Chapter 91: I Will Do Three Things: Scold, Scold, and Still Scold!

Zhang Siwei and Wang Chonggu’s act of offering gold was like a cart crashing into a tree—knowing it had turned, yet still letting snot drip into their mouths; like a little mouse pulling cat fur and getting pinned down—knowing it had to run.

Too late!

The year was nearly over, and the court’s situation had changed drastically from the beginning of the year; if Zhang Siwei continued his scheming, Zhu Yijun would truly order a young eunuch to slash his face, rendering him unfit to serve in court again.

Either obey the court’s orders faithfully, or go home and prepare to rebel—flip the table, and stop concocting all these absurd schemes every day.

Disgusting!

If he rebelled, Zhu Yijun would still respect Zhang Siwei as a man of integrity.

Zhang Juzheng bowed and said: “Your Majesty, the Right Associate of the Censorate, Hou Yuzhao, submitted a memorial citing the Book of Changes: ‘When upper and lower levels interact, their intentions align; when heaven and earth interact, harmony prevails. To summon the harmony of heaven and earth, nothing surpasses connecting the sentiments of upper and lower.’

‘Now, cabinet ministers and department heads have fixed times for audience, but their conversations are not continuous. It would be better if Your Majesty held court in a private hall, summoned ministers for impromptu consultations, or questioned them during leisure moments of scholarly reading, inquiring into one or two matters reported daily, so that ministers may fully express their thoughts and present detailed reports, as Shuxiang once did. Ministers rely on their salaries and dare not offer earnest advice; junior officials fear punishment and dare not speak. The lower sentiments cannot reach the throne—this is a great peril to the state.’

‘Hou Yuzhao’s meaning is that cabinet ministers, who have daily access to the emperor, have become powerful ministers who abuse authority for personal gain. He urges Your Majesty, after rejecting memorials, to summon ministers for questioning whenever officials raise inquiries.’

Zhu Yijun had indeed read this memorial; Hou Yuzhao’s ‘Memorial on Favored Ministers Seizing Power and Acting Arbitrarily’ was about a thousand characters long. The front was flattery—words like ‘His Majesty’s heavenly wisdom’—while the latter part pleaded for the emperor to pardon the three censors who had impeached Tan Lun, restore them to office, and absolve them of their crimes.

Of the entire memorial, only the passage quoted by Zhang Juzheng was a sound suggestion.

Hou Yuzhao’s point was that because cabinet ministers could meet the emperor directly, they had become power-holders, acting selfishly and without restraint; he urged the emperor, after rejecting memorials, to summon officials for questioning whenever ministers raised concerns.

Zhang Juzheng singled out this passage because the emperor had merely scribbled a cross on the memorial—he was unsure whether the emperor had truly read its contents.

More precisely, Hou Yuzhao, as a member of the Jin Party, was accusing Zhang Juzheng of monopolizing power and isolating the inner court from the outer.

Zhu Yijun sat upright and said: ‘Each ministry has its own deliberations; these are submitted to the cabinet, which drafts preliminary opinions and sends them to the Directorate of Palace Affairs, which then approves them with red ink and delivers them to the Qianqing Palace for the imperial seal. This is the ancestral law.’

‘I do not agree with Hou Yuzhao’s words. When court ministers deliberate, I hear them; occasionally, when I don’t understand, I ask questions. How, then, does Hou Yuzhao interpret this as someone isolating the inner and outer courts? Does he even respect the Nine Ministers and the Twenty-Seven Court Officials? Even Ge Shouli disagrees with him.’

Zhu Yijun marked Hou Yuzhao’s memorial with a cross; when Ge Shouli returned, he scolded Hou Yuzhao for writing such nonsense—he could have at least written ‘Good morning!’

In opposing the Grand Secretary’s overwhelming authority over the throne, no ammunition is excessive; mindlessly attacking Zhang Juzheng is a waste of firepower!

In opposing the Grand Secretary, one must focus strength on critical matters!

‘Your Majesty summoning ministers is only proper,’ Zhang Juzheng countered, agreeing with Hou Yuzhao—how could the emperor avoid meeting his officials?

Zhu Yijun still disagreed: ‘I am only eleven years old, still studying; my wedding is at fifteen. We can discuss this afterward.’

‘What if we hold a grand court assembly once a month?’ Zhang Juzhong proposed a compromise.

The young emperor’s excuse of youth was perfectly valid; a monthly grand assembly should indeed be held, so the capital officials could see the living emperor.

The Ming dynasty’s irregular morning court sessions had long been abandoned, dating back to the Yongle era, when Emperor Yongle went on military campaigns lasting over a year; court sessions were then held by Emperor Renzong Zhu Gaochi, making Zhu Gaochi seem more like the emperor, while Zhu Di appeared more like the Great General of the North.

The Ming’s irregular morning court sessions truly ceased after the palace coup of Jiajing Twenty-One, when Emperor Jiajing never again attended court.

It has been over thirty years.

Zhu Yijun, watching Zhang Juzheng’s persistent insistence, finally understood: the Grand Secretary needed the young emperor’s support—he needed the emperor to back him up.

The Kaocheng Law, launched in August from the capital and spreading nationwide, encountered many difficulties; Zhang Juzheng’s criticism mounted, and rumors recently circulated in the capital that Zhang Juzheng intended to emulate Wang Mang—naturally, ministers submitted memorials like ‘Memorial on Favored Ministers Seizing Power and Acting Arbitrarily’ to denounce Zhang Juzheng for isolating the inner court and usurping imperial authority.

If Zhang Juzheng truly intended to emulate Wang Mang, would he still implement the Kaocheng Law?

Reinstating the regular court session was Zhang Juzheng’s response—to bring the young emperor out, so people would not say he had deceived him.

Zhu Yijun shook his head and waved his small hand: ‘Fine. They have petty minds, judging gentlemen by their own low standards. They do evil themselves yet suspect others of evil. If they’re idle, let them till two mu of land, get some sweet potato seedlings, and figure out how to feed the people!’

Zhang Juzheng felt a bad premonition—he recalled how the emperor had scolded Wan Shihé, each word more devastating than the last, as if he wished Wan Shihé would kill himself.

Now, court ministers insist the emperor appear before them, holding a monthly assembly—when that day comes, the scene will be hard to control.

Zhang Juzheng hesitated. He had indeed faced immense public pressure, but he could still withstand it. He bowed and said: ‘Perhaps we should abandon this.’

‘It’s settled!’ Zhu Yijun confirmed the arrangement. ‘Summon the Readers and Lecturers to the hall for the scholarly session.’

On the twenty-third day of the tenth month of Wanli Year One, an imperial decree was issued to all six ministries of the capital, announcing that the third day of each month would be the court assembly day; due to the emperor’s youth, the duration was set at half an hour.

The regular court session, suspended for over thirty years, was suddenly reinstated.

The young emperor seemed pleased to meet court officials; all capital ministers rejoiced!

During the Zhengtong era, Emperor Yingzong held court daily, discussing only eight matters, selecting specific individuals and topics; he even brought cheat sheets to the hall. This became fixed practice, and the Huangji Hall court sessions grew increasingly formalistic, losing all practical effect.

The Ming did not lack regular court sessions—the tingyi (court deliberations) were the regular sessions; every matter was discussed by the Twenty-Seven Court Officials, including the Nine Ministers, before being submitted to the emperor for approval.

Thus, the regular court session gradually shifted from every three days to every five days, and by Jiajing Twenty-One, it was abandoned entirely.

November third: auspicious for opening a business, cleaning, renovation, sacrifice, breeding livestock, paving roads; inauspicious for weddings, funerals, trade, suicide.

November was deep winter; rising at the fifth watch was already torment, and waiting outside the Chengtian Gate, they could not enter the hall to escape the wind until the gate opened; only about a hundred officials could enter the Huangji Hall.

After the Great Han Generals beat drums and blew horns, the Chengtian Gate slowly opened; ministers lined up along the Nine-Dragon Stone Steps, underwent inspection, then entered the hall.

Zhu Yijun waited until all ministers were in place before sitting upright.

‘Your servants pay homage to Your Majesty! May Your Majesty live ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand ten thousand years!’ The ministers kowtowed.

Zhu Yijun waved his small hand, speaking clearly and loudly: ‘My loyal ministers, rise and be seated.’

‘Any matters to report? If none, the court is dismissed,’ Feng Bao flicked his fly whisk, his voice high-pitched, announcing the first regular court session of the Wanli era.

Zhu Yijun held a stack of memorials, scanned the ministers, and said: ‘Not yet. First, let’s discuss Hou Yuzhao’s “Memorial on Favored Ministers Seizing Power and Acting Arbitrarily.” Is Hou Yuzhao here?’

‘Your servant is here.’ Hou Yuzhao hurried forward and bowed.

Zhu Yijun looked at Hou Yuzhao and asked: ‘In your memorial, you wrote: “Last winter had no snow; this spring and summer brought little rain and frequent windstorms; thunder has not sounded for days; wheat has failed; grains have not been sown. North of the Yangtze River, a thousand li of barren land will appear.” Exactly which prefectures, departments, and counties are you referring to?’

‘I want to know which prefectures, departments, and counties have reported disasters and tax arrears. The court administers benevolent rule; whenever disasters strike, we exempt two taxes.’

Hou Yuzhao stood in the center of the Huangji Hall, momentarily flustered. After a pause, he said: ‘This is based on experience: no snow last winter means drought this year.’

Zhu Yijun snorted: ‘Is the Director of the Imperial Astronomical Bureau here? Was there no snow last year? According to ancestral law, no snow in winter requires a month of fasting to honor heaven and ancestors, praying for the people’s survival. Why do I not recall fasting for a month?’

The Director of the Imperial Astronomical Bureau hurried forward and bowed: ‘Your Majesty, there was one snowfall in the first month of winter, four inches and eight fen thick. After winter began, snow fell each month; in the twelfth month, there were four snowfalls, damaging houses in the capital.’

‘Grand Minister of Revenue.’ Zhu Yijun turned to Minister of Revenue Wang Guoguang—‘Grand Minister of Revenue’ was an honorific title for the Minister of Revenue; of course, for someone like Wan Shihé, Zhu Yijun was already generous to call him ‘Minister Wan.’

Wang Guoguang stepped forward and bowed: ‘Your servant is here.’

‘Grand Minister of Revenue, have any prefectures, departments, or counties reported “a thousand li of barren land” for tax exemption this year?’ Zhu Yijun asked, smiling at Wang Guoguang.

Wang Guoguang quickly replied: ‘Heaven’s weather is unpredictable. Since Your Majesty ascended the throne, you have reverently served filial piety, the two imperial dowagers have shown benevolence to the masses, and the people have sincerely served their ministers. Thus, heaven’s course has been orderly, rain and sun timely. Some prefectures and counties have indeed reported disasters and requested tax exemptions, but nowhere near the scale of “a thousand li of barren land.” If it were truly a thousand li of barren land, refugees would have stormed prefectures and counties.’

When people suffer disaster and wait in vain for relief, don’t they simply go where there is food?

Zhu Yijun closed the memorial, narrowed his eyes, and asked calmly: ‘Associate Hou, are the Director of the Imperial Astronomical Bureau and the Grand Minister of Revenue deceiving me—or are you deceiving me?’

This was a death trap.

Minister of Revenue Wang Guoguang was a court minister, a public official; to accuse him of deception meant stepping into the office with one foot and being dismissed; to admit his own deception meant stepping into the office with the other foot and being dismissed tomorrow.

‘Your servant… your servant is guilty. Please punish me, Your Majesty.’ Hou Yuzhao immediately knelt and kowtowed.

Zhu Yijun looked at Hou Yuzhao, slightly exasperated: ‘You have no guilt. How could I say you are guilty? If I say you are guilty, tomorrow the censors will flock to the Chengtian Gate to kowtow again.’

‘Last time, when I said of Luo Zun, Jing Song, and others: “Clan factions exclude dissent, and the struggle will never end,” and ordered them to return to their hometowns, they hadn’t even done anything yet—look, nearly two hundred people kowtowed en masse before the Chengtian Gate.’

‘You are not guilty. I cannot say you are guilty. To say you are guilty is to block the flow of speech; to say you are guilty is to imply the imperial gate is ten thousand li distant, hiding calamity; to say you are guilty is to claim heaven no longer bestows grace and lower sentiments cannot reach the throne; to say you are guilty is to say the people, who should be revived, are dying instead.’

‘I cannot say you are guilty.’

Hou Yuzhao was momentarily speechless. He knelt and shouted: ‘Your servant has deceived the sovereign and defied the throne! I deserve death ten thousand times!’

‘Grand Secretary, how should we punish officials who submit false memorials?’ Zhu Yijun turned to Zhang Juzheng for his opinion.

Zhang Juzheng stepped forward and bowed: ‘Censors reporting matters is their duty. Some exaggerate, some speak grandly. I suggest a six-month salary deduction; harsher punishment would damage the integrity of our censors.’

Zhu Yijun looked at Hou Yuzhao, thought for a moment, and said: ‘Forget it. No salary deduction. You don’t earn much anyway, and even if you did, paper money is worthless. Censors reporting matters is their due. You at least said something real. This regular court session was established because of your memorial.’

‘If you exaggerate, let it be. Hou Yuzhao, can I discuss a few things with you?’

Hou Yuzhao was terrified, trembling: ‘Your servant deserves death ten thousand times.’

‘Stand up and answer. How can you speak with integrity kneeling? Did Bi Gan plead with King Zhou while kneeling? Did Wei Zheng plead with Emperor Taizong while kneeling? Did Grand Censor Hai Rui plead with the World Temple while kneeling? Stand up.’ Zhu Yijun waved his small hand.

He disliked censors kneeling to offer advice, and hated the constant cry of ‘deserving death ten thousand times.’ One life is one life—how can one die ten thousand times? Even the executioner would be worn out after ten thousand swings.

‘Your servant thanks Your Majesty’s great grace.’ Hou Yuzhao finally stood. To remain kneeling would be to use submission as pressure, coercing the sovereign.

Zhu Yijun, seeing Hou Yuzhao standing, began: ‘First matter: Luo Zun, Jing Song, and the other three were sent home to idle residence because of clan factionalism, to curb the trend of factional strife. Should I explain to you, Associate Hou, the dangers of the Partisan Purges? You are a jinshi—you understand the harm of factionalism better than I do.’

‘If you wish to impeach the Minister of War, find credible grounds. Is coughing at the Chaoritan altar enough to warrant dismissal? Does that make the court’s appointments seem like a child’s game? If the court treats appointing capable officials as a child’s game, how much more so the complex affairs of state?’

Hou Yuzhao swallowed hard and bowed: ‘Your servant humbly accepts Your Majesty’s instruction.’

Zhu Yijun nodded: ‘Second matter: In future, when you impeach someone, can you add punctuation to your memorials? I am poorly educated; I must pause to parse sentences, then decipher meaning. With so many memorials daily, if you show some deference, add punctuation and make your language concise. Is that too much to ask?’

‘Grand Secretary Zhang’s memorials to officials are brief and clear, using common language and characters, so this ten-year-old sovereign can understand them. Look—I am young, immature, and unlearned. Can you please accommodate me?’

Hou Yuzhao wanted to kneel again, but the emperor forbade it. He trembled and said: ‘Your servant dares not disobey the sovereign’s command.’

Zhu Yijun continued: ‘The Analects, Chapter Shu Er, says: “The Master taught four things: literature, conduct, loyalty, and trustworthiness.” What is trustworthiness? It is sincerity, the reality of practice, the true nature of all things. Less grand talk, more practical action. In other words: speak truthfully, avoid exaggeration, avoid empty formalities, avoid speaking merely for the sake of speaking.’

‘If you don’t know how, read Grand Secretary Zhang’s “On Contradiction.”’

Hou Yuzhao bowed again: ‘Your servant humbly accepts Your Majesty’s instruction.’

‘This regular court session, held monthly on the third, was established based on your memorial. Grand Secretary Zhang was appointed by the late emperor as a regent and is also my tutor. Whether he has isolated the inner and outer courts—you may judge for yourself. Distance reveals a horse’s strength; time reveals a man’s heart. You’ve seen me now. Return to your place.’ Zhu Yijun waved his small hand, signaling the scolded Hou Yuzhao to return to his position.

‘Your servant obeys.’ Hou Yuzhao returned to his place, wiped sweat from his brow. This young emperor was sharp-tongued—he had cornered him in three sentences, leaving no escape.

‘Next one. Let me see.’ Zhu Yijun picked up the second memorial: ‘Is the Censor of the Ministry of Revenue, Li Dai, here?’

‘Your servant is here!’ Li Dai hurried forward and bowed.

Zhu Yijun said: ‘You submitted a memorial on four matters concerning Guangdong’s aftermath. The first matter is tax reform: “Troops require provisions; extra levies are unavoidable. But now that warfare has ceased, we must not perpetuate temporary measures that harm the people forever.”’

‘This point is good. But three months ago, the Viceroy of Guangdong and Guangxi, Yin Zhengmao, already submitted a memorial and completed tax reform. Starting next year, Guangdong and Guangxi’s regular taxes and silver conversions will be sent to the capital. Oh, by the way, Viceroy Yin said the remaining seventy thousand taels of silver will be escorted to the capital.’

Zhu Yijun turned to Wang Guoguang: ‘Grand Minister of Revenue, is this true? It’s been over three months—I don’t recall the exact amount.’

Wang Guoguang recalled: ‘Seventy-four thousand six hundred and twenty-three taels of gold-flower silver. It will be deposited before the New Year.’

Yin Zhengmao had requisitioned two years’ worth of taxes to suppress rebellion; this was nearly complete. Starting next year, Guangdong and Guangxi’s regular taxes resumed their flow to the capital. Li Dai was reporting on a matter already resolved.

Zhu Yijun looked at the memorial: ‘Censor Li, I’m puzzled. Your second point says: “After bandits are pacified, troops should be disbanded.” Meaning, since the Japanese pirate threat in Guangzhou has subsided, you want to disband the elite troops recruited to suppress bandits and pirates?’

‘I do intend this,’ Li Dai bowed. ‘With bandits and pirates pacified, maintaining elite troops risks the danger of regional warlords.’

Zhu Yijun was uncertain and asked again: ‘Censor Li, are you serious? You want to disband three thousand recruited soldiers?’

‘I do intend this,’ Li Dai frowned and bowed.

When the birds are gone, the fine bow is put away—isn’t that natural?

Zhu Yijun slapped his forehead, glanced around, and spotted Qi Jiguang standing rigidly; the young emperor said, “General Qi, could you explain this to Secretary Li?”

“Your servant obeys.” Qi Jiguang stepped forward, paused to think, then said, “Secretary Li has never commanded troops and doesn’t fully understand. If these soldiers are disbanded, several serious problems will arise, and they’ll be hard to manage.”

“The bandits in Guangdong have held their ground for a long time, so their numbers are substantial—least three thousand strong. Once disbanded, they’re all fierce, hardened men, swollen with arrogance, with no means of livelihood, no trade, no land to settle on. They cannot be expected to remain law-abiding; their resentment cannot be eased. Disbanded recruits become bandits; if we then send troops to suppress them and recruit new soldiers, how will we ever pacify them?”

Recruited soldiers cannot be disbanded unless you give them another job to settle into. Once disbanded, they turn on you—useful when needed, discarded when not. Resentment brews, they flee to the hills and become bandits; no one can eradicate them. New recruits can’t defeat seasoned veterans—that would be miraculous.

Disbanding recruited soldiers creates hardened bandits. Even if you feed them daily and let them do nothing, you must not disband them on the spot.

Qi Jiguang continued, “Second, the bandit threat in Guangdong and Guangxi remains unextinguished. Governor Yin has won several major victories, but suppressing bandits and pirates isn’t just about eliminating a few named strongholds. The bandits and pirates you hear about are all organized gangs. When you destroy their dens, they scatter like wind-blown grass—and if you don’t pursue them, they’ll rise again like embers rekindled.”

The Ming’s armies were forged in war; so too were the Ming’s bandits and pirates.

Bandits spread everywhere, electing a chief, a martial arts overlord, then rising in rebellion. When the court crushes them, the chief is killed, but most of the underlings become minor leaders, hiding in any hillside den, ready to rally another gang.

The cycle of gathering and dispersing is extremely hard to break. Only by caring for the common people and eliminating the soil that breeds banditry can lasting peace be achieved.

But caring for the common people is far harder than suppressing bandits. It requires fair rewards and punishments. For imperial decrees on rewards and punishments to reach the people, you must have power—otherwise, who will listen to you?

Qi Jiguang looked at Li Dai and continued, “Gentlemen, long entrenched in court, you know that disbanded fierce soldiers, even if they don’t band together to rebel, still roam the countryside, violent and ruthless, becoming local bullies that county offices cannot control. They may become the enforcers of powerful families, bringing ruin to the region. People flee, chaos spreads, and bandits multiply—so the more you suppress them, the more they grow, the more disorder you create.”

“Suppressing bandits is fundamentally about securing the common people.”

The third danger, Qi Jiguang said briefly, is this: once powerful families gain enforcers, the common people suffer. Tenant farmers lose their land, drifters multiply, and no one can settle them. Instantly, the soil for banditry becomes fertile. To suppress bandits without securing the common people is futile labor—banditry will only grow. Li Qian, a disciple of Gao Gong, has suppressed bandits, yet the numbers keep rising.

Having answered these three questions, Qi Jiguang bowed and returned to his place.

Zhu Yijun turned to Li Dai and asked, “Secretary Li, should these soldiers be disbanded or not?”

“Not disbanded! Not disbanded!” Li Dai hurriedly replied. He had thought bandit suppression was done—how could there still be so many complications? The three problems Qi Jiguang raised were unavoidable.

Li Dai’s proposal to disband the troops—those who knew understood he’d read too much and lost his mind, thinking too simplistically; those who didn’t knew suspected he was a bandit spy planted in court!

“Let me see your third proposal…” Zhu Yijun held up the memorial, looking at Li Dai uncertainly. “Secretary Li, shall I read it aloud?”

“No, no,” Li Dai bowed low. “Your servant spoke rashly. I beg Your Majesty’s punishment.”

Li Dai’s third proposal on the aftermath of suppressing bandits and pirates in Guangzhou was utterly absurd—absurd to the point of madness.

Li Dai’s brilliant plan for suppressing bandits? Establish garrison patrols. Since banditry keeps recurring, why not recruit them into these patrols? Then there’d be no more bandits.

Bandits burn, kill, and plunder illegally—so make it legal. Isn’t that enough?

Even if Li Dai pretended to recruit them only to trap them all at once, Zhu Yijun might still say, “Scholars play dirty tricks.” But this third proposal was truly beyond absurd.

Zhu Yijun tossed Li Dai’s memorial aside, sneering, “Read more books. Travel more, observe more, listen more, ask more. If you still can’t figure it out, read ‘Contradictions’ or General Qi’s two military treatises. After reading them, you’d never write such a memorial. Don’t ever slap your forehead again and say, ‘What a brilliant idea!’—it only invites ridicule.”

“I read this and thought our Great Ming would collapse tomorrow.”

“Your servant is guilty,” Li Dai swallowed hard and bowed.

“Sigh. Return to your place. Read more in future,” Zhu Yijun waved his small hand, signaling Li Dai to return.

“Let me see the next memorial. Minister of Justice Sun Piyang’s submission—I don’t quite understand it. Is Sun Piyang here?” Zhu Yijun glanced around.

Zhu Yijun asked because some officials would absent themselves from court—no leave, no excuse, just didn’t show up. The court dared not punish them.

It was a terrible example. Even grand court assemblies could be skipped!

Later, when the Wanli Emperor grew from a child into an adult, after Zhang Juzheng’s death and with no one left to control him, Wanli skipped court for thirty years.

“Your servant is here,” Sun Piyang hurried forward and bowed.

“What is this ‘drawing lots’ system you propose? Does it mean that for every official appointment, you place slips in a jar in court, and whoever draws a slip gets that post?” Zhu Yijun didn’t understand Sun Piyang’s invention.

To decide appointments by drawing lots—what game was this?

“Yes,” Sun Piyang quickly explained. “Under the current evaluation system led by the Chief Grand Secretary, the Minister of Personnel is merely a scribe in the Grand Secretariat. The Ministry’s assessments of officials depend entirely on the Grand Secretariat’s approval—yes if they approve, no if they disapprove. The Ministry holds the sword of authority, yet most power lies with the Grand Secretariat. I speak for the gentlemen.”

“Moreover, the court nominations for Grand Secretaries always cause chaos. Arguing over whose name goes first takes forever. If someone inappropriate is listed, they’re scolded; if someone’s name is omitted, their family is furious. It’s all so difficult. Drawing lots is simpler.”

How to select officials so that the Emperor, the Grand Secretariat, and the ministers all feel no resentment, no suspicion of factionalism or self-serving collusion—so everyone accepts it as open, fair, and just?

The drawing-lots system: when in doubt, draw lots.

“Minister Zhang Han, what do you think of this method?” Zhu Yijun turned to Zhang Han, the human echo, whose catchphrase was always, “The Chief Grand Secretary handles things well”—and who indeed embodied Sun Piyang’s claim that the Ministry’s authority had been absorbed by the Grand Secretariat.

Zhang Han replied succinctly: “No. Nonsense.”

Zhang Han thought Sun Piyang’s drawing-lots system was utterly ridiculous. His only reason: it was nonsense.

Zhu Yijun closed Sun Piyang’s memorial, frowning. “Minister Sun, do you draw lots to decide which servant becomes your confidant? Do you draw lots to choose your coachman? Do you draw lots to pick your cook?”

“Minister Sun, go home and experiment with your drawing-lots system. No need for much—just see if your household remains orderly by year’s end. Then submit another memorial. I’ll see whether the court should appoint officials by drawing lots.”

A coachman who doesn’t want to be a confidant isn’t a good cook. Are you joking?

The key issue: Sun Piyang’s drawing-lots system, once he became Minister of Personnel in the twenty-third year of Wanli, was indeed implemented—and used all the way into the Chongzhen era, even for appointing Grand Secretaries, turning court into a tangled mess.

This isn’t drawing lots to find a reincarnated child monk—a religious symbol. Appointing civil officials by drawing lots? That’s like making your cook your coachman.

Zhu Yijun tossed the memorial aside, sharply saying, “Scholars idle, soldiers lazy.”

“Your servant is guilty,” Sun Piyang wiped sweat from his brow. The image of his cook driving his carriage straight into the moat made him shudder.

“Return to your place.” Zhu Yijun ignored Sun Piyang, picked up another memorial, flipped through it, and said, “Is Censor Jia Sanjin here?”

No one answered.

Zhu Yijun frowned again. “Jia Sanjin—is he here?”

Zhu Yijun’s tone turned icy. Jia Sanjin had skipped court—absent without leave.

Zhu Yijun took a deep breath and ordered sharply, “Commandant Zhao, go to Jia Sanjin’s residence and bring him here!”

The young emperor had come—and Jia Sanjin dared to skip court! He was one of the officials who had confronted the throne at the Chengtian Gate last time!

Zhu Xixiao stepped forward, bowed, and led men to Jia Sanjin’s residence.

Zhu Yijun, suppressing his anger, picked up the next memorial: “Is Wu Zhongxing of the Hanlin Academy here?”

“Your servant is here,” Wu Zhongxing stepped forward, trembling.

“Your memorial accuses Xu Zhenming, Director of the Baoqi Bureau in the Western Garden,” Zhu Yijun said, looking at Wu Zhongxing. “You claim sweet potatoes yield three to five thousand catties per mu—a claim so absurd it’s clearly false, meant only to deceive for rewards. You compare this to Zhao Gao pointing to a deer and calling it a horse. This deserves public execution.”

“Do you know the sweet potato yield is calculated at a five-to-one ratio? Do you know why?”

Wu Zhongxing paused, then said, “Your servant does not know.”

“Minister Ge, tell him?” Zhu Yijun turned to Ge Shouli. Wu Zhongxing didn’t know; Ge Shouli hadn’t known either—but Ge had asked, and Hai Rui had told him to calculate dry weight.

“It’s dry weight!” Ge Shouli stepped forward, bowed, then looked at Wu Zhongxing with certainty.

Zhu Yijun watched Wu Zhongxing close his memorial, then said calmly, “Wu Hanlin, you come from a wealthy family, never farmed, never known hunger. But when you speak, ground yourself. Understand the facts before submitting memorials.”

“Since you’re in the Hanlin Academy, read more. If you don’t know, ask. Our Great Ming is full of people who know how to farm. Just ask anyone—you’ll understand. Don’t submit such memorials again. You only invite ridicule.”

“Confucius said: ‘When three walk together, one of them is my teacher. Choose their good qualities and follow them; their bad qualities, correct in yourself.’ Not knowing isn’t shameful. Not knowing, yet refusing to ask, and still pointing fingers—that’s shameful.”

Wu Zhongxing hurriedly begged pardon: “Your servant is guilty. I beg Your Majesty’s punishment.”

“Ignorance is not a crime. Dig up your garden, plant sweet potatoes next year, see the yield yourself—you’ll understand. If you still have questions after that, we’ll discuss again. Return to your place.” Zhu Yijun waved his small hand.

The court beating was a credential for these pure-stream censors—a mark of prestige. Zhu Yijun wouldn’t punish them lightly. Today’s court had three purposes: scolding, scolding, and more scolding!

Do it however feels satisfying.

Zhu Xixiao entered the hall and announced loudly, “Your Majesty, Jia Sanjin has been brought.”

“Bring him in!”

Jia Sanjin dared to skip court!

Wan Shihe was truly the best among cripples—the one with the least lame legs. At least Wan Shihe still had some shame. Zhu Yijun thought: What a bunch of rotten fish and trash.