw far ahead a man kneeling—Gao Qiyu.

The young Emperor walked slowly forward and stopped three zhang away. Zhu Xixiao’s hand drifted to his sword—he looked at Gao Qiyu as he once looked at Wang Jinglong, eager to draw his blade and cut him down. Wang Jinglong had attempted regicide; Gao Qiyu’s offense was no less grave.

“Your subject is guilty,” Gao Qiyu said, bowing his head again upon seeing the Emperor.

Zhu Yijun smiled at Gao Qiyu: “I told you, the matter is settled. What are you doing here?”

Gao Qiyu spoke earnestly: “I beg Your Majesty to punish me. As a disciple of Yuanfu, I acted wickedly. If I am not punished, it may cause division between Your Majesty and Yuanfu. I am terrified—hence I come to plead for punishment.”

Zhu Yijun looked at Gao Qiyu and smiled: “If you’d thought of this before acting, would you have done this? You overestimate yourself. Your actions cannot possibly drive a wedge between me and my teacher. My teacher has grand ambitions—to revive the Great Ming. As long as that ambition remains unchanged, our bond as ruler and minister remains unbroken.”

Even if he were named Regent? As long as he revives the Great Ming, even after Zhang Juzheng’s death, granting him the title of Regent is no problem. A minister who achieves great merit and great grace for the throne—Zhu Yijun could grant it. But Zhang Juzheng would never accept it—and couldn’t afford to.

Even a first-rank salary, Zhang Juzheng had argued over three times.

Zhu Yijun looked left and right, studying him for a long moment, then suddenly understood: “I know what you’re worried about. One crime, no double punishment. If you’re not punished now, this sin will become the skin peeled off to reveal the bone—harmful to my teacher. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Gao Qiyu said, stunned. This young Emperor, though small, had seven openings in his mind—he saw through everything!

“Fine. You’re still a man—not an ungrateful wolf. You know you’ve caused trouble and won’t burden my teacher with it. That alone makes you better than many. Wang Yangming spent his life upright, yet his disciples were all empty talkers—so much so that Wang Yangming still can’t be enshrined beside Confucius.” Zhu Yijun nodded, acknowledging Gao Qiyu as a man.

At least this Gao Qiyu was still a man—he took responsibility for his mistakes. Last time, he submitted a memorial requesting retirement; now, he knelt at Xuanwu Gate waiting to meet the Emperor. He didn’t assume the matter was over just because it was settled—he cared how Zhang Juzheng would weather the fallout, whether old charges might be revived.

Zhu Yijun thought a moment: “Since you want punishment, I’ll demote you to County Magistrate of Liyang in Suzhou Prefecture.”

“Your Majesty, please clarify,” Gao Qiyu said, his expression relaxing slightly—he understood he was being demoted, but didn’t know why Suzhou. A county magistrate in Suzhou was a lucrative post. Why send him there? The Emperor must have a specific order.

Zhu Yijun said sternly: “After Ma Yilong, my agricultural master Xu Zhen’s teacher, retired, he reclaimed over 127,000 mu of wasteland—all of it seized! Go there and reclaim those fields. If you complete this task, I will forgive you.”

“Your subject accepts the decree,” Gao Qiyu said, kowtowing and receiving his assignment.

Gao Qiyu finally understood why the young Emperor had personally recalled Hai Rui—they were kindred spirits, united in purpose. Hai Rui and the Emperor were both obsessed with returning land.

Zhu Yijun said to Gao Qiyu: “If you lack strength, seek help from Wang Daoqun, Song Yangshan, Yu Shuai, and Chen Lin. If that fails, seek out Battalion Commander Luo Bingliang. If even that fails, resign on the spot, hand in your seal, and return home to become a landlord.”

“Yuanfu has no such incompetent disciples!”

“If you lack vision, lack humility, stir trouble, and drag down your benefactor—fine. But if you lack ability, what use are you as an official? Go home and sell sweet potatoes!”

Zhu Yijun swept his sleeve and strode toward the Baoqi Office.

“Your subject obeys. May Your Majesty depart in peace,” Gao Qiyu said, kneeling until the footsteps vanished completely before rising.

If he couldn’t even handle this task, he’d likely fail at selling sweet potatoes too. Better to hang himself, end this shameful life, and preserve his last shred of dignity.

Thus, the court deliberation at Wenhua Hall on returning land, Zhang Juzheng’s cunning escape like the golden cicada shedding its shell—what happens next? Stay tuned for the next chapter. *Snap!* Thank you to “Yishi Gong” for 1500 points of appreciation. Thank you for your support and recognition. Requesting monthly votes! Awoooooo!!!

(End of Chapter)