Chapter 32: Chapter Thirty-Two: Your Wish Is Nothing But Reason

What is Zhang Juzheng’s “Five Matters Memorial” doing? It is defining the emperor’s obligations.

Since ancient times, emperors have had only rights, no obligations whatsoever.

Especially under the Ming institutional design, where nothing could be done without the emperor’s seal, both Jiajing and Longqing emperors simply stopped attending court and handling affairs, entering full seclusion mode.

Court ministers had no leverage to remonstrate—they couldn’t even meet the emperor; memorials sent to the Directorate of Palace Affairs vanished after crossing the palace gates.

Zhang Juzheng is patching the Ming state’s institutional framework.

Gao Gong’s “Five Matters Memorial” also defined the emperor’s obligations; so did Zhang Juzheng’s.

But Zhang Juzheng’s version was milder: court ministers shall meet the emperor, the emperor shall review memorials, the emperor shall summon his ministers, state affairs shall be debated in court, and capital officials shall be evaluated.

These five matters offended the emperor and the inner court with the first three, and the entire Ming bureaucratic system with the last two.

Zhang Juzheng didn’t just say it—he did it. Once he lost authority, once the emperor withdrew support, Zhang Juzheng would be in grave danger.

Xu Jie amassed vast wealth and bought enormous land; when Hai Rui investigated the massive land encroachment case in Songjiang and oversaw land restitution, Xu Jie returned not a single mu. Hai Rui was toppled by court ministers on charges of oppressing the gentry.

Even amid the “Assassination Plot,” Gao Gong escaped ruin.

Zhang Juzheng is offending the emperor on one side and the court on the other—what is he trying to do?

He wants this Ming, sinking day by day, to slow its descent.

“This is how I repay my late emperor and fulfill my duty to Your Majesty,” Zhang Juzheng replied, not answering the question of fear, but answering from another angle.

Zhu Yijun heard this again and froze for a moment, then a smile spread across his lips, brightening into radiant sunlight. Zhu Yijun said, “Your wish is nothing but reason.”

Should the emperor attend court at Wenhua Hall? Should he summon his ministers for consultation on major matters? Should he meet the twenty-seven court ministers who petitioned for an audience—the empire’s power core? Should he review memorials? Even just marking them with a circle or a cross?

Zhu Yijun believed: only reason matters. What is an emperor?

The totality of virtue in the realm, the fullness of principle in all things, the sustenance of millions—all rest upon my person alone.

That is the emperor’s right.

Therefore, working, or simply stamping seals, is the emperor’s duty.

Zhu Yijun was not diligent—he just wanted to go to Wenhua Hall to watch these imperial luminaries argue!

As for whether capital officials would accept such harsh evaluations, Zhu Yijun refused to quarrel with court ministers; he stood firmly behind Zhang Juzheng. If Zhang could do it, he would do it; if he couldn’t, Zhu Yijun would do it himself when he grew up.

“Thank Your Majesty for this great grace,” Zhang Juzheng bowed deeply, sincerely, from the heart. He didn’t know if the young emperor understood the full meaning of this exchange, but his gratitude was genuine.

In blunt terms, Zhang Juzheng’s “Five Matters Memorial,” like Gao Gong’s, oversteps imperial authority, undermines the throne to build personal power, and advances policy by restricting the emperor’s actions to evaluate officials—including capital officials.

Zhu Yijun’s answer: only reason matters.

While Zhang Juzheng lectured at Wenhua Hall, the lecture scholars Wang Jiaoping and Fan Yingqi, the 1565 imperial top scorer, arrived at Yang Bo’s Quanjin Hall to pay a visit.

Zhang Juzheng said his Quan Chu Hall was far inferior to Yang Bo’s Quanjin Hall.

The two halls stood adjacent, but Quanjin Hall spanned over eighty mu—larger than the former Wei Duke Mansion of Xu Da in Nanjing’s Dagongfang, which originally measured eighty mu and expanded to about a hundred after renovations.

Yang Bo’s Quanjin Hall exceeded eighty mu.

It was official duty hours, yet Minister of Personnel Yang Bo was not at the Six Ministries—why was he at home?

Leaders absent from their offices was common; as a civil official, Yang Bo only needed to review and sign off on departmental deliberations.

Zhang Juzheng, as chief grand secretary, remained daily at Wenyuan Pavilion—unusual. What did his deputy Lu Diaoyang do? What did all those secretaries do?

Wang Jiaoping and Fan Yingqi entered Quanjin Hall and found Yang Bo in his study, beside whom stood a gentle-faced scholar named Zhang Siwei.

After Yang Bo’s departure, Quanjin Hall would become Zhang Siwei’s private residence; Yang Bo was already packing, preparing to retire to his hometown.

After the trial of the Chengfa system in the capital, Yang Bo would retire—he had promised Zhang Juzheng and would not break his word.

Yang Bo planned to step down; continuing would only lead to disgrace. The Jin Party grew bolder and slipped further from his control.

“The lecture hour hasn’t come—why aren’t you two at Wenhua Hall?” Yang Bo frowned. Had Zhang Juzheng expelled them?

Zhang Juzheng publicly promised, trading exclusive lecture rights for opening Fengtian Hall to reward Qi Jiguang.

Had Zhang Juzheng broken his word?

Wang Jiaoping stammered out every detail of the Wenhua Hall lecture to Yang Bo and Zhang Siwei.

Yang Bo was old, retiring, unable to protect the Jin Party’s ranks. Hearing Wang and Fan’s account, he immediately realized his earlier judgment had been correct.

The young emperor was no fool—he had merely been slacking. After the assassination attempt, he had finally changed, becoming serious.

Good, Yang Bo’s first thought.

Zhang Juzheng had repeatedly called Yang Bo a man of great virtue, in public and private.

Yang Bo knew his judgment was right: the “Assassination Plot” was only paused, not ended. When the emperor matured and assumed personal rule, this case would be the pretext to uproot the Jin Party.

But it no longer concerned Yang Bo—he was retiring, ill, nearing death. Once dead, all was over. Could he control affairs after death?

“Two useless fools!” Zhang Siwei’s gentle face turned fierce, twisting into something hateful.

Zhang Siwei flung his sleeve and pointed at Wang Jiaoping and Fan Yingqi, shouting angrily.

Yang Bo reached out, pressed Zhang Siwei’s hand down, and smiled: “Gentlemen, return to your offices. Bai Gui is not weary—let him keep the lecture duties. This matter ends here.”

“Go, go.”

“Yes, your humble student takes leave,” Wang Jiaoping and Fan Yingqi hurriedly bowed out.

“Two useless fools—they deserve punishment!” Zhang Siwei’s face grew impatient after they left.

How could Yang Bo let these two scholars off so easily? They failed their task—this was the perfect chance to control the young emperor with their own men!

Zhang Siwei had expected the Jin Party to profit immensely from this deal. Instead, Fengtian Hall had been opened, Qi Jiguang’s reward approved, yet Zhang Juzheng still held the lecture position.

The deal was half-done—only because Wang and Fan were incompetent. How could Zhang Siwei not be furious?

Yang Bo deeply disliked Zhang Siwei. He would rather yield the Jin Party leadership to Zhang Juzheng and merge Chu and Jin than let Zhang Siwei lead.

Yang Bo knew Zhang Siwei’s nature: a merchant’s son, profit-driven, his greed as solid as a rock. He feared Zhang Siwei would drag the Jin Party into an abyss.

A man without breadth and resolve, who cares nothing for the realm, only private gain—narrow-minded yet unyielding—standing at court is a traitor to the state.

“Qi Jiguang’s case was Bai Gui acting alone—not a trade. Do you understand the difference?” Yang Bo said to Zhang Siwei.

Zhang Juzheng did not trade the emperor’s education rights. He made it clear: he acted on his own.

As for why Zhang Juzheng relinquished exclusive lecture rights, Yang Bo understood—the questions were too tricky.

Yang Bo looked at Zhang Siwei, then at the retreating backs of Wang Jiaoping and Fan Yingqi.

The Ming court’s ministers had long lost their deference.

Each minister pretended to care deeply about the young emperor’s lectures—but how many, like Zhang Siwei, Wang Jiaoping, Fan Yingqi, or others in court, had truly read what passed between the emperor and Zhang Juzheng in Wenhua Hall?

The Readers-in-Attendance transcribed every word of the audience. Those truly concerned with the emperor’s studies could simply check the Daily Records and know teaching him was no easy task.

Yang Bo had read them—carefully. He knew the emperor’s nature. Ge Shouli would only embarrass himself, so he sent two scholars to fail.

Scholars have thick skins; a little humiliation doesn’t matter.

Ge Shouli thought he was working hard and gaining nothing—but Yang Bo was protecting him. Without Yang Bo’s shield, Ge Shouli would have died many times over.

Yang Bo had warned Zhang Siwei, but seeing Zhang’s blank expression, he offered no further warning.

What face lay beneath the young emperor’s bright, cheerful exterior?

Yang Bo leaned back in his armchair and continued: “In 1561, Yan Song was old, Minister of Personnel Wu Peng retired. Yan Shifan recommended his uncle Ouyang Bijing to court, claiming in a memorial under his father’s name: ‘Appointing kin avoids suspicion—it comforts the aged.’”

“Yan Shifan, using his father’s name, submitted a secret memorial to Emperor Shizong, who reluctantly approved, appointing Ouyang Bijing as Minister of Rites.”

“Comforting the aged” meant appointing Ouyang Bijing to soothe the old Yan Song.

But the fatal flaw was Yan Shifan submitting it under his father’s name.

Yang Bo continued: “Later, court ministers protested. Ouyang Bijing was dismissed. Emperor Shizong feared offending elderly ministers and personally issued an edict comforting Yan Song. Yan Song, upon hearing this, turned pale, rushed to court, and swore he knew nothing of it.”

“Since his wife’s death, Yan Song had ceased all affairs. Yan Shifan had done countless deeds behind his back. In 1565, Yan Shifan was beheaded, Yan Song’s estate seized, his titles stripped, and he returned home penniless and homeless, dying in poverty and illness.”

Why was Yang Bo suddenly recounting this six-year-old story?

Who was behind the “Assassination Plot”?

Gao Gong? If he had the nerve, he wouldn’t be idle in Xinzheng. Even if he had the nerve, he lacked the power to infiltrate the palace—simple, yet not simple.

Yang Bo strongly suspected Zhang Siwei. He was courting Zhang Juzheng; Zhang Siwei had long coveted the Jin Party leadership. Yang Bo was eighty percent certain Zhang Siwei was behind it.

Yang Bo’s judgment of men was sharp—Zhang Juzheng greatly admired this.

Yang Bo cleaned up the mess of the “Assassination Plot,” humbly visiting Quan Chu Hall to beg the chief grand secretary to quell the affair.

Yang Bo was telling Zhang Siwei: Don’t rush. The Jin Party is mine now—but it will be yours.

Zhang Siwei’s face remained unchanged. He smiled: “Yan and his son abused imperial favor and seized power. Their fate—dying without burial—is justice served.”

Yang Bo lost interest in speaking with Zhang Siwei. Zhang Siwei had his own views, his own mind—no words from Yang Bo could correct him.

He was old, not a child. Yang Bo no longer cared to argue.

“I’m tired. Go home,” Yang Bo waved, lifting his teacup to dismiss him.

“Then, Uncle, I’ll take my leave,” Zhang Siwei said no more, bowed, and departed with a smile.

Zhang Siwei’s first reason for visiting Quanjin Hall was to see if Yang Bo still clung to power. Seeing the hall being packed, he was relieved: Yang Bo had failed to win over Zhang Juzheng—a good sign for Zhang Siwei.

His second reason: to arrange his son’s marriage to Yang Bo’s granddaughter.

Yang Bo’s son married Wang Chonggu’s daughter—family ties.

Zhang Siwei was Wang Chonggu’s nephew—relatives.

But Zhang Siwei wanted closer kinship: he wished his two sons to marry Yang Bo’s two granddaughters—marriage ties.

Yang Bo agreed. Both matters were settled.

“Zhang Juzheng, Zhang Juzheng—you excel at planning for the state, but fail at planning for yourself. How will you end well?” Yang Bo sighed, set down his teacup. He had once planned to marry his unmarried daughter to Zhang Juzheng, forging a marital bond—but Zhang Juzheng refused.

Meanwhile, inside the Ming palace, the young emperor practiced martial arts, while Empress Dowager Li listened to Feng Bao’s report on court affairs.

Upon hearing Zhang Juzheng’s “Five Matters Memorial,” Empress Dowager Li’s expression shifted several times, darkening. Her thoughts leapt ahead.

Zhang Juzheng had barely touched the edge of imperial authority—Empress Dowager Li’s mind leapt to Zhang Yuan: he, too, was imitating Gao Gong in usurping the throne’s sacred power.

How hard it is for an orphan and his mother to hold the empire!

Ming empresses came from common families, with no external kin to aid them. Empress Dowager Li felt a sudden panic.