Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve: The Jin Party

After dinner, Zhu Yijun recounted every detail of the events at the Northern Town Surveillance Office to Empress Dowager Li, deliberately omitting what he had said to Feng Bao.

Both imperial dowagers were young, and facing the old schemers of the outer court, they were somewhat at a loss—why burden them with worry?

“How did His Majesty think of having Zhang Hong impersonate Feng Da?” Empress Dowager Li’s eyes brightened with each word; her son seemed to be showing early wisdom. Without Wang Zhang’s mistaken identification, Feng Bao could never have so easily shaken off suspicion—it would have brought even more trouble.

Zhu Yijun blinked his innocent big eyes and said matter-of-factly: “Feng Da is a senior eunuch in the palace; a villainous servant—how could he possibly be seen? Even if Feng Bao truly did it, how could he appear in person? That villain Wang Zhang stubbornly claimed Feng Da ordered it—that must be false.”

“Good, good, good—His Majesty is wise; I am deeply moved. I believe your father would smile in peace.” Empress Dowager Li was slightly moved, her eyes glistening. Her husband was gone; she feared nothing else—only that the emperor would be weak, incapable, and fail to hold onto this legacy.

Now, after this great crisis, the young emperor had finally shown some change—even if minor—it was enough to comfort Empress Dowager Li.

Zhu Yijun lit a lamp and read the *Direct Explanations of the Four Books* under its glow for half an hour, then rubbed his eyes and prepared to rest—early to bed, early to rise, good for the body.

Zhang Hong attended to the emperor’s washing, hesitating to speak, clearly wanting to say something but finding it difficult to voice.

Zhu Yijun handed Zhang Hong the towel and asked: “Say what you wish—why be so hesitant?”

“Your Majesty, it probably wasn’t Gao Gong,” Zhang Hong finally voiced his doubt. When Feng Bao asked whether to dispatch troops to arrest Gao Gong, Your Majesty said to wait—and this one night’s delay may well save Gao Gong’s life.

Zhang Hong believed it wasn’t Gao Gong, because Zhang Hong lived in the corridor quarters—he knew those who reached the corridor quarters lacked the power to bring someone into the Qianqing Palace.

Chen Hong couldn’t do it. Gao Gong couldn’t do it—they had already lost their power.

“Whether it was Gao Gong or not,” Zhu Yijun said calmly, gazing at the dim crescent moon outside the window, “we’ll see how much benefit we can extract from this matter tomorrow.”

Zhang Hong lowered the bed curtain for the young emperor, then bowed and withdrew, retreating all the way to the door before bowing low and saying: “Your servant takes his leave.”

In the Great Ming, eunuchs had to leave the Qianqing Palace after curfew and could not return until the fifth watch. During the Chongzhen era, a eunuch named Chen Derun was banished from the palace for entering the Qianqing Palace fifteen minutes early, charged with unauthorized intrusion into the imperial quarters.

Zhu Yijun stared at the sandalwood-carved dragon bed, carefully reviewing the events of the past day and a half, then drifted into a drowsy sleep.

A waning moon hung in the sky, stars scattered across the heavens; only scattered lights flickered across the capital. Yet inside the Quan Chu Guildhall on the south side of the eastern entrance to the Xi Cheng donkey and horse market, lanterns blazed brightly.

Where was the Quan Chu Guildhall?

It was the private residence of Zhang Juzheng, the current Grand Secretary of the Great Ming.

Before its gate stood two lifelike, imposing stone lions, majestic beneath the night palace lanterns. Though curfew had long passed, two men still delivered their visiting cards at the gate.

Curfew applied only to commoners—the officers of the Five City Military Command dared not stop these two.

Soon, the gatekeeper emerged and spoke with great respect: “My master says you may pay your respects, but gifts are unnecessary.”

The gatekeeper then gestured for the two to set down their gifts before leading them through the gate.

Zhang Juzheng accepted bribes—but not from everyone, not for everything. This case of attempted regicide—he could not accept it. If he did, the censors would immediately submit joint memorials tomorrow, and the Empress Dowager would question him the day after.

Entering the Quan Chu Guildhall, one faced a screen inscribed with the four characters “Su Fen Zi Yuan.” Behind it stretched a corridor with arched eaves; after a few steps came a stone bridge of white marble, with nine bends. At its head stood a century-old hackberry tree; on either side of the bridge lay small lakes, with willow trees trailing their branches over the water. When the spring breeze blew, the moonlight, starlight, and lantern glow scattered across the lake’s surface—poetic, picturesque.

Beyond the nine-bend bridge lay the Zi-Wu Well. To the left stood the opera pavilion; to the right, the Wenchang Pavilion. Directly ahead was the Chu Wan Hall, one *wan* equaling thirty mu.

This was merely the front hall. The inner quarters extended over thirty more mu—the entire Quan Chu Guildhall covered more than seventy mu, roughly equivalent to seven football fields.

In the capital, where every inch of land was priceless, a private estate of seventy mu was truly extravagant.

After another announcement, the gatekeeper led the two guests into the Wenchang Pavilion, a five-bay, nine-rafter structure that served as Zhang Juzheng’s study. All furniture was hardwood; the bookshelves held various antique bronzes and curios. Zhang Juzheng waited at the study’s entrance, greeting them with formal bows once they entered.

“The Quan Chu Guildhall is indeed grand,” said Yang Bo, Minister of Personnel, glancing around. “This winding path nearly confused me.”

Zhang Juzheng replied calmly: “I am merely honored by my fellow townspeople, dwelling here by their grace. Even if the Quan Chu Guildhall is grand, it cannot compare to your Quan Jin Guildhall. Please, take your seat.”

The Quan Chu Guildhall was Zhang Juzheng’s private residence, yet not registered under his name—it had been funded collectively by scholars from Huguang. Each time the imperial examination was held, Zhang Juzheng opened his residence, allowing Huguang scholars to stay in the Chu Wan Hall.

Zhang Juzheng was now considered the leader of the Chu Party, yet most of his allies were not from Huguang.

For example, the Deputy Grand Secretary Lu Diaoyang was from Guangxi; the Commander of Jizhao, Qi Jiguang, was from Shandong; the Vice Minister of War and Regional Commander of Jizhao, Liang Menglong, was from Zhen Ding in Northern Zhili; the Left Administrator of Huguang, Chen Rui, was from Fujian, and so on.

At this time, the Chu Party still had no regional basis for factionalism.

After brief pleasantries about the pleasant night, Yang Bo said: “We came primarily regarding the Wang Zhanglong case.”

Ge Shouli, Chief Censor of the Censorate, declared firmly: “The handwriting is not from Senior Gao. The Three Judicial Departments have already proven it false. Even if the Eastern Depot’s spies clamor, it is an overreach of imperial authority—someone is framing him!”

“You, Grand Secretary, know best. Senior Gao has always been upright: if virtuous, even an enemy he will promote; if unworthy, even a relative he will dismiss. He has made many enemies. Now that the tree has fallen, the monkeys scatter. Give me a few days—I will surely uncover this villain.”

Yang Bo watched Ge Shouli’s righteous fury, exhaled wearily, and smiled: “Chief Censor, why not first stroll the garden? The Quan Chu Guildhall is always elegant.”

The handwriting itself was irrelevant—what mattered was Zhang Juzheng’s stance.

“I have no mood for sightseeing,” Ge Shouli began to speak again, but seeing Zhang Juzheng and Yang Bo both lift their tea cups, he only smiled awkwardly and went to admire the garden.

Adults have matters to discuss—children, go play elsewhere.

Zhang Juzheng set down his tea cup, weighed his words, and said: “Minister Yang is a man of great virtue. You and I have been close despite our age difference. You must know who forged Chen Hong’s handwriting—otherwise, you wouldn’t have come to my Quan Chu Guildhall.”

Yang Bo replied confidently: “Feng Bao, that eunuch, wouldn’t be able to tell.”

Feng Bao was clever—but not clever enough. The deception, the twists and turns—since the death of the Longqing Emperor, the Ming civil officials and the eunuchs led by Feng Bao have already clashed several times. Feng Bao is no threat.

Zhang Juzheng shook his head: “What if he does see through it?”

Zhang Juzheng didn’t care whether Feng Bao could see through it—he was refusing. Refusing Yang Bo’s attempt to ally with him, to collude like snakes and rats. Refusing Yang Bo’s proposal to follow Gao Gong’s precedent. Refusing to strip the Directorate of Ceremonial of its power. Refusing civil officials’ usurpation of imperial authority.

Gao Gong’s precedent of seizing power from the Directorate of Ceremonial—Zhang Juzheng had no intention of following it. The emperor was too young; imperial authority was weak and could not stand against the civil officials. If the Directorate of Ceremonial lost its power too, and the fangs of this fierce dog were broken, the Great Ming would cease to be a state.

Zhang Juzheng understood the Ming state system deeply: from its inception, it could not function without the emperor.

Yang Bo fell silent for a long while, idly rubbing his thumb against the middle joint of his index finger, then said: “During the Song dynasties, factional purges filled the court. They fought bitterly over ancestral law versus reform, until they surrendered half the empire to the Jin—only then did the strife cease.”

Zhang Juzheng smiled and replied immediately: “I understand your meaning, Minister Yang. Factional purges are a sign of national collapse. Let the Embroidered Uniform Guards investigate first. If they find evidence, act; if not, do nothing. I have no personal grudge against Gao Gong—how can this be called factional purge? Let us speak by facts. What do you think, Minister Yang?”

Yang Bo shook his head: “The Embroidered Uniform Guards answer to the Director of the Eastern Depot. Feng Bao can easily instruct his commanders to fabricate evidence. In a few days, this case will be sealed as ironclad, and the blame pinned on Gao Gong. Yesterday it was Yan Song, the day before Xu Jie, today Gao Gong—tomorrow it will be you, Zhang Jiangling.”

“Feng Bao failed to prevent the assassin from entering the palace—that alone merits death. Now he is so arrogant and reckless—we should report to the Empress Dowager and His Majesty and remove him.”

What did the Jin Party want? They wanted Feng Bao’s life.

To strike the weakest link in the iron triangle of Empress Dowager Li, Feng Bao, and Zhang Juzheng.

This political alliance appeared unbreakable—on major issues, they moved together, and this easily threatened the Jin Party’s core interests.

But after the attempted regicide, Feng Bao still appeared at the Wenhua Hall to attend court deliberations. At this point, they should immediately cut losses—continuing would be extremely disadvantageous to the Jin Party.

Just as Zhang Juzheng was about to speak, Yang Bo raised his hand and continued: “Bai Gui, I am old. I’ve spent years guarding the frontier, my body riddled with old wounds. Lately, my ailments have worsened—I am nearing my end. If I die, I die. But our Great Ming declines daily. In the past, Emperor Taizu launched thirteen northern campaigns against the Mongols; Emperor Chengzu launched five northern expeditions—northern barbarians fled a thousand li in terror. Today, we must negotiate peace with them.”

“Forget the state—look at the family. You’ve seen it: Ge Shouli is blunt, Wang Chonggu is quick-tempered, Wang Guoguang is solitary, Zhang Siwei… is a snake and rat, unworthy of being a minister. If I die, wouldn’t it be better if your Quan Chu Guildhall and my Quan Jin Guildhall merged?”

“At that time, why would you need to scheme endlessly to implement your policies?”

Yang Bo laid out his offer: after his death, he would pass the leadership of the Jin Party to Zhang Juzheng. If Chu and Jin merged, then not only could Zhang Juzheng fulfill his ambitions—even Wang Mang’s path would not be impossible.

Inside the palace, there was only an orphaned widow and child. Feng Bao was merely a slightly larger dog—what wave could he possibly raise?

If you can’t strike down Feng Bao, then dig into Zhang Juzheng—turn him into an ally. Then Feng Bao and Empress Dowager Li would be confined to palace affairs only.

As for the young emperor? He is merely a ten-year-old boy.

Zhang Juzheng looked at Yang Bo and shook his head: “My heart is not that large. The Quan Chu Guildhall is large enough. I am not from Shanxi—you honor me too much.”

“I have an unmarried daughter, twenty years old, still in her chamber—beautiful. I would offer her to Bai Gui. Then you would be my Shanxi son-in-law, would you not?” Yang Bo clearly anticipated Zhang Juzheng’s refusal—he had no unmarried daughter, but he had many relatives; he could easily designate one as his legitimate daughter.

If you have no daughter, can’t you create one?

Marriage ties were a form of kinship—valued precisely for that connection.

Zhang Juzheng formed factions too, but his alliances had neither regional ties nor marital connections.

Yang Bo didn’t care whether the Grand Secretary was Gao Gong or Zhang Juzheng—as long as he supported the Jin Party, he was a good Grand Secretary. Gao Gong was from Henan too—yet he still wore the same pants as Wang Chonggu.

The offer was extraordinarily generous, yet Zhang Juzheng remained unmoved: “Minister Yang, you speak too far ahead. Let us return to the Wang Zhanglong case.”

Zhang Juzheng refused. He had served for twenty-six years and knew clearly: accepting Yang Bo’s terms meant joining the Jin Party in corruption, surrendering benefits to them.

Policy ambitions? All empty words.

This was not the first time Yang Bo had tried to recruit Zhang Juzheng. Since Gao Gong’s fall in June last year, Yang Bo had persistently courted him.

Yang Bo was sincere—each offer grew more generous—but Zhang Juzheng seemed ungrateful.

Yang Bo, watching Zhang Juzheng’s stubbornness, finally said: “I can concede on the Examination System.”

Finally, the real issue was raised. Surrender? Surrender—but without offering core interests, you think you can settle things quietly?

Zhang Juzheng weighed it briefly, then shook his head: “Better to send the Embroidered Uniform Guards to Xinzheng tomorrow, summon Gao Gong to the capital, and question him directly. We must not lightly tarnish the reputation of Senior Grand Secretary Gao.”

Chasing Gao Gong meant chasing the Jin Party he had promoted—this benefit was insufficient.

Yang Bo rose, looked at Zhang Juzheng, and sighed: “I will initiate the Examination System in the capital first. When this matter is settled, I will retire to my hometown. I am old—I should leave. Staying in court, one becomes disliked by men and dogs alike.”

“I entrust the Ministry of Personnel to you, Bai Gui.”

Zhang Juzheng finally stirred. He rose and said: “Let me think. I will give you my answer tomorrow.”

Yang Bo reached the door, paused, and looked at the man before him—under fifty—and said earnestly: “Bai Gui, I am truly ill, truly old. Like our Great Ming, the sun sets in the west. Half my body is already in the earth. Will you not take over my Quan Jin Guildhall?”

“Escort Minister Yang.” Zhang Juzheng said nothing, only saw him off.