Chapter 27

Zhang Juzheng was earnestly teaching the young emperor to read; what felt like a fleeting hour to the emperor seemed interminable to Zhang Juzheng, as the boy persistently, coherently, and even heretically questioned every line and every phrase.

Most crucially, for Zhang Juzheng, a scholar of profound learning, these difficult questions were ones he could not avoid.

When the lecture finally ended, Zhang Juzheng felt an overwhelming sense of relief, and suddenly he was seized by a strong urge: let Wang Xilie or Ge Shouli teach the young emperor instead!

Faced with questions that were sharp yet grounded in fact, these Confucian scholars were masters of circular reasoning—let them argue with His Majesty!

Didn’t Ge Shouli question Zhang Juzheng’s monopoly on the lecture platform? Then let Ge Shouli come and face these slippery slopes that no one dares touch! Let Wang Xilie come—let’s see what kind of lecture this truly is!

Zhu Yijun rose slightly and bowed, concluding today’s audience.

Feng Bao dispatched a young eunuch to instruct the scholar-officials to copy a transcript for him; as a eunuch, Feng Bao had no master, and many texts he read were halting, half-understood; his Qi cultivation had already reached the twelfth level, so to replenish his reserves, he must begin with the domain where civil officials excelled—the Four Books and Five Classics.

Defeating an enemy in his strongest domain inflicts double damage and double humiliation!

The exchanges between His Majesty and Zhang Juzheng were profoundly obscure; not understanding them didn’t matter—Zhang Juzheng, the Grand Secretary, didn’t fully grasp them either; why should Feng Bao?

He knew his divine duty was to go out and bite; he only needed to understand what the sages had written.

In the afternoon, Zhu Yijun met his training partners; among the ten, two particularly caught his attention.

The first was Zhao Zhenyuan, eldest son of Zhao Mengyou, a military jinshi of Jiajing 44, Commander of the Henan Regional Military Commission, and Deputy Commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard.

The other was Luo Sigong, son of Luo Bingliang, a Regular Battalion Commander with salary and Commander of the Judicial Bureau of the Embroidered Uniform Guard.

Zhu Xixiao was growing old; Zhao Zhenyuan and Luo Sigong, both ten years old, were the sons of Zhao Mengyou and Luo Bingliang—both strong contenders for the position of Grand Commander of the Embroidered Uniform Guard.

Zhao Mengyou and Luo Bingliang were military nobles; their ancestors had followed the Great Ming’s founding emperor, Zhu Yuanzhang, from the very beginning, and were among the old aristocracy of the Ming’s sun-and-moon banner.

Zhao Mengyou held an advantage in the race for the Grand Commander post, for he was a genuine military jinshi.

Zhu Yijun’s training squad had grown from ten to twenty young eunuchs, but today’s session was just as dull and monotonous as always: stretching and standing in the horse stance.

In Zhu Xixiao’s words, martial training offered no shortcuts—it was all slow, grueling labor; for example, the beginner stage required standing in the horse stance for three years, demanding endurance, determination, and extreme hardship.

For the Emperor of Great Ming, there was absolutely no need to endure such suffering; if he merely wished to appear diligent and balance the power of the factories and guards, a daily visit would suffice.

The afternoon sun streamed through the rustic window bars into the martial arts chamber, bathing Zhu Yijun, who was squatting in the horse stance, in golden light, while behind him stood a group of children also in the horse stance.

The temperature was gradually warming, and beads of sweat had formed on Zhu Yijun’s forehead; Zhang Hong stood nearby holding a towel, unsure whether he should wipe the emperor’s brow.

“Worthless!” Zhu Xixiao kicked Luo Sigong hard in the buttocks, furious; the emperor’s words had come true—the noble sons truly couldn’t endure.

Luo Sigong had begun to slack off mid-pile, unconsciously shifting his center of gravity upward, his tightly clenched fists loosening; as Zhu Xixiao turned his head, Luo Sigong actually leaned on his knee, seeking rest.

Zhu Xixiao heard everything and saw everything; his peripheral vision had long noticed the ten-year-old Luo Sigong growing lax. The moment the boy leaned on his knee, Zhu Xixiao didn’t hesitate—he kicked him hard.

A disgrace to the military nobility!

The emperor’s words were infuriating, but Luo Sigong’s performance was even more infuriating!

Feng Bao couldn’t help but smile; the young eunuchs all came from impoverished backgrounds, even in the palace they often went from hunger to fullness day by day; having the chance to train with the emperor, they cherished it deeply—any poor performance meant a lifetime as a lowly corridor servant; how could they dare slack off?

But these noble sons were different; even if they did nothing, their families already had Regular Battalion Commander or Deputy Commander positions waiting to be inherited; even if they failed to pass training with the young emperor, they could simply return home and inherit their posts—lifelong comfort guaranteed.

This was why Feng Bao dared not bully the young emperor, and instead became so deferential he was almost afraid.

For though the emperor was young, he was a true hard man.

Wasn’t the emperor’s status nobler than theirs, the military nobles? Yet since beginning martial training, the young emperor, no matter how exhausted or injured, never let his posture slip—even goading the Grand Commander into stricter drills with stubborn defiance.

What terrifying willpower!

A hard man who was ruthless toward others—and even more ruthless toward himself.

Zhu Yijun slowly rose from his squat, his head and eyes level, gazing straight ahead, breathing calmly for five or six breaths; only after finishing did he laugh and punch his thigh, once again marveling at how wonderful youth was.

He took the towel Zhang Hong offered, wiped his sweat, and walked over to the beaten Luo Sigong.

Zhu Xixiao was old, but his kick had been powerful; Luo Sigong had been knocked to the ground, and his legs, weakened from standing in the horse stance, refused to support him—he could not rise. Before everyone’s eyes, the ten-year-old Luo Sigong wept uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face.

His family had endlessly warned him: don’t bring shame upon your ancestors in the palace—but Luo Sigong simply hadn’t been able to endure.

Zhu Yijun flashed a bright, sunny smile and reached out his hand to pull Luo Sigong up, saying: “Grand Commander, don’t be too harsh.”

Luo Sigong feared Zhu Xixiao’s punishment, feared his parents and uncles’ scolding, feared mockery from fellow trainees who were noble eunuchs; when kicked down, he trembled in terror, lost and helpless—he was only ten, he didn’t know how to face this, so terrified he felt the entire world had turned dark.

The supreme emperor himself walked before him, the most honored man under heaven, extending his hand; Luo Sigong reached out, grasped it, and stood.

In that moment, those hands and the emperor’s smile shone like the only ray of light piercing a world of utter darkness.

“Perform well, don’t slack off again—if the Grand Commander catches you once more, I won’t plead for you again,” Zhu Yijun released Luo Sigong and turned to Zhu Xixiao with mild reprimand: “General Qi’s training methods are inherently strict; no need to be so furious with a child.”

Zhu Xixiao roared inwardly: You call him a child, but aren’t you a child too? The emperor, noble as he is, endures this—why can’t Luo Sigong?

Wasn’t it the emperor himself who first declared: noble sons shouldn’t even be brought to the martial chamber—they can’t even match lowly eunuchs!

Who said that?

Zhu Xixiao realized he had become the villain, while the emperor played the hero—this red-face/black-face tactic of winning hearts, how effortlessly familiar the emperor was with it!

The sunny, cheerful young emperor was, without doubt, a cunning and treacherous man!

Zhu Yijun spoke solemnly: “I never tolerate the same mistake twice—I allow all trainees to err, but there will be no third time.”

Everyone dispersed to change clothes; soon, these noble guards, sword-bearers, and young eunuchs would follow the young emperor to Jingshan to till the land—this too was physical labor, training endurance.

Farming and warfare, farming and warfare—how can you wage war if you don’t farm?

If you’re lazy and idle, why train in martial arts at all? Go home, drown in brothels, live a happy life—why bother being an emperor’s trainee?

Zhu Yijun walked to Empress Dowager Li and began today’s examination; as the primary overseer of the Great Ming emperor’s studies, Empress Dowager Li tested him daily, especially on recent lessons.

Zhu Yijun answered fluently, without a single error.

“I’m off to play at Jingshan!” Zhu Yijun said, then dashed toward Qianqing Palace to change clothes.

Empress Dowager Li watched his swift figure vanish, not scolding him for impropriety, but feeling a quiet worry: martial training and farming were both exhausting—if he gave up halfway, more criticism would surely follow.

Zhu Yijun ran quickly; he had a belly full of questions to ask the old farmers, and Zhang Juzheng had recommended a talent in land reclamation and water conservancy: Xu Zhenming.

Xu Zhenming was in his thirties, sharp and capable, his skin darkened by wind and sun; he carried a bamboo basket bookcase instead of the more common hardwood one.

Any juren entering the capital for the metropolitan exam or studying at the Imperial Academy carried a hardwood bookcase—after all, fellow gentry would sponsor them; carrying a bamboo basket invited ridicule.

But Xu Zhenming, a jinshi, carried a bamboo basket—this was tied to his scholarly lineage.

Xu Zhenming was to meet the emperor and bathe and change, yet the emperor received him at Jingshan—for farming; Xu Zhenming did not wear court robes, but a cotton-lined jacket over a hemp robe, dressed exactly like an old farmer.

His hands were calloused.

“Your servant bows before His Majesty, may His Majesty live ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand ten thousand years!” Xu Zhenming placed his bookcase aside, knelt, and bowed respectfully—it was his first time meeting the emperor, his first time seeing a living sovereign.

Most jinshi only saw the emperor once—at the palace examination; since Emperor Jiajing, even that opportunity had vanished.

Emperor Longqing, during his six-year reign, had not allowed even Gao Gong to enter the palace for audience; only days before Longqing’s death did Gao Gong finally see him.

After Longqing’s death, Gao Gong petitioned to strip the Directorate of Palace Affairs of its authority, demanding all matters be presented directly to the emperor—was this lack of deference, or did he truly believe it was right?

“In private audiences, no need to kneel,” Zhu Yijun smiled, gesturing for Xu Zhenming to rise; from their first meeting, Zhu Yijun liked this minister—he knew nothing else but farming.

But it was precisely this farming, this farmer-like attire, that made Zhu Yijun feel deeply reassured.

Xu Zhenming was a jinshi of Longqing 5—what status did that carry?

It was leaping over the dragon’s gate, multiple leaps across class; Xu Zhenming could have chosen another life, but he chose to act—such a man was a comrade; if one could walk the same path, one could share the joy.

Xu Zhenming was stunned; Ming Confucian rites were rigid—no one dared defy kneeling before the emperor, not even Hai Rui, who carried a coffin to scold Emperor Jiajing; when rites clashed with imperial authority, whose word prevailed?

Without hesitation, Xu Zhenming said: “Thank Your Majesty’s great grace.”

When rites clashed with the imperial decree, Xu Zhenming chose to obey the emperor.

Xu Zhenming had planned to return home; a jinshi who served only two years as county magistrate and slunk back was deeply shameful—but the gentry circles of the capital were high and costly; Xu Zhenming had little money to bribe his way in, no one recommended him—he could only return.

Just as he prepared to leave the capital, the chief steward of the Quanzhou Guild, You Qi, found him, telling him to prepare and go to Jingshan for audience; Xu Zhenming was overjoyed—he had secured a post; palace eunuchs had come, instructing him to bring his agricultural texts for presentation.

“What’s in your bookcase?” Zhu Yijun asked, smiling at the bent bamboo basket.

Xu Zhenming opened it, slightly shy: “Your servant’s notes on agricultural texts over the years, with annotations, and my own modest ideas and records on land reclamation and water conservancy.”

Zhu Yijun was overjoyed; he looked at the frayed books, some chewed by bookworms, then turned to Feng Bao: “Feng Daban, could you arrange for Master Xu to have a worm-proof bookcase?”

“I’ll go get one immediately,” Feng Bao said; his cheek wound had improved, but his forehead still bore a large bandage; he gave no orders to others—he ran straight to the Directorate of Eunuch Affairs; the emperor’s words were strangely distant—“could you”?

The emperor discussing with palace eunuchs, not commanding them—that was distance.

This distance made Feng Bao constantly uneasy; he sought fame, he sought power, but above all, he sought survival—a Director of the Directorate of Palace Affairs who was distant from the emperor did not live long.

Zhu Yijun wasn’t being polite or distant—he was ten years old, held no financial authority, didn’t know if Empress Dowager Li had imposed spending bans; a worm-proof hardwood bookcase wasn’t cheap—six or seven taels of silver, enough to buy a virtuous maiden.

Feng Bao had an extremely flexible sense of timing when it came to pleasing the emperor.