Chapter 972: Absolutely No Rats on the Table

Gao Qi heard that an imperial edict had arrived, immediately straightened his robes, rose swiftly, and stepped out the door to receive it.

The phenomenon of plucking peaches was far too common—so common that Gao Qi had witnessed it many times himself.

You toil tirelessly, overcome countless hardships, and just as harvest arrives, someone with powerful connections suddenly steps forward, plucks your fruit, and you’re expected to bow and thank them.

Such things occur not only in government offices but also in neighborhoods and clans—they’re nothing unusual.

The charter of the Huan-Tai Trade Alliance was drafted by Gao Qi; the negotiations, the quarrels, the accusations of indecency and tyranny—all fell to him. Yet the credit ultimately went to Shen Shixing.

This was reality—the only reality Gao Qi could accept. The arm cannot twist the thigh; Zhang Juzheng could crush Gao Qi with ease.

“Your servant receives the edict,” Gao Qi said with deep reverence, his expression utterly composed.

Xu Jue flicked his fly-whisk and held up a sheet of paper. “His Majesty’s decree:”

“The post of Director of the Hanlin Academy has lain vacant too long—what a disgrace! After careful consideration, I find that the Vice Minister of Rites, with his proven ability, keen insight, and recent skillful management of the Dinghai educational reforms and teacher training initiatives, has diligently served the state. He is hereby appointed to concurrently oversee the Hanlin Academy.”

“The Hanlin Academy is steeped in deep corruption, rife with empty talk and superficiality. You must rectify it with firmness and pragmatism. Having identified its root disease, you must earnestly eradicate it and guide it toward useful purpose. Do not disappoint My expectations.”

“This is His Majesty’s will.”

Gao Qi bowed again and said respectfully, “Your servant humbly accepts Your Majesty’s instruction and shall oversee the Hanlin Academy, never failing to live up to Your expectations.”

What had to come, had come.

Gao Qi had paid attention to the Hanlin Academy’s problems—after all, anticipating His Majesty’s concerns was the only way for a lone minister to survive. The Hanlin had written of the decay of oracle bone script studies, the collapse of civilizational continuity, the fall of the Song and Yuan dynasties, the devastation under the Yuan, the scattering of texts, the usurpation by Semu officials, and layer upon layer of chaos that nearly erased the exquisite knowledge of astronomy and calendrical science.

The damage caused by Cheng-Zhu Neo-Confucianism paled beside the collapse of the Central Plains.

This memorial was among the few truly useful submissions the Hanlin had produced in years.

Most Hanlin scholars were relics clinging to decay, wasting state funds. Even with the Emperor’s favor, they could not silence public scorn—they were merely eating rice for free, and everyone despised them.

Solving the Hanlin’s problems was not difficult: eradicate the accumulated rot with ruthless force. Gao Qi had already pondered the Academy’s mission—it was precisely the six words His Majesty had spoken when writing the preface to *The Turnaround*: Only self-strengthening brings renewal.

Gao Qi had already devised a series of measures for reform—this was the classic three fires of a new official.

The first fire: summon Xu Chengchu from the Anti-Corruption Office to launch a purge against graft in the Hanlin Academy, rooting out its vermin. This step would not be hard.

The second fire: establish performance evaluations to break entrenched patronage networks, implement the Nine Chapters Law, and expel those filling posts without merit. If any memorial received the Emperor’s seal stamped “empty talk, useless,” Gao Qi would immediately launch a detailed investigation—making life difficult for them.

Scholars had many methods; they need not rely on the courts to remove someone. Gao Qi had nine ways to drive men out without involving the judicial system. After all, he had once been Zhang Juzheng’s top disciple.

Hanlin scholars who wrote excellent essays were promoted; those whose essays were stamped “empty talk, useless” were harshly purged.

The third fire: assign Hanlin scholars to serve as touring censors in Gansu, Suiyuan, Liaodong, and Korea for five years, forcing them to gain real, practical experience before transferring to the Six Ministries for further advancement.

After burning these three fires, further adjustments could proceed gradually.

His Majesty’s demand was for the Hanlin Academy to fulfill its proper role: nurturing talent and cultivating prestige. The root of all its accumulated rot was the absence of future prospects. Building a comprehensive reform plan centered on “prospects” and “progress” was not difficult.

But this task was one that would make enemies. Gao Qi was a lone minister—he was perfectly suited for it.

What galled Gao Qi was that he had ultimately failed to claim credit for the Huan-Tai Trade Alliance charter—all of it had been seized by Shen Shixing!

It was infuriating!

It wasn’t that the Chief Grand Secretary had taken sides—Shen Shixing was no match for him!

A master of balancing interests, even after years as Provincial Governor of Songjiang, still couldn’t shake his habit of compromise—always seeking middle ground, always trying to please everyone. How could anyone please everyone?

Gao Qi was utterly different. He never retreated, never appeased.

“The Left Vice Minister of Rites, Vice Minister Gao Qi, receive the edict,” Xu Jue flicked his fly-whisk again and produced a second sheet of Korean tribute paper. The Emperor was frugal—unimportant edicts were not mounted on brocade, only printed on plain paper.

Gao Qi froze. He had just risen, and now his posture halted. There had been no major affairs in court lately—only the Hanlin Academy and the Huan-Tai Trade Alliance.

Was there something else he had missed that required his attention?

“The Governors of Mexico, Peru, and Chile have arrived in Songjiang and will soon enter Tianjin Prefecture to sign the Trade Charter. This charter, from its initial drafting to near completion, has taken years, filled with countless complexities—all overseen personally by the Vice Minister, and only now achieved.”

“Vice Minister Gao has acted with impartiality and diligence, spoken frankly without concealment. All matters concerning the Huan-Tai Trade Alliance shall remain under your direct supervision. Proceed to Tianjin Prefecture today and act as you deem fit, with the sole priorities of benefiting the state, facilitating trade, and securing the vassals.”

“This is His Majesty’s will.”

Gao Qi clearly paused, then bowed deeply and cried out, “I humbly thank Your Majesty’s boundless grace!”

After so long of resentment, the Emperor had returned the credit to him. Gao Qi felt profound shame—he had doubted His Majesty’s fairness!

He wanted to slap himself. The path of the lone minister was impossibly hard. No minister who walked it ever met a good end. Gao Qi had chosen this path only because he believed in His Majesty’s wisdom.

Yet, without clear imperial instruction, merely because of a single remark from the Senior Minister Shen Li, he had begun to doubt the Emperor.

“When it does not concern you, you see clearly; when it concerns you, you lose your balance.” That was what Zhang Juzheng had told him long ago about court politics. When your own interests are at stake, you become anxious and indecisive. At such moments, calmness is paramount.

But when the fruit of his labor was snatched away, Gao Qi had lost his composure.

“Eunuch Xu, why this sudden change?” Gao Qi rose, flicked his sleeve, and three silver notes slipped out. He passed them over with perfect subtlety.

To make a powerful eunuch speak, you must offer silver.

“This I cannot accept,” Xu Jue said, handing Gao Qi both edicts and refusing the silver. Some silver could be taken; some could not.

After pushing the notes away, Xu Jue continued: “Vice Minister, His Majesty is deeply satisfied with your prior work and will strongly protect you. In today’s court, promotions depend solely on performance evaluations—you are among the rare upright officials.”

“The Chief Grand Secretary will have His Majesty’s support on your behalf. You have your own patron, and so does Shen Shixing. But as long as you serve the state diligently, His Majesty is your greatest patron.”

These words were not Xu Jue’s own—they had been spoken directly by the Emperor before his departure. Shen Shixing had a ninety-nine-step head start in the hundred-meter race, but Gao Qi possessed ability and imperial favor—his starting line was at least from negative one hundred to positive fifty.

“Your servant humbly thanks His Majesty’s boundless grace,” Gao Qi said, utterly astonished—the Emperor had chosen to support him, something Zhang Juzheng himself could not have secured.

After delivering the edicts, Xu Jue swept his sleeve and turned to leave, smiling: “Vice Minister, please remain.”

“See off Eunuch Xu,” Gao Qi said, walking several steps to escort him.

Long after Xu Jue had departed, he turned back once and saw Gao Qi still standing at the gate. He nodded again, smiled, and turned the corner out of the Ministry of Rites.

Xu Jue held Gao Qi in high regard—he reminded him of Wang Guoguang: independent, self-disciplined, maintaining propriety even in private. But the player is blind to the game—Gao Qi did not realize Zhang Juzheng’s hostility was not genuine, merely a performance.

Gao Qi still believed Zhang Juzheng had not forgiven him. In truth, Zhang Juzheng simply could not forgive.

After Xu Jue left, Gao Qi clutched the two edicts, beaming. As for entering the Grand Secretariat—he had never even dreamed of it. Simply surpassing Shen Shixing was cause enough for celebration.

Zhu Yijun had issued the edict, restoring to Gao Qi what had always been his. Zhang Juzheng never went to Tonghemen Palace to plead the matter—he never intended to truly pluck the fruit.

Zhang Juzheng had two goals: to make a statement, and to play the villain—fabricating a false card so the Emperor could use it to win hearts.

The effect was perfect: Gao Qi was deeply grateful and worked even harder.

Zhu Yijun was Zhang Juzheng’s disciple and understood him well—he had guessed Zhang Juzheng’s intent.

In short, Gao Qi had been subtly manipulated by both the Chief Grand Secretary and the Emperor. But to be the object of such a carefully staged performance by both men was itself a profound affirmation of Gao Qi’s years of service.

As Gao Qi traveled to Tianjin to meet the three governors, Lin Fucheng returned to the capital with the wool caravan. He had spent a full year on the steppe, under the protection of the Embroidered Uniform Guard, penetrating deep into many remote regions.

His greatest impression from this journey was that those damned, filthy, disease-spreading, utterly despicable dens—the lamaseries—had finally vanished from the steppe!

On his previous trip, Lin Fucheng had despised these plague-spreading lamaseries. Each one was a den of suffering, built on the blood and tears of the steppe people. Yet for various reasons, they had stubbornly endured, feeding on the flesh of the steppe.

The lamas of the steppe differed from those in the interior, who merely sought spiritual peace and occasionally aided in childbirth. The steppe lamaseries were steeped in blood debt. Using human organs as ritual implements—this was unspeakably wicked!

Monks using childbirth as an excuse to engage in illicit relations—Lin Fucheng, who had traveled widely and even sailed to the South Seas, saw this as nothing. The world held no such fools. Childbirth assistance was simply an unspoken business.

Often, the husbands knew. In this age, failing to produce heirs was the far more serious, fatal matter.

The steppe lamaseries were centers of greed and murder, sources of evil. After a decade of ruthless suppression, they vanished without a trace. In their place hung portraits of His Sacred Majesty—nearly every household now displayed one. The portraits were exquisitely crafted, with clear ink, masterful woodblock printing, and superior paper and mounting.

And these portraits were not expensive—only twenty pounds of wool could buy one.

When Lin Fucheng returned to Guihua City, he learned these portraits were the business of San Niangzi—not a tax on His Sacred Majesty’s image. In fact, at this price, they made no profit; they were produced solely to destroy the lamaseries.

The statue of His Sacred Majesty in Guihua City was more than a statue—it was the beginning. These portraits were its continuation.

The steppe’s narrative of grace far outpaced that of the interior by a full century!

In crafting narratives of grace, Zhang Juzheng was no match for San Niangzi—mainly because the Emperor would not let him act freely.

Back in the capital, Lin Fucheng stared at the scroll in his hand. He had bought a portrait of His Sacred Majesty himself, planning to hang it in the Xiaoyao Society, burning incense daily in prayer—not because he truly believed, but because he needed the hope.

Lin Fucheng had become who he was today only through the Emperor’s favor and protection.

He returned to the so-called Xiaoyao Society and met Li Zhi, who had prepared a banquet at the Taibai Pavilion to welcome him home. After three rounds of wine and five courses, Lin Fucheng was slightly drunk.

“What was your greatest gain from your journey to the steppe?” Li Zhi asked curiously. Lin Fucheng had written not a single report all year—just played!

Lin Fucheng thought a moment and said: “I gained much. But my greatest insight: absolutely no rats must be allowed on the table. No vermin must govern.”

Lin Fucheng was a limited liberal. For the entire year, he had pondered one question: law, legislation, and freedom—the relationship between liberty and order.

Ming law was a tangled web, but in essence, it boiled down to eight words: ancestral law, reverence for heaven and ancestors. This authority rested in the Hanlin Academy.

The Hanlin controlled the interpretation of history. To write history was to control the interpretation of ancestral law.

This process was excruciating—he constantly denied the man he had been the day before. What he saw and experienced, and his accumulated experience, forced him into endless self-rejection. After over a year of circling, he distilled his thoughts into one phrase: absolutely no rats on the table.

“What does that mean?” Li Zhi asked, astonished.

Lin Fucheng considered carefully: “At the foot of Yinshan, I encountered remnants of the Yongxiabu tribe. They believed San Niangzi had betrayed Altan Khan, sought to assassinate her, and break Ming control over Suiyuan, restoring the glory of the Yuan. This tribe numbered thirteen thousand.”

“But from refugees of these tribes, I learned that restoring Yuan glory was merely a lie. These vermin-like tribal leaders never assassinated San Niangzi or any Ming official. They merely raised a banner to pursue private gain—truly monstrous crimes, beyond recounting.”

Lin Fucheng briefly recounted the atrocities committed by these vermin: under the guise of Lamaism, they extorted wealth, killed anyone who resisted, and their crimes were a direct copy of the Joyful Sect.

“Rats stealing oil beneath the Buddha’s seat, occupying high positions, ultimately drove this tribe to ruin. They were surrounded by the Suiyuan Garrison, one myriarch and four thousand-commanders captured and beheaded. The steppe people were registered as common households.”

Lin Fucheng frowned: “My point is this: in any order, rats must never be allowed on the table. But determining who is a rat—that is far harder.”

In Lin Fucheng’s view, Ming history had two periods when rats sat at the table.

First, during the Jianwen reign: Huang Zicheng, Qi Tai, Fang Xiaoru, who clamored for the revival of the well-field system, obsessed with restoring Zhou rituals, changing official titles and names.

Second, during the Zhengtong reign: ministers led by Yang Shiqi, who ruthlessly destroyed ancestral law, prioritizing scholarship while neglecting military affairs.

After a year of thought, Lin Fucheng had devised a method to identify who was not a rat. If rats were allowed to make decisions, any collective would become a mess.

Therefore, those who make decisions must not be rats. They must possess the following traits.

First, age: forty-five or older. At thirty, one stands firm; at forty, one is free of confusion. Only after experiencing much can one judge right from wrong, understand the essence of things, and form one’s own moral judgments—good and evil, beauty and ugliness, right and wrong.

Second, extensive experience in governance and administration. This is vital. Book knowledge is shallow; true understanding comes only through practice. Only after more than twenty years of administrative experience can one claim sufficient experience to handle any situation.

Third, a certain degree of moral character. Without morality, the state collapses. Only those who have proven their virtue in daily life can be trusted—they are not rats.

Fourth, integrity: unafraid of power, courageous in criticism, unmoved by factional interests, steadfast in principle. Only then can one remain impartial in shaping or interpreting ancestral law and history—even if laws are flawed, they can be corrected.

Lin Fucheng believed these four criteria were indispensable. He shared his vision with Li Zhi and asked for his opinion.

“You’re describing the Hanlin scholars,” Li Zhi said, frowning. “All four of your criteria fit the Hanlin perfectly.”

Elder scholars typically possess rich experience in governance, are esteemed and pure, and remain unmoved by the interests of all sides; though these elder scholars constantly speak in classical phrases, they are indeed among the most morally upright in the bureaucracy.

History has again proven that empty moralizing harms the state and the people.

“Ah,” Lin Fu became somewhat dejected; throughout his life, he had traveled south and north, crossed the steppes, ventured into Liaodong, sailed to the South Seas, and even served as second-in-command of pirates; from primitive religions to feudal enfeoffment, then to commandery-county systems, he had even studied in Lu Song the representative system of the Western Netherlands.

After observing all these systems, while pondering freedom and order, he realized absolute freedom only breeds greater chaos—the Yongxiebu seemed too free, and contemporary Japan also seemed too free.

The evolution of freedom must be constrained, and this constraint must be established by human hands.

The relatively esteemed Hanlin scholars, by reviewing imperial edicts, effectively curb the evolution of limited freedom into absolute freedom; in fact, these scholars have always done so—their primary duty has always been compiling history, and Shen Li had compiled the Veritable Records of Emperor Jingzong.

In an era that reveres Heaven and follows ancestral law, controlling the power to compile history is equivalent to controlling the power to define laws.

Lin Fu suddenly realized—he had become a conservative, the very man who championed freedom! These Hanlin scholars, these old pedants, actually had merit!

Li Zhi quickly noticed a contradiction in Lin Fu’s argument.

To remain esteemed and preserve the Hanlin’s transcendent status, these scholars must not taint themselves with worldly affairs; they may observe governance but must not administer it, for administration inevitably entangles them with vested interests, destroying their purity.

Yet without administrative experience, one easily falls into the delusions of the meat-eaters—well-intentioned, yet when policies are implemented, they become utterly distorted, as with the Single Whip Law.

These are the practical outcomes of the Wanli Reforms, an unsolvable deadlock.

Zhang Juzheng lacked practical experience in local governance; when formulating policies, he often hesitated.

“Young brother, your words are known only to us two—do not submit them to the throne,” Li Zhi said softly after hesitation.

Lin Fu frowned and asked, “Why do you say that, Brother Li?”

“Emperor Yingzong and Emperor Xiaozong,” Li Zhi carefully weighed his words; sometimes, rats are not merely ministers—some rats inevitably end up on the table. Yingzong and Xiaozong were such cases. Lin Fu’s remarks carry a veiled accusation against His Majesty.

Of his four conditions, His Majesty fails on both age and administrative experience; his observation and administration of governance have lasted only nineteen years.

After much thought, Lin Fu realized he lacked the ability to resolve this deadlock and smiled: “Let the enlightened ministers in court worry about these matters.”

Lin Fu wrote down his observations from the steppes into a book titled *Continuation of the Tour of Suixuan*, documenting all he had seen over the past year in travelogue form, publishing it in installments.

After much deliberation, he ultimately wrote a memorial on his thoughts regarding freedom and order—including his confusion—and submitted it to the throne.

The contradiction between practice and preserving purity seemed an unsolvable deadlock.

“This is indeed a deadlock—so the Hanlin Academy must be preserved,” Zhu Yijun finally endorsed the memorial with his red brush; he had no clear answer, and until a better solution emerged, maintaining the status quo was itself wisdom.

Zhu Yijun dispatched his capable officer Gao Qi to reorganize the Hanlin Academy, urging it to speak less of abstract nature and more about the people.

As revisers of history, the Hanlin scholars, who control the power to define history, must shoulder their due responsibility: drawing lessons from the long river of history to prevent the Great Ming from dying in the same pit again.

The Hanlin scholars, the Censorate’s censors, and the Six Boards’ Six Junior Secretaries together formed the pure stream, whose duty was to correct policy errors—a natural outcome of political evolution, a safety net.

When this correction mechanism fails, the realm is doomed.

This system was not unique to the Great Ming: England had its House of Lords, the American Republic its Senate, and Spain its similar Council of State—these safety nets prevent radical factions from destroying themselves through endless extreme reforms.

Zhu Yijun issued a special edict ordering the Ministry of Revenue to fully repay all back salaries and entrusted Gao Qi with reorganization, rather than letting the Hanlin Academy perish on its own; preserving the Hanlin Academy ensured balance between conservatism and radicalism.

“Why do I feel Lin Fu is subtly cursing me?” Zhu Yijun stared at Lin Fu’s memorial, sensing hidden meanings—every word avoided mentioning him, yet he had ascended the throne at ten, lacking age, lacking experience, lacking virtue and maturity.

“Lin Fu is clearly pointing at the mulberry tree while cursing the locust tree, Your Majesty! Let me take the Embroidered Uniform Guard and deal with him!” Feng Bao perked up immediately; Lin Fu ate the Emperor’s rice yet dared to chant “Wanli, Wanli, ten Battalion Commander are filled with malice!”

Even if true—that the Wanli Reforms had indeed accumulated much malice—it was not Lin Fu’s place to say so!

Whenever he could speak ill of scholars, Feng Bao never spoke well of them.

Zhu Yijun shook his head: “Enough. If I meant to kill him, I would have done so long ago. The Hanlin Academy cannot govern, yet I still rely on it to speak truth—your cries for violence—will he dare speak truth again?”

Lin Fu’s identity was simple: an imperial investigative journalist. He had fulfilled Zhu Yijun’s imperial orders perfectly in Baoding, Suixuan, Liaodong, and the South Seas—any minister who does his job well is a good minister.

The Hanlin, censors, and Six Junior Secretaries had gradually degenerated over twenty years of factional strife between the pure stream and the Yan Party, slowly losing their capacity to correct errors; in recent years, censors and Six Junior Secretaries had already been reformed—it was now the Hanlin Academy’s turn.

It is easier to plan when the state is strong; harder when it is weak and chaotic.

While the state is ascending, while it is strong, do what must be done—and what need not be done.

Lin Fu’s *Tour of Suixuan* was extremely long, too long to print in one edition; its content was fascinating, greatly enriching Zhu Yijun’s knowledge.

In summary, the reason Suixuan had undergone such a dramatic transformation was that the steppe people had finally found their proper role: shepherds.

Continuing to dwell in the illusory glory of the Yuan past would only lead to worsening decline and eventual destruction; the shift from horse-breeding to sheep-rearing was the process of accepting reality.

“Your servant obeys the decree,” Feng Bao bowed and accepted the Emperor’s clear instruction.

Gao Qi arrived in Tianjin Prefecture by train, reached Tanggu Port, and waited for the three Viceroys; he hoped they would recognize the times and not refuse the Emperor’s goodwill—the Great Ming had treated them as human beings, even willing to negotiate disputes; this was already a tremendous concession from the Celestial Empire.

Though the Holy Emperor always sought to correct arrogance, correcting it proved exceptionally difficult.

Alongside Gao Qi came Li Yashi, Galileo, and the mathematician Michael Maestlin; the three men had come to meet a man named Kepler.