Chapter 89: Chapter Eighty-Nine: Giving Minister Yuan a Little Scientific Shock

I truly am neglecting my duties. Volume Eighty-Nine: Giving Minister Yuan a Little Scientific Shock. When Zhang Cheng was dispatched to the Southern Office and then waited at Yuegang for Hai Rui’s return to court, he brought back from the Southern Office a magnifying glass for burning ants, a convex lens that made things appear smaller, and when combined, the two lenses allowed him to see much farther—so much so that Zhang Cheng feared he had opened his heavenly eye.

Thus, a telescope was placed in the Wuying Pavilion; though it could not see a thousand li away, it could clearly discern objects several li in the distance.

Many eunuchs believed Zhang Cheng secured the assignment to supervise Xu Jie’s land restitution in Songjiang Prefecture because he presented a divine omen; as a result, junior eunuchs began tinkering with glass, expending immense effort to melt it.

Eventually, this dark chamber was built within a side hall of Wenhua Hall, sealed off by heavy curtains, utterly black, save for one tiny aperture through which light could enter.

Today, Zhu Yijun entered the dark chamber; though dim, their silhouettes remained clearly visible.

When Zhang Juzheng entered the chamber, he saw a beam of white sunlight striking a triangular glass prism; the white light passing through the prism split into seven colors, projecting onto a white sheet of paper.

“This!” Zhang Juzheng stared in utter astonishment. Rainbows form when sunlight passes through water—yet this triangular glass, forged by fierce flame, had genuinely produced a rainbow!

Though deeply shocked by the sight, Zhang Juzheng’s face darkened, and he declared loudly: “Your Majesty, the Book of Documents, Tai Shi Xia, states: ‘Crafting ingenious devices to please.’ The Book of Rites says: ‘Creating licentious sounds, strange attire, ingenious devices, or strange instruments to confuse the masses—execute them!’”

“Ingenious devices and licentious arts—mere tricks—must not be indulged in obsessively!”

“Where there is machinery, there are mechanical schemes; where there are mechanical schemes, there is a scheming mind. When scheming thoughts dwell in the heart, pure simplicity is lost; when pure simplicity is lost, the spirit grows restless; and one whose spirit is restless cannot be aligned with the Dao.”

The final line was Confucius’s words.

It recounts how Zi Gong, traveling to the southern banks of the Han River, saw an old man carrying a clay jar to irrigate his fields. Zi Gong asked why he did not use a lever to draw water, but instead used the jar.

The old man replied: “Once you have machinery, you create mechanical schemes; once you have mechanical schemes, you develop a scheming mind. When scheming thoughts arise in the heart, they corrupt the pure, natural essence.”

Once the heart’s pure simplicity is tainted by scheming thoughts, one seeks shortcuts, chases fame and profit; the spirit becomes unsettled, and one whose spirit is unsettled cannot align with the Dao, and will ultimately be abandoned.

Upon hearing this, Zi Gong blushed in shame and could not answer.

The old man was Zhuangzi; Zhuangzi’s mockery of Zi Gong echoed Confucius’s own words.

Zhuangzi ridiculed the Confucians for preferring to draw water with clay jars rather than use machinery—laborious and ineffective.

Yet the phrase “Where there is machinery, there are mechanical schemes; where there are mechanical schemes, there is a scheming mind” became a sacred axiom for later Confucian scholars, a heavy, unyielding ideological stamp firmly imprinted upon the hearts of generations of scholar-officials in the Central Plains. Though occasionally some showed fascination with mechanical devices, no scientific system ever emerged.

Science is the process of using the spear of practical utility to pierce the shield of entrenched belief.

Even Zhang Juzheng, who mastered dialectics, upon encountering ingenious devices, immediately reacted: “Crafting licentious sounds, strange attire, ingenious devices, or strange instruments to confuse the masses—execute them!”

Feng Bao grew instantly angry: How could this be called “licentious art”? It was an omen! When scholar-officials interpret celestial anomalies as omens or portents, why should eunuchs’ small toys for the Emperor’s amusement be deemed worthy of death?

Zhu Yijun smiled and stepped forward, picking up another prism and placing it over the seven-colored beam; miraculously, the seven colors merged into a single hue!

White.

Zhu Yijun rotated the prism, scattering the light in all directions, then slowly halted it, transforming the seven colors back into white. His voice grew distant: “The Master said: ‘When scheming thoughts dwell in the heart, pure simplicity is lost; when pure simplicity is lost, the spirit grows restless.’”

“The Master also said: ‘Haste makes waste.’”

“Yet pure white light is composed of seven colors, and seven colors are pure white light—what do you think, Master?”

The young Emperor was using pure white light to satirize the Master’s metaphysical notion of pure simplicity—the pristine, unblemished purity likened to white.

But this pure white light was not pure at all—it was composed of seven colors. White sunlight could be split into seven colors by a prism, and those seven colors could be recombined into white.

Zhu Yijun knew full well Zhang Juzheng understood him. As Grand Secretary, as a model official, as a scholar, as a man of vast learning and sharp intellect, as one who wielded dialectical thinking, Zhang Juzheng could comprehend.

The young Emperor became again the ineffable force, swinging his great hammer with full force, shattering Zhang Juzheng’s deeply rooted, unquestioned worldview into fragments.

Zhu Yijun smiled: “Minister Yuan, care to try?”

Zhang Juzheng walked over, picked up a prism, and held it before the light; the seven-colored beam indeed turned white.

The Grand Secretary of the Great Ming remained silent, moving the prism on and off, playing for a long while.

Zhu Yijun whispered: “This is practical truth. Pure white light can be divided into seven colors, and seven colors can be united into pure white. Light is merely light.”

After a long silence, Zhang Juzheng said: “Your servant… allows me time to reflect.”

Zhu Yijun was not in a hurry. He played with the prism, marveling at the wonder of the world. He had originally intended only to show Zhang Juzheng his new toy, but since Zhang Juzheng claimed scheming thoughts taint pure hearts and thus cannot align with the Dao, Zhu Yijun countered with the practical truth: pure white light splits into seven colors, and seven colors unite into white.

Since Zhang Juzheng had come to him, this great hammer must be swung fully—let us see the result.

Zhu Yijun was not in a hurry. He dismantled the prism and replaced it with a bronze mirror: “Minister, the Armory has crafted another telescope. It sees extremely far—I present one to you.”

“Observe this: the angle of light’s incidence and reflection changes.”

The angle of incidence equals the angle of reflection.

As Zhu Yijun rotated the bronze mirror, the angle of incidence changed, and so did the angle of reflection—clearly visible within the dark chamber.

“I understand now,” Zhang Juzheng said after long thought, his tone grave. “Previously, nearly everyone believed white light passing through colored glass became stained with color. The Master saw this too, and naturally concluded that mechanical cunning stains the pure heart. The Master was not wrong—only scheming thoughts cannot align with the Dao.”

“But white light is inherently seven colors. Light is merely light.”

“The principle is sound: the Master opposed scheming thoughts—that is personal cultivation.”

“White light is seven colors, and seven colors are white light—this is also correct. White light is simply white light.”

Zhu Yijun smiled: “I never said the Master was wrong. I merely brought Minister Yuan to see the rainbow.”

“Confucius said: ‘If in the morning I hear the Dao, I may die content in the evening. The principles of all things are infinite—must not be unknown, must not be unheard. To know them, one must tirelessly explore the unknown. Without learning, one cannot know. To pursue the infinite principles of all things, how can one not make learning the foremost duty?’ This is the principle you taught me, Minister Yuan.”

“Confucius did not speak of the strange, the violent, the chaotic, or the divine. Recently, I have wished to understand why two small lenses in the Wuying Pavilion telescope can clearly see several li away—is this not the pursuit of the principles of all things? How can this be called ‘licentious art’?” The young Emperor lowered his hammer, becoming unusually serene—he used Confucius’s own words to refute the argument of scheming minds.

He used Confucius’s words to counter the theory of scheming thoughts.

Before the weapon of dialectical contradiction, the tangible truth of “minimal effort, great result” and the metaphysical scheming mind were a chaotic yet certain, opposing yet unified phenomenon.

Throughout history, Confucian scholars clung to the sages’ texts, utterly rejecting and absolutely condemning mechanical futility, causing mechanical development in the Central Plains to never form a systematic body of empirical knowledge.

Yet machinery’s “effort minimal, result great” is a genuine tool for enhancing productivity, enriching goods, and advancing society—it is concrete, verifiable truth.

Yet for millennia, the harmonious balance of yin and yang—the state of synthesis and compromise—has never been achieved.

Zhang Juzheng bowed his head: “Your Majesty is wise. This is not licentious art.”

Zhu Yijun instantly felt bored. In his plan, Zhang Juzheng should have struggled, then Zhu Yijun would have swung the great hammer and shattered his ideological stamp completely. Yet after only a few words, Minister Yuan had surrendered outright.

Only the wise and the foolish are unchangeable.

One who has fully comprehended the principles of all things is steadfast—no hardship can alter him. This requires courage.

Zhang Juzheng was unquestionably a wise man. For such a wise man, the greatest terror is the unknown, and the greatest advance lies also in the unknown.

The unknown is both fear and the fundamental source of progress. Zhang Juzheng was no coward—he faced the unknown and sought to explore it.

Zhang Juzheng’s surrender was not weakness, but a great courage in confronting the unknown.

Zhu Yijun realized his Master was truly a hero.

Zhu Yijun signaled Feng Bao to remove the prism, then picked up a magnifying glass mounted on a slanted stand, smiling: “Minister, I wished to understand why the telescope sees distant objects, so I began exploring. When I moved the magnifying glass up and down, I was astonished to find light refracted through the lens and converging at a single point.”

“Thus, the magnifying glass can burn ants to ash.”

Zhu Yijun slid the magnifying glass horizontally; the sunlight entering through the aperture bent as it passed through the lens. As the lens moved, the light refracted at different angles, yet always converged at one point. Had this not been in the dark chamber, the magnifying glass would have focused sunlight to a point, burning ants to ash instantly.

“This point is the focal point.” Zhu Yijun replaced the lens and moved it up and down, observing the focal point shift. He continued: “I am still pondering what determines the distance between the focal point and the lens.”

Zhu Yijun had prepared his great hammer, but seeing Zhang Juzheng offered no resistance, he abandoned the strike. He left the side hall with Zhang Juzheng and proceeded to the main hall for the lecture.

When the lecture ended, Zhang Juzheng received from the Emperor a telescope, several prisms, convex lenses, and concave lenses.

Zhang Juzheng stood beneath the sunlight of the eleventh lunar month, gazing at several small sandalwood boxes in his hands, lined with swan velvet, holding objects he once deemed licentious art.

The principles of all things are infinite, their mysteries boundless.

After the assassination attempt, the young Emperor finally shed his previous lethargy. At that time, Zhang Juzheng had seen clear skies and fresh air—the sky of the Great Ming was perfectly blue, with only two small clouds: one, the Emperor’s neglect of duty; the other, the Emperor’s exceptional scholarship.

Now those two clouds expanded slightly, revealing their true, fearsome faces.

“Fortunate indeed,” Zhang Juzheng carefully stored the sandalwood boxes. He planned to build a dark chamber in the Quanzhou Society’s residence and have craftsmen grind several prisms, convex lenses, and concave mirrors.

If the experimental results matched those in the Wenhua Hall side chamber, it would prove no one was deceiving the young Emperor.

Chen Shigong, on duty at the Dissection Institute, now had many new specimens—mainly spies captured by the Embroidered Uniform Guard. These spies gathered intelligence on the Great Ming: from the Northern Barbarians, from the Jurchens, even from Japan, and also Ming subjects secretly colluding with barbarians.

In the past, such spies were simply beheaded. Now, the Eastern Depot’s secret agents cleaned them thoroughly and delivered them to the Dissection Institute for dissection.

To simply cut off their heads was wasteful.

Chen Shigong’s greatest headache was a new patient: Minister of War Tan Lun, Minister Tan.

Tan Lun was magnanimous—specifically, he disregarded personal gain in matters of state, placing national interests above all. He viewed official rank and profit lightly, was filial and fraternal at home, upright and cautious in conduct, humble toward subordinates, open and unguarded with others, his sincerity enough to win the world, his integrity enough to command its respect.

Chen Shigong felt immense pressure. Tan Lun was the leader of the Zhe Party, a senior minister, a pillar of the Great Ming. If Tan Lun’s illness went untreated, the Emperor would not forgive him, nor would the Zhe Party.

After feeling Tan Lun’s pulse, Chen Shigong spoke earnestly: “Sir, you are not yet old, yet military fatigue has worn you down. You sometimes go whole days without eating, wear armor for consecutive days, sleep not for months, ride horseback all day waiting for dawn, travel hundreds of li in a single day, journey thousands of li in a month, endure wind, rain, frost, and dew without dry clothing. Your life hangs by a thread—when do you have time to consider life and death? You brave arrows and stones in obscurity—who asks after your family?”

“Minister Tan, you are the nation’s pillar—yet this illness has fallen upon the pillar.”

Chen Shigong admired Tan Lun. When fighting, Tan Lun treated his own life as nothing—this is how he fell ill, and now, at over fifty, his bodily functions were declining.

Tan Lun smiled: “At that time, the situation in the southeast was like thin ice about to break, urgent as fire. Merely a small matter.”

The “small matter” Tan Lun mentioned was no small matter. In the third and fourth months of Jiajing 38, Tan Lun rushed to Taizhou’s Taizhu battle, braving torrential rain and treacherous terrain, surviving on persimmons and jujubes. His troops encountered the Japanese pirates multiple times en route, winning every engagement.

For two days and three nights, they marched over 300 li, fought more than twenty battles, advancing while fighting. Since then and before, urgent military situations always required Tan Lun’s intervention.

Chen Shigong flipped through the medical records helplessly: “In August of Longqing 5, a border report claimed the Tatars allied with northern barbarians to launch a major southern invasion. After arranging the capital troops, Tan Lun personally went to Miyun, Changping, and other places, assembled elite forces, and marched to Huanghua Town beneath the Great Wall—seven days without rest.”

“If Minister Tan continues to disregard his life, even immortals cannot save him, and medicine cannot cure him.”

The Longqing 5 border report was false—the Tatars did not invade—but it exhausted Tan Lun. On August 22, Longqing 5, Tan Lun returned to the capital. That night he ate pepper; the next day, his left face swelled, his mouth and eyes crooked, his speech and eating became unclear, and he took medicine to recover.

This was Tan Lun’s diagnosis record at the Imperial Medical Academy in Longqing 5.

It was Fang Fengshi’s false report of military emergency that triggered Tan Lun’s stroke. Tan Lun was old, no longer young—such reckless exertion as in his youth would inevitably cause disaster.

Tan Lun, upon hearing this, paused, then smiled wryly at Chen Shigong: “So, Doctor Chen, you mean my illness is curable? Hmm! I thought I had only a few days left.”

Tan Lun heard this and was momentarily stunned, then smirked as he teased Chen Shigong: “So Doctor Chen means my illness is still curable? Why, I thought I had only a few days left to live!”

Tan Lun’s words implied his life was not his own!

Chen Shigong bowed: “Only you can save yourself, Minister Tan. If you still disregard your life, even Hua Tuo reborn could not help you. I will even recall the former physician Li Shizhen to the capital to treat you.”

“Minister Tan must rest before the hour of Hai each day. Do not burn the midnight oil—what you are burning is not oil, it is your life!”

“You must still move daily, but always warm up first. If you wield swords or spears, never rush—otherwise, disaster will strike.”

Upon hearing this, Tan Lun’s eyes lit up: “So you mean I can still wield swords and spears?”

“You cannot fight on the battlefield!” Chen Shigong shouted loudly. “This is for recuperation through practice, not for combat. Only your robust constitution has kept you standing—anyone else would have collapsed long ago!”

“Can’t fight on the battlefield!” Chen Shigong shouted immediately. “It’s rest from wielding swords and spears—not from facing enemies in combat. Only because Commissioner Tan is so robust would he still stand; anyone else would’ve been paralyzed long ago!”

You must not take the field again.

Chen Shigong issued a solemn warning: Tan Lun’s illness was chronic; with proper care, it wouldn’t become critical, but if he insisted on going to war, he would likely not survive long.

“Boring.” Tan Lun’s expression darkened at the news he couldn’t fight. He never much liked the court—full of deceit, schemes, and treachery. War was simpler: enemies were enemies, comrades were comrades—kill the enemy, win the victory. Clear and straightforward.

He disliked the court, and wearing this mask of insincere words felt pointless.

Yet he, who had spent his whole life fighting, could no longer take the battlefield.

Tan Lun had thought the Dissection Institute might let him return to battle, but even it couldn’t help. He stood, preparing to leave.

Chen Shigong rose quickly to see him off. “I will petition to recall Li Shizhen to court to prepare medicine and regulate the health of Lord Tan.”

“Thank you, Doctor Chen.” Tan Lun glanced around the Dissection Institute. They said it was the Hall of Hell of the mortal world—dark and terrifying—but after looking closely, he saw nothing frightening here.

When a man is killed, he is truly dead.

If ghosts or demons truly existed, how come none of the Japanese pirates he’d slain had returned as vengeful spirits?

“See Lord Tan off.”

“Doctor Chen, please stay.” Tan Lun strode out the gate of the Dissection Institute. The Eastern Suburb’s Rice Alley had once been bustling, but now not a soul was in sight. He glanced left and right, then headed toward the Ministry of War.

Chen Shigong petitioned to recall Li Shizhen to the capital, claiming it was to treat Tan Lun’s stroke.

Upon hearing this, Zhu Yijun immediately issued an edict to the Wenyuan Pavilion, ordering Zhang Juzheng to use any means necessary to bring back the Great Ming’s divine physician, Li Shizhen, to treat Lord Tan properly.

Wu Baipeng had arrived in Xuanfu and inspected the stretch of the Great Wall from Xuanfu to Datong, then submitted a memorial.

He reported that from Dishi Cliff, through Diaoe Fortress, Longmen Garrison, to Liutai Beacon, the wall stretched 18,776 zhang—half of it collapsed from enemy raids. The court deliberated: to repair this section would require 8,813 shi of grain, 6,179 taels for salt, vegetables, and labor wages, and 190,000 soldiers annually. Adjusting for terrain and pace, ten thousand men could be gradually deployed, aiming to complete the work within three years.

These passes were the very holes Wang Chonggu had to plug on his way to Xuanfu and Datong.

The 8,000 shi of grain and 6,000 taels were merely symbolic contributions from the court. The real issue was whether 190,000 soldiers could finish the work in a year—but Wu Baipeng had cut it down to ten thousand men, to be completed over three years.

Wu Baipeng was cutting flesh with a dull knife.

Wang Chonggu, as Viceroy of Xuanfu and Datong, submitted a memorial: no need for three years—one year would suffice. As for the 190,000 soldiers, the court would provide ten thousand; the rest, he would find himself.

Zhang Suiwei was desperate to return to court—already a year was too late.

“Wang Chonggu is truly desperate—he’s willing to give silver to the poor? What a sin! He’s exhausted every effort to get Zhang Suiwei back to court.” Zhu Yijun picked up the Wanli Seal and stamped it on Wang Chonggu’s memorial.

Ge Shouli refused to speak up for Wang Chonggu or Zhang Suiwei in court. If Zhang Suiwei wasn’t recalled soon, the Jin Party would face disaster.

Wang Chonggu’s plan: send silver to the Shanxi Provincial Administration Commission, which would conscript displaced tenants and vagrants to build the Great Wall. The silver he gave the commission was Shanxi’s labor tax for this year.

The bulk lay in the frontier construction: each laborer received three taels in silver annually, plus seven taels in value for rice, flour, coats, and shoes—meaning Wang Chonggu would spend nearly two million taels to plug this hole within a year.

Oversight would be handled by the Zhe Party’s Wu Baipeng, the Zhang Party’s Li Le, and the eunuch faction’s Zhang Jing—not by the Jin Party.

Zhang Hong smiled: “Only after the Grand Secretary hurt the Jin Party so badly did they finally move. Otherwise, once they swallowed something, they’d never spit it out.”

Zhu Yijun set down Wang Chonggu’s memorial. The matter would be passed to the Ministry of Revenue, which would then issue orders to the Shanxi Provincial Administration Commission; after next spring’s planting, tenant farmers and drifting populations would be relocated to the frontier to build defenses. He shook his head and said: “So this amounts to cutting off someone’s livelihood—like killing their parents. Wang Chonggu and Zhang Siwei will hate the Grand Secretary even more. But this matter is fundamentally about their embezzlement of state funds and enslavement of frontier soldiers; this remedy is only just.”

Zhu Yijun picked up another memorial, in which the Inner Treasury eunuch Yin Ping discussed palace expenditures.

The young emperor did not manage the household; previously, palace expenses had always been handed to Empress Dowager Li. Zhu Yijun was seeing the imperial accounts for the first time, and four words summed it up: expenditures exceeded income.

“Annual expenditures fall short; we seek to add fifty-four thousand jin of yellow and white wax beyond the original quota, converted to seventy-five thousand eight hundred forty-one taels of silver. Yellow wax is priced at two mace per jin, white wax at four mace two fen per jin, converted to silver under Zhejiang’s Single Whip system, all to be delivered to the Inner Transport Treasury.” Zhu Yijun finished reading the memorial from the Inner Treasury eunuch Yin Ping.

Yellow and white wax was merely an excuse—the palace was out of money, had a deficit, and was inventing pretexts to demand funds from the outer court. But Minister of Revenue Wang Guoguang firmly refused, unwilling to release over seventy thousand taels of silver.

Zhu Yijun held the memorial and asked Zhang Hong: “Is there a way? Can the palace extract these seventy thousand taels from Minister Wang?”

“No,” Zhang Hong said with certainty. “During the Jiajing era, the imperial court demanded two million taels; the Ministry of Revenue had none and flatly refused. Later, a sorcerer named Duan Chaoyong, audacious beyond measure, dared deceive the Jiajing Emperor, claiming he could turn stones to gold and brew elixirs of immortality.”

“After one or two years, Lu Bing, the Lu Commander, exposed him. The Jiajing Emperor flew into a rage and had him beaten to death. Look at Duan Chaoyong—did he gain immortality? He died, and no golden body emerged.”

Hearing this story, Zhu Yijun recalled Zhang Juzheng’s horrified expression when he saw the prism splitting sunlight into seven colors.

Zhang Juzheng feared the young emperor, under the influence of eunuchs, would dabble in heretical arts—turning stones to gold, brewing immortality elixirs—and that’s why he reacted so strongly. After all, white light splitting into a rainbow resembled magical techniques.

But when the emperor displayed wisdom and was not practicing heretical arts, Zhang Juzheng naturally ceased to interfere.

Play, there was nothing wrong with playing—play boldly, as long as it wasn’t heretical sorcery. Zhang Juzheng was happy for the young emperor to be more lively.

The Jiajing Emperor’s obsession with immortality severely damaged imperial dignity.

Duan Chaoyong was a cripple—if he had immortal arts, why couldn’t he heal his own legs? He was merely a charlatan who deceived the palace, deceived the Son of Heaven, and succeeded: he gained the Daoist title “High Scholar” and even secured a fifth-rank official post.

Eventually, Lu Bing, due to his intimate ties with the emperor, exposed the half-hidden affair. This joke of a charlatan deceiving the emperor lasted over two years; otherwise, it would have dragged on longer—how could court ministers respect an emperor so easily fooled?

Only after realizing it was not sorcery but fraud did Zhang Juzheng finally breathe easier.

“Seventy thousand taels—where can this deficit be made up? There’s no money,” Zhu Yijun said, holding the memorial, and ordered it sent to the Grand Secretariat for deliberation.

Zhang Juzheng left the floating slip blank—it was an inner court matter, and he could not interfere. Matters involving the inner palace, he dared not take a stance.

The next morning, drizzling rain fell; autumn rain brings cold, and the weather had turned chilly. The atmosphere in the Wenhua Hall was far from harmonious.

Feng Bao presented Yin Ping’s memorial demanding funds. Zhang Juzheng remained silent; Wang Guoguang refused to comply. The atmosphere grew awkward.

Over seventy-five thousand taels was no small sum—it could sustain the Quan Chu Guild for seventy-five years, enough to keep it alive until the Southern Ming’s Yongli Second Year.

The inner court demanded money; the outer court refused. A deadlock ensued. Ge Shouli, who upheld the emperor’s authority, also stayed silent—he had no such funds to fill this hole.

“This is utterly ridiculous,” Feng Bao roared, fury rising. “Wang Chonggu is plugging holes on the frontier and needs at least two million taels in grain and pay. Yet when the palace asks for seventy thousand taels, you all stammer and fall silent?”

Silence was also resistance.

No matter how much Feng Bao raged, the state’s dire fiscal deficit had now reached the highest level of imperial authority.

Wang Jiaoping, Grand Secretary of the Left Spring, ventured: “I heard the palace is in deficit. Court official Zhang Siwei was greatly alarmed and came to me, saying he could provide this sum to subsidize palace expenditures.”

Feng Bao frowned and asked Wang Jiaoping: “What’s the condition?”

Wang Jiaoping smiled broadly: “There is no condition. He merely acts out of loyalty and filial devotion. Zhang Siwei, moved by the nation’s hardships, wishes to use his private wealth to support the public treasury—sincerely, with no ulterior motive. You misunderstand, Feng Daban. Zhang Siwei is entangled in the Great Wall construction and cannot return to court; the project remains unfinished, so he dares not use this to pressure the court.”

This idea came from Wu Dui, the Xuanfu Provincial Governor, who suggested it to Wang Chonggu.

Wu Dui had spent over half a month in the imperial prison and was terrified of it. Better to produce real silver than fabricate military reports. It need not be rushed—if the Great Wall’s deficits are plugged, Wang Chonggu, Zhang Siwei, Wu Dui, and others, relying on their achievements in securing the frontier and the Altan Khan’s tribute, need not fear lacking influence at court.

Zhang Siwei had specifically instructed Wang Jiaoping: make it clear—no conditions. He cannot return to court now, and it is urgent, but he has no intention of bribing the palace to regain favor. It is pure loyalty and filial devotion. He will complete the Great Wall project, then return to the capital.

The last incident of forged reports had already stirred the entire court. Do not provoke the palace again.

Ge Shouli’s expression turned complex. Though he was the leader of the Jin Faction, he controlled only the censors and remonstrating officials—not finances or troops. Wang Chonggu and Zhang Siwei had money and men. And now, when the emperor was short of funds, they rushed forward to flatter.

Wang Guoguang’s face darkened. He turned to Zhang Juzheng and asked: “What does the Grand Secretary think?”

Before Zhang Juzheng could speak, the young emperor on the throne suddenly said: “I will not take Zhang Siwei’s money. If the palace has no money, we can spend less—be frugal. Let him keep his silver.”

Zhu Yijun made no effort to hide his disdain for Zhang Siwei—he refused even his silver.

Silver was just silver—it bore no name. Why was it repulsive? But Zhang Siwei’s silver? It was repulsive.