Chapter 978: All Things Under Heaven, the Cycle Never Ceases

Zhu Yijun never regretted embarking on this winding path of reform; even if he died on it, he would not regret it, for along this road he never lacked companions.

Wang Guoguang, to revitalize the state, betrayed the Jin Party, betrayed the scholar-official class, and even abandoned the sage texts he had studied his entire life, initiating the system of mutual measurement across the Great Ming.

Wang Guoguang was but a microcosm of a vast group of men who, for the revival of the Great Ming, threw themselves forward without regard for their lives.

The merits of the Great Ming’s revival were never the sole province of high officials in court; countless warriors, who paid with their lives for this cause, stand silently within the Loyalty and Valor Shrine at Beidaying and in Loyalty and Valor Shrines across the land, quietly watching over the Great Ming, guarding this soil.

Life continues in endless cycles.

Zhu Yijun conducted a comprehensive review of his work over the past month; “I examine myself three times daily” was his mandatory practice in self-cultivation, reflecting on whether his decisions contained fatal flaws.

Over the past month, two matters were most critical: the establishment of the Circum-Pacific Trade Alliance and the reform of the body-share system at the Xishan Coal Bureau, along with the founding of the Artisans’ Alliance.

The founding of the Circum-Pacific Trade Alliance involved great chance, yet also inevitability.

The chance lay in Felipe’s senile folly—he refused to heed any counsel, even when Pedro sacrificed his own life, yet still failed to awaken Felipe, who refused to confront defeat; the defeat of the Invincible Armada gave these governors the courage to cling to the Great Ming.

The inevitability lay in the Great Ming’s unstoppable tide of opening the seas; even without Felipe’s senility, the eventual shift from Western decline to Eastern ascendancy was certain.

The reform of the body-share system at the Xishan Coal Bureau and the founding of the Artisans’ Alliance signified the embryonic establishment of a collectively owned economic model, greatly enhancing the resilience of state factories; extending the body-share system and the Artisans’ Alliance to all state factories across the Great Ming was the process of a seed sprouting into fruit.

This process would be long; after the Artisans’ Alliance was established in state factories, it must then be extended to the private sector—only when the Artisans’ Alliance became widespread could it serve as a vital instrument for mediating labor-capital conflicts.

Zhu Yijun carefully reflected on numerous issues within these two key systems before opening his eyes and saying to Feng Bao: “Tomorrow, after morning court, summon Master and Shen Shixing to Tonghemen Palace for an audience.”

The Great Ming Emperor must plug the leaks and shore up these two policies; he must speak openly with the Grand Secretary and Shen Shixing—primarily to discuss the allocation of credit.

Tomorrow’s morning court was no different from usual: after heated debate, a consensus was reached; the greatest interest struggle in court recently was the contest for the position of Chief Director of the Circum-Pacific Trade Alliance—the Great Ming held absolute authority; once the Wenhua Palace reached a decision, the candidate was effectively confirmed.

The Chief Director of the Circum-Pacific Trade Alliance wielded not only immense power and vast opportunities for embezzlement, but also partial control over goods distribution, fueling fierce competition; the Gong, Zhang, and Zhe factions quarreled incessantly—had the Ritual Officer not been present, this supreme hall of Great Ming's power would have erupted into full-scale violence.

Zhu Yijun merely watched the spectacle, refusing to render a judgment, for Gao Qi, the foremost contributor to the Circum-Pacific Trade Alliance, had not recommended any candidate.

Gao Qi had minor reservations—he feared that openly recommending someone would seem tactless; Master Zhang had already turned a blind eye to his “private” appropriation of credit for the Alliance’s founding, and now to recommend a director would appear greedy.

“Private” meant: the Emperor issued an edict—could you, Gao Qi, refuse? You could not refuse; if you didn’t even feign reluctance, what was your intent?

What if the Emperor wanted both: to honor Master Zhang’s face while not discouraging diligent ministers? He issued the edict precisely to prompt you to refuse—if you didn’t refuse, wouldn’t you make everyone’s position unbearable?

After the court session ended, Zhu Yijun summoned Zhang Juzheng and Shen Shixing to his imperial study in Tonghemen Palace.

“This is something Zhi’er made as a toy—I give it to you both.” After they bowed, Zhu Yijun presented them a special gift: a three-bladed wooden fan assembled by Zhu Changzhi.

These two fans were teaching aids, produced by the Academy of Things; they were crafted to help Crown Prince Zhu Changzhi understand gear mechanics.

Behind the wooden head of the fan was a crank; through gear transmission, it drove the three wooden blades to rotate.

These objects were not especially valuable—made entirely of wood—but they were personally crafted by the Crown Prince and bestowed by the Emperor.

They represented the Emperor’s affirmation of Zhang Juzheng and Shen Shixing, this master-disciple pair.

This affirmation carried the Emperor’s expectation for Shen Shixing: work diligently, the position of Grand Secretary will not pass elsewhere; the merit of establishing the body-share system and the Artisans’ Alliance was no less than that of founding the Circum-Pacific Trade Alliance—one internal, one external, both indispensable.

The full name of the fan was Sandalwood-Inlaid-Jade Three-Legged, Three-Bladed Fan.

“Thank Your Majesty for this grace,” Zhang Juzheng and Shen Shixing bowed again and accepted the gift.

“The office for the Chief Director has been completed in Songjiang Prefecture, yet the candidate remains undecided. Who do you think suitable?” After bestowing the gift, Zhu Yijun revealed his purpose.

“Your Majesty, I believe the Junior Minister of Rites is better suited to recommend; I am unfamiliar with the Circum-Pacific Trade Alliance.” Shen Shixing glanced at Zhang Juzheng before rising and bowing.

The master and disciple both knew precisely why the Emperor summoned them; their response was already prepared—even without the three-bladed fan assembled by the Crown Prince, Shen Shixing would have answered thus.

“Then I shall let the Junior Minister of Rites recommend.” Zhu Yijun smiled upon hearing Shen Shixing’s reply.

“It is only proper,” Shen Shixing replied, then sat down; the Emperor had already shown great consideration for him and Master’s dignity—never overreach in conversation with the Emperor.

Zhu Yijun and Shen Shixing spoke at length about the Artisans’ Alliance; Shen Shixing explained:

The Artisans’ Alliance, if well-managed, is a mediator for factory conflicts; if poorly managed, it becomes a breeding ground for artisan movements.

Artisan movements must exist, otherwise it is difficult to transform production relations; but overly violent artisan movements—where artisans descend from the mountains at the slightest provocation—are too extreme; the balance is hard to strike.

Zhu Yijun offered his opinion: that submitting every Artisans’ Alliance resolution for the Emperor’s review was excellent—even if he himself grew senile, as long as resolutions were still submitted, there remained at least a hope of resolution.

Zhang Juzheng deemed this unreasonable—the Emperor was a living man.

Currently, there are only thirty-one state factories; submitting resolutions for the Emperor’s review is manageable, but in five years, the number will rise to eighty-one; by ten years, it may reach one hundred fifty or even two hundred—come June and December, the Emperor will be overwhelmed.

A resolution is not solved merely by the Emperor reading it—he must understand every detail, and afterward, inquire into the outcome of its handling.

The Emperor’s energy is limited; his maximum capacity is four hundred memorials per day; this additional burden is simply not worth the cost.

Zhu Yijun and Zhang Juzheng discussed at length and ultimately agreed: all resolutions would still be submitted for the Emperor’s review, but the Ministry of Works, the Grand Secretariat, and the Directorate of Ceremonial must also play major roles, each selecting cases deemed urgent or difficult.

Cases selected by all three offices were “most urgent”; those selected by two offices were “urgent”; those selected by one office were “priority.”

The follow-up handling of these three levels of urgency must be reported to the sovereign, but their deadlines for completion differed entirely.

If a major event occurred and none of the three offices selected it, would the Emperor be completely deceived? Would the Emperor’s New Clothes, that old farce, be staged again?

If a major event truly occurred and none of the three offices selected it, it meant the entire Great Ming administrative mechanism had completely collapsed—utterly rotten—and the Great Ming’s mandate had reached its end; the Emperor could go to Wansuis Mountain and choose a crooked old tree.

Best to choose the highest point, so he could see the entire imperial city one last time before death.

“The Three-Selection Method for Urgent Matters is excellent,” Zhu Yijun affirmed this system.

Zhang Juzheng possessed extraordinary talent in governance—he always designed systems to increase redundancy within the Great Ming’s entire apparatus.

“I have a memorial to submit,” Shen Shixing swept his sleeve, reaching for his memorial.

But Zhang Juzheng pressed down on Shen Shixing’s hand and said to the Emperor: “Your Majesty, Shen Shixing has no memorial.”

Zhu Yijun stared, astonished—no pretense at all?

Zhang Juzheng, before the Emperor’s eyes, was blocking the flow of speech.

“I believe it is too early for him to propose this method; let him wait until he becomes Grand Secretary,” Zhang Juzheng explained why he stopped Shen Shixing from submitting the memorial—the stakes were too great; Shen Shixing’s slender shoulders could not bear them.

Presenting it now would merely add a flourish to Zhang Juzheng’s glorious reform achievements.

“What is it about?” Zhu Yijun asked curiously.

“According to Hongwu’s old law, no private landholding may exceed ten thousand mu. Shen Shixing intends to revive this ancestral law and implement land restitution.” Zhang Juzheng stated plainly what Shen Shixing planned.

This would go further than current land policy: reclaiming excess landholdings; though some compensation was offered, it was nearly equivalent to outright confiscation.

Under ancestral law, the landholdings of powerful elites had already reached the level warranting execution of nine clans.

Take the Kong Family of Yanzhou: its direct line held over thirty thousand qing of land—three million mu, a terrifying figure.

The Wanli Emperor favored his son by Consort Zheng, Zhu Changxun, sparking a fifteen-year succession dispute; Zhu Changxun was enfeoffed as Prince of Fu and stationed in Luoyang; initially, Wanli intended to grant him forty thousand qing of land, but ultimately granted only twenty thousand—two million mu—which utterly intensified the late Ming crisis of land scarcity.

A single descendant of the Duke of Yanzhou held thirty thousand qing of land.

The Great Ming’s eight thousand powerful elite households held over four hundred thousand qing of land—five percent of the Great Ming’s total land area!

Had Zhu Yuanzhang been Emperor, these eight Battalion Commander would all have been executed along with their nine clans; the imperial estates under the Emperor’s control numbered only five thousand qing—yet the powerful elites collectively held over eight times more land than the Emperor.

“Shen Vice Minister is too radical,” Zhu Yijun sincerely said.

“Now is not the time,” Zhang Juzheng said to Shen Shixing.

“Master once said: ‘The world is strangled by land consolidation!’ Wasn’t that the very reason you left court and returned? Thirty-nine years have passed—how much longer must we wait?!” Shen Shixing stubbornly pulled out his memorial and hurled it like a boomerang.

Zhang Juzheng left court in Jiajing 33, retreating to the mountains for three years, then returned to the capital, determined to resolve the Great Ming’s land consolidation.

Thirty-nine years later, Zhang Juzheng had still not solved the problem—except in the five customs offices and Zhejiang, no land restitution had occurred.

Thirty-nine years had turned Zhang Juzheng from an extreme radical into a conservative.

The younger generation, represented by Shen Shixing, had grown impatient; he felt Zhang Juzheng had changed, becoming one of the obstacles to reform.

Zhang Juzheng was numb to the boomerang; he had endured too many such blows over the years, but his expression grew bitter—his promising disciple did not understand his intentions.

The greatest danger in reform is becoming increasingly extreme within the reform itself, destroying oneself in extremism.

Zhang Juzheng fully endorsed the understanding of the Grand Minister of Rites, Wan Shihe: the court must have a sufficiently weighty conservative faction, or reform will spiral out of control, causing greater calamity than no reform at all.

“Shen Shixing, are you mad!” Zhu Yijun’s face darkened at Shen Shixing’s outburst; he immediately rebuked sharply.

“Your servant deserves death ten thousand times over,” Shen Shixing, startled, knelt instantly to beg pardon; he could not bear the Emperor’s thunderous wrath.

“Ignore him, Master. He’s gotten a little credit and forgotten who he is,” Zhu Yijun said to Zhang Juzheng: “Without your guidance, protection, and care, could he have reached this point?”

“He’s merely impatient. If land restitution isn’t completed, even after you pass, your wish will remain unfulfilled.”

“When he sits in your seat, he’ll understand your intentions. Relying on the court’s anchor, he wants speed and urgency—but when he becomes that anchor himself, he’ll know the difficulty.”

Zhang Juzheng felt nothing special about Shen Shixing’s defiance; the Emperor himself had said far harsher things during their arguments.

They argued, but their goals were identical: the Wanli Reform—this was the greatest consensus; as long as this consensus endured, it was the bedrock; they were all comrades, fellow travelers, sharing the same purpose.

The reason for their differing policy understanding was simple: Zhang Juzheng had suffered from the Single Whip Law—he knew the bitterness of breaking his own word; Shen Shixing, as Provincial Governor of Songjiang, saw only the great success of the Single Whip Law.

“Actually, Shen Shixing is right—some wealthy prefectures in Jiangzuo and Jiangyou may begin land restitution.” Zhu Yijun voiced his opinion.

In recent years, many prefectures in Jiangzuo and Jiangyou had approached Li Le and Wang Xiyuan, the Regional Governor of Nanjing, seeking imperial support for land restitution—but Zhang Juzheng had rejected them all.

These prefectures were characterized by wealth: abundant silver, rich industries, low land output, minimal social disruption from restitution; their most notable feature was that many powerful elite families had ceased attempting further land consolidation.

Zhejiang’s land restitution was half-cooked; after consuming it, Zhejiang unleashed tremendous production enthusiasm—especially as grain prices stabilized; there were few vagrants on Hangzhou’s streets; Zhejiang had taken the lead; if the southern prefectures lagged further, they would be left far behind.

“I fear this land restitution decree will follow the path of the Single Whip Law,” Zhang Juzheng said hesitantly: “Shall we try?”

Zhang Juzheng naturally wished to implement land restitution across the entire Great Ming immediately—but it was impossible; if it were possible, Shen Shixing would not have thrown his boomerang.

“Then let’s try. Shen Vice Minister, rise. Submit your memorial.” Zhu Yijun, seeing Zhang Juzheng’s agreement, said to Shen Shixing.

Shen Shixing submitted his memorial; Zhu Yijun and Zhang Juzheng preliminarily selected four prefectures for land restitution: Suzhou, Changzhou, Yangzhou, and Nanjing.

“What do you think of adding Xuzhou Prefecture?” Zhu Yijun, after confirming the four southern prefectures, looked at the map at Xuzhou—this prefecture lacked sufficient conditions for land restitution; if implemented, it would require strong central support.

This was policy bias born of the Emperor’s personal interest: Xuzhou’s 7% willingness to enlist was simply too striking.

Moreover, the Xuzhou Machinery Factory was already under construction, set to partially operate next year and fully operate in three years; once the Xuzhou machinery was stabilized, Xuzhou would have the foundation for land restitution—merely three years ahead of schedule.

“I believe this is good,” Shen Shixing understood this was the Emperor’s personal request and immediately agreed; four sheep to herd, five sheep to herd—though this fifth sheep was slightly weaker, if the shepherd cared for it properly, it too could thrive.

Shen Shixing had no idea the Emperor had conducted a loyalty test; he believed the Emperor was rewarding Liu Shun for his pacification and governance of Xuzhou, since the Xuzhou Machinery Factory itself was the Emperor’s reward for Liu Shun’s loyalty.

Zhu Yijun asked Shen Shixing to wait outside the imperial study while he kept Zhang Juzheng alone; the Emperor acted as mediator, asking Zhang Juzheng not to blame Shen Shixing’s impatience.

Shen Shixing and Zhang Juzheng left Tonghemen Palace together; Zhu Yijun watched their backs and sighed softly—his cultivation of Shen Shixing had gone too far.

Zhu Yijun asked Shen Shixing to leave the imperial study ahead of time and kept Zhang Juzheng alone, acting as mediator to tell Zhang Juzheng not to blame Shen Shixing for his haste.

Shen Shixing and Zhang Juzheng left Tonghemen together; Zhu Yijun watched their retreating figures and sighed softly—his cultivation of Shen Shixing had gone too far.

Shen Shixing was the kind of old-fashioned good-natured man who offended no one, a veteran warrior of moderate centrism.

But in the original historical timeline, from the tenth to the fifteenth year of Wanli, during the furious campaign to overthrow Zhang Juzheng, Shen Shixing—who claimed to offend no one—wrote letters to dozens of people pleading for mercy on Zhang Juzheng and his descendants; at that time, Shen himself was implicated in Zhang Juzheng’s case and under attack from all sides.

Historically, Shen Shixing had done nothing wrong to Zhang Juzheng, either publicly or privately; his recent impertinent remarks stemmed entirely from his years as Provincial Governor of Songjiang, where he transformed from a conservative moderate who held to the middle path into an extremist radical.

Shen Shixing becoming radical instead of always trying to appease everyone was a good thing—but becoming an extreme radical was not.

“Minister Shen has no ill will toward you; he fears that after your death, you will not rest in peace.” Zhu Yijun sat back on the dragon throne and continued reviewing memorials.

Shen Shixing returned with Zhang Juzheng to the Quanchu Assembly Hall; Zhang did not intend to reprimand him, but instead recounted how, years ago, he had broken his own word and retracted the Single Whip Law he himself had enacted.

He explained it all to Shen, making him clearly understand the importance of gradual, step-by-step policy implementation.

“Yaoquan, I don’t lack the will—if I could, I’d have every one of these eight thousand powerful families executed and their lands returned to the people, to deter these landowners from further consolidation. But state policy is like a single hair pulling the whole body; it cannot be overturned abruptly, only pursued slowly.” After speaking, Zhang Juzheng sighed heavily.

Zhang Juzheng did not wish to be a conservative, but he was the divine iron pillar holding the sea steady.

“I am shallow indeed.” After hearing the old story of the Single Whip Law, Shen Shixing understood Zhang Juzheng’s concerns: the Land Return Law and the Single Whip Law were fundamentally similar, both requiring vast amounts of silver—or sufficient currency—to sustain them.

Zhang Juzheng continued: “There is another matter you must pay close attention to: once Xu Prefecture and the Four Southern Prefectures begin returning land, the Northern Zhili, Shandong, Henan, and other regions will surely submit memorials demanding land returns—you must reject them all.”

“Because if you agree, the orderly land return will instantly descend into chaos. Even you, even I, even His Majesty would struggle to control it.”

“These regions appear to have the foundation for land returns, but in truth, the powerful local elites are still secretly consolidating land, because land yields remain immense.”

“You are right to warn me against multiplication.” Shen Shixing quickly replied; Zhang Juzheng’s warning was concise—just two words: “multiplication.”

Shen Shixing was extremely astute—he grasped things instantly. Any policy, once multiplied, would inevitably collapse. The remedy was simple: execute a few offenders as a warning to others.

Killing cannot solve the problem, but it can eliminate those who create it.

“Good. You understand the gravity. Don’t overthink—just do your duty.” Zhang Juzheng smiled broadly upon hearing the word “multiplication.”

“Your humble student takes leave.” Shen Shixing rose, bowed deeply in the posture of a disciple, and left the Quanchu Assembly Hall.

Xu Chengchu, Inspector of the Anti-Corruption Bureau of the Zhenfu Office, held a prepared memorial in hand, hesitating, yet stood and walked not to Tonghemen but to the Wenyuan Pavilion, where he found Lu Guangzu on duty.

Under the black-tiled eaves of the Wenyuan Pavilion, Lu Guangzu finished reading Xu Chengchu’s memorial and said: “Give me this memorial. I shall present it to His Majesty.”

The memorial detailed the aftermath of the corruption case on the Beijing-Guangzhou Expressway: Chen County Magistrate, Chief Superintendent and Master Craftsman of the highway, had embezzled 320,000 taels of silver during construction.

Compared to the total investment of 50 million taels along the entire Beijing-Guangzhou Expressway, 320,000 taels seemed negligible—yet 320,000 taels equaled nearly half the cost of the late emperor’s mausoleum.

If this case were pursued now, the latter half of the Beijing-Guangzhou Expressway’s construction would face disruption—unknown, potentially severe. If the impact were too great, the highway’s expected five-year completion might be indefinitely delayed.

Xu Chengchu hesitated precisely because of this: the highway's construction offered enormous opportunities for graft; as Chief Superintendent and Master Craftsman, Chen County Magistrate sometimes had no choice but to take his share—otherwise, others would take even more, and if no one took anything, a corrupt yet inefficient cycle would emerge.

Lu Guangzu returned to the Wenyuan Pavilion with the memorial, consulted with several Grand Secretaries, then affixed a floating ticket and submitted it to the imperial desk.

The young eunuchs waited outside the half-room; the August heat still blazed fiercely, the sun scorching the ground, cicadas shrieking relentlessly, adding to the irritation.

Yet the young eunuchs felt no anxiety, for they enjoyed the imperial favor: the privilege of using the small steam train running between Wenhua Palace and Tonghemen.

Walking from Wenhua Palace to Tonghemen required 8,000 steps; the young eunuchs made this round trip twice daily—32,000 steps. In such heat, even iron legs would ache after a few days, so much so that their soles could not touch the ground. The hardship was one thing, but delaying state affairs was a burden no one could bear.

But with the privilege of the small steam train, the young eunuchs saved this arduous journey and performed their duties with greater diligence.

This small expressway and small steam train were imperial roads and imperial vehicles—yet they, the young eunuchs, could use the same ones as His Majesty. Naturally, they were deeply grateful; at least the emperor treated them as human beings.

Lu Guangzu’s memorial reached the emperor’s desk swiftly.

Zhu Yijun stared at the memorial before him, hesitating. The Five Dragon Expressway, Chonggu Expressway, Yongji Expressway (from Shanhai Pass to Jilin), Suiyuan Expressway, the first half of the Beijing-Guangzhou Expressway, the Kai-Long Expressway—all had been overseen by Master Craftsman Chen County Magistrate.

He had handled at least 150 million taels of silver, yet took only 320,000. Zhu Yijun was willing to call it loyalty to the throne and devotion to the state.

But corruption was corruption. If this case were not pursued, would the Anti-Corruption Bureau not become a mere facade? Yet how to proceed—even Xu Chengchu, a straight-backed official even more upright than Hai Rui—was caught in a dilemma.

Worse still, Chen County Magistrate was a Scholar of the Gewu Academy; this status made Xu Chengchu even more hesitant, for many technical breakthroughs in highway construction had been achieved under Chen’s leadership.

Zhu Yijun rose, walked to the bookshelf, and retrieved a memorial. He held it for a long time—it was a memorial submitted by Wang Chonggu ten years ago, before the Suiyuan Expressway’s construction began; the paper had hardened, yet the ink remained clear.

“In grand construction projects, some corruption is unavoidable.” Zhu Yijun reread the memorial, his expression growing more complex. Grand construction could not be achieved by willpower and loyalty alone—so many threads, so many complications.

“This memorial shall be retained in the palace.” Zhu Yijun ordered Feng Bao to bring a secret chest, wrote a secret edict to Huguang, informing Chen County Magistrate that his corruption case had been exposed—but Zhu Yijun chose to suppress it.

He suppressed it for the sake of the Beijing-Guangzhou Expressway: he ordered Chen County Magistrate to redeem himself through service, to complete the highway at all costs. If completed, all would be forgiven; if not, it would be far more than a mere corruption case.

Zhu Yijun gave Chen County Magistrate a chance to redeem himself, to reform—a chance earned through decades of tireless highway construction.

Wang Chonggu’s death had brought complications to the Ming bureaucracy and highway construction—complications that must be properly resolved.

All things under heaven turn endlessly in cycles.

Wang Chonggu’s death caused some difficulties for the Great Ming bureaucracy and the construction of the relay roads, and these difficulties must be properly resolved.

All things under heaven cycle endlessly.