Chapter 42

Warriors fight before death or life; beauties dance in the generals’ tents.

This line comes from Gao Shi’s “Yan Song” of the Tang Dynasty, describing how frontline soldiers fight to the death while generals feast and watch dancers in their tents—how could such an army not fail?

Zhang Juzheng, during his lectures to the emperor, spoke of the Battle of Que Shu Valley, how the Prince of Qin fought fiercely, and how Li Jiancheng lived in luxury and excess, hoping to use his learning to warn the emperor and urge him to take state affairs seriously.

Zhu Yijun remarked with deep emotion: “Just like now—the soldiers fight to the death on the frontier, while within the capital, music and dance flourish. After all, the Tartars can’t break through Beijing’s walls; they only plunder the people of the capital region—what does that have to do with the lords inside the capital?”

“We can always just agree to raise the horse-price silver.”

Hearing the emperor say this, Zhang Juzheng felt a knot in his chest, unsure how to respond, standing there silent and stunned.

Zhang Juzheng couldn’t help but think of Qi Jiguang—everyone saw him as a useless wart, superfluous and worthless.

Was Zhu Yijun afraid he’d pushed too hard? Had his iron hammer swung too hard, shaking Zhang Juzheng’s unshakable convictions?

If Zhang Juzheng, in despair, gave up on this rotten world and joined forces with the Jin Party, wouldn’t Zhu Yijun face great trouble?

Zhang Juzheng spoke solemnly: “I was entrusted by the late emperor as the chief minister of the realm; I dare not forget my duty to the people. I give my utmost loyalty and devotion, doing what I know to be impossible, and as long as I draw breath, I will not abandon this resolve!”

“As long as I draw breath, I will not abandon this resolve”—this is Zhu Yijun’s interpretation of the words “hong yi.”

Zhang Juzheng told himself: he knew the truth and would not waver. He understood all the flaws of the Great Ming and was determined to reform them, to revive the dynasty—this was his ambition; as long as one breath remained, he would not slacken.

“When will Marshal Qi return to the capital?” Zhu Yijun asked.

Zhang Juzheng quickly replied: “After Qingming.”

Zhu Yijun’s life was simple: morning sessions in the Wenhua Hall for governance and lectures, then martial practice; after martial practice, he went to Jingshan to till the land; after tilling, he began issuing seals; at night, he reviewed the day’s gains and read Xu Zhen’s annotated agricultural texts.

Zhang Juzheng’s Kaocheng Law had finally begun implementation in the capital, met with bitter complaints—but the leader of the Jin Party, seeking to quell unrest, agreed to join Zhang in enforcing it.

Before the Kaocheng Law, the Great Ming’s official evaluation system consisted of Jingcha and Daji.

Jingcha assessed officials in the capital; Daji assessed officials nationwide, held every six years. As governance slackened, state power weakened, discipline collapsed, and administration decayed, Jingcha and Daji had become mere formalities. Zhang Juzheng’s Kaocheng Law shattered all personal connections and favoritism.

The core of the Kaocheng Law: set deadlines for tasks, hold individuals accountable for results.

In the capital, the Kaocheng Law first targeted the Six Boards’ Censors. Within three days, nearly all of them were replaced—either dismissed or reassigned to provincial posts.

They were replaced by officials Zhang Juzheng greatly admired—most came from across the empire, with no kinship, no teacher-student ties, no shared hometowns with Zhang Juzheng.

“Set deadlines for tasks”: assign a specific deadline for each task, requiring completion within the time limit.

Task details, deadlines, and completion status were recorded in three ledgers: one kept by the Six Ministries and the Censorate, one managed by the Six Boards’ Censors, and one submitted to the Grand Secretariat. Each month, accounts were reconciled against these ledgers.

Officials of the Six Ministries and the Censorate were responsible for executing tasks; whether completed or not, results had to be recorded truthfully.

The Six Boards’ Censors were responsible for oversight, monitoring completion and recording it faithfully.

The Grand Secretariat inspected the Censors’ work; if the Censors colluded with the Six Ministries or the Censorate, they were immediately dismissed.

Thus, a basic evaluation mechanism emerged: the Grand Secretariat led oversight, oversight supervised the Six Ministries, and the Six Ministries commanded all officials—this was an extremely complete bureaucratic system.

To judge a man’s talent, there is no need to test him with tasks; once assigned a task, there is no need to further examine his character—hence the name Kaocheng Law.

Whether the Kaocheng Law worked or not, the young emperor had his own unique standard: the resentment of the capital officials.

The greater their resentment, the more effective the Kaocheng Law.

In these few short days, cowed by Zhang Juzheng’s authority as chief minister, court officials finally rose up and began submitting joint memorials to impeach Zhang Juzheng!

Their resentment had grown so great they no longer feared Zhang Juzheng’s retaliation!

Their resentment had grown so great they were willing to forfeit their offices to impeach Grand Secretary Zhang!

The court was in uproar.

The charges against Zhang Juzheng were countless: he usurped imperial authority, oppressed officials, favored allies and persecuted rivals, lacked benevolence and virtue, was arrogant with fullness, and was biased and suspicious. The accusations were bizarre and wild—as if Zhang Juzheng were the Great Ming’s greatest traitor, and unless he was removed, the dynasty would perish tomorrow!

Zhang Juzheng was a container—any accusation could be stuffed into him.

Zhu Yijun’s only response: “Understood.”

He neither withheld the memorials nor marked them with circles or crosses—only three words: “Understood.”

Failure to complete departmental duties within deadlines resulted in penalties: fines, demotion, reassignment, dismissal, stripping of official rank and exile to one’s home village, banishment to malarial lands, or deployment to frontier regions.

If punishments were not enforced, no matter how objective or truthful the inspection, supervision, and command results were, the Kaocheng Law was merely a facade.

In the twelfth year of Wanli, three years after Zhang Juzheng’s death, the Wanli Emperor issued an edict abolishing the Kaocheng Law; from then on, the Great Ming’s administration decayed, never again regaining clarity.

In the first year of Chongzhen, the Chongzhen Emperor sought to revive the Kaocheng Law and personally oversee its implementation—but by then, everything was beyond repair, in total collapse.

Zhu Yijun waited for Qi Jiguang’s return, but before Qi arrived, he received his monthly examination.

On the nineteenth day of the second month of Wanli’s first year, the ten-year-old emperor Zhu Yijun finally faced his own Kaocheng. Court officials were bound by the Kaocheng Law; even the young emperor had to be examined—but no one dared punish him, nor could anyone punish the emperor.

The monthly examination arrived as scheduled.

Among the charges against Zhang Juzheng, one was certainly not false: that Zhang’s authority overshadowed the emperor. The emperor, as the supreme ruler of all under heaven, who could possibly examine him?

Zhang Juzheng, entrusted by the late emperor as a regent minister, did indeed have the authority to examine the emperor—but after examination, there was no punishment. This was the dilemma of the Great Ming’s young emperor’s studies.

The examination content: the first two chapters of the Analects and four stories from the Illustrated Mirror for Governance.

Zhu Yijun was somewhat anxious about the monthly exam. If these ministers set him difficult questions and he failed, how could he still boldly claim he was not neglecting his duties?

With a slightly uneasy heart, Zhu Yijun headed toward the Wenhua Hall.

“Your Majesty,” Feng Bao whispered, “Yesterday Xu Jue went out of the palace and obtained the exam paper from the chief minister. Would Your Majesty like to preview it?”

Zhu Yijun paused, looking at Feng Bao: “This… isn’t right.”

What kind of behavior is this! Open cheating! Is there no law? Is there no justice?

“Bring it here,” Zhu Yijun extended his hand.

His monthly exam wasn’t just about whether he could continue neglecting his duties—it also determined whether Zhang Juzheng’s Kaocheng Law could proceed smoothly.

The exam paper was prepared by Grand Secretaries Wang Xilie, Wang Jiaoping, Fan Yingqi, and reviewed by Zhang Juzheng as the emperor’s tutor.

If the emperor passed the monthly exam, it would prove Zhang Juzheng could fulfill his late emperor’s trust as tutor and demonstrate the legitimacy of his regency.

If the supreme emperor of the Great Ming could pass his monthly exam, why couldn’t all officials under heaven be held to the Kaocheng Law?

For Zhu Yijun, who lacked moral cultivation, was open cheating really so wrong?

He held extremely flexible standards for morality.

He even considered moving the exam to the rear hall of the Wenhua Hall, avoiding official supervision, and allowing open-book testing.

Zhu Yijun took the exam paper, read it briefly, folded it, and handed it to Feng Bao: “Burn it. Never ask the chief minister for the exam paper again.”

Having read the paper, Zhu Yijun was confident. He raised his hand, stepped in measured strides, and entered the Wenhua Hall with calm composure.

Three strokes of the ceremonial whip. Officials filed in, lined up, bowed five times and kowtowed thrice, shouting in unison: “Your servants pay homage to Your Majesty! How is Your Majesty’s health?”

“I am well. Rise, my ministers,” Zhu Yijun said calmly, extending his hand. “Enough pleasantries. Begin.”

“We overstep,” said Grand Secretary Wang Xilie and others, handing the exam paper to Zhang Hong, who laid it flat on the imperial desk.

Zhu Yijun picked up his brush, dipped it in ink, and began answering. The Wenhua Hall was utterly silent—even the windows were closed to avoid disturbing the emperor’s exam.

After two ke, Zhu Yijun put down his brush, blew on the ink to dry it, waited a moment, then signaled Zhang Hong to present the paper to the officials.

The officials watched the exam paper nervously. For the past six months, the young emperor’s studies had been dismal—put bluntly, he had learned nothing.

Would things improve now that Zhang Juzheng was teaching him alone?

For Zhu Yijun, the exam content was ridiculously easy!

This? This? Is this even worth calling a monthly exam?

It was so simple he suspected Wang Xilie had conspired with Zhang Juzheng to set easy questions so the emperor could pass.

The exam included dictation: only the first line of each passage from the first two chapters of the Analects was given; he had to write the second line.

It included interpretation: extract a character or passage and explain its meaning.

It included summary: describe the gist of a story from the Illustrated Mirror for Governance.

A test suitable for a ten-year-old child.

What difficulty was this for Zhu Yijun? None at all.

Of course Zhu Yijun found it easy—he daily sparred with Zhang Juzheng in debates aimed at breaking through walls, while Zhang Juzheng, the wall, was constantly pained by the emperor’s simple, naive questions.

Wang Xijue, responsible for grading, carefully read the paper, marking it with growing doubt. This neat, polished answer exceeded his expectations. In the six months since the late emperor’s death, the young emperor’s studies had always been poor.

With mixed feelings, Wang Xijue finished grading and handed the paper to the Grand Secretaries.

After the Grand Secretaries verified it, the paper passed to Zhang Juzheng.

Zhang Juzheng didn’t even need to look—he knew the emperor would pass. With this paper, the emperor could answer correctly even with his eyes closed. The boy was clever; he had merely been lazy and deceitful, refusing to study properly.

No, it was the Grand Secretaries’ constant chatter that confused the ten-year-old emperor—it was the ministers’ fault!

This was how the moral and ritual norms of a thousand years had always been: ruler as ruler, minister as minister.

Zhang Juzheng teaching alone yielded remarkable results.

Zhang Juzheng opened the paper and, as expected, found the emperor’s handwriting neat and his answers excellent.

“Your Majesty’s brilliance is heavenly, your virtue already so evident; if you continue to improve, all under heaven shall benefit! I rejoice for the Great Ming, I rejoice for Your Majesty!” Wang Xilie stepped forward, knelt earnestly, and declared loudly.

“I am ashamed before the late emperor,” Wang Xilie said, his voice trembling with emotion. He was an old scholar; the emperor’s poor studies fell squarely on him as the chief lecturer.

As head of the Hanlin Academy, Wang Xilie gave the emperor’s paper high praise. In the six months since the late emperor’s death, they had taught endlessly, yet taught him nothing—frantic, yet helpless.

“Next time, make it slightly harder,” Zhu Yijun began, then paused, then began again, his mind already made up.

The Great Ming emperor’s monthly exam could be used to advantage.

The recent wave of criticism against Zhang Juzheng—the public opinion—was simply too strong.