Chapter 16

If most officials in the Great Ming court were like Zhang Juzheng—pragmatic and results-oriented—Zhu Yijun would dare march troops to Xinzheng, bring Gao Gong to the capital, summon him to account, and launch a sustained purge against the Jin Party.

Zhu Yijun would not hold a pessimistic view of Great Ming’s state affairs, nor believe the dynasty was truly in terminal decline.

Would arresting Gao Gong and stripping him of his appointments of Jin Party members truly provoke a backlash from the Jin Party?

Yes, it certainly would.

The Jin Party’s roots are deep and tangled, its influence pervasive—military, administrative, personnel, and disciplinary power all lie in its hands; this is the Jin Party’s strength, and it is a small, regionally entrenched political clique that treats the state as private property.

This clique controls the smuggling trade with the Tatars, for economic gain, and holds the border armies of Xuanfu and Datong for military advantage.

Would the Jin Party, mindful of the Great Ming’s dwindling vitality, willingly submit to execution, sacrificing its own interests to revive the dynasty?

The Jin Party’s foundation is privileged economy—its privileges include the tribute trade with Altan Khan, border smuggling, and mining; the essence of privileged economy lies in monopolizing one link in the industrial chain through powerful political means to extract exorbitant profits.

This economic coalition, built on harming collective interests for private gain, determines that the Jin Party’s political superstructure will make not the slightest concession to the Great Ming’s collective interests.

When imperial authority insists on punishing Gao Gong and dismantling the Jin Party, it will inevitably trigger fierce resistance from the Jin Party.

Illness strikes like a mountain collapsing; recovery comes like unraveling a single thread.

The Great Ming has been sick too long; curing it must be done gradually.

Zhu Yijun returned to the Qianqing Palace and did not take out the Four Books Direct Interpretation; instead, he pulled out a sheet of draft paper—the notes he had scribbled during his distraction in the Wenhua Hall.

Yang Bo’s name, Minister of Personnel, had been crossed out.

In Yang Bo’s place stood Zhang Siwei—a man of double-dealing and opportunism.

Zhu Yijun suspected the Assassination Plot was engineered by Zhang Siwei, for Zhang’s family were merchants, generations of traders; merchants chase profit, and if the price is right, they will sell the very rope that hangs them.

Moreover, they were Jin merchants—the very same Jin merchants who, after the Manchu conquest, went before Emperor Shunzhi to claim rewards.

Wang Chonggu and Zhang Siwei were uncle and nephew; the Jin Party remained a political clique bound by kinship and regional ties.

Another figure, Minister of Revenue Wang Guoguang, bore the annotation: “Jin Party traitor.”

There are no classes that betray their own interests—only individuals who do; Wang Guoguang was such an individual, more akin to Zhang Juzheng’s faction, who, after Zhang’s death, was purged by Zhang Siwei as a Zhang loyalist.

He was officially designated a traitor by the Jin Party!

Yang Bo said Wang Guoguang practiced “shendu”—meaning he stood alone, independent; Zhu Yijun had read in the Book of Rites that “shendu” meant a man’s moral integrity, unswayed by convention, acting solely according to his inner conviction.

Wang Guoguang’s goals aligned with Zhang Juzheng’s—he was Zhang Juzheng’s comrade, his fellow traveler.

Zhu Yijun was determining who were his true allies, who deserved to be one, who were enemies, and who deserved to be sent to the Dissection Institute.

“Your Majesty, Feng Da is outside the palace, requesting an audience—he says the hard pens you ordered are ready and has brought them.” Zhang Jing hurried in to announce Feng Bao’s request.

“Admit him.” Zhu Yijun nodded.

“Your Majesty, the hard pens you commanded have been completed. I present them for your inspection.”

“The wood is pine, from Wanping County in the capital region, where Huamei Mountain produces black stone—soft, not hard, grinding to ink, its pigment smooth and dense; palace servants often use it to darken eyebrows.” Feng Bao hurried into the Qianqing Palace and presented the completed pens to the emperor.

A pencil, one zhang long, containing no lead—its core was graphite, its shaft wooden; it was a hard pen, not a soft brush—the same pencil later used by schoolchildren, requiring sharpening.

Graphite was ground to powder, washed to remove impurities, mixed with clay, fired, then inserted into a grooved wooden stick; two wooden halves were glued together around the black core.

Zhu Yijun commissioned this pencil because writing with a brush was cumbersome and tedious.

China’s earliest pens were hard pens.

The idiom “huai qian ti qian” refers to ancient times when bamboo slips were used; people carried hard pens made of lead and tin to carve characters, but found it too slow, gradually switching to soft brushes dipped in ink to write on bamboo.

Zhu Yijun’s pencil, only one zhang long, could write over forty-five thousand characters continuously without grinding ink or needing a servant to add fragrance—its greatest advantage was convenience.

It wrote fast.

Zhu Yijun carefully wrote several characters on his desk and nodded: “Good. Excellent work. This is a fine object. Send it to Yuanfu.”

“Your servant obeys.” Feng Bao exhaled in relief—he had successfully completed the emperor’s order.

Zhu Yijun set down the pencil and asked Feng Bao: “Feng Daban, I’ve heard that during the Zhengtong era, Emperor Yingzong had a eunuch companion named Wang Zhen. Do you know him?”

“I know him.” Feng Bao replied quickly—the Tumu Crisis, the annihilation of the capital troops, and Wang Zhen became the scapegoat for all.

Zhu Yijun continued: “Wang Zhen deceived Emperor Yingzong. When sent on errands outside the palace, he could have returned before the gates were locked—but he refused, insisting on a handwritten imperial order to reopen the gates after locking.”

“Wang Zhen entered the palace at night; court officials rose in outrage. He knelt, weeping, claiming he served the emperor faithfully yet was unjustly accused. Such tricks were countless.”

“I have heard of it.” Feng Bao knelt, trembling—someone had told the emperor this story.

It must have been Zhang Hong, the eunuch of the Qianqing Palace!

“I am well aware the court ministers are disrespectful,” Zhu Yijun’s tone grew stern—the Ming ministers had long lost their reverence; the ancient rites of sovereign and subject were forgotten.

“When the palace’s senior eunuchs lead by breaking palace rules, the imperial guard becomes meaningless; anyone can slip sand into the palace. A single incident inside the palace becomes known across the capital within moments—court ministers then naturally extend their hands into the palace. This is how those who govern become evil: small evils grow into great ones, the root of disaster.”

“You, Daban, are a senior eunuch. If you rot in one place, the whole palace rots. When you go out on official business, you are the face of the imperial family. Remember this.”

Feng Bao replied with deep respect: “Your servant humbly accepts your sacred teaching.”

“Your servant takes leave.”

Feng Bao rose, bowed low, and slowly retreated to the doorway before turning away. This story was surely told by Zhang Hong—but the emperor spoke wisely: the palace guard was in shambles, ministers treated the palace as another battleground, and that was why so many monstrous things happened within.

Feng Bao carried several pencils toward the Quan Chu Guild Hall—these were the emperor’s new writing tools, extremely convenient.

A yellow-robed messenger arrived at the palace; the Quan Chu Guild Hall dared not delay. Zhang Juzheng himself came to the gate to greet Feng Bao, bowing: “Feng Daban.”

“The emperor’s verbal decree: This object is excellent. Present it to Yuanfu. By imperial command.” Feng Bao did not enter, but handed the imperial gift to Zhang Juzheng.

Zhang Juzheng was a man of extraordinary wit—he often had brilliant insights, but forgot them quickly.

A good memory is no match for a bad pen; fleeting thoughts were best recorded with this tool. Writing with a brush required grinding ink and calming the spirit—he assumed this was merely a clever invention by palace eunuchs to please the young emperor’s studies.

“What does the Empress Dowager say about the Assassination Plot?” Zhang Juzheng flicked his sleeve, and several salt vouchers fell into his hand; he casually passed them to Feng Bao.

Great Ming’s paper money was worthless, but its salt vouchers remained strong: a small voucher weighed 120 jin, worth about 1.5 taels of silver; a large one weighed 400 jin, worth five taels. Zhang Juzheng’s stack contained at least twenty large vouchers—worth over a hundred taels.

Spring and autumn gifts of charcoal and ice rarely exceeded a thousand taels; Qi Jiguang, as Zhang Juzheng’s protégé, sent gifts twice a year—two thousand taels total.

A hundred taels was already an extravagant sum.

Feng Bao, however, did not accept the vouchers as before; he pushed them away: “The Empress Dowager’s wish is that Jiangling Gong not follow Gao Gong’s path to self-destruction. She most fervently hopes His Majesty will inherit the ancestral legacy—that is the paramount matter. But if this happens again, she will no longer hold back.”

“The palace gates will lock soon. I shall not linger. Farewell.”

Zhang Juzheng stood in the cold spring wind, bewildered.

Has the sun risen in the west?!

The palace eunuch refuses bribes? The palace eunuch obeys palace rules? This is truly astonishing.

Yang Bo returned again.

Zhang Juzheng mentioned the Dissection Institute—he did not say the young emperor had ordered it, because he himself had submitted the memorial, led the initiative, handled the details, and profited from the exchange; if he claimed the emperor wanted it, Yang Bo would have to believe it.

Zhang Juzheng knew the Jin Party would compromise—full conflict would not bring him victory, nor the Great Ming victory—but the Jin Party would certainly lose.

Sending men to the Dissection Institute to be flayed alive was a way to vent the palace’s anger; as for court influence, the Jin Party’s leader and the Grand Secretary had already struck a deal—this could be suppressed.

Thus, the Wang Dachen case’s exchange of interests was fully completed.

The young emperor gained a Dissection Institute, several of his own eunuchs and palace maids, and completed the purge within three zhang;

Zhang Juzheng gained the Ministry of Personnel, advancement of the Examination System, and Yang Bo’s retirement;

The Jin Party once again demonstrated its political influence within the court; after Gao Gong’s fall, the precarious, panicked situation had been temporarily stabilized.

Before leaving, Yang Bo looked at Zhang Juzheng with a complex expression: “Bai Gui, I am old. When a man nears death, his words are kind. Listen to my advice: I know your ideals are noble, perhaps even that you look down on me—but I can still retire with dignity. What of you?”

“Your Examination System has angered every official in the realm. Think carefully: while I still can retire, it is not too late.”

“See the Grand Minister out.” Zhang Juzheng merely saw him off.

“This matter is finally over.” Ge Shouli still sat with children, listening to opera; only after Yang Bo and Zhang Juzheng finished their talk did Ge Shouli walk out with Yang Bo, murmuring with solemnity.

If the investigation continued and the charges against Gao Gong were confirmed, the entire Jin Party would suffer.

Yang Bo shook his head at Ge Shouli: “It is merely a pause—not an end.”

Has the Wang Dachen case truly ended? The young emperor is still a child, his imperial authority weak. Will he not revisit this matter, reopen the investigation, once he grows older?

The emperor is the principal party!

Yang Bo had heard from Vice Minister of Revenue Wang Xilie about the young emperor’s studies; after this great affair, the emperor seemed to have matured overnight—his readers and lecturers remained after the Confucian lectures.

These literary officials followed Zhang Juzheng’s lectures throughout; the emperor’s insights were uniquely his own—far beyond what any eunuch could teach.

Yang Bo still looked down on Feng Bao—until today, hearing Feng Bao refused bribes and obeyed palace rules, he granted him a modicum of respect. But only a modicum.

In terms of talent, the young emperor, no longer lazy, will grow into a ruler who never forgets a grudge.

For Zhang Juzheng believed in an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; how could a student taught by such a master be a peacemaker?

Yang Bo was deeply concerned about the Jin Party’s future. Could Ge Shouli really believe this matter was over?

The next afternoon, after lunch, Zhu Yijun did not immediately go to the Wu Gong Courtyard; instead, he headed toward the Chengtian Gate—he was going to watch the execution.

“Did Daban have the blades forged as I ordered?” Zhu Yijun stood before the Chengtian Gate, asking Feng Bao.

Feng Bao replied quickly: “They are forged.”

Zhu Yijun stepped out of the Chengtian Gate and walked toward the eastern suburb’s Mi Alley—there stood the southern gate of the Taiyi Academy, now the entrance to the Dissection Institute. Chen Shigong’s medical advice was to control the mouth and move the legs, so the palanquin still followed behind; Zhu Yijun chose to walk.

As he walked, he said: “To kill, one needs a sharp blade.”

If the blade is dull, whom will it kill?