Chapter 971: Civilization Requires Continuous Existence

The Prince of Lu spent his lengthy memorial pouring out countless thoughts; Zhu Yijun deeply envied Lu Wang for having such an opportunity to escape his cage.

Zhu Yijun loved every single thing Zhu Yiliu wrote about.

The novelty of first setting sail, the vast splendor of sea meeting sky, witnessing men battling sharks firsthand, a whale fifty feet long lying on deck, sea fog lingering for days, waves towering like city walls, the sea boiling as if simmering, the majestic rise of volcanic rock on Jinquan Island, the endless coastline and golden sandy beaches of Jincheng.

All these were experiences Zhu Yijun, as emperor, would never have in his lifetime; no matter how supreme the Ming emperor, he could never behold the world’s wonders.

Lu Wang disliked the four-cornered sky of his princely mansion—did Zhu Yijun truly like Beijing’s four-cornered sky? Lu Wang could escape Beijing’s cage, but Zhu Yijun bore the sun and moon on his shoulders; no matter what, he could never break free.

Zhu Yijun’s generous privileges for Lu Wang’s fiefdom carried a hidden wish: that Zhu Yiliu might, for his elder brother, see those mountains, those seas, those surging blue waves, that dazzling splendor.

Yet ironically, upon arriving in Jincheng, Zhu Yiliu plunged into relentless, exhausting labor—the very odor of a mill donkey filled the air.

Zhu Yiliu mentioned a man named Quan Tianpei, whom the Prince of Lu had nicknamed “The Excessive Good Man.”

In Lu Wang’s eyes, Quan Tianpei’s temperament was far too kind.

Quan Tianpei was from Xinning County, Guangzhou Prefecture, a disciple of the Doctor of Astronomy and Natural Philosophy, Xing Tianlu; he sailed overseas at age seventeen in the twelfth year of Wanli, discovered gold through trade with natives, and built Jincheng because the Ming needed gold.

He had a particular fondness for sweets; in his youth he was plump and pale, now he was lean and wiry.

His origins, his experiences, his life—all these could never turn him into a cruel man like Xie Ruixiang.

Jincheng was originally a desolate wasteland; when Quan Tianpei first landed in the twelfth year of Wanli, it was barren. Even with imperial enfeoffment as the Marquis of Jincheng and Ming support, he still could not control Xie Ruixiang, the pirate chief.

Frankly speaking, when Xie Ruixiang was roaming the seas, Quan Tianpei was still a child; he lacked both the ability and the will to confront a brute like Xie Ruixiang.

When Lu Wang wanted to execute Xie Ruixiang and other villains, Quan Tianpei repeatedly pleaded, arguing that life beyond the homeland was hard enough; given his contributions to founding Jincheng, he deserved a chance to reform.

Quan Tianpei visited Xie Ruixiang in detention several times, only to be cursed out and driven away.

Zhu Yiliu refused Quan Tianpei’s plea, for in Xie Ruixiang’s heart, Jincheng was already meaningless—he had already conspired with the Red Barbarians. Even if Lu Wang offered mercy, it would only plant a hidden threat in Jincheng; that was the weakness of a woman’s compassion.

Xie Ruixiang’s case was already the simplest matter Lu Wang had handled.

Zhu Yiliu soon discovered that among the Japanese women in Jincheng, there were devotees of the Lele Sect—and fanatical ones at that.

The fanatic arrested aboard ship was no isolated case; there was a pattern. Ships bound for Ming China faced strict inspections at three checkpoints: Nagasaki, Liuqiu, and the Songjiang Maritime Customs, each harder than the last—but reaching Jincheng was far easier.

Some of these fanatics had already married locals and borne children, making the situation extremely delicate.

Keeping these Lele devotees seemed risky; killing them seemed simple, but it would unsettle the populace. Ming could not supply enough women to Jincheng for its expansion; in this harsh land, it was already remarkable that any midwives or weavers would follow the royal court into exile.

Zhu Yiliu spent three full days resolving this issue—recall that handling Xie Ruixiang had taken him only two and a half hours.

Problems where “you are in me and I am in you” were always the hardest to resolve.

Zhu Yiliu soon realized that Lele devotees in Jincheng had grown milder; his accompanying Embroidered Uniform Guards found that those who arrived in Jincheng did not even proselytize among the Japanese women, and mostly went to great lengths to conceal their identities.

Zhu Yiliu believed Lin Fu, the social science doctor, was absolutely right: to destroy a religion, one must first destroy the environment that needs it.

Once Lele devotees were removed from the environment that required Lele teachings, the harsh realities of their lives repeatedly reshaped their beliefs.

Even fanatics ceased to be fanatical; Japanese Lele devotees were the most violent, while those in the South Seas had never been so extreme—indeed, as the saying goes, different lands produce different people.

Still, Zhu Yiliu officially branded the Lele Sect as heretical and continued to preach harsh suppression, to prevent believers from infiltrating and growing strong enough to undermine Jincheng’s foundations.

“General Luo’s memorial.” Zhu Yijun picked up Luo Shangzhi’s memorial; it brimmed with martial fury.

Luo Shangzhi concisely reported the victory of April 25 in one sentence: “The Red Barbarians invaded; we crushed them,” as if dispatching a nuisance was trivial, casually wiping out the lurking thieves.

His memorial primarily addressed the main difficulties of the Ming navy’s overseas deployment.

The greatest difficulty was weather: the complex marine environment and confined ship spaces easily eroded morale. Soldiers were human—they feared, panicked, worried for their safety; once morale collapsed, combat effectiveness plummeted.

So when Luo Shangzhi arrived in Jincheng, he first attacked the Mexican Governor’s Office: first, because the governor himself had conspired with the rebel Xie Ruixiang; second, to boost morale—a battle instantly lifted spirits.

The second difficulty was: why fight?

Sailing to suppress Japanese pirates was an immediate threat; “I seek no marquisate, only calm seas”—this was not merely Qi Jiguang’s sentiment, but the Ming navy’s own. Protecting the maritime frontier meant protecting the lives of Ming subjects.

But in Jincheng, why fight the Hopi or the Mexican Governor’s Office?

Arguing for the importance of the Pacific Trade Alliance, or for gold or the Golden Banknotes, was insufficient—these reasons felt distant to soldiers, less compelling even than protecting the emperor’s own younger brother.

Luo Shangzhi wrote with trembling humility, fearing His Majesty did not fully grasp Jincheng’s situation and could not comprehend these difficulties.

Zhu Yijun truly did not understand Jincheng’s situation, nor had he ever commanded troops there; he did not grasp the shifting mindset of Jincheng’s naval soldiers.

Yet Zhu Yijun truly understood what Luo Shangzhi was saying—and it was profoundly important.

Imperial graveyards—the Tang, the British, the Soviet, the American—all were superpowers dominating the world, yet all suffered devastating losses in such graveyards, precisely because of the question Luo Shangzhi raised: why fight?

No matter how powerful an army, if it does not know why it fights, it will lose.

Qi Jiguang had repeatedly told His Majesty: without heaven’s timing, earth’s advantage, and human harmony, even victory brings disaster. To achieve total victory, one needs all three; if any one is missing, even a win carries calamity.

Luo Shangzhi did propose concrete plans for overseas expansion and deployment.

Station one elite battalion in the core expansion zone, such as Jincheng in Jincheng State, with a naval battalion stationed there.

But the main force for expansion was not these elite naval troops; their duty was to protect the core zone. The true expansion force was to be recruited from desperate outlaws.

Only thus could Ming naval discipline and morale be preserved, the core expansion zones secured, and expansion efficiency maintained. Outlaws were inherently brutal, indifferent to human life, and thus carried no moral burden in carrying out expansion.

“Jincheng State hangs overseas, over thirty thousand li from the Central Land, with perilous waves utterly unlike nearshore seas. I am stationed here and deeply feel the hardship of distant expeditions; there are two fundamental difficulties, not merely matters of weapons.”

“First: the hardship of weather. Morale easily sags. Men are not iron or stone; all fear death and long for home. When morale collapses, soldiers lose the will to fight; even with fine armor and powerful cannons, they become useless.”

“Second: the soldiers are bewildered about why they fight. Nearshore defense against Japanese pirates—protecting borders and pacifying the people—everyone knows for whom they fight, so they willingly sacrifice their lives without hesitation. But Jincheng lies ten thousand li away; what do the Hopi or the Red Barbarians have to do with our people? They are distant, insubstantial, less significant than a single grain of rice.”

“My proposal: station elite troops at the core, and recruit vast numbers of desperate, fearless outlaws. My knowledge is shallow; my words may be reckless. I humbly beg Your Majesty’s enlightened insight and guidance.” Zhu Yijun read aloud several key passages.

Luo Shangzhi spoke wisely. Zhu Yijun sent his memorial to the Five Military Directorates, asking Qi Jiguang, Chen Lin, and other generals for further opinions.

“I recall that just a few years ago, we were still debating the difficulty of settling mercenary troops: recruit desperate men for war, disband them in peace—public resentment flared. General Luo’s method actually offers a solution for settling mercenaries.” Feng Bao offered this observation.

“Reasonable,” Zhu Yijun nodded. “Send it to the Ministry of War for deliberation.”

“Feng Dabao, why does it feel that since opening the seas, we’re always short of hands—even desperate outlaws are being used?” Zhu Yijun paused, surprised.

Desperate outlaws were once enemies of the court; now even they were being fully exploited, sent overseas to harass barbarians.

“Under heaven, all land is unclaimed. Our Ming’s 133 million souls are simply not enough,” Feng Bao smiled.

Zhu Yijun took up brush, ink, paper, and inkstone and wrote a long reply to Zhu Yiliu; the Songjiang Oceanic Trading House would carry the letter to Jincheng when it sailed eastward across the Pacific.

The Ming emperor answered many questions.

For instance, could Luo Shangzhi remain in Jincheng? Zhu Yijun answered no: Luo Shangzhi himself did not wish to stay. The White Tiger of the West governs slaughter, and Luo Shangzhi was still the “Loud Tiger”; his ambition lay beyond Jincheng State. Forcing him to stay would only plant future trouble.

For instance, Jincheng urgently needed geologists. Could the three geologists there rotate every three years, with others from elsewhere taking their place? Zhu Yijun readily agreed, mainly because gold prospecting could not be completed in three years.

For instance, could conflict arise with the Mexican Governor’s Office? Zhu Yijun’s answer: do whatever you want. If chaos erupts, the navy will come to support you. Order is born from struggle, not from rules.

The Mexican Governor’s Office was always so: weak yet reckless. Without a beating, they’d never know who held the royal cards. Zhu Yijun supported Zhu Yiliu’s plan: beat them first, then talk.

For instance, should Ming allow more Japanese courtesans to go to Jincheng? Zhu Yijun agreed and ordered the Nagasaki Governor’s Office to adjust its policies.

Though Jincheng was a wild land, it was not poor, for gold existed. These Japanese women, once there, lived far better than in the South Seas.

The South Seas had many “South Sea sisters,” and overall, it was intensely competitive.

Aside from Luo Shangzhi’s matters, every request Zhu Yiliu made was approved, and Zhu Yijun did his utmost to coordinate resources to meet Jincheng State’s expansion needs.

At this moment, the Ming emperor did not know that a young silver mountain, producing four million taels of silver annually, awaited Ming exploitation; had he known, Zhu Yijun would have greatly increased support.

The West had abundant silver reserves and high output; at this time, the West primarily used gold as currency, not silver. Thus, when the Mexican Governor’s Office was harassed several times by the Hopi, they simply abandoned it.

But Ming had no silver mines. This vast body could never be satisfied by any amount of silver; a young silver mountain nearly equal in output to Japan’s Iwami Silver Mine was immensely attractive to Ming.

In his memorial, Zhu Yijun mockingly called Zhu Yiliu a mill donkey, constantly busy, feet pounding his own head, never pausing.

Zhu Yijun was overwhelmed with state affairs, extremely busy; Zhu Yiliu once mocked his elder brother—now it was the elder brother’s turn to mock him.

“The Ministry of War reports: beginning this year, all city defense cannons, field cannons, and ship cannons will be fully replaced with cast-forged composite cannons.” Feng Bao presented the Ministry of War’s memorial to the throne; Ming would overhaul all its cannons in a comprehensive upgrade.

This cannon replacement would take five years, with over 100,000 cast-forged cannons expected; thereafter, outdated cannon designs would no longer be manufactured.

Ranking Ming cannon technology from low to high: iron-stave-banded forged iron cannons, cast bronze cannons, cast iron cannons, bored-and-torqued forged iron cannons, and cast-forged composite cannons—those with inner copper and outer iron, cast and forged as one, with lathe-bored and torqued barrels.

The total budget for 100,000 assorted cannons exceeded fourteen million taels of silver, with completion expected within five years.

“The Grand Secretaries all agree—then proceed with the upgrade,” Zhu Yijun, after reviewing the draft, approved it.

The Ministry of War’s massive cannon upgrade stemmed partly from a pessimistic desire to hoard wealth while Ming’s power was strong, leaving a legacy for future generations to squander.

It was not that Grand Secretary Ceng Shengwu doubted future wisdom; he simply did not know how to believe in it.

In the thirteenth year of Wanli, Ming began replacing matchlocks; the firelocks, hand cannons, and shoulder cannons built during Yongle’s reign were only fully replaced by new-style arquebuses.

Yongle-era firearms had been used for over 170 years! They were no longer weapons—they were relics!

While Ming can still hoard wealth, hoard as much as possible.

Zhu Yijun picked up a memorial from the Hanlin Academy; the old scholars there were not idle—recently, they had deciphered the meanings of a large batch of oracle bone script characters.

For example, the character “yi” ( Yi ) actually meant “to cut a block”—to slice meat and hang it up;

The Hanlin memorial primarily discussed the character “jiao” ( Jiao ).

Ming scholar-officials interpreted “jiao” as: “what superiors do, inferiors imitate.” The learned instruct the ignorant, demonstrating and transmitting experience.

But research into oracle bone script revealed that the right side, “pu” ( Pu ), was actually a person holding a stick; the bottom left “zi” ( Zi ) meant child; the top was “yao” ( Yao ), a method of counting with arranged grass sticks.

Thus, the original meaning of “jiao” was: a teacher holding a rod, urging a child to learn arithmetic.

After deciphering the oracle bone meaning of “jiao,” the Hanlin scholars felt profound confusion.

Arithmetic had always been profoundly important—even the character “jiao” meant teaching children arithmetic.

But when had arithmetic become trivial, dismissed as a minor skill, and learning it deemed unorthodox?

It took Wang Guoguang’s “Tongshu Pangtong” reform to restore arithmetic to its rightful place.

The Hanlin scholars first blamed Zhu Xi and Cheng Yi’s Neo-Confucianism, for before them, Tang dynasty imperial examinations included arithmetic.

But they soon dismissed this as the primary answer.

After long investigation, they found the main cause was the fall of Song and rise of Ming, which led to massive loss of arithmetic texts; before the “Tongshu Pangtong” reform, Ming could hardly find a copy of the “Nine Chapters on the Mathematical Art.”

The Yuan dynasty lasted less than a century, but civilization truly became discontinuous, ultimately causing arithmetic to be lost.

All these reasons led to Ming’s lack of emphasis on arithmetic, lack of training for arithmetic talent, and lack of arithmetic exchange, resulting in arithmetic’s overall absence in Ming.

Even though the Daitong Calendar had begun to drift out of alignment since the Zhengtong era, no correction could be made.

From the character “jiao” to the collapse of arithmetic, all proved one terrifying truth:

Civilization requires continuous existence; if it cannot continue, it will suffer generational rupture; and once certain aspects suffer rupture, irreversible decline follows.

When decline accumulates sufficiently, no matter how resilient a civilization may be, it will perish.

The sun and moon dimmed and then shone again; under the leadership of Emperor Taizu Gao, Zhu Yuanzhang, the Great Ming was reborn from ashes, yet civilization inevitably suffered generational rupture and decline.

Even by the Wanli era, with the dynasty already over two hundred years old, the people of Great Ming still failed to recognize the catastrophic consequences of this rupture and decline caused by the absence of mathematics.

Zhu Yijun held the memorial from Hanlin Academician Wu Daonan and said with a smile: “These old scholars in the Hanlin Academy have finally done something.”

“If they don’t do something, the Ministry of Revenue won’t allocate them funds,” Feng Bao whispered. “Since Hanlin Academician Li Changchun retired, the Hanlin Academy hasn’t received a single silver from the Ministry of Revenue—salaries haven’t been paid for three months.”

“The Hanlin Academy is pressing too hard; the Grand Secretary cursed them out—cursed them fiercely, asking what use these Hanlin scholars are: unwilling to serve as supervisors, unwilling to keep pace with the times, just hugging piles of old books and showing off their scholarly airs!”

“Your Majesty knows the Grand Secretary values every single silver coin. The Hanlin scholars could only mutter a few complaints about disgrace to their dignity.”

After Li Changchun’s retirement, the Hanlin Academy could barely even pay salaries; the Ministry of Revenue refused funds and scolded these scholars—yet in the past, when Hanlin scholars entered the Grand Secretariat to participate in state secrets, how could the Ministry of Revenue have dared to be so arrogant?

But now, with the state treasury flush with silver, the Ministry of Revenue has grown powerful, and the Hanlin scholars can only endure this humiliation and quickly demonstrate their worth—no matter what, they must prove their value to claim their rightful salaries.

“The salaries must still be paid; their research is valuable—let them continue.” After careful consideration, Zhu Yijun issued an edict to the Ministry of Revenue to disburse the overdue salaries.

These scholars are not idle mouths; the Hanlin Academy contributed to the Wanli Reforms, especially through public discussions on social issues, serving as a form of public oversight—not entirely useless. Still, the academy’s problems remain severe; the culture of refined, empty talk remains dominant.

Zhu Yijun thought for a moment and said: “Let Senior Minister Gao oversee the Hanlin Academy for a while.”

“The Junior Minister refuses to deal with them,” Feng Bao carefully replied, defending Gao Qiyi. “How could Gao Qiyi have time for them? He’s overwhelmed pushing the Dinghai Education System.”

In fact, the Ministry of Revenue withholding salaries already speaks volumes.

Since the Hanlin Academy lost direct access to the Grand Secretariat, it has gradually lost its value—unable even to cultivate talent or maintain prestige—so there’s no need for its existence. The Hanlin Academy and the National University are gradually being replaced by the Jingshidaxuetang—that is the trend.

The Ministry of Revenue is using this method to force the Hanlin Academy to vanish on its own.

“The Hanlin Academy is still necessary. Let Senior Minister Gao oversee it for a while; once the Right Vice Minister of Rites has stabilized his position, let him take over.” Zhu Yijun ultimately decided—trouble Gao Qiyi a bit.

Li Changchun’s retirement has exceeded six months, yet the Right Vice Minister of Rites remains vacant. Zhu Yijun has repeatedly ordered the Grand Secretariat to recommend candidates, but appointments have always failed—mainly because the Hanlin Academy is too troublesome to manage.

Originally, Yu Shenxing, a Jinshi of Longqing Year Two, was to become Right Vice Minister of Rites, but upon hearing he’d also have to oversee the Hanlin Academy, he immediately feigned illness.

After passing the Jinshi exam in Longqing Year Two, Yu Shenxing entered the Hanlin Academy as a Shujishi; yet asking him to reorganize the Hanlin Academy—he truly couldn’t do it.

Gao Qiyi has no such reservations. As a third-rank Tongjinshi, he holds a natural hostility toward the Hanlin Academy; once in power, he won’t let up. Letting Gao Qiyi reorganize the Hanlin Academy is perfect—he’s willing to take it on, and then Yu Shenxing can step in immediately.

“Your servant obeys the decree.” Feng Bao had the Palace Secretariat eunuchs draft the edict, preparing to send it to the Ministry of Rites.

“Your Majesty, the governors of the Mexican, Peruvian, and Chilean Governorates have arrived safely in Songjiang Prefecture. By the calendar, they should reach Tianjin Prefecture tomorrow.” Feng Bao pulled out the memorial from Li Le, the Provincial Governor of Songjiang.

The three East Pacific governors are arriving primarily to sign the “Regulations for the Pacific Trade Alliance.”

The envoys returned to their respective governorates aboard the ships that carried Prince Lu to his fiefdom; if the governors were dissatisfied with the “Regulations,” they would simply send envoys to negotiate further—not send their governors in person.

In fact, although the “Regulations” drafted by the Ministry of Rites were harsh and domineering, they still fell within the governors’ acceptable limits.

Even the governors felt that Great Ming treated its own dogs far too well!

Many clauses in the “Regulations” actually considered the governorates’ interests—Great Ming’s court truly has great moral character!

The Shaoxito Silver Mine in the Mexican Governorate produced six million five hundred thousand taels of silver annually, yet less than half a million taels remained with the governorate—the rest were shipped directly back to the homeland by the Treasure Ships.

The barbarians’ rebellions came one after another; the governorates fought desperately, yet kept only a tiny fraction of the silver—this isn’t how you feed a dog.

Contrast this with Great Ming.

Great Ming took the lion’s share of the meat—and still left the governorates a small portion, even willing to negotiate solutions to trade issues.

“Your Majesty, the Chief Grand Secretary says Shen Shixing should oversee the governorate negotiations. The Senior Minister of Rites also agrees Shen Shixing should handle it,” Feng Bao whispered.

Only the final signatures and seals remain; some clauses of the “Regulations” have already taken effect in this year’s trade. Now Zhang Juzheng comes to claim credit for Shen Shixing—even Shen Li agrees.

“Let Senior Minister Gao handle it.” Zhu Yijun thought again, and assigned the Pacific Trade Alliance matter to Gao Qiyi for oversight.

Gao Qiyi has labored so long—the fruit is ripe, yet others come to pluck it. Zhu Yijun could not allow that.

“I will explain to Master myself—do not worry,” Zhu Yijun waved his hand. “Master once taught me to reward and punish clearly—this reward and punishment must never be arbitrary.”

Zhu Yijun has a boomerang.

Zhang Juzheng came to snatch credit from Shen Shixing for one simple reason: to suppress Gao Qiyi.

Gao Qiyi’s past mistakes could be forgiven by anyone—except Zhang Juzheng. If Zhang Juzheng forgave him, then Zhang Juzheng himself would be seen as a traitor plotting to usurp the throne.

No matter what, Zhang Juzheng must maintain this posture—it is an unsolvable knot.

“Your servant obeys the decree.” Feng Bao bowed again.

Gao Qiyi was on duty at the Ministry of Rites, handling a mountain of issues related to the Dinghai Education System—especially as teacher training academies across the provinces had begun enrolling students, and new ones were under construction.

Eighteen university academies, hundreds of teacher training academies, and three-tier academies in every prefecture, state, and county were being built—the Dinghai Education System proceeded steadily.

Teacher training academies were a vital part of the entire Dinghai Education System; without enough teachers, the system could not be implemented.

After finishing all official duties, Gao Qiyi cleared his desk, stared at the blank paper before him, and let out a heavy sigh.

After this morning’s court deliberation, Shen Li told Gao Qiyi at the Left Shun Gate—in so many words—that the Grand Secretariat’s position was: now that the Pacific Trade Alliance had reached this stage, further matters would no longer fall under his purview.

Gao Qiyi bore no resentment toward Zhang Juzheng’s vindictiveness—Zhang Juzheng’s temper was known throughout the land.

But now, facing the reality, he felt a pang of injustice. The Pacific Trade Alliance had taken over a year to build; now that the fruit was ripe, Shen Shixing arrived—and he truly could not accept it. Shen Shixing was indeed talented, but Gao Qiyi was no less capable.

Even if it weren’t Shen Shixing, but Wang Jiaoping, Wang Yie, Shen Yiguan, or Zhou Liangyin—Gao Qiyi would have accepted it. But it could not be Shen Shixing.

Master is favoring one side.

“The Left Vice Minister of Rites, Junior Minister Gao Qiyi, receive the imperial decree.” Xu Jue arrived at the Ministry of Rites with the edict.