Chapter 92: This Object Is Excellent—Present It to the Grand Secretary

Zhu Yijun was summoned by Hou Yuzhao’s memorial “On Favorites Seizing Power and Acting Arbitrarily,” and established the third day of each month as the grand court assembly, with January’s set for the twenty-third.

After over a hundred years of development, the affairs of the Great Ming had evolved into a system that could function smoothly without grand court assemblies.

The Great Ming’s grand court assembly had become akin to a corporate year-end meeting or a school-wide assembly, where the chairman or principal recited incomprehensible scripts while everyone below listened to nothing, lost in their own thoughts.

Then everyone would shout “Sacred Wisdom!” thrice and disperse, each returning home to their own mother, accomplishing nothing and achieving no efficiency.

The emperor did not wish to convene it, and the court ministers did not wish to attend.

Zhu Yijun was also lazy to hold it, but Zhang Juzheng, having offended too many with the Examination System, was accused of leading the Grand Secretariat, overpowering the court ministers, and isolating the emperor from the outside world, preventing ministers from seeing him; thus Zhang Juzheng advised the emperor to meet the court ministers once a month, even if only for half an hour.

Zhu Yijun had deliberately turned this grand court assembly into the censors’ day of suffering.

“Is this Jia Sanjin?” Zhu Yijun frowned, staring at the lump below with clear disdain.

Indeed, it was a lump—Jia Sanjin was utterly drunk, carried into court by the Embroidered Uniform Guard still unconscious, reeking of alcohol; even the young emperor seated on the third-tier moon terrace could smell the pungent scent of alcohol mixed with heavy cosmetics. The ministers all covered their noses—the stench of alcohol blended with rouge and powder was truly unbearable.

Zhu Yijun looked at Zhang Juzheng and said: “Wasn’t there a clear edict issued before today’s morning court? To be absent is bad enough, but to arrive in this state?”

“There was indeed a clear edict,” Zhang Juzheng reluctantly stepped forward and replied.

Among the thousand-odd Beijing officials, all knew that on the third day of the eleventh month, the long-absent emperor would hold a grand court assembly; everyone was eager to attend, curious to see this rare spectacle—the young emperor actually appearing before them, to behold what he looked like in his dragon robe.

Indeed, it must be said—since the last time the young emperor appeared in public, half a year had passed, and the once slightly overweight emperor now exuded a marked air of composure; seated there, he truly carried the dignity of an emperor.

Twenty-seven officials from the Temple of Ritual had requested leave—some due to age, some due to illness; fewer than five were absent from court. One, on his way to court, stumbled into the moat in the dark, luckily the moat had frozen over in winter, or he would have drowned in his court robes.

One elderly censor, nearly sixty, fell and was carried off to the Taiyi Academy for treatment.

Jia Sanjin was one of those five absentees.

Zhu Yijun looked at Zhang Juzheng, sounding slightly panicked: “Grand Secretary, do they think me too young, so they dare treat me with such negligence? I am young and lacking virtue, yet since ascending the throne I have worked diligently, fearing to shame my ancestors—why do the ministers look down on me? Have I done something wrong?”

Weak, pitiful, helpless—Grand Secretary, they are bullying me!

Help me, Grand Secretary, discipline them!

Zhang Juzheng knew this young emperor too well—was he truly frightened? This boy feared neither him nor any other minister—this was clearly a tactic of feigned retreat to advance, and at such a young age, he wielded imperial power with such mastery—it was truly uncanny!

Zhang Juzheng glanced at Jia Sanjin; the man had indeed gone too far—drunk to this state, carried into court still unconscious, and had the Embroidered Uniform Guard not stuffed his mouth, he might have vomited on the court floor. Zhang Juzheng bowed and said: “Your Majesty, absence from court warrants six months’ salary forfeiture and ten strokes of the cane, but I believe this should be judged as filial impiety—a grave offense. Minor punishment: dismissal from office; severe punishment: execution and public display, to deter others.”

Zhu Yijun, as if even more terrified, said: “But Jia Sanjin is a censor! Last time, I grew weary of factional exclusion and punished three censors—their poison still lingers. If I punish Jia Sanjin, all ministers will say I am cold-hearted and ungracious, that I have wounded my ears and eyes, that I have crushed the backbone of the court censors. Oh dear, what if they again gather at the Chengtian Gate to kowtow? What then?”

“That very Jia Sanjin led the charge last time!”

“There is only one Hai Rui in this world—there is no second. Should I recall him to court to quell the criticism? What then?”

“Grand Secretary, perhaps we should not punish him.”

The young emperor’s little notebook had Jia Sanjin’s name written on it.

Every word claimed leniency, yet every word pursued blame. The emperor stood behind the great shield of imperial authority, appearing to retreat step by step, yet wielding the millennia-old rites of ruler and minister to insult while simultaneously magnifying and intensifying the matter.

“Your Majesty, I have a memorial to submit,” Hai Rui, as Right Censor-in-Chief, stepped forward and bowed: “Your Majesty, if the backbone of integrity is this limp, how can the Great Ming claim the word ‘righteousness’? Such a traitor deserves severe punishment: absence from court is offense one; lack of reverence is offense two; this must be judged as filial impiety. For a censor to commit such an offense, the penalty is tripled. Investigate why he was absent—exile to the frontier is appropriate.”

“His conduct disgraces the purity of the scholarly class—I am ashamed to be numbered among his peers!”

The foremost impeaching minister of the Great Ming, the very embodiment of integrity and moral purity, the paragon of the scholarly elite—Hai Rui, Hai Gangfeng, personally attested: Jia Sanjin possesses no backbone, is unfit to serve as an ear or eye of the court; he must not only be stripped of office but also exiled!

If Zhang Juzheng scolded him, one might say it was factional strife; if Hai Rui scolded him, it was certain the man was truly unworthy.

“Then investigate why he was absent, and afterwards strip him of office and send him home to idle in retirement—this matter concerns the censorial path, and is of great weight.” Zhu Yijun hesitated, choosing a middle path—dismissal and return home.

Ge Shouli looked at Jia Sanjin with regret—he was Zhang Siwei’s man, had been on the right path, yet today had made such a spectacle.

Jia Sanjin had originally planned to reside at Ge Shouli’s Quanjin Guild Hall, sending his children to its family school; his life had begun to turn back onto the right track. But Zhang Siwei, to win him over, specially gifted him a mansion, resolving his urgent need—and Jia Sanjin grew ever closer to Zhang Siwei.

Living in the Quanjin Guild Hall was, after all, living under another’s roof.

Yet at the grand court assembly, he was absent—and arrived drunk like this. How could he explain himself when the emperor questioned him about his memorial?

Zhu Xixiao, though unwilling to kick a man while he was down, found Jia Sanjin’s absence simple to explain: “Your Majesty, yesterday Jia Sanjin drank and consorted with courtesans at Yanxing Pavilion, returning home only at the fourth watch, hence his condition.”

“Those dining with him were mostly his fellow townspeople.”

“Then strip him of office and send him home to idle in retirement, and forbid him from signing official documents. My lords, does anyone have further objections?” Zhu Yijun sat upright and asked.

Zhu Yijun scanned the court, waited a few breaths, and still no one spoke in Jia Sanjin’s defense; he then said: “So be it. Refer to the Ministry of Personnel.”

“If you have matters to report, step forward now; if none, roll up the curtain and dismiss court,” Feng Bao flicked his fly-whisk and cried out in a high-pitched voice.

No one stepped forward to submit a memorial. Zhu Yijun waved his small hand: “Court ministers, proceed to the Wenhua Hall for deliberation. Dismissed.”

Zhu Yijun rose and headed toward the Wenhua Hall—after the court assembly came the deliberation, and after the deliberation came the lecture session; opening the grand court assembly did not mean skipping deliberations or neglecting study.

Overslept and absent from court: forfeit six months’ salary. Absent and drunk to the point of unconsciousness like Jia Sanjin, caught by the emperor himself—this is not mere absence, it is filial impiety, a grave offense, demanding severe punishment.

Stripped of office, sent home to idle in retirement, forbidden from signing documents or sending memorials back to court—there is virtually no chance of revival. Jia Sanjin’s entire life’s struggle had come to nothing.

Zhu Yijun arrived at the Wenhua Hall; its dragon throne was softer than the one in the Huangji Hall.

The deliberation discussed Jia Sanjin’s offenses. Ge Shouli opened his mouth but held back, ultimately saying nothing on Jia Sanjin’s behalf—he could not intervene.

After the deliberation, lecture session, and midday meal and martial practice, Zhu Yijun went to the Xiyuan’s Baoqi Office to inspect Xu Zhenming’s work—Xu Zhenming was annotating agricultural texts, translating them into vernacular characters and language to make them accessible for the emperor’s reading and for officials nationwide to promote farming and sericulture.

Xu Zhenming intended to write a manual to encourage farming and sericulture.

Returning from the Baoqi Office, Zhu Yijun did not go directly back to his quarters but to a side chamber of the Wenhua Hall; the dark curtain was drawn back, revealing a space neither dim nor bright.

Chen Shigong presented a fine object and requested the emperor’s appraisal.

“Is this the fine object Master Chen spoke of?” Zhu Yijun stared at the spine-like object before him, puzzled.

A spine composed of twenty-six vertebrae lay before Zhu Yijun—not human bone, but carved from wood.

Chen Shigong pointed with a small stick along the spinal model, from top to bottom: “Your Majesty, observe: the spine has twenty-six vertebrae, with four curves. Viewed from the side, they form a wave-like shape: cervical lordosis, thoracic kyphosis, lumbar lordosis, and sacral kyphosis.”

“Cervical lordosis supports the skull; thoracic kyphosis encloses the thoracic organs; lumbar lordosis reduces shock; sacral kyphosis encloses the pelvic and abdominal organs.”

Chen Shigong stepped forward, manipulated the spine, straightening its wave-like curve: “If the cervical spine is flat, it cannot support the skull—then neck pain. If the thoracic spine is flat, it compresses the heart and lungs. If the lumbar spine is flat, walking causes full-body pain. If the sacral spine is flat, one cannot stand upright.”

“Prolonged reading and sitting causes pain in all four curves. I have specially designed a chair to support the neck, accommodate the thoracic spine, support the lumbar spine, and cradle the sacral spine—so one may sit long without fatigue.”

Chen Shigong gestured for his apprentice to push forward a chair: “This is my utmost reverence.”

A chair designed according to human biomechanics, shaped to match the natural curves of the human spine—a custom version for the ten-year-old emperor—appeared before him.

“Why did Master Chen conceive this chair?” Zhu Yijun asked, puzzled.

Chen Shigong’s face grew somber: “Tan Lun’s illness is related to this. Tan Lun’s thoracic kyphosis has flattened, compressing his heart and lungs, impeding blood flow, causing blockages. Hence I designed this chair to treat Tan Lun.”

“Tan Lun spent half his life in military service, preferring hard beds; his lumbar spine is flat, causing tremors throughout his five organs. I specially crafted this bed and chair to correct his spinal alignment.”

Chen Shigong had indeed exerted great effort treating Tan Lun.

Zhu Yijun asked with concern: “Can Grand Marshal’s illness still be managed?”

Chen Shigong chose to speak plainly: “He can no longer fight on the battlefield. If he fights again, even immortals could not save him.”

“Then.” Zhu Yijun looked at the chair: “Does this object have a name?”

“Your Majesty, please name it,” Chen Shigong replied—he had not named it; such matters were best left to the emperor. Since this was an offering of flattery, naming rights naturally belonged to His Majesty.

“Call it the Taishi Chair,” Zhu Yijun declared with a wave of his hand. “Feng Bao, this object is excellent—send it to the Quanchu Guild Hall for the Grand Secretary’s use.”

“Your servant obeys,” Feng Bao replied and departed. The Taiyi Academy had crafted this chair specifically for the ten-year-old emperor, with both child and adult versions; the one sent to the Quanchu Guild Hall was naturally the adult version.

After Feng Bao left, Zhu Yijun smiled at Zhang Hong: “Make several more. If anyone asks, sell them at twenty taels each. Sell them through the Imperial Estate—do not draw attention.”

The Imperial Estate was the palace’s enterprise, designed to avoid exploiting the poor—its goods were poor quality and expensive, with very little business. Placing this Taishi Chair for sale there, branded as “Grand Secretary’s Same Model,” at twenty taels, would attract buyers.

“Twenty taels each? Isn’t that too expensive? A folding chair or round-backed chair costs only two taels—why sell ours at twenty?” Zhang Hong asked, puzzled. The Imperial Estate’s goods were already absurdly expensive and unsold; now the young emperor had raised the price tenfold.

Zhu Yijun smiled: “Not only twenty taels each—raise the price by one tael monthly, and limit sales to one hundred per month. Just do it.”

Making money was nothing shameful—the inner court had descended to begging from the outer court; if they didn’t find ways to earn, wouldn’t the outer court laugh at them daily?

Feng Bao arrived at the Quanchu Guild Hall with a group of eunuchs, saw Zhang Juzheng already waiting, and smiled: “Grand Secretary, receive the edict: His Majesty’s verbal order: This object is excellent—send it to the Quanchu Guild Hall for the Grand Secretary’s use. By imperial command.”

“Thank Your Majesty’s great grace,” Zhang Juzheng said, staring at the object covered in red silk—what treasure had the young emperor found?

Feng Bao pulled back the red silk covering the pearwood chair: “Taishi Chair.”

The chair was carved from pearwood, its armrests engraved with cloud patterns—the motif reserved for imperial gifts. Above the backrest, a forward-extending neck support; behind the backrest, gilded relief plaques: left, a crane; right, a qilin; center, an adjustable lumbar support; before the chair, a footrest, uniquely named “Step-by-Step Ascension.”

Placed there, the chair radiated authority, commanding the room—after all, it was a marvel crafted by the palace to please the young emperor.

The version sold at the Imperial Estate was identical in style but lacked the cloud patterns and the gilded relief plaques.

“What has the palace decided regarding the Marquis of Wuxing’s petition to repair his residence?” Zhang Juzheng signaled his servants to carry the Taishi Chair to the Wenchang Pavilion study, then inquired of Feng Bao.

In March, the Marquis of Wuxing, Li Wei, petitioned for funds to repair his house. The palace referred the matter to the Ministry of Public Works for cost assessment; the Ministry delayed endlessly and refused. Minister Zhu Heng replied: imperial relatives’ residences are not recorded in the statutes; grants were always special favors, with no precedent for repairs—thus no funds.

The Marquis of Wuxing was an imperial relative—the biological father of Empress Dowager Li, and more precisely, the young emperor’s own maternal grandfather.

The young emperor’s maternal grandfather petitioned for repair funds in March; by November, the matter remained unresolved.

The Ministry of Public Works refused because ancestral law provided no such provision; if this precedent opened, all nobles and imperial relatives would demand funds under various pretexts. The Ministry was already bankrupt and would not yield.

After Zhu Heng’s report, the Directorate of Palace Affairs suggested granting four thousand taels—not as precedent, nor for others—but the emperor’s own maternal grandfather, the Empress Dowager’s father, receiving only four thousand taels was plainly unfilial.

In October, the Ministry still refused despite approval. The censor Zhu Nanyong also submitted a memorial urging restraint.

By November, no resolution had been reached. Zhang Juzheng had initially paid little heed—why should the Empress Dowager’s father’s house repair be such a fuss? The Ministry should simply assess and disburse. But now it had escalated beyond his expectations—he had not anticipated the Ministry’s utter poverty.

The Ministry of Public Works was truly destitute—no money left.

Throughout history, filial piety governed the realm; the emperor’s maternal grandfather’s request should exemplify the Five Constants, familial affection, and filial duty.

But when abstract principle clashed with concrete reality, reality always prevailed: no money meant no money—like a math problem, if you cannot solve it, you cannot solve it.

If imperial relatives could demand funds to repair residences, the Ministry of Public Works would dissolve on the spot.

Four thousand taels had stirred uproar; censors had submitted multiple memorials in recent days, advocating imperial frugality, citing the state’s dire finances—how could funds be spared to repair noble residences? The censors assumed the nobles fabricated excuses to extort money—this time a house, next time a well, then a garden.

The palace held little moral ground, for the Marquis of Wuxing’s house did not yet require repair. Li Wei’s residence was granted by imperial favor in Longqing Year One, completed in Longqing Year Two—only a few years had passed, yet he demanded four thousand taels for major repairs.

Four thousand taels was a vast sum—the Quanchu Guild Hall, supporting so many, spent barely a thousand taels annually.

Zhang Juzheng proposed reclassifying the request—not as repair, but as an imperial gift, with the funds drawn from the inner treasury but paid from the state treasury, allowing both palace and court to retreat a step.

But Empress Dowager Li perceived this as the outer court ministers lacking reverence; the matter had escalated from house repair to imperial dignity being undermined, a conflict between imperial authority and ministerial power—it was no longer about four thousand taels.

Zhang Juzheng asked Feng Bao to discern the emperor’s and the Empress Dowager’s intentions—how should this be resolved?

Feng Bao, upon hearing this, was thoroughly exasperated and whispered: “The emperor and Empress Dowager have discussed this twice. The emperor believes the money should not be granted—and has clearly opposed it both times. Empress Dowager Li is angry.”

Feng Bao softened the account: in truth, Empress Dowager Li had inquired, and the young emperor had approved Zhang Juzheng’s solution—reclassifying it as a gift. Empress Dowager Li had rebuked him; the young emperor did not yield but instead maneuvered to persuade her, making her angrier still. The young emperor then ceased urging—further persuasion might elevate the matter to the level of filial piety itself.

This matter is stuck right here.

“What do you think, Feng Da?” Zhang Juzheng asked Feng Bao’s opinion.

Feng Bao looked left and right, then whispered: “I agree with His Majesty’s view.”

To Feng Bao, a mere servant, this matter made Empress Dowager Li seem petty.

At a time when the sovereign is young and the state is uncertain, the Emperor needs the approval of his ministers. To escalate this over a house that shouldn’t have been built in the first place—to drag the imperial authority down, trampling it over four thousand taels of silver, sparking constant conflict—this is undignified and lacks grandeur.

The palace’s expenditures are enormous, and funds are stretched thin. Though four thousand taels is a large sum, the palace can still afford it—even if drawn from the Inner Treasury to build a residence for the Empress Dowager’s father, it’s no great matter. Yet insisting on using the Outer Court’s accounts, and causing such a fuss, is precisely what’s strange.

“Sigh.” Zhang Juzheng and Feng Bao exchanged glances and sighed; neither spoke further.

This matter has reached a dead end: the imperial authority cannot retreat, for if it does, ministerial power advances three steps. But if it refuses to retreat and forces the state treasury to pay, it still damages imperial dignity. Ministerial power cannot retreat either, for yielding even one step won’t plug this hole with merely four thousand taels—it demands real silver.

Zhang Juzheng returned to the Wenchang Pavilion in the Quanchu Hall, sat upon the imperial-gifted Taishi chair, and immediately felt something different—its design was exquisitely crafted, truly comfortable.

Empress Dowager Li’s insistence on drawing silver from the Outer Court for her father’s house was itself a needless dispute born of blurred public-private boundaries.

By his window stood a telescope, another imperial gift—capable of seeing far and clearly. Once, Zhang Juzheng used it to gaze at the moon; it appeared slightly red, with no Chang’e Palace visible. Since then, the telescope gained a new purpose: gazing at the stars.

Recently, the most troubling matter for Zhang Juzheng was Li Wei, the Earl of Wuqing, demanding money to repair his house.

The next morning, the court deliberated on the Earl of Wuqing’s house repair.

Minister of Works Zhu Heng strongly opposed it and submitted a resignation letter, stating he lacked the ability, that the Ministry of Works had no funds, and that whoever could provide the money should take his post.

“You know our Ministry’s situation, Yuanfu,” Zhu Heng nearly wept. “We have no income—we beg from the Ministry of Revenue. We truly cannot afford this. Since the Longqing Emperor’s passing, the tomb construction funds remain a mess. We’ve delayed and delayed, and now we’re forced to resign.”

Last year, during the power struggle between Gao Gong and Zhang Juzheng, the previous Minister of Works simply fled—not from corruption, but because there was truly nothing. In the Ministry of Works, even a mouse would cry leaving.

Zhu Heng didn’t want to offend the palace—Empress Dowager, Emperor, the Grand Eunuch of the Directorate of Ceremonial, the Chief Grand Secretary—he dared not anger any of them. He didn’t refuse out of unwillingness—he simply lacked the capacity.

The Ministry of Works ranked last among the Six Ministries. Though nominally a public office, it held negligible influence in court, received no silver to fund projects, and its stance mattered not—it was the most invisible among the invisible.

Zhang Juzheng’s scalp prickled at this issue. He drafted a floating ticket: “I shall report to His Majesty before replying. Minister Zhu, your diligence is commendable—don’t speak of resignation.”

“Minister Zhu struggles, the court struggles, the palace struggles—we all must endure hardship.”

Ge Shouli’s memorial was intriguing.

Censorial officials petitioned to suspend the thrice-monthly regular court sessions, arguing the Emperor was young and should not be burdened.

Zhang Juzheng heard this and chuckled. “They were the ones who petitioned to resume regular court sessions; they were the ones who accused me, Zhang Juzheng, of isolating the Emperor from the court; now they petition to abolish them. Do they treat state law as a joke?”

Ge Shouli submitted this memorial not to endorse it. He stated clearly: “I do not agree. Regular court sessions are essential. The sovereign must meet ministers; ministers must meet the Emperor. This is vital to upholding the sovereign’s authority. We, court and cabinet ministers, have no right to restrict it.”

“It should remain monthly.”

Previously, Ge Shouli was scolded daily by Feng Bao; later, Lu Shusheng; then Wan Shihe; now it’s the ministers being scolded by the Emperor. Everyone has been rained on—why should we hold an umbrella over the ministers?

Witness the young Emperor’s wit, cleverness, and sharp tongue!

“What do you all think?” Zhang Juzheng scanned the ministers; seeing no objections, he drafted his floating ticket, and the regular court system was thus confirmed.

Those who were scolded but couldn’t retaliate weren’t just court ministers. Everyone enjoys watching the spectacle—it prevents subordinates from speaking recklessly and dragging ministers into disgrace.

After the court session, Zhang Juzheng did not summon the Readers or Lecturers to prepare for the lecture. Instead, he looked troubled and said: “Your Majesty, the Ministry of Works truly has nothing. Let us transfer the funds under the guise of imperial grace, drawn from the state treasury.”

Funds for repairing frontier walls and fortresses were sent directly from the Ministry of Revenue to localities—none of the Ministry of Works’ business. In the capital, repairs were minor and annual; the greatest task was tomb construction, which these past years had been overseen by noble families. The Ministry of Works merely played errand boy.

The state and inner treasuries gave tomb funds to the nobles, who took charge. The Ministry of Works accumulated massive debts, demanded repayment from the nobles, but they refused. The debt grew until the Ministry was bankrupt.

“I agree,” Zhu Yijun supported Zhang Juzheng’s proposal. Zhang Cheng returned from the Southern Port in the Imperial Treasury with 240,000 taels; the state and inner treasuries split it evenly, giving the state treasury an extra 120,000 taels.

The Ming Dynasty’s annual revenues and expenditures always had deficits, leaving the treasury stretched thin.

The Ministry of Revenue was willing to release four thousand taels to settle the matter and avoid embarrassing anyone.

Before public-private boundaries are clarified, this account remains a mess—impossible to reconcile. Now, the situation is chaotic yet definite. When unclear, let the bullet fly a while longer—let events unfold.

After the lecture, Zhu Yijun and Empress Dowager Li did not mention the matter, for Zhang Juzheng had submitted a floating ticket, effectively agreeing to her request.

The Ministry of Revenue transferred four thousand taels to the Ministry of Works, which, per palace edict, delivered the silver to the Earl of Wuqing’s residence. The matter was settled.

Then, immediately, trouble arose.

As year-end neared, noble families all faced deficits. Seeing the Earl of Wuqing secure state funds under the pretext of house repairs, they all rushed forward, feigning poverty—repairing latrines became an excuse. A flood of memorials piled onto the Grand Secretariat, then reached Empress Dowager Li’s desk.

Zhang Juzheng stamped all such memorials with blank floating tickets. At this point, even his immense ability could not resolve it.

Empress Dowager Li, facing the pile of memorials, was deeply troubled.

Princess Ning’an, the emperor’s own aunt and the only surviving child of the Jiajing Emperor, petitioned together with her husband, Prince Consort Li He, for fourteen thousand taels to construct a pond.

To give or not to give?

If four thousand taels were granted to the Emperor’s maternal grandfather, how could fourteen thousand taels be denied to his own aunt?

“The Empress Dowager arrives!” a palace maid cried. Zhu Yijun, absorbed in an agricultural text, looked up, rose, and bowed respectfully.

“Mother, why come so late?” Zhu Yijun asked knowingly—he knew why.

Empress Dowager Li held several memorials. “All demand money. They speak of kinship as mutual aid, yet I’ve seen no aid—only eagerness to demand silver.”

Zhu Yijun opened the memorials, saw many—from Dukes, Marquises, Imperial Sons-in-Law, and Earls. He closed them and shook his head. “Mother, what do you suggest? It’s not scarcity we fear, but inequality. If we grant Wuqing, we must grant Ning’an. If we refuse, we wound familial bonds.”

“But these few memorials alone total over two hundred thousand taels.”

“If we pay, neither court nor palace has it. For seven thousand taels, Feng Bao and Yin Ping fought bitterly with the Outer Court, until Yuanfu finally imposed new taxes on the Franks to fill the gap.”

Empress Dowager Li sighed heavily, gazing at the annotated agricultural texts. “What do you think, Emperor?”

Zhu Yijun ventured: “Reclaim the silver given to Grandfather. Pretend it never happened. If this continues, ministers will laugh.”

“This…” Empress Dowager Li paused, then said: “Do as the Emperor says.”

Zhu Yijun, seeing her agree to reclaim the house repair funds, spoke: “I heard Grandfather’s household welcomed a new child. Let us re-grant this silver as an imperial gift. For others petitioning, we may simply refuse. Gifts are our grace—whether to give or not rests solely with the palace.”

It circled back to Zhang Juzheng’s method: imperial grace, drawn from the Inner Treasury, funded by the state treasury—preserving imperial dignity and closing the door to endless demands.

Everyone quietly accepted the arrangement: the Ministry of Revenue now bore a deficit everyone understood. When Zhang Cheng returned last time, he distributed twelve thousand taels to the Ministry of Revenue.

Sometimes, a roundabout path seems cumbersome, but with a new name, it creates room for maneuver.

Had Empress Dowager Li refused to reclaim the silver for Wuqing, Zhu Yijun would not have proposed the compromise. These petitions could have been left for her to handle. But since she agreed to reclaim it, a compromise became possible—imperfect, yet preventing further deterioration.

After careful thought, Empress Dowager Li nodded: “Do as the Emperor says. These relatives… seem of no use.”

Empress Dowager Li’s demand for four thousand taels for her father dragged on for a full year—yet in the end, the Ministry of Revenue paid. A fascinating mess of blurred public-private boundaries. Please vote for the month! Awooo!!!