Chapter 963: The Nine Hundred and Seventy-First Chapter: A Hundred Taels in Salary Makes You an Outsider; One-Li Body Share Makes You

The cases of these five eunuchs were all resolved by early November; when the anti-corruption wind swept through the eunuch corps, everyone in the Great Ming knew this anti-corruption campaign was real.

It was not a political maneuver meant to make the people believe justice had been served, but a self-renewal cutting inward.

The five eunuchs were not imprisoned in the Eastern Depot but sent to the Tianlao prison of the Northern Town Surveillance Office, where the Office’s Chief of Interrogation questioned them, and Zhao Meng ultimately confirmed their crimes.

They were handed over to the Town Surveillance Office primarily to determine whether anyone behind them had ordered their actions—such as Li Yougong, Zhang Hong, or Feng Bao—and whether these grand eunuchs in the palace had instigated such brazenness.

Gao Tuo and his adopted son Gao Huai embezzled the winter coat silver for Liaodong—the imperial full salary payment that had kept Liaodong from unrest—after the Luomu Camp mutiny, the entire Great Ming became hypersensitive to military pay, not just the emperor but also the soldiers.

Eventually, the Embroidered Uniform Guard confirmed that none of these eunuchs had been ordered by anyone behind them.

After interrogation, it was discovered that Gao Tuo and Gao Huai’s motive was remarkably simple.

In their minds, Jilin and Korea alike were not actual Ming territories but merely tributary regions; they extracted every last bit of silver, expecting that when the Wanli Reforms ebbed, these lands would be lost anyway.

Just as in the past with the Nuergan Commandery, the Northern Parallel Capital Commandery, the Hetao region, the Seven Western Garrisons, and Jiaozhi.

Back then, officials and eunuchs in Jiaozhi had also plundered ruthlessly, for the same reason: the land belonged to the court, but the silver was theirs; they took it all and left, knowing neither the emperor nor the ministers cared about these places.

This reasoning was truly absurd.

Zhu Yijun ordered Xu Jue to arrest them, tacitly permitting Feng Bao to eliminate them—after all, this was palace business, where personal ties and mutual protection existed; it wasn’t just about seeing each other daily, but about knowing you might one day need their influence to settle matters.

Zhu Yijun sought political stability within the palace and planned to gradually clean house afterward, to prevent suspicion from spreading.

But the fact that these convicts returned to the capital and were interrogated meant that the senior eunuchs in the palace had gained nothing from the affair and feared being implicated by these vermin—hence their self-investigation began.

In early November, Feng Bao executed these five eunuchs and several of their adopted sons—seventeen men total—with a method called “boiling.”

Zhu Yijun was curious about this and went to observe the execution, eager to see how exactly “boiling” worked.

“Is that Gao Huai?” Zhu Yijun asked Feng Bao, watching the line of condemned prisoners.

Feng Bao bowed and replied, “Your Majesty, that is Gao Tuo and Gao Huai.”

“Whose men are they?” Zhu Yijun asked again.

Feng Bao pulled out the case files and bowed.

“Please Your Majesty, examine them.”

“Bring them forward,” Zhu Yijun said, flipping through the files for a long while; Gao Tuo and Gao Huai had no deep ties to the palace’s senior eunuchs.

Gao Tuo, like Feng Bao and Zhang Hong, was an old servant of the Prince of Yu's household; he had grown up there since childhood, and when Prince Yu ascended the throne, these men rode the wave of promotion. Compared to the cautious Feng Bao and the ruthless Zhang Hong, Gao Tuo had never risen to prominence.

Gao Huai was a street thug who had survived in Chongwen Gate by collecting debts—when moneylenders couldn’t recover their loans, these thugs would go door-to-door demanding payment; Gao Huai had a wife and two sons.

In the ninth year of Wanli, Gao Huai castrated himself and entered the palace, becoming Gao Tuo’s adopted son and taking the Gao surname.

It was Gao Huai who incited Gao Tuo to embezzle the winter coat silver, and most of the crimes were committed by Gao Huai himself, with extreme brutality.

“Your Majesty, spare my life! Your Majesty, spare my life!” Gao Tuo knelt on the ground, pounding his head against the floor in desperate pleas; logically, Feng Bao and Zhang Hong, who shared his background, should have spoken up for him—but both stared at their noses, silent, afraid of drawing fire upon themselves.

They had stolen silver but given not a single coin to the palace’s senior eunuchs; now that trouble had come, they expected the palace’s grand eunuchs to clean up after them—this was nearly impossible.

Zhu Yijun looked at Gao Huai, who knelt on the ground but tilted his face toward the gloomy sky, muttering to himself: “Heavenly Lord, Heavenly Lord.”

Gao Huai was feigning madness; everyone present knew he was pretending.

“Execute them,” Zhu Yijun said without questioning, directly ordering Feng Bao to carry out the sentence.

Gao Huai visibly froze, forgetting even his mad babbling, his face filled with disbelief—he had thought the emperor would be curious about who was behind this, and where the silver had gone; this was the only chance he believed he had to survive.

But the emperor played by no conventional rules, even skipping the interrogation entirely.

“Your Majesty, I am innocent! Your Majesty, I am wronged! All that silver, my father and I gave it to...” Gao Huai finally panicked, crawled forward a few steps, and shouted as if returning from the dead.

“Take him away,” Zhu Yijun waved his hand, cutting him off; a young eunuch, seeing the emperor did not wish to hear, stuffed a cloth into Gao Huai’s mouth.

Gao Huai was performing sorcery, deliberately acting as if there were hidden truths behind him.

The father and son split the loot: Gao Huai took over 70,000 taels, all given to his wife and sons before entering the palace; Gao Tuo took 140,000 taels, over 30,000 of which were spent at Wan Hua Lou, and the remaining 100,000 taels were seized by Xu Jue during the family’s search.

“Your Majesty, I gave all the silver to the Liaodong Regional Commander Wang Rulong! Your Majesty, please see the truth!” Gao Huai struggled violently, tearing the cloth from his mouth and screaming.

Gao Tuo’s face was ashen; he kicked Gao Huai hard, knocking him to the ground, then returned silently to the crowd.

At the brink of death, they still tried to fool the emperor; commit crimes, get caught, admit guilt, yet falsely accuse others—this was sheer cowardice.

Gao Tuo and Gao Huai’s biggest enemy in smuggling military supplies was Regional Commander Wang Rulong.

It was Wang Rulong who submitted the memorial exposing their crimes; stealing silver was tolerable, but their actions forced Liaodong’s “young, strong, and brave men” to flee into the service of barbarian chieftains—something Wang Rulong could not accept.

If this continued, the barbarians of Liaodong might rebel.

Wang Rulong, relying on his ties to Qi Jiguang, told Qi Jiguang about the matter; Qi Jiguang, after court one day, stopped Xu Jue and informed him, doing Feng Bao a favor.

If Qi Jiguang had personally filed the accusation, Feng Bao and the other senior eunuchs might have suffered serious consequences.

Zhu Yijun had assumed Feng Bao’s “boiling” punishment meant throwing people into boiling water to cook them alive, then into cold water—but it was not so.

Feng Bao merely drove these seventeen eunuchs to run continuously until they sweated profusely, gasped for breath, and still forced them to run—three hours straight—until they collapsed, then threw them into ice-cold water: tubs filled with water still floating with unformed ice.

Zhu Yijun could not wait three hours watching them run; he returned only at the end to observe.

The moment the seventeen entered the ice water, several died immediately; the rest rolled their eyes, convulsing uncontrollably.

Feng Bao then sent the seventeen to the Dissection Institute; Ming citizens were barred from entering, but since these men were dead or half-dead and no one claimed their bodies, they were allowed to serve as final contributions to Ming medicine.

Though they appeared unharmed on the surface, internally, their blood vessels had ruptured.

In the Ming, this was called “removing armor wind”; during prolonged combat, when the body overheated, one must not remove armor—even if hot, one must wait under tree shade to cool, and must not drink cold water, especially well water.

If armor is removed, the sudden chill causes blood vessels to rupture; mild cases result in stroke, severe ones lead to death.

It was like the Great Sage Equaling Heaven fighting Nezha: after being burned by Nezha’s True Samadhi Fire, he plunged into a deep pool of cold water and lost consciousness.

Feng Bao sent them to the Dissection Institute because its chief physicians needed them—to study which vessels ruptured, and if any survived, to determine what effects such ruptures had.

Or rather, the deaths of these seventeen were a custom design by Fan Wuqi, the Death Messenger, specifically to study “removing armor wind” or stroke.

“After beheading, disseminate this punishment to the Nine Borders as a warning,” the Ming emperor approved the outcome and issued further punishment: instruct the Nine Borders so that soldiers, officers, commanders, garrison eunuchs, and Viceroy of Military Affairs all clearly understood the gruesome fate of those who drank the soldiers’ blood.

Zhu Yijun ruled by relying on the soldiers; naturally, he must act as their righteous judge.

After overseeing the execution, Zhu Yijun returned to the Tonghemen Imperial Study, where three memorials lay before him: one by Gao Qi, another also by Gao Qi, and one by Shen Shixing.

These were not merely three memorials—they marked the Wanli Reforms’ critical crossroads, requiring the emperor to decide the Great Ming’s future.

After overseeing the execution, Zhu Yijun returned to the Tonghemen Imperial Study, where before him lay three memorials: two written by Gao Qi and one by Shen Shixing.

The left path was the path the Great Ming currently followed: regulating labor-capital conflicts through welfare policies—including the People's Medicine Bureau, official housing, schools, and startup capital.

This path was extremely difficult: it required completing the transformation to a commodity economy and shifting production relations; in the foreseeable future, it meant confronting endless contradictions, and the emperor would inevitably face one outcome: betrayal by the emerging bourgeoisie.

Welfare policies regulating labor-capital conflict, in essence, meant cutting the flesh of wealthy merchants to feed the poor laborers, maintaining basic social stability; white silver went entirely to the poor, which the emerging wealthy merchants saw as sinful.

The right path was the traditional route: suppress without mercy any spontaneous activity by laborers defending their rights—crushing factory occupations, mountain raids, and deploying the Shock Troops for total suppression.

The right path was easier, for millennia it had been followed, with abundant experience; the court and local merchants colluded, maintaining local stability and imperial rule until large-scale rebellions erupted.

Left meant continued struggle; right meant ceasing struggle.

The left path was steep and rocky; the right path was smooth and flat; once chosen, every member of the ruling class would praise the emperor as wise and holy.

Gao Qi spent thousands of characters detailing the benefits of choosing the right path: immediately, the emperor’s younger brother, Zhu Yilu—the beloved youngest son of Empress Dowager Li—would not need to be sent to Jinshan City as a prince; imperial heirs would not need to be exiled overseas.

The Great Ming would not need to continue expansion, nor worry about overseas governors losing control.

The Great Ming could maintain sufficient production and commodity advantages by exploiting the poor laborers, keeping industry firmly within its borders, and relying on Spain’s vast navy and colonies to secure markets and raw materials.

No extra military expenditure would be needed to protect sea routes or overseas markets; simply sit at home and make money.

But if the right path were truly as good as he claimed, there would be no need for the other memorial.

“Is Gao Qi planning to become the historical villain himself?” Zhu Yijun marked the right memorial with a large X.

Emperor Zhu Yijun had presided over the Wanli Reforms for eighteen years—he was tired, busy, and strained; if he wished to rest, granting Gao Qi’s memorial would make Gao Qi the one who destroyed the Wanli Reforms, bearing all historical blame alone.

Continuing overseas expansion, securing sea routes, and maintaining overseas market stability required massive military spending that would grow ever larger, placing enormous pressure on the Ming treasury.

Simultaneously, it would inevitably face the crisis of overseas governors losing control—the more invested, the faster the loss.

Internal suppression, however, avoided these costs entirely: simply place goods at the port, and Western fleets would arrive one after another, carrying Ming goods to every corner of the globe.

Zhu Yijun chose the path of continued struggle—not because he didn’t want to win without effort, but because he knew it was impossible to be a lazy victor.

“Gao Qi and Shen Shixing are competing for entry into the Grand Secretariat,” Feng Bao succinctly explained why Gao Qi submitted these two memorials: not to test the emperor, but to prove who deserved to enter the Grand Secretariat!

Zhu Yijun turned to the left memorial—the one advocating continued struggle—where Gao Qi proposed implementing the “body share” system throughout the Great Ming, including all state workshops.

Body shares granted dividends but could not be transferred or inherited; as long as the person lived, the share remained; when they left, the share vanished.

Clearly define profit distribution scale, clearly define dividend accounting systems, clearly define dividend tiers, clearly define body share evaluation criteria, etc.

For example, body share evaluation criteria divided shares into nineteen levels from one-li to ten-li; after assessing contributions, body shares would rise incrementally, increasing dividends—this greatly avoided the state workshop’s “communal rice pot” problem.

The startup capital dividend stimulated production enthusiasm, but uniform, undifferentiated rewards made startup capital an obstacle to productivity.

After all, whether one worked hard or not, everyone received the same pay; the motivational effect of startup capital was gradually diminishing.

Gao Qi believed the body share system was the essential precondition for using welfare policies to regulate labor-capital conflict; without this precondition, all other actions were empty.

A salary of a hundred taels makes you an outsider; one-li body share makes you family.

Only body shares could make artisans owners of the workshops, enabling them to participate in major decisions; only then could Wang Chonggu’s long-explored guilds and artisans’ assemblies truly take root and flourish.

If this step was not taken, it was better to simply choose the right path—the path of lying down to die.

Like redistributing land without first surveying it: no matter how loudly you cry for redistribution, it’s just empty talk, deceiving the people; only by surveying and confirming who holds the land can redistribution be truly achieved.

Even in state workshops, only by truly implementing the body share system could welfare policies become foundational—not the emperor’s benevolent gifts or charity.

“Body share vanishes when the person leaves,” which also greatly prevented the uncontrolled expansion of idle beneficiaries and curbed their destructive influence on state workshops.

“Shen Shixing’s memorial is based on contract theory; he believes the key to labor-capital conflict lies in signing contracts and fulfilling their stipulated terms,” Zhu Yijun flipped through the other memorial.

Shen Shixing had his own views on labor-capital conflict—he had not served as Provincial Governor of Songjiang for nothing.

Shen Shixing was not unaware of the body share system; in his view, only stable, profitable state workshops, moneylenders, and maritime trade had the foundation to implement body shares; small workshops, especially newly established ones or emerging industries, lacked the conditions to adopt it.

When Wang Qian served as Censor at Yanxing Tower, he had established the “Nine Prohibitions” for Yanxing Tower; only workshops meeting these nine entry requirements had the prerequisite to implement body shares.

Shen Shixing had his own views on labor-capital tensions; he hadn’t been appointed Provincial Governor of Songjiang for nothing.

Shen Shixing was well aware of the body-share system; in his view, only stable, profitable official workshops, money shops, and maritime trade could serve as a foundation for implementing the body-share system, while small workshops—especially newly established ones or emerging industries—lacked the conditions to adopt it.

When Wang Qian served as Censor at Yanxing Tower, he had established the Nine Prohibitions; only workshops meeting all nine eligibility requirements could qualify as prerequisites for implementing the body-share system.

To Shen Shixing, a contract based on contractual theory, which clearly defines the rights and obligations between workshop owners and laborers, was the policy the court should promote; the shareholding system was too radical and somewhat unrealistic.

Zhu Yijun held two memorials: one on the shareholding system, the other on the contract regulations; either choice would help alleviate labor-capital tensions at this moment.

“I am more inclined toward Senior Minister Gao’s shareholding system,” Zhu Yijun said, holding Gao Qiyu’s memorial.

Reason told Zhu Yijun that Shen Shixing’s approach was more prudent, but Gao Qiyu’s path on the left better matched Zhu Yijun’s character and the spirit of the Wanli Reforms.

“I sent Xu Jue to the Quanchu Guildhall to ask the Chief Minister why Gao Qiyu acted this way,” Feng Bao whispered; Gao Qiyu was like a dazzling spectacle, desperate for everyone to notice him.

“Oh? What did the Master say?” Zhu Yijun asked curiously.

Feng Bao whispered: “The Chief Minister said Gao Qiyu is pushing so hard because he fears becoming the breakthrough point of the Wanli Reforms. He must climb step by step to high office, instilling fear in others, so that those matters the Emperor once ignored won’t become grounds to attack the Chief Minister.”

When Zhang Juzheng held power, Gao Qiyu set the examination question “Shun Also Entrusted Yu” in the Nanjing provincial examination; once Zhang Juzheng died, this would be ironclad proof that Zhang intended to usurp his position.

Gao Qiyu used all his strength to climb upward, fearing he might destroy hard-won success.

For the Wanli Reforms, how much hardship the Emperor and ministers, the people, had endured—Gao Qiyu knew perfectly well; he had personally gone to Kyoto in Japan and forced Toyotomi Hideyoshi to surrender.

“Submit both memorials to the Wenyuan Pavilion and see what the Grand Secretaries have to say,” Zhu Yijun did not decide immediately, but asked the Grand Secretaries to voice their opinions.

Zhu Yijun favored Gao Qiyu, but Shen Shixing’s method also had merit and was equally reasonable; he would synthesize the Grand Secretaries’ views and deliberate carefully.

Feng Bao took both memorials to the Wenyuan Pavilion and delivered them to Zhang Juzheng, without revealing the Emperor’s preference, leaving the Grand Secretaries to debate freely.

“I choose Gao Qiyu. If possible, I would support his actions; in my view, equal distribution regardless of contribution or ability is unjust to the diligent and capable—it reflects too much of Wen Cheng’s sentimentality. The shareholding system, I believe, is extremely reasonable,” Ling Yunyi declared his stance first.

The state workshops must transition from sentimentality to institutionalization; sentiment alone cannot carry them far.

The shareholding system is undoubtedly an excellent opportunity.

“I choose Shen Shixing. He has served for years in Songjiang Prefecture; his proposal is not baseless—it is clearly the most suitable method for this stage. I agree with Shen Shixing: most civilian workshops, including most state workshops, currently lack the conditions for the shareholding system,” Zhang Juzheng chose Shen Shixing’s memorial.

Shen Shixing was not playing both sides; he was simply more pragmatic and more achievable.

“I choose Gao Qiyu,” Grand Secretary Zhang Xueyan hesitated long between the two memorials before choosing Gao Qiyu’s.

Zhang Xueyan continued: “Indeed, Shen Shixing is correct—the shareholding system requires conditions. Some state workshops without such conditions, upon seeing the shareholding system promoted, will be motivated to act proactively; these workshops will then acquire the necessary conditions.”

“The shareholding system is a banner—a banner to drive the reform of state workshops. Raising this banner is more important than implementing it.”

As the Empire’s accountant, Zhang Xueyan knew well that the current improvement in Ming finances stemmed primarily from profits remitted by state workshops and the monopoly on coke, steel, and smoke, not from land taxes.

Due to celestial changes, the Ming court is gradually reducing land tax collection; the Ming fiscal system is transforming along the path originally envisioned by Wang Guoguang.

Whether the shareholding system succeeds or fails is unimportant; the key is to raise the banner. Only then can progress be made step by step. If one dares not even raise the banner, success is impossible.

“I choose Shen Shixing,” Shen Li flipped through both memorials and ultimately chose Shen Shixing’s; after a pause, he said: “Throughout history, reform and self-rescue efforts have always failed because reformers, in their continuous changes, grow increasingly radical and extreme, and then face widespread opposition in their extremism.”

“I do not believe the conditions for the shareholding system exist now, just as we cannot fully return land now.”

Land return in Zhejiang was highly exceptional—a punishment for the assassination attempt in Wanli Thirteen, an economic sanction and suppression by the Emperor; it is not universally applicable.

“I decline to choose,” Lu Guangzu looked back and forth, then hastily returned the memorials to the Chief Minister as if he had seen a ghost.

Lu Guangzu had entered the Grand Secretariat to lead the Anti-Corruption Bureau; he had merely been watching the spectacle, never imagining he would one day hold the deciding vote!

In Wanli Eighteen, His Majesty’s declaration “My mind is made up” was exceedingly rare.

He rarely opposed the collective decisions of the Grand Secretariat.

Lu Guangzu never expected he would become that pivotal figure; he chose to abstain, and he resolved firmly that from now on, he would always abstain!

He, a minor player, could never involve himself in the struggle between the Chief Minister and the Deputy Chief Minister.

Lu Guangzu had already planned: focus on anti-corruption, and earn a place in history.

“Grand Secretary Lu, you must state your view,” Zhang Juzheng did not let Lu Guangzu off the hook; he returned the memorials to Lu Guangzu and said clearly: “Grand Secretaries must choose; they cannot be vague—they must take a clear position.”

As a court minister, you may retain your opinion; but as a Grand Secretary participating in state affairs, you cannot be ambiguous. Evasion won’t work. A Grand Secretary must bear political responsibility.

“Must I choose one?” Lu Guangzu frowned.

Zhang Juzheng shook his head: “You must express a clear position and opinion for His Majesty’s consideration. You cannot muddy the waters or speak ambiguously—not necessarily a binary choice.”

After much hesitation, Lu Guangzu said: “Then I’ll choose both—or neither.”

“The four state workshops in the capital may begin shareholding system reforms; civilian workshops should primarily follow Shen Shixing’s contract system. Thus, both proceed in parallel—use whichever works better, let the more effective one lead, and allow the other to coexist.”

“The Ming is vast, its circumstances exceedingly complex; we cannot generalize. In the capital and the north, the shareholding system may be more suitable; in Songjiang Prefecture and the south, the contract system may be better. Generalization hinders institutional implementation.”

“Grand Secretary Lu speaks wisely,” Zhang Juzheng pondered, then nodded; Lu Guangzu’s approach bore a faint resemblance to the style of Wan Shihé of old—choosing everything was effectively choosing nothing; it sounded like an answer, yet said nothing at all.

Zhang Juzheng had no intention of pressuring Lu Guangzu further; Lu Guangzu sought self-preservation, and coercion was useless. Zhang Juzheng quickly drafted a draft edict and handed it to Feng Bao.

Feng Bao returned to the Tonghemen Imperial Study and reported each Grand Secretary’s opinion to the Emperor: two votes for Gao Qiyu, two for Shen Shixing, one abstention. This vote pattern made the Emperor’s opinion critically important.

After weighing again, Zhu Yijun circled Gao Qiyu’s memorial; if, as Lu Guangzu suggested, both were chosen, it would be like left hand fighting right hand—neither method could succeed.

Following Ling Yunyi’s suggestion, the nineteen-tier shareholding system was reduced to nine tiers.

Gao Qiyu’s nineteen-tier system, from one-li, one-and-a-half-li, up to ten-li, was the original Jin merchant setup; so many levels were designed to make advancement impossible—too many ranks meant one spent a lifetime climbing.

By the time one reached a substantial dividend, one was already ancient, nearing retirement, and all past efforts became illusory.

Reducing tiers and clearly defining promotion criteria was meant to shorten the time required to climb.

Time.

Institutional design is not rigid; it must be continuously revised in practice. If the nine-tier system proves ineffective, revert to the nineteen-tier system—it is, after all, the Jin merchants’ proven experience.

Zhu Yijun looked at the memorial before him and said solemnly: “After the written exam, there must be an oral exam. Candidates must be aged fifteen to twenty, at least five feet tall, of clean family background, with proper features and fluent speech, agile demeanor, and recommended by skilled artisans from state workshops; if any misconduct occurs, the recommenders will be punished severely. Only then may one pass the oral exam.”

The requirements for state workshops had grown stricter; in Wanli Two, there were no age or lineage requirements, nor recommendations; by Wanli Nine, recommendations were still absent; now the threshold kept rising.

A height requirement of five feet (170 cm) alone would bar many.

Since the capital’s state workshops had passed their rapid expansion phase, entry thresholds rose year by year; entering a state workshop was nearly equivalent to lifelong indenture, yet despite these high standards, applicants still flocked in.

“Must weavers also be five feet tall?” Zhu Yijun asked Feng Bao, staring at the requirement.

Feng Bao whispered: “Your Majesty, the requirement applies equally to men and women; this threshold must be applied uniformly.”

“Then let it stand,” Zhu Yijun considered, then accepted the high threshold established by Ling Yunyi and Gao Qiyu; thresholds were the line one had to cross to gain entry.

Either set no threshold, or apply it uniformly.