Chapter 45

Yang Bo, upon hearing the Emperor ask what he meant by those words, smiled broadly and thought carefully before replying: “Understanding principle is the beginning of action; action makes the principle clearer.”

“When understanding is genuine and put into practice, that is action; when action reveals and deepens understanding, that is the process of knowing—the very essence of knowing.”

“Knowing and acting are fundamentally one and the same.”

“This is what is meant: Knowing is the beginning of action; action is the completion of knowing. Where knowing is sincere and firm, that is action; where action is clear and discerning, that is knowing. Knowing and acting are one. From the Marquis of Xinjian, Wang Wencheng.”

Wang Wencheng refers to Wang Shouren—the Marquis of Xinjian who quelled the rebellions of the Si-Tian Yao tribes, eradicated bandits in southern Jiangxi, suppressed the Ning Prince’s revolt, attained enlightenment at Longchang, and founded the ‘Yangming School of Mind’—posthumously honored with the epithet Wencheng, hence Wang Wencheng.

Yang Bo was expounding on the unity of knowing and acting, on the relationship between knowing and doing.

Zhu Yijun asked again: “What is knowing?”

Yang Bo paused, then answered: “Knowing, as in ‘to know,’ means to investigate, comprehend, summarize, and reflect—that is action. Knowing, as in ‘cognition,’ means the teachings of the sages, the writings within the heart, benevolence and virtue, the principles of all things—that is principle.”

“Knowing is internal cognition, internal knowledge, the essence of morality, humanity’s understanding of the infinite principles of all things, and spiritual awareness.”

Yang Bo explained the character ‘zhi’ with perfect clarity: knowing is both ‘to know’ and ‘cognition.’

Zhu Yijun’s expression toward Yang Bo grew complex. Undoubtedly, Yang Bo’s scholarship was flawless, his explanation profoundly lucid. He thought a moment and said: “I have read little. The Analects, Shu Er, says: ‘The Master taught four things: literature, conduct, loyalty, and trustworthiness.’ That is, the Master instructed in four areas: knowledge, character, loyalty, and sincerity.”

“Grand Coordinator Master says ‘literature’ refers to the Six Arts; ‘conduct’ means embodying principle in one’s body, acting with one’s whole being.”

“Loyalty means giving one’s full heart—being faithful to one’s inner self, to one’s spiritual nature, in action and deed—that is loyalty.”

“Trustworthiness means sincerity toward others, truly understanding things, not relying on hearsay or partial, biased belief—that is sincerity.”

“I wonder, Grand Minister Yang, does Grand Coordinator Master’s interpretation of this passage contain any errors or omissions?”

Loyalty, as interpreted by Zhang Juzheng, meant loyalty to the sovereign, to the state, to oneself, to one’s own cognition, to one’s spiritual nature.

“Grand Coordinator Master is correct,” Yang Bo said with utmost seriousness. Zhang Juzheng’s scholarship was impeccable; their understanding was identical. Yang Bo had read every word of the Emperor’s and Zhang Juzheng’s exchanges, intimately familiar with this passage.

The Emperor was truly studying earnestly—this quote came to him effortlessly, without a single error.

Though the young Emperor sometimes neglected his duties, he had indeed devoted great effort to reading.

Zhu Yijun continued: “Grand Coordinator Master says: Learning, if merely heard from others, is empty hearsay, not grounded in true practice. But if one’s actions betray one’s inner self, and one fails to understand the truth of things, then what one knows and does is nothing but hypocrisy—there can be no achievement or gain.”

“As it is said: The scholar who merely hears is empty word and ear; not true practice. The actor whose actions betray his inner self—what he knows and does is all hypocrisy; and in the end, he gains nothing.”

“Grand Minister Yang, is Grand Coordinator Master right?”

Yang Bo had understood exactly what the young Emperor was asking. He sighed deeply and said: “Grand Coordinator Master is right.”

Zhu Yijun went on: “In Grand Coordinator Master’s lectures, I believe the essence is this: one must read widely, understand principles deeply, act earnestly, practice with feet on the ground, and act faithfully according to one’s inner self—seeking truth from illusion. That is true learning.”

“As it is said: Diligent in study, firm in action, loyal and sincere, inward and outward as one.”

“Your Majesty is wise! Your humble minister is ashamed.” Yang Bo bowed again, his body swaying slightly. Ge Shouli hurried forward and steadied him.

“Grand Minister Yang, are you alright?” Ge Shouli asked, his face filled with concern.

Yang Bo waved his hand. “I’m fine, fine. Just an old ailment flaring up.”

Yang Bo could not tell whether the Emperor’s words were an accusation or merely a sincere inquiry.

Others might not hear it, but Yang Bo heard it clearly: the Emperor appeared to be seeking guidance, yet every word felt like an accusation.

Accusing him: he knew all the principles, yet refused to act faithfully to his inner self;

He knew Wang Chonggu’s list of military talents was flawed, yet did nothing;

He knew factional strife drained the Ming’s strength, yet watched silently as censors impeached Tan Lun;

He clearly understood virtue—the inner principle, the moral truth—but his actions betrayed his inner self.

The Emperor’s words seemed to accuse him: after a lifetime of reading the sages, where had it all gone? Even if he cared nothing for the Emperor or state affairs, where had his own lifelong understanding of the unity of knowing and acting vanished?

Disloyal to the Emperor? Disloyal to the state? Must he also be disloyal to his own heart?

The Emperor’s words seemed to accuse him: after a lifetime, he had become this—on his deathbed, could he truly rest in peace?

When Ge Shouli submitted his memorial denouncing Tan Lun, all Yang Bo needed to do was cough once, offer a compromise, give Ge Shouli a way out—and Ge Shouli would not have been so humiliated.

Ge Shouli was foolish because he trusted Yang Bo—but how did Yang Bo repay that trust?

Yang Bo was exploiting Ge Shouli’s predicament, inch by inch, testing the waters.

Yang Bo’s spirit trembled, his body unsteady—Ge Shouli immediately reached out, full of concern, to support him.

The Emperor’s words seemed to call him a hypocrite, a two-faced villain—disloyal to the Emperor, disloyal to the Ming, and above all, disloyal to his own heart. Yang Bo could only say: ashamed.

He could not defend himself. These deeds, these words, these actions—whether intended or not—he had no choice but to do them.

Because he was the patriarch of a clan faction.

Too many people stood behind him, pushing him forward. Some things, he could not escape. That was why, after the trial of the Kaocheng Law, he had requested retirement to his hometown.

“Thank you, Grand Minister Yang, for teaching me this principle.” Zhu Yijun did not press further. Instead, he smiled brightly, leading the court ministers onward in their tour.

Zhu Yijun had used Yang Bo’s own words to rebuke him. Scholars loved to criticize indirectly—who could not do the same?

Most court ministers still believed the young Emperor was earnestly seeking knowledge. His round, chubby face, beaming with such a smile, was terribly deceptive.

But Zhang Juzheng knew: the Emperor had used the guise of inquiry to scold Yang Bo. Now, the Emperor was truly a scholar—he attacked with the refined cruelty of a scholar, striking Yang Bo’s deepest wounds without mercy.

When Yang Bo died, if he recalled these words, he would find no peace.

Yang Bo thought of these words—uttered by a ten-year-old child, met only with shame—and his life felt like a joke.

Once a gentleman, now a villain; once open and upright, now anxious and petty; once a paragon of virtue, now utterly base—how could he close his eyes in peace?

Zhang Juzheng had always refused Yang Bo’s proposal to merge the Jin and Chu factions—he knew that if he accepted Yang Bo’s position as clan patriarch, he could no longer be faithful to his own ‘knowing,’ to his own spiritual nature.

If he took that position, he would betray himself first. He was already Chief Grand Secretary—must he kneel to remain one?

His mind could not find peace.

Zhu Yijun led the court ministers to tour his fields. The Baoqi Hall had added five more mu: five mu to the left of the fire chamber, five mu to the right. The left would be planted with seedlings that had been pinched and blanched; the right, with seedlings untouched—so they could compare yields.

Such cultivation could not be promoted to the people. The real challenge in future promotion would be deciding which seedling techniques to adopt.

Ge Shouli finally realized his earlier denunciation of Zhang Juzheng for deceiving the Emperor was absurd—the Emperor was practicing the unity of knowing and acting, not playing games.

For the Ming, this was undoubtedly good news.

“That will be all for today. My lords, please take your leave. I return to the palace.” Zhu Yijun stood before Xuanwu Gate—he was returning to practice martial arts. Cultural lessons could rest, but martial training must never cease.

“We humbly bid farewell to Your Majesty.” The ministers bowed and saw the Emperor off.

On his way back to the palace, Zhu Yijun said to Feng Bao: “Feng Daban, guard my Baoqi Hall. If any villain enters, and the Empress Dowager punishes you, I cannot protect you.”

“Your servant obeys.” Feng Bao bowed, knowing that if these potatoes and sweet potatoes truly grew, they would be a miraculous remedy against famine—a great benefit to state and people.

Would anyone still interfere with such a good thing?

Feng Bao was certain: someone would interfere.

The Ming ministers’ audacity was always great. If the Emperor truly cultivated potatoes, his authority would grow—and then the ministers would tremble.

As the chief eunuch of the Office of Supervising Eunuchs, entrusted with upholding imperial power, he understood well the ministers’ boundless boldness.

This was an opportunity—a chance to regain the Emperor’s trust. The Baoqi Hall lay within the imperial garden at Jingshan, surrounded by Eastern Depot agents. He must guard these dozen mu of land—no oversight allowed.

Zhu Yijun returned to Qianqing Palace and changed into his martial attire. He met Empress Chen and Empress Li face to face. Since Empress Chen had no child, the two Empresses were in perfect harmony.

Zhu Yijun flashed his signature smile: “Mother, Mama.”

“Son, rest today. The lectures are suspended,” Empress Chen said, most tender-hearted toward Zhu Yijun. The lectures were meant to rest nine days—now they rested one day, yet he refused even a single day of martial training?

“Sister, you tried to persuade the Emperor—he gave you a long lecture and left you utterly confused,” Empress Li said, having suffered this before. She no longer urges—when she told him not to overwork, she ended up feeling as if she’d committed some grave sin.

Zhu Yijun shook his head. “I’m not tired. Today, the Commander will teach us cuju—split into two teams. This is play, not training. The Commander says we must teach through joy.”

Cuju, a sport fostering teamwork and endurance, was taught by Zhu Xixiao to the elite guards, sword-bearers, and young eunuchs—to give the Emperor balance, for constant martial training grew dull.

Commander Zhu Xixiao hoped the Ming might yet produce another emperor who rode horseback.

“Tomorrow is Qingming. The day after, General Qi returns to the capital.” Zhu Yijun placed great importance on Qi Jiguang’s return—after much delay, the date was finally set.