Chapter 36

The Emperor asked: when clan factions exclude each other and refuse to cease, when the court is choked with party purges, how does the Emperor rule the realm?

Yang Bo stood and bowed low: “Your Majesty, I am ashamed.”

The Jin Party saw him as old and no longer listened to him; this impeachment today, he himself did not fully understand. Zhang Juzheng saw his disappointment, and Yang Bo felt equally disappointed.

He had lived his life with integrity, entered the Wenhua Hall, became a court minister, yet spent his days doing such things—and now, even younger generations stared at him with strange eyes.

But as leader of the Jin Party, Yang Bo could only speak and act this way; he was powerless, just as Gao Gong had been—his clan and faction would not allow him to stop.

That was why Yang Bo planned to retire, to withdraw while the tide was still high; if things continued like this, his end would be ruin and disgrace.

Zhu Yijun paused, then said: “Minister of War Tan Lun and Minister of Rites Lu Shusheng, for their breach of protocol at the Chaoritan, are fined one month’s salary. The Likegeishizhong Luo Zun, the Censor Jing Song, and Han Bixian are stripped of their official ranks and ordered to return to their hometowns in idle retirement. What does the Chief Grand Secretary think?”

“Your Majesty’s decision, I dare not comment,” Zhang Juzheng replied. As Chief Grand Secretary, he could not discuss appointments of capital officials; under all these eyes, he naturally said nothing. The young Emperor had not sent those three men, who nearly sparked a party struggle, to the Dissection Courtyard—that was His Majesty’s benevolence.

Zhang Juzheng also exhaled in relief; His Majesty was extremely cautious about sending men to the Dissection Courtyard.

“What does the Grand Minister Yang think?” Zhu Yijun asked, turning to Yang Bo.

“Your Majesty is wise,” Yang Bo considered briefly, and did not plead for the three Jin Party censors.

“Then so it shall be. Continue your court deliberations. I shall return to my studies,” Zhu Yijun smiled brightly, took the sharpened pencil Zhang Hong offered, and resumed sketching.

When imperial affairs were involved, Zhu Yijun naturally had to speak. Since Zhang Juzheng had intended to report to the Emperor, Zhu Yijun did not wait until the lecture session—he acted immediately, to prevent rumors that Zhang Juzheng was deceiving the young Emperor.

Who was deceiving whom, after all?

The Likegeishizhong Luo Zun impeached Tan Lun for holding office without merit; the censors Jing Song and Han Bixian impeached Tan Lun for coughing at the Chaoritan. Their punishment: stripped of official rank, returned to their hometowns in idle retirement. Without official status, they were no longer even gentry in the countryside—unable to evade taxes, unable to rise again.

If they chose to be blades, they must be prepared to be broken.

Their crime: clan faction exclusion, refusal to cease, arbitrary appointments and dismissals, no discipline, no order. Zhu Yijun had already broken three blades—this was killing a chicken to scare the monkeys, to halt the Fengqi of party strife.

If they stirred trouble again, only the Dissection Courtyard’s reserved seats awaited them.

The court deliberation ended quickly. Zhang Juzheng rose to begin the lecture.

Zhang Juzheng’s expression was peculiar; he was savoring the Emperor’s words, especially that word: clan faction.

That word was fascinating—“clan” was concise and profound.

“Chief Grand Secretary?” Zhu Yijun asked, puzzled by Zhang Juzheng’s silence.

“Your Majesty, are the punishments for Luo Zun, Jing Song, and Han Bixian—stripping their ranks and sending them home in idle retirement—perhaps debatable?” Zhang Juzheng snapped back to attention, his face showing reluctance.

To pass the imperial examinations—first as a scholar, then as a provincial candidate, then as a metropolitan graduate—how much effort did it take to reach this point? To strip them of their ranks outright—Zhang Juzheng felt pity.

Zhu Yijun feigned misunderstanding: “Do you mean sending them to the Dissection Courtyard? Must it be so harsh? They haven’t conspired with barbarians or committed unforgivable crimes.”

“Then let it remain: stripped of rank, returned home in idle retirement,” Zhang Juzheng immediately chose compromise.

To turn the young Emperor into a tyrant would be his direct failure as tutor. The child was still young—he could not be taught to become a tyrant. Protecting the Emperor’s inner Three Bonds and Five Constants was Zhang Juzheng’s sacred duty.

Zhu Yijun understood exactly what Zhang Juzheng meant.

These three censors had passed the imperial examination, served three years as probationary officials, then taken up their posts as censors. They had no discipline, no order. Whether they held reverence for the Ming, for the Emperor, for the court, for law and order—let alone that—if they had even a shred of reverence for the books they studied, they would never have done such things.

Did the sages teach them to make mountains out of molehills and form cliques for personal gain?

Zhu Yijun had read the sages too—why did he never find the sages’ teachings endorsing such petty scheming?

“Why hasn’t General Qi come to the capital to receive his reward?” Zhu Yijun asked, puzzled.

The imperial reward ceremony for Qi Jiguang at the Huangjidian had been set, yet Qi Jiguang had not arrived, not even sent word. Zhu Yijun had to inquire specifically.

Zhang Juzheng sighed: “General Qi is beyond the frontier. Dong Huizi’s entire army has been annihilated; Dong Huizi’s nephew was captured. General Qi fears the northern barbarians will use this as pretext to invade southward—he has gone to patrol the frontier outposts.”

Zhu Yijun felt regretful. He had seen Qi Jiguang’s portrait, but never the man himself. He picked up a memorial: “This memorial from the censors claims General Qi recklessly provoked war. Since Dong Huizi demanded tribute, why not pay him silver and send him off? Why set an ambush and kill him, provoking fear among the barbarians?”

“General Qi displayed courage and strategy, his soldiers fought fearlessly, the enemy was annihilated, and the rebel chieftain captured alive—how is this ‘using the enemy to bolster one’s own power’?”

Zhang Juzheng sharply swept his sleeve: “Since ancient times, barbarians fear power, not virtue. If we pay silver to appease them, they will press harder, inch by inch. The Ming gains one night’s peace, but at dawn, the barbarians return. Other rebel chieftains will imitate them—there will be no peace on the borders.”

“Annihilating the entire force and capturing the chieftain alive—this achieves deterrence and punishment.”

Zhang Juzheng’s governance rested on four words: enrich the state, strengthen the military. Had he achieved it? He had.

Then where had the Ming’s formidable troops gone in the Battle of Sarhū?

In the winter of Wanli 23, at Shimenzhai in Jizhou Garrison, Jizhou’s Regional Commander Wang Bao declared: “Today’s pay distribution—no soldiers in armor.” He massacred the Zhe troops who had just won victory in Korea. The Qi Family Army, seeking honor, received disgrace—a footnote to the Ming’s decline.

“General Qi has worked hard,” Zhu Yijun ceased inquiring about Qi Jiguang’s whereabouts. As Regional Commander of Three Garrisons, Qi Jiguang was indeed busy. Though close to the capital, he remained frontier troops, always prepared to patrol the border.

Zhu Yijun asked no further about the Chen Wushi Memorandum. The Ming capital’s Kaicheng Law had just begun trial—it was too early to push too hard.

The lecture began. Zhang Juzheng felt a profound confusion he had never known since passing the imperial examination. The commentaries on the Analects grew stranger; the familiar classics became increasingly alien.

Zhang Juzheng spoke: “The Master said: ‘Guide the people with political orders, regulate them with penal law; they will avoid punishment but have no sense of shame. Guide them with virtue, regulate them with ritual; they will have shame and self-correction.’”

“Dao: to guide; zheng: laws and decrees issued by those who themselves are not upright; qi: to unify; xing: punishment.”

“De: virtue gained through practicing the Dao; li: institutional norms and propriety. Chi: shame, disgrace.”

“Confucius said: the ruler’s governance of the realm amounts to nothing more than guiding people toward goodness and forbidding evil.”

“Interpretation: If you guide the people with legal systems and regulate them with punishment, they will avoid punishment but lose their sense of shame. If you guide them with virtue and regulate them with ritual, they will possess shame and self-correction, their hearts will turn upright, and the realm will be governed.”

“The Book of Rites, Chapter Ziyi, says: ‘Teach the people with virtue, regulate them with ritual—they will have a sense of shame. Teach them with political orders, regulate them with punishment—they will develop a spirit of evasion.’”

“Mencius, Jin Xin Shang, says: ‘Good governance makes the people fear; good teaching makes the people love.’”

“All these say the same thing: guide the people with virtue, regulate them with ritual, so that the people, hearing good, will turn toward it; knowing fault, will correct it; cultivate character, practice virtue.”

Zhang Juzheng quoted the Analects, then cited the Book of Rites and Mencius—as if quoting classics could cement his ideological imprint, proving he was right.

Zhu Yijun sat upright and asked: “Guide by virtue, govern by virtue?”

“Precisely,” Zhang Juzheng exhaled. The Emperor truly understood—he had distilled the essence. The core of these words was governing by virtue.

Zhu Yijun wrote four characters on paper: Gentleman, Petty Man. Beneath Gentleman, he wrote Tan Lun, Qi Jiguang. Beneath Petty Man, he wrote Yang Bo, Wang Chonggu, Zhang Siwei, Ge Shouli, Luo Zun, Jing Song, Han Bixian.

He paused, then crossed out Ge Shouli—this man did not even deserve to be called a petty man.

After writing, the young Emperor stared long before speaking: “Chief Grand Secretary, I have a doubt.”

“I shall resolve Your Majesty’s doubt,” Zhang Juzheng replied. Hearing “I have a doubt” now sent a chill from his tailbone to his crown, making him tense. He must soon relinquish this lecture duty—otherwise, he feared he would no longer recognize the sages’ texts.

How could it be so hard to teach a ten-year-old child, when you are a Great Ming jinshi and Chief Grand Secretary of the Wenyuange?

Zhu Yijun asked: “Tan Lun acts with integrity, refuses to ally with clan factions, lives openly—upward, he owes no debt to righteousness; downward, he owes no debt to conscience. Is he a gentleman? Luo Zun, Jing Song, Han Bixian make mountains out of molehills, use ritual as cover to pursue clan faction exclusion, refuse to cease, arbitrarily appoint and dismiss, show no discipline or order. Are they petty men?”

“A gentleman is open and broad-minded; a petty man is always anxious and narrow,” Zhang Juzheng affirmed.

Zhu Yijun immediately asked: “Chief Grand Secretary, teach me—how does virtue persuade?”

Tan Lun was impeached repeatedly because he refused to ally with the Jin Party. Those who impeached him were Jin Party censors, waving the banner of ritual while pursuing clan faction exclusion. How could virtue persuade in such a case?

It lacked persuasive power!

In the end, resolution must still rest on law and decree.

Zhang Juzheng fell silent for a moment: “Your Majesty, I do not know.”

Zhang Juzheng did know how to persuade by virtue—indeed, the sages had said: “Virtue begins with poetry, is established by ritual, perfected by music. Benevolence arises from the heart; action flows from righteousness.” The logic was complete.

But in the case of Tan Lun’s repeated impeachments, Zhang Juzheng could not utter those words. They were Hong children’s words. The Emperor was ten, but he was the Ming’s sovereign.

Zheng: those who govern others are themselves unrighteous. When moral force cannot correct behavior, only law and decree remain.

As Your Majesty said before: poverty does not move one to flattery; wealth does not lead to arrogance—ritual will decay, music will collapse. Ritual and music will collapse.

“Chief Grand Secretary, I have a doubt,” Zhu Yijun continued.