Chapter 975

Zhu Yijun had envisioned the sources of resistance to this charter’s signing, and he had considered many possibilities.

The conservative faction still existed and wielded great power; obstructing the charter’s signing meant obstructing the Wanli Reforms, and the conservatives deeply disliked change—opening the seas had already altered too much of the Great Ming.

Coastal merchants, even the new bourgeoisie, had agents in court; to prevent the Pacific Alliance from signing and the court from reaching in to claim a larger share of profits, they sought to block the charter’s signing.

Shen Shixing harbored resentment, acting out of personal grudge to retaliate against Gao Qiyu and thus stirred up these troubles—if so, Zhu Yijun would never forgive him!

State affairs come first; let them fight, but Zhu Yijun would not permit petty squabbles to delay state matters or treat them as a joke—he would make Shen Shixing regret this decision for all eternity.

Zhang Juzheng might seek revenge by creating minor obstacles to keep Gao Qiyu from becoming arrogant and overbearing; moderate suppression was only natural.

Zhu Yijun believed this possibility was slim—Zhang Juzheng had no time to orchestrate such a scheme targeting Gao Qiyu.

Since Gao Qiyu was promoted from Assistant Director of the Honglu Temple to Director, Zhang Juzheng’s suppression of him had mostly been verbal, not physical, more a posture of disapproval than active interference.

If Zhang Juzheng truly intended to act, it would never look like this.

Zhu Yijun had personally witnessed Zhang Juzheng crush the Jin Party—swift, relentless, one blow following another without pause; when he acted, it was always to destroy utterly, just as he had done against Gao Gong.

Act, and kill—this was Zhang Juzheng's consistent style; he never showed mercy.

But after Feng Bao spent days investigating with the Eastern Depot and the Northern Town Surveillance Office, Zhu Yijun realized he had been utterly wrong.

“So it was just a test?” Zhu Yijun was astonished—these three officials from the Ministry of Rites had no one behind them: not the conservatives, not the merchants, not Shen Shixing.

All three were radicals.

Wan Shihé had told the emperor repeatedly that historical reform failures stemmed not from conservative opposition, but from radicals pushing policies ever more extreme until they destroyed themselves.

When reform is necessary and feasible, when the tide of history demands change, when outdated systems must be purged, conservatism is not the majority—reform is.

The Wanli Reforms must guard against conservatism, but primarily against radical excess leading to extremism; Zhang Juzheng now was the chief conservative—he disapproved of many radical policies, even rejecting the Single Whip Law.

The minor disturbance in the Honglu Temple was a test by these three radicals against the Eastern Governors, probing their acceptable limits.

The test succeeded.

The Eastern Governors were highly satisfied with this Charter; further pressure and inducement could still extract more benefits.

“The Assistant Minister calls it a trivial matter and begs His Majesty’s mercy,” Feng Bao reported Gao Qiyu’s stance—he cared nothing for this trifle, only for the Charter’s impact on the Great Ming.

Gao Qiyu chose restraint: whether pressuring the Eastern Governors or these three Honglu officials, he stopped short—pushing to the extreme only occurs when conflict becomes irreconcilable; clearly, testing was not such a point.

All Great Ming ministers had read the Treatise on Struggle and each held their own understanding of its boundaries.

The Charter’s signing marked a new phase in the Great Ming’s opening of the seas; the twists and turns along the way mattered little—as long as the Pacific Alliance was formed, victory was assured.

“As the Assistant Minister says,” Zhu Yijun nodded. “What is Shen Shixing busy with?”

Only after careful investigation did Feng Bao discover Shen Shixing had no knowledge of the Pacific Alliance assignment—Zhang Juzheng had never told him.

Even if Shen Shixing knew, he wouldn’t care—no matter how capable or accomplished Gao Qiyu was, the Chief Grand Secretary’s seat was his.

When Zhang Juzheng left the Chief Grand Secretary post, His Majesty would appoint a Zhang Faction member to safeguard the Reforms’ gains; Gao Qiyu had been expelled from his master’s school—this struggle’s outcome was already sealed.

At this moment, Shen Shixing only needed to perform his duties well to win.

Shen Shixing was occupied with restructuring the shareholding system and had no interest in stealing Gao Qiyu’s achievements.

The Pacific Alliance included the Great Ming’s five Maritime Trade Bureaus, Ryukyu, Tamsui in Keelung Island, Xinglong Zhuang, Lu Song’s Miyangang, Manila Port, Davao Port, the Old Port Viceroyalty’s Yehai City, the Yuanxu Archipelago’s Chijunshan Port, the Jinchi Viceroyalty, Chile, Peru, Mexico, and the newly opened Jinshan City.

One ship permit sufficed for passage.

One vital transshipment port was missing: Edo, the future Tokyo.

Adding Edo would make navigation far easier for all Pacific Alliance vessels—but Edo was excluded.

This was deliberate.

Excluding Japan from the Pacific Alliance served two purposes: to guard against Japan’s resurgence under this windfall, to prevent the spread of its Bliss Sect’s dangers, and to curb the rise of rogue samurai into pirates; secondly, to maintain the stability of the small triangular trade.

The small triangular trade—Japan, the Southern Seas, the Great Ming—was of vital importance to the Great Ming, its exclusive interest; the court would never use this profit to court the Eastern Governors, for even if the court were generous, Ming merchants would never agree—and the emperor and court had no intention of being generous.

Japan supplied silver, Japanese slaves, and Southern Sea women; these slaves and women served as laborers in the Southern Seas, producing raw materials that were processed into goods along the Ming coast for use in the Great Ming, Japan, and the Southern Seas.

The Great Ming’s four major viceroyalties—Nagasaki, Lu Song, Old Port, and Jinchi—were all built upon this small triangular trade; thus, this trade was one of the Great Ming’s core interests.

Even if the Pacific Alliance failed, the Great Ming could retreat and find another way—but if coastal trade collapsed, opening the seas would suffer its greatest setback in history.

This setback would rival the day the imperial fleet was banned from sailing westward.

The Japanese had already paid a heavy price for the Japanese pirates raids: their defeat in Korea, the slave trade, and the escalating Japanese pirates threat since Jiajing 20 had cost them dearly; by now, it seemed sufficient.

Ordinarily, such punishment would have prompted scholar-officials to rise and cry out against offending Heaven’s harmony.

But because exterminating Japan was politically correct, no one dared be the first to speak for the Japanese—the risk was too great; His Majesty would personally take up a blade and slit throats in the street.

But because eliminating pirates was politically correct, no one wanted to be the first to speak up for the Japanese—the risk was too great; His Majesty would personally take action and kill them on the street.

Feng Bao had a newly made geographical map brought in, covered with a red silk cloth—this was the chart of voluntary applicants from various regions, reported in stages over recent days.

“Shall His Majesty open it?” Feng Bao asked softly—the result might be cruel for His Majesty.

“Gao Qiyu is truly vile—he came up with such a foul idea!” Feng Bao feigned outrage; this man was capable, yes, but his words cut deep.

“Open it…” Zhu Yijun began, when a young eunuch rushed in.

The young eunuch bowed hastily: “Your Majesty, the Chief Grand Secretary and the Deputy Grand Secretary await outside the Imperial Study, requesting audience.”

Normally, Zhang Juzheng and Ling Yunyi waited in the Western Pavilion, unsure if His Majesty was occupied; clearly, this was urgent, hence their arrival at the Imperial Study’s door.

“Admit them.” Zhu Yijun did not ask the young eunuch to uncover the red cloth—Feng Bao’s demeanor had already told him the result was likely grim; otherwise, Feng Bao would not have been shouting for the execution of loyal officials.

“Your servants bow before Your Majesty,” Zhang Juzheng and Ling Yunyi entered swiftly and bowed.

Zhu Yijun smiled: “Rise.”

“Your Majesty,” Zhang Juzheng said urgently, “why have you ordered all levels of government to register and list voluntary applicants?” He stared at the red-covered map, his face turning pale. “Your Majesty—is war coming?”

“Even if war were coming, there’s no need to register applicants—the Imperial Guard and Navy are more than sufficient.”

Without regard for consequences, the Great Ming’s current military strength could crush the Mongols.

“Didn’t you guess?” Zhu Yijun smiled, gazing at the unopened map.

Zhang Juzheng shook his head: “Your Majesty, human nature cannot be tested. Those who submit such seditious memorials to probe loyalty deserve execution.”

Gao Qiyu’s memorial had been retained in the palace, never sent to the Grand Secretariat; Zhang Juzheng had not read it, but he knew who had submitted it.

Your Majesty differs from the late emperor and the Daoist Master—you rarely retain memorials; any unissued memorial is immediately obvious.

“I was too lenient—this villain must die,” Zhang Juzheng finally fixed his target—Gao Qiyu had submitted such a heart-destroying memorial.

Once the poison of probing loyalty is unleashed, it will never end.

The Great Ming often judged by deeds, not intentions—because judging intent leaves no one blameless; the emperor is the most suspicious creature on earth.

Such a loyalty test, once introduced, will plunge the realm into unrest.

“Sit, sit,” Zhu Yijun smiled. “Feng Daban, let us look together—pull it open.”

“Your Majesty, absolutely not,” Ling Yunyi, now understanding, stepped forward and pressed his hand on the red cloth. “Your Majesty, the peril of failing to maintain virtue.”

Your Majesty is young and vigorous; even if you saw it now, you’d pay little heed, perhaps even reflect on your own shortcomings.

But as your body weakens and you lose control over even your own flesh, suspicion will grow—doubting everything.

Seeing it now is harmless; the danger lies in seeing it when old.

Ling Yunyi was old, with few years left—this peril would not fall on him, but on the Great Ming.

What of Emperor Wu of Han? In his old age, he distrusted even his own son!

This was not the future Ling Yunyi wished to see—it would be a disaster for the Great Ming.

Registering voluntary applicants might be trivial in other systems, merely counting potential conscripts—but under the Great Ming’s imperial county system, where power is concentrated in the emperor’s hands, it cannot be done.

Men change; a wise ruler becomes a fool. Once you glance at this, you may carry it as an unbreakable knot in your heart until death.

Sometimes, even wise and virtuous rulers become obstacles to reform—as in this very situation.

“Just one look won’t hurt,” Zhu Yijun gestured for Ling Yunyi to sit. “We have the Grand Secretariat and the Censorate to correct errors. I’ll glance once—that’s all.”

Ling Yunyi sat uneasily, glancing at Zhang Juzheng—please, Grand Secretary, find a way!

The emperor had made his decision; no one dared oppose him. The Grand Secretariat? Useless. The Censorate? Useless!

When the emperor decides to act but the Grand Secretariat disagrees, conflict arises between imperial and ministerial authority.

If the emperor wishes to preserve dignity, he can create new offices—like a Privy Council, Right Study, or Military Council—to handle his affairs while the Grand Secretariat continues its own.

Bypassing the Grand Secretariat with new offices is a dignified solution.

During Yongle’s reign, many ministers opposed the northern campaigns; the Chengzu Emperor used deception to circumvent them.

Did Your Majesty not use the same method against the Hanlin Academy, Censorate, and National Academy—those nests of petty Confucians?

The Censorate grows more obedient now precisely because it fears Your Majesty replacing them entirely.

If Your Majesty refuses dignity, simply dismiss the Grand Secretariat and appoint a new one—Gao Gong was replaced this way in Longqing 6.

Even the fragmented Spanish monarchy under Philip could dissolve its Council of State and act unilaterally; under the Great Ming’s centralized imperial system, the emperor can do as he pleases.

“Actually, looking won’t hurt,” Zhang Juzheng said calmly. “It’s better to see it—since it’s already done, not seeing it will only breed more curiosity.”

This is the terror of probing loyalty: once begun, it never ends. Preventing the emperor from seeing it will make him obsess over it—better to make it routine; familiarity breeds indifference.

Ling Yunyi glanced at Zhang Juzheng; both eyes held profound resignation. There was nothing left but to trust His Majesty.

Gao Qiyu knew the consequences—he simply had absolute faith in the emperor. He believed His Majesty could preserve his heart and clarity, believed the emperor’s nineteen-year steadfastness more firmly than Zhang Juzheng did!

Feng Bao stepped forward and pulled back the red cloth.

“What’s wrong with Shuntian Prefecture? So few?!” Zhang Juzheng’s eyes locked on the shocking “1%” marked there—he nearly staggered.

Each 1% was a different color; darker hues indicated higher proportions—Xuzhou Prefecture was crimson.

Shuntian was the lowest, nearly white.

Nanjing Prefecture had 2%, Songjiang had 3%, while surrounding prefectures—Datong, Baoding, Yongping (Tangshan, Shanhai Pass), Hejian (Tianjin)—all showed 4%.

Yingtian Prefecture had 102 (2%), Songjiang Prefecture had 103, while the regions surrounding Shuntian Prefecture—Datong Prefecture, Baoding Prefecture, Yongping Prefecture (Tangshan, Shanhai Pass), and Hejian Prefecture (Tianjin)—all stood at 104.

“This…,” Ling Yunyi was stunned—Pyongyang in Korea had 3%, even Hanyang reached 4%, proof of his success in Korea.

And Liaoning Prefecture in Liaodong, already colored, also showed 4%.

And in Liaodong, the already colored Liaoning Prefecture alone had over a hundred and four.

Before the red silk was pulled away,

Zhang Juzheng and Ling Yunyi were deeply anxious, wavering between hope and fear; but after it was pulled away, they were no longer worried at all—nowhere outside the Viceroy’s residence was lower than Shuntian Prefecture.

The rebels are right beneath our feet!

This topographical map is still not fully colored, but it already holds statistical significance; Zhu Yijun stared at it, unsure whether to laugh or cry—the dragon throne had truly become a golden toilet. Zhu Yijun must remain in the capital; as long as he lived, he must intimidate the rebels.

“It’s actually normal,” Zhu Yijun sat upright and said: “After the conflict with Altan Khan, by the second year of Longqing, the population of Shuntian Prefecture—even counting children—was only 720,000. Population only began to recover slowly after Longqing II, mostly consisting of refugees fleeing to the capital, who had no sense of belonging to the capital.”

“Life in the capital is exceedingly hard; naturally, resentment builds. When registering volunteers, people think: Why me?”

Zhu Yijun had gradually accepted that Shuntian Prefecture was the worst—1% was already being generous.

“What ‘under the Son of Heaven’s feet,’ what ‘paragon of virtue!’” Zhang Juzheng’s face turned grim.

Your Majesty speaks truthfully, but not fully.

After Altan Khan invaded the capital region in the twenty-ninth year of Jiajing, Shuntian Prefecture’s population loss was indeed severe—Your Majesty speaks truthfully—but Xuanfu and Datong lost even more people, yet both Xuanfu and Datong Prefectures are ranked at bai-4.

Shuntian’s bai-1 is explained by claims that the capital’s military is strong, that the capital has long enjoyed peace and revelry; that its population loss was due to displaced migrants; that relocated wealthy households all harbor resentment—these reasons are all true, yet insufficient. No matter how you look at it, this bai-1 cannot be justified.

At this moment of revelation, there was no need to fear the Emperor’s capriciousness, nor to ponder the difficulty of maintaining virtue to the end—the very places where the capital troops were stationed were already the least loyal.

Zhu Yijun found the topographical map amusing: the closer to the imperial highway or the canal, the higher the proportion of volunteers;

All the Emperor’s efforts over the years had not been in vain.

“This map has reminded me,” Zhu Yijun said with deep emotion: “In Wanli Thirteen, Lin Fu said, ‘Wanli, wanli, ten Battalion Commander are bitter.’ I kicked him straight to the South Seas. But now, looking at this map, it’s true.”

“That 3% in Songjiang Prefecture isn’t much, Master. Songjiang is the only prefecture in Great Ming to complete its transformation into a commodity economy—only 3%? That’s truly low.”

The poor laborers of Songjiang Prefecture lived hard lives, earning only thirty to fifty copper coins after a full day’s toil; yet even this was the stable, enviable existence that rural peasants could never dream of.

Logically, the ratio of volunteers to total population—the mobilization rate—should correlate positively with productivity. Songjiang’s productivity is undeniably high, its organizational capacity equally strong; yet its 3% and Shuntian’s 1% are both low.

In later industrial eras, mobilization rates reached 10% or higher. Songjiang’s 3% being lower than Great Ming’s agricultural society’s 4% speaks volumes.

People harbor resentment—Lin Fu did not lie. The past few years’ distribution policies have merely alleviated part of the problem, but far from solving it.

At this point, one must take out the Distribution Scroll and recite its sutras again.

The situations in Songjiang and Shuntian are very similar: Shuntian has nearly completed its transformation into a commodity economy. The difference between 1% and 3% lies in the fact that Songjiang fully reaped the benefits of the sea-opening policy, while Shuntian did not.

A vigorous monarch, upon seeing this topographical map—nearly a loyalty test—first reflects on whether he himself has failed, especially in distribution, which led to this outcome.

But what would an aged, weakened monarch think upon seeing this map?

“When I turn sixty—Wanli Fifty—I’ll remove this map.” Zhu Yijun had devised an entire system to prevent the difficulty of maintaining virtue to the end; whether it could be enforced then, he would decide then.

Zhu Yijun never believed any man could remain rational forever—not even himself.

“Enough. This is only for reference—I know what it means.” Zhu Yijun signaled Feng Bao to cover the red silk again. This thing must not be stared at too long; the more you look, the more your heart grows chaotic.

“The Huan Tai Trade Alliance has performed excellently. The Vice Minister sold three million taels worth of ships to Mexico, and with gunpowder profits, even more will follow.” Zhu Yijun told Zhang Juzheng good news—the profit was modest, merely two million seven hundred thousand taels.

Arms deals are always like this: you’re never selling weapons themselves, but safety—and the price of safety is never low, and it’s a long-term business.

A 36% annual interest rate will force Governor Petto to push to the limit, for over ten years, the interest alone will reach nine million taels of silver.

“Spain sent no envoys to Great Ming this year, and even their Manila galleons numbered only three,” Zhang Juzheng said with concern: “King Antonio of Portugal has fought two battles with Felipe.”

Since Felipe, enraged by Portugal’s sale of gold bonds, sent assassins to kill Antonio and the Sword Saint Marcus two years ago, relations between the two nations have rapidly deteriorated, even approaching war.

Antonio chose to submit, but this submission brought no mercy.

For Felipe suddenly realized Antonio was a soft target—easier to crush than the English—and friction escalated from sea to land.

Last September, Antonio broke his usual pattern, declaring vengeance for Marcus. Friction quickly escalated into open conflict.

Felipe deployed ten tercios, totaling over thirty thousand men, to invade Portugal. Antonio dispatched twenty-five thousand Light of Heaven Army troops to meet them.

At first, Felipe’s forces advanced swiftly, capturing territory rapidly; within three months, they reached Santarém, only 120 li from Lisbon.

Santarém lies on the west bank of the Tagus River; Felipe’s ten tercios stood on the east bank. Spanish troops, emboldened by conquest, boasted they would take Lisbon within seven days.

By this point, everyone knew Antonio’s earlier strategy of submission had been correct.

Portugal’s depth was too shallow. Once the Western hegemon, Spain, took the matter seriously and was willing to pay the price, Portugal stood no chance.

The Battle of Santarém began. The Light of Heaven Army, meant to defend, instead crossed the river under cover of night and suddenly appeared northeast of the Spanish forces, shattering their formations. A brutal battle erupted.

King Antonio led from the front; his royal banner flew continuously over the battlefield. Soon, the Light of Heaven Army suffered nearly half its strength, repelled the Spanish assault, and after the battle, Antonio did not rest—he pressed the advantage.

In the Moonlight Valley, Antonio led his weary troops to utterly crush the Spanish army. Of Felipe's ten tercios, only one escaped back to Spain; the remaining twenty-seven thousand either died or were captured, forever remaining in Portugal.

Seven tercio commanders, twelve sergeants, and twenty-four chief chaplains were taken prisoner. Antonio became famous overnight.

After the battle, Antonio released all noble prisoners and sent envoys to Spain to seek peace—true peace, not negotiation—because continuing the war meant certain defeat for Portugal.

Moreover, the Battles of Santarém and Moonlight Valley were not victories due to Antonio’s brilliance, but the legacy strategy of the late Sword Saint Marcus. Long before, Marcus had devised a plan—every step was a desperate gamble, and one misstep meant total defeat.

Luring the enemy deep, night attack, close-quarters combat, the king leading from the front, pursuit—all were Marcus’s pre-planned only path to victory, and executing it required Antonio to possess sufficient courage.

If the river crossing was discovered, or if they lost after crossing, everyone would die. Without Antonio’s resolve to burn his boats, the Battle of Santarém would have been lost.

Antonio truly lacked this courage. Since becoming king, he had grown complacent, neglectful. State affairs were left to Han Chinese officials; military matters to Sword Saint Marcus. He himself lived in luxury and debauchery.

But Marcus was dead. Antonio’s river crossing was a desperate gamble—fighting to the death, no retreat.

“Antonio won the Battles of Santarém and Moonlight Valley, but his plea for peace gave Felipe immense face. So who truly won: Antonio or Felipe?” Zhu Yijun was puzzled by this war.

On the battlefield, Antonio won; off it, Felipe won.

Antonio sent a massive delegation to seek peace, with great ceremony and abject humility, lavishly praising Spanish valor. The prisoners were treated like heroes, aided by court secretaries, and Madrid resounded with praise.

A performance worthy of “The Emperor’s New Clothes” began—everyone in Madrid, even the Portuguese, cooed to Felipe like a child.

Those who didn’t know would think Spain’s tercios had captured Lisbon and taken Antonio prisoner!

“Felipe won,” Zhang Juzheng said after careful thought. “He needed the Spanish to believe he could still win.”

For Felipe, battlefield victory or defeat mattered little; what mattered was declaring victory internally and making people believe it.

Antonio, not blinded by fleeting triumph, chose to play along.

Antonio did not let the brief victory cloud his judgment, but chose to play along.