Chapter 974

Gao Qi believed with great confidence that the Great Ming would ultimately prevail, for in his view, the Wanli Reforms had ushered in a brand-new era—a time when the Great Ming would once again rise to greatness.

Before the Xia, tribes lived by raw meat and blood; during Xia, Shang, and Zhou, feudal lords were granted territories; in Qin and Han, field boundaries were redrawn and well-fields abolished; in the Three Kingdoms and Jin dynasties, the Nine-Rank System entrenched aristocratic clans; in Sui, Tang, and the Five Dynasties, the imperial examination system shattered clan monopolies; in Song and Ming, local gentry and lineages distributed power through examinations—the Wanli Reforms were accelerating class mobility and extending power downward.

The Dinghai Education System had achieved success; universal literacy signified further downward extension of power. Though far from the grand ideal of universal participation in governance, reaching this point would make the Great Ming more resilient than ever before.

It bore fruit across military, political, economic, and cultural domains alike.

Thus, Gao Qi firmly believed the Great Ming would inevitably win—and his conviction surpassed even that of His Majesty.

For he had personally overseen the implementation of the Dinghai Education System and could see the myriad changes it brought: subtle, silent, pervasive, nourishing every corner of the Great Ming.

Education is the foundation of all things; promoting literature is right, but promoting literature while neglecting military affairs is wrong.

After leaving the Sino-Foreign Affairs Office, Gao Qi returned home under starlight and moonlight, and without rest, he lit his lime-spraying lamp, placing a pile of official documents before him—reports gathered by leveraging his position as Junior Minister of Rites to query all government offices.

These included reports from the Two Capitals and Fifteen Provinces, and all Four Grand Coordinator Offices.

The Emperor had shown him boundless grace; naturally, he must repay it. Reorganizing the Hanlin Academy and signing the Trade Regulations were his duty—he would submit a new memorial to ensure His Majesty held full control.

For the Emperor, the most vital matter was the state: she for earth, ji for grain; earth and grain nourish the people, and the people are the foundation of the realm.

The two most crucial accounts the Emperor must control are the Fishscale Registers and the Yellow Registers.

The Fishscale Registers can be resolved through decennial land surveys, though the political maneuvering involved is extremely complex; the Yellow Registers are equally troublesome, for the Great Ming has countless hidden populations—not due to local clerks’ negligence, but because they simply cannot be counted.

First, there are the native chieftains scattered across Yunnan, Guizhou, Sichuan, and Guangxi, where Ming control is weak; for instance, Lin Fu had discovered remnants of the Yongxiabu tribe, once seeking to restore the glory of the Yuan—though their antics were laughable, their 13,000 souls lacked household registration and could not be accurately counted, only estimated.

Second, the Great Ming is mountainous and water-rich; sometimes, civilians fleeing war vanish into ravines and cannot be found at all, leaving officials to estimate population by salt consumption.

Even in the heartland, statistics remain inaccurate—fraudulent registrations, fictitious transfers, and misallocated burdens are countless; local gentry and officials harbor hidden motives: more registered households mean heavier corvée labor.

Reporting figures similar to previous years avoids trouble.

This phenomenon of hidden populations was not unique to the Great Ming; Han Feizi’s “Deceptive Officials” chapter specifically addressed it: “Soldiers evade service and hide, clinging to powerful households to avoid taxes and labor—ten thousand such cases go undetected.”

In the Great Ming, this phenomenon appeared even more bizarre. When Wan Shihé was still alive, he had cut straight to the heart of the matter: “After the founding, under Emperor Taizu, household numbers reached their peak; yet after decades of peace, they fell below those of the Hongwu era!”

When Emperor Taizu unified the realm, he issued household registers in the third year of Hongwu, decreeing death for concealment, and dispatched garrison troops to verify households—population peaked. Yet after prolonged peace, numbers fell below Hongwu levels—isn’t this absurd?

The reason is simple: at the dynasty’s founding, land was granted; hiding populations meant forfeiting land and property benefits. Later generations no longer granted land, yet still conscripted bodies and levied taxes (head tax, corvée); the poor had no land to stand on, no fields to till, yet could not escape labor or taxes—why wouldn’t they become outlaws?

At the dynasty’s founding, people willingly registered because they received land; later, when land was no longer granted, they hid themselves fiercely to avoid detection—without even a corner to stand on, without fields, the people naturally became outlaws.

Hidden populations and hidden land were the Great Ming’s two most thorny problems; Gao Qi could not solve them, but he sought to make the Emperor aware of the population he could actually control, so as to formulate policy.

The Emperor’s two accounts—the Fishscale and Yellow Registers—once one was controlled, estimating population from land and land from population became simple.

Some populations, even on the books, did not belong to the Emperor or the court—they belonged to local gentry, not the state. Only when the Emperor knew precisely how many people he could control could he govern with ease.

The number of controllable populations equaled the size of the Emperor’s base of support.

Moreover, due to the spread of the Bliss Sect, the Emperor had lost control over Japan; the Great Ming could no longer even estimate Japan’s population.

The Great Ming’s overseas expansion faced the same difficulty: pioneers arriving in unfamiliar lands, ignorant of geography and hydrology, could not estimate local populations and thus could not formulate policy.

Gao Qi, as Junior Minister of Rites, issued directives to the Two Capitals and Fifteen Provinces precisely to clarify this issue—to provide the Emperor with an indicator reflecting the court’s controllable population, which in turn reflected the court’s control over each region.

Before undertaking this task, Gao Qi thought it simple; after doing it, he realized it was extraordinarily difficult.

The problem of hidden populations had existed since pre-Qin times; solving it seemed to require overhauling the bureaucracy—but how many clerks would be needed to uncover them all? Could the court even afford such bloated bureaucracy?

Gao Qi soon abandoned the idea of fully uncovering hidden populations—at least, the Great Ming could not achieve this now. He shifted his thinking and gradually discerned some clues.

And today, after meeting Petto, the faint thread behind the windowpane finally became clear.

Gao Qi began writing furiously. The next day, he submitted his memorial to the Emperor. Unsure whether his idea was sound, he did not present it for court debate in the Wenhua Hall; instead, he first let the Emperor read it, then the Grand Secretariat, then the Ministry of Revenue—only then should it be debated.

In the Tonghe Palace’s imperial study, Zhu Yijun stared at the Official Roster Screen—a visual chart of personnel relationships created by Zhang Juzheng in the first year of Wanli to help the young emperor understand Ming bureaucracy.

The Grand Secretariat, Five Military Commissions, Six Ministries, Hanlin Academy, Censorate, Ministry of Imperial Stables, Ministry of Rituals, Ministry of Protocol, and local Viceroyies, Provincial Governors, Administration Commissioners, Assistant Commissioners, Surveillance Commissioners, Regional Military Commissioners—all were displayed on the screen.

The Official Roster Screen categorized officials into factions by relationships, coloring them differently; currently, about half of the Ming’s key posts were controlled by the Zhang Faction, some marked with golden lines indicating their allegiance to the Imperial Faction.

This screen was, in effect, Zhu Yijun’s divine tool for swiftly mastering Ming personnel—holding such a tool meant the entire realm was under his command.

Now, Gao Qi had given the Emperor a tool no less powerful than the Official Roster Screen.

“Mobilize the empire’s populace to register for military service.” Zhu Yijun stared at Gao Qi’s memorial for a long time; the problem that had plagued him for eighteen years suddenly felt like clouds parting to reveal the sun.

The Ming military structure consisted of the Capital Garrison and Navy under direct imperial control, the Nine Frontiers’ garrisons and provincial guard units, plus police and constables of the patrol offices.

Registering for military service signified voluntary assumption of greater responsibility; provincial guard units bore many non-military duties.

For example, Zhejiang’s Nine Camps regularly patrolled for nine months at a time, dredging canals and responding to disasters;

Han troops in Yunnan, Guizhou, Sichuan, and Guizhou regularly suppressed bandits, pacified native chieftains, and participated in wars against the Taungoo;

In Liaodong, soldiers were both farmers and warriors; draining waterlogged fields was extremely difficult, so troops from Shandong and Northern Zhili were regularly dispatched;

To some extent, the number of soldiers willing to assume greater responsibility reflected the number willing to respond to court orders.

Based on Gao Qi’s regional summaries, the conscription rate among native chieftains in Yunnan, Guizhou, Sichuan, Guizhou, and the Four Grand Coordinator Offices was under 1%; exceeding 1% was considered safe; below it, rebellion was imminent.

In the Ming heartland, the conscription rate was under 4%—in core prefectures and counties, it should be around 4%; some regions like Shanxi, Northern Zhili, and Shandong exceeded 5%, while others like Jiangnan and Jiangxi hovered near 3%.

Yet in the heartland of Great Ming, the conscription rate was less than four percent; even in the core commanderies and counties of Great Ming, the rate should hover around four percent, with some regions higher—Shanxi, Northern Zhili, and Shandong exceeding five percent—while others lower, such as Jiangzuo, Jiangyou, Zhejiang, and Jiang

“Start with a few pilot regions,” Zhu Yijun decided to test it first.

The loyal Shuntian Prefecture, excluding the North Camp, had 4.5 million souls; the North Camp was excluded because it was the Emperor’s own stronghold—its inclusion would distort the data; averages were the most unreliable, most deceptive measure.

The Emperor issued orders to the Ministry of Revenue and Ministry of War to conduct registration; neither ministry understood his intent, so they passed the order down to all offices.

“Morning decree, evening execution”—this was history’s evaluation of the Kaocheng System; though exaggerated, in the capital, it was indeed achievable, and the Emperor’s command was swiftly carried out.

Zhu Yijun also specifically selected Great Ming, Jinan, and Xuzhou as control groups, giving a brief explanation: “Register for service; conscription upon imperial order.”

Morning decrees, evening enforcement—this was history’s assessment of the Kaocheng Law; it was certainly exaggerated, yet in the capital’s Shuntian Prefecture, this was indeed achieved, and the emperor’s orders were swiftly carried out.

By late June, the supreme Emperor received reports from the Ministry of Revenue and Ministry of War: only 60,000 were willing to register for conscription. Considering bureaucratic burden-shifting, the true number was likely lower.

“Only sixty thousand? At least ten thousand more registered only because they were forced by official quotas!” Zhu Yijun stared in disbelief at the Ministry of Revenue’s report.

At the end of June, the supreme emperor received reports from the Ministry of Revenue and the Ministry of War: only 60,000 men were willing to register for conscription. Considering the feudal bureaus’ tendency to inflate and evade imperial mandates, the actual number would be even lower.

He had expected the loyal Shuntian Prefecture to reach at least 5%—if not 10%; the final result was only 1%. This number was truly unacceptable.

After eighteen years of governance, Shuntian appeared utterly loyal—but in truth, it was far less loyal than it seemed.

Zhu Yijun had not emphasized the importance of the order; all levels treated it as routine business—the less emphasis, the more truthful the numbers.

“Your Majesty, this must be because local offices saw no urgent mark and took it lightly. I’ll go to the Ministry of Revenue and urge them.” Feng Bao hastily offered an excuse—he knew perfectly well that under the Kaocheng System, such tasks were executed swiftly; it was merely the lack of top-down pressure and forced quotas that caused delay.

“No need. Just register them.” Zhu Yijun accepted the reality. He turned to Feng Bao: “Has the memorial from Shandong Provincial Governor Song Qichang arrived?”

“The memorials from Great Ming, Jinan, and Xuzhou have all arrived,” Feng Bao replied, gritting his teeth.

Feng Bao whispered: “Great Ming is 4%, Jinan is 5%, Xuzhou is 7%.”

“So only Shuntian is under 1%! Only Shuntian!” Zhu Yijun sat upright, read the memorials from the prefects of Great Ming, Jinan, and Xuzhou, then slumped back in his dragon throne.

Great Ming Prefecture, garrisoned by the Tianxiong Camp, had always drawn massive conscripts; upon hearing the court’s registration order, the people didn’t ask questions—34,000 registered, awaiting conscription.

Jinan Prefecture’s population exceeded one million in Wanli 12, reached 1.5 million by Wanli 15; 75,000 registered. Jinan even inquired whether this was for war against the Japanese—if so, more would volunteer.

Xuzhou Prefecture’s population was 920,000; 64,000 registered to serve. This number astonished Zhu Yijun—Xuzhou was seven times, even more, loyal than Shuntian.

During the last great drought in Xuzhou, Prefect Liu Shun prioritized people’s livelihood over canal maintenance; when the Emperor passed during his southern tour, he did not punish Liu Shun but erected a stele honoring him as one who served state and people—since then, Xuzhou had been profoundly loyal.

“So it’s not a statistical problem,” Zhu Yijun said, dazed.

The same imperial order, same ignorance of intent, same conscription—yet the ratios differed wildly.

“Shuntian’s low rate is because of the Capital Garrison,” Feng Bao, seeing the Emperor’s expression, quietly offered his insight.

The Capital Garrison’s strength was known throughout the realm; in any real campaign, the Emperor would deploy only the Garrison, not conscript civilians. Over time, Shuntian’s people naturally relied on the Garrison for defense, hence their low willingness to serve.

Ten thousand elite troops equal a million—this was no exaggeration; the Garrison’s 100,000 soldiers could sweep aside the entire Nine Frontiers’ million-man army. With such elite forces, capital residents naturally had little interest in conscription.

Professional matters belong to professionals.

In Feng Bao’s view, the capital’s numbers were meaningless.

For the people of the capital, since the Wanli Reforms, security had been as absolute as in Yongle’s time after the capital’s relocation.

Zhu Yijun reluctantly accepted this reasoning, sat upright, and flipped through the memorials, restless; he stopped reading and went to inspect the troops at the North Camp.

“Proclaim to the realm: register all regions for military service; conscription upon imperial order; register every three years as standard practice.” As he left the imperial study, Zhu Yijun issued a clear command. Gao Qi’s idea and the four regions’ practices were fundamentally sound.

Feng Bao’s explanation was reasonable, yet Shuntian was indeed not especially loyal.

During Zhu Yijun’s southern tour in Wanli 13, Zhu Yiliu had caused a major disturbance, nearly overturning the table, suppressing those ambitious men who sought to exploit the Emperor’s absence.

Shuntian’s apparent loyalty was largely due to the ten-thousand-strong Capital Garrison, the blade hanging over its head.

Zhu Yijun accepted the result and maintained his nineteen-year habit: daily inspection of troops could not be relaxed—he was now even more determined not to slacken.

Indeed, imperial inspection of troops was an ancient tradition; Emperor Wen of Han, the teacher of all emperors, frequently toured the Xiuliu Camp, permitted soldiers to appear half-armed, and strictly followed military regulations.

“Alliance? What nonsense! The Treaty of the Pacific Trade Alliance—you want His Majesty to attend a summit? You’re mere vassals of the Red Barbarians—how dare you demand such a thing!” Inside the Sino-Foreign Affairs Office, Gao Qi slammed his hand on the table, rebuking the three Viceroys for their audacious greed.

These barbarians had no sense of their place; they demanded the Ming Emperor attend the signing ceremony—this bordered on a formal alliance. How dare these Viceroys, of all people, request such a thing?

A pack of wandering, beggar-dogs, baring their teeth at the Great Ming—you’ve been given too much face!

The three Viceroys looked at each other, utterly confused—they had no idea how they had offended the Ming Emperor’s dignity.

Petto whispered to his secretary, then said: “Junior Minister, we meant only to sign the regulations and then pay homage to His Majesty, to behold his sacred countenance.”

There had been a miscommunication; Petto did not understand the issue, but his secretary pointed it out: the Ming prized face, and the Celestial Empire’s pride in dignity was universally known.

To respect the Ming Emperor was to respect Ming order; once these two were observed, the Ming was remarkably reasonable—far more so than King Philip of Spain.

“Junior Minister, we have no objections to any clause of the regulations. The Ming needs silver; we need goods. The treaty benefits both sides. Is there perhaps a misunderstanding?” Petto and his secretary conferred again; their consistent demand had always been to sign the regulations and then pay homage to His Majesty—not to hold an alliance.

This was a golden opportunity to transform from wandering beggar-dogs into the Ming’s own household dogs—only because these three Viceroyalties possessed vast silver reserves did this chance exist; many Viceroyalties lacked even this opportunity!

Gao Qi, upon hearing this, glanced at the officials of the Ministry of Protocol, then nodded: “After signing the regulations and learning proper court etiquette at the Ministry of Protocol, you will be arranged an audience. Without seeing His Majesty, you would surely remain uneasy.”

“Sign first,” Gao Qi handed the three Viceroys three identical copies of the treaty—drafted by the Ming in Chinese, with Latin translations as well.

"Junior Minister of Rites, we have no objections to any clause of the Charter; the Great Ming needs silver, and we need goods—this Charter benefits both sides. Could there be some misunderstanding?" Pei Tuo and his secretary exchanged a few more words; their demand had always been to meet His Majesty after signing the Charter, not to hold any alliance.

This is a rare chance to go from stray dogs running wild to becoming the Great Ming’s own household hounds—only because all three Viceroyalties have silver, and plenty of it, does this opportunity exist; many Viceroyalties don’t even have this chance!

Gao Qi heard this, glanced at the officials from the Court of Colonial Affairs, then nodded and said: "After you sign the Charter and learn the rites at the Court of Colonial Affairs, arrangements will be made for your audience. Without meeting His Majesty, you will surely find it hard to rest easy."

"Sign first." Gao Qi handed the three identical copies of the Charter to the three Viceroys; the Charter had been drafted by the Great Ming, with Chinese as the authoritative text, and also included Latin.

However, when the secretaries examined the Latin text of the charter, they marked several passages that differed entirely from the Chinese meaning.

Petto and the secretaries whispered among themselves, but finally Petto raised questions about these discrepancies.

Gao Qiyi’s Latin was excellent; after reading it, he confirmed this was not his own translation—someone had tampered with it. Gao Qiyi remained expressionless, ordered a new version to be written on the spot, and after both sides verified it, the signing proceeded smoothly.

After the charter was signed, Ministry of Rites officials began instructing the three viceroys in the proper court etiquette—no disrespect to His Majesty, no breach of decorum.

Petto requested a private audience with Gao Qiyi to finalize contracts for the loan, crew training, and ship purchases.

Gao Qiyi patiently negotiated with Petto: a total of three million taels for the ship purchase, to be delivered over three years; loan term ten years; wartime interest rate 36%, peacetime only 4%, but switching to peacetime rates required a forty-year extension.

These terms had long been agreed upon; in every respect, this was a war loan, and even with such high interest, Petto was willing to gamble.

In the past, there was no choice—only to be bled dry by Felipe; Felipe was killing the goose that laid the golden egg. Great Ming sought profit too, but its strategy was slow and steady.

“Does Great Ming fear bad debts?” Petto checked the contract thoroughly, signed it once satisfied, and would proceed once the Emperor approved.

Petto had also inquired: the viceroys of Peru and Chile had no authority to purchase Great Ming’s five-masted ocean-going warships. Great Ming sold to Mexico because Mexico had silver; Peru had silver too, but the Peruvian viceroy was far more cautious.

"Debts survive the debtor's death; this debt won't vanish." Gao Qiyi looked at Petto and said firmly: "If Viceroy Petto unfortunately meets his demise while defending his own interests, this debt still rests with the Viceroyalty of Mexico."

Petto’s eyes lit up. He smiled: “You’re right—it should be exactly that. The debt belongs to the viceroyalty, and the viceroyalty must repay it.”

“To owe Great Ming, you must either defeat its navy or refuse to trade with it—but no one can do either.”

Petto wasn’t doomed. If he lost, he could flee to Great Ming and live as a wealthy man; if the court demanded repayment from him, he couldn’t pay—but if the court demanded repayment from the viceroyalty, Petto had nothing to do with it.

Win, and Petto wins everything; lose, and the viceroyalty loses.

“Lesser Minister, I mean no disrespect. The charter’s clauses were negotiated for over a year and fully confirmed. Why, at the final signing, did the Chinese and Latin texts diverge? I certainly don’t suspect you of setting a trap—I’m merely puzzled.” Petto had learned one word in Great Ming: caution.

Great Ming was a dignified Celestial Empire; speech must never be casual, and must always be precise.

“Perhaps it was a mistake in retrieval,” Gao Qiyi replied with a smile. “Anyone might err by accident or negligence—it’s normal.”

But Petto involuntarily shivered, and dared say no more—Gao Qiyi’s smile was unsettling.

Petto disliked dealing with clever men; every time he did, he felt his mind insufficient. He’d rather fight savages in the jungle than converse with men like Gao Qiyi—who knew what schemes he was brewing?

Petto chose to take his leave.

Gao Qiyi picked up all the signed charter documents himself, stood before the Gate of the Four Barbarians, and surveyed the accompanying officials.

Today’s events were unusual: first, the barbarian viceroy had not requested a confederation, yet Gao Qiyi’s intelligence reported the barbarians were brazen; second, the Latin charter documents had been replaced.

Clearly, someone was obstructing the smooth signing of the charter.

Gao Qiyi scanned the accompanying officials but gave no instruction; instead, he returned with the officials to the Ministry of Rites, then personally carried the signed documents to the Tonghemen Imperial Study.

Zhu Yijun confirmed the charter signing was valid, affixed his vermilion approval, sealed the seam with his “Wanli Treasure,” and thus the Pacific Trade Alliance was formally established.

“Lesser Minister, do you have nothing to say to me?” Zhu Yijun, having sealed the document, asked Gao Qiyi.

Zhu Yijun already knew of the minor troubles during the signing at the Four Barbarians Gate—there were Embroidered Uniform Guards present, and Zhao Meng had his own interpreters; whatever the barbarians said, the guards reported faithfully.

“Your servant… congratulates Your Majesty, congratulates Great Ming. With this agreement settled, the sea opening has shifted from near to far—this is a great fortune for our dynasty.” Gao Qiyi chose to congratulate the Emperor; another great deed done, history pushed forward another small step.

“Lesser Minister, you must feel wronged—why not tell me?” Zhu Yijun took out one copy of the charter—the one kept in the palace; another remained with the Ministry of Rites; the third went to the barbarian viceroy.

Gao Qiyi was pretending ignorance; Zhu Yijun had no wish for him to continue pretending.

“Your Majesty, I feel no wrong. It was probably haste—a simple mistake.” Gao Qiyi weighed his words before speaking.

“A mistake? Lesser Minister, you’ve given them a fine excuse!” Zhu Yijun exhaled sharply. “Fight if you must—but still, get the work done.”

Gao Qiyi bowed again. “Your Majesty is wise. I think the same: we all serve the court, serve Your Majesty. No one feels wronged—we do our duty. If we fail, it is only because we are incompetent.”

“Yesterday I received a treasure; today I bestow it upon you. Do your best. I sent word through Xu Jue—I keep my word. If you are wronged, tell me. I will make it right.” Zhu Yijun emphasized again: Xu Jue’s message had been his own instruction, his promise.

The treasure was real: a cut sapphire, as large as a thumb. Such treasures were plentiful in the palace.

“Your servant thanks Your Majesty for this great grace.” Gao Qiyi bowed again and took his leave.

Gao Qiyi did not react because he was now a court minister, favored by the Emperor. To make a fuss over this would make him seem petty—and if it provoked a real conflict between the Emperor and the Grand Secretary, his own guilt would be unforgivable.

Besides, the less he spoke, the more the Emperor knew he was wronged—and that earned him imperial favor.

Imperial favor—no amount was ever too much. Look at Wang Chonggu: a corrupt minister, alive he was useful, dead he became Wen Cheng Gong!

For court ministers, temporary victory or defeat meant nothing. At this level, imperial favor was all that mattered.

“Feng Da, Lesser Minister is willing to endure this wrong—but I am not willing to let him suffer. Investigate what happened.” Zhu Yijun frowned as he gave the order.

As court ministers, temporary gains or losses have never mattered; at their level, the emperor’s favor is what counts.

“Feng Daban, the Junior Minister is willing to endure this injustice, but I am not willing to see the Junior Minister suffer it—go and investigate what happened.” Zhu Yijun frowned and gave his order.