Chapter 98: The Map Is Unrolled, the Dagger Appears

One suit of armor equals three crossbows; three suits send you to the underworld.

This is a folk saying: privately owning armor, especially full-body armor, is equivalent to hiding three crossbows—at minimum, it merits exile to the frontier with permanent loss of registered status; if one hides three suits of armor, it is an unforgivable capital offense.

Minister of Justice Wang Zhigao stared at the case files for a long time before saying: “The Great Ming Code: Any civilian who privately possesses armor, shields, fire tubes, cannons, banners, or military insignia—items prohibited for military use—shall receive eighty strokes of the cane for each item, with each additional item increasing the punishment by one degree. Those who manufacture such items shall receive one degree more than those who merely possess them; all penalties are capped at one hundred strokes and exile three thousand li.”

In the early Ming, inheriting Tang law, the Great Ming Code stipulated: those who privately possess prohibited weapons shall be sentenced to one and a half years of penal servitude; one crossbow adds two degrees; one suit of armor or three crossbows merits exile two thousand li; three suits of armor or five crossbows merit death by strangulation.

In the twenty-second year of Hongwu, the death penalty by strangulation was abolished; private possession of military arms became punishable by one hundred strokes and exile three thousand li.

During the Hongzhi era, the “Regulations for Punishment” revised this offense, removing bows and crossbows from the list of prohibited arms, restricting the ban to heavy armor and firearms, and setting the maximum penalty at one hundred strokes and exile to remote frontier regions such as Yunnan, Guizhou, Sichuan, and Guangxi—with permanent loss of registered status.

Times have changed; bows and crossbows are no longer prohibited.

Tan Lun exclaimed in astonishment: “To make a single armor plate requires drilling, rough grinding, perforating, aligning holes, trimming plates, sharpening edges, and fine polishing—then the plates must be laced together with leather straps, lined with fabric inside and out, and fastened with bronze rivets. One complete suit requires at least forty artisans working a full year. What does the Gu family intend to do? They’ve stockpiled a hundred suits!”

Wang Zhigao shook his head: “The Gu family claims they amassed armor to defend against Japanese pirates.”

This excuse was plausible: during the peak of Japanese pirate raids, they even attacked Songjiang Prefecture; at the time, Luo Gongchen led troops on a night march to reinforce the city, and the Songjiang gentry erected a memorial arch to honor him.

The Japanese pirate threat gradually subsided after Jiajing forty-one, as Qi Jiguang and Yu Dayou eradicated the remnants, and peace slowly returned.

The Gu family’s claim that they stockpiled armor to guard against pirates is reasonable, and thus somewhat excusable.

This is another contradiction between practical reality and abstract principle: Ming law forbids private possession of armor and firearms, yet during the pirate uprisings, smoke blazed across a thousand li of the southeast; preparing armor and crossbows to defend against pirate raids was only natural.

Zhang Juzheng said seriously: “Now that the pirate threat is waning and the Ming has established a military garrison in Songjiang with over three thousand elite troops to deter raids, the court cannot deny the people the right to self-defense—it would violate the Dao.”

“Why not issue a strict edict ordering all households and clans to surrender their armor, bows, crossbows, and firearms to the state within three months? Any found in violation thereafter shall be punished as if for concealing military arms?”

“That is proper,” Wang Zhigao agreed. Concealing military arms is indeed a grave offense, but at the time, the primary crisis in the southeast was the social chaos caused by pirate raids; Hu Zongxian, Tan Lun, Qi Jiguang, Yu Dayou—all relied on wealthy families supplying armor to recruited troops to ultimately defeat the pirates.

The Gu family did conceal many suits of armor and powerful crossbows, but they could also be seen as preparing for pirate defense.

Hai Rui, however, expressed mild dissent: “The Gu family’s private possession of armor deserves punishment. If we overlook guilt, how can we govern ten Battalion Commander? The law may be lenient in some cases, but not in others—this is precisely what the Grand Secretary just told His Majesty.”

“Indeed, the Gu family’s concealment of armor has mitigating circumstances, but now that the pirate threat has faded, they still hide it at home without reporting to the court—that is not a case for leniency.”

Hai Rui launched a boomerang: using Zhang Juzheng’s own words against him, he rebuked Zhang’s attempt to compromise.

Ge Shouli strongly agreed: “Indeed, if there is no punishment, where is the authority of court law, of rewards and punishments? If southern gentry see no consequences, they will continue hiding armor and crossbows instead of surrendering them to the state. They must be punished as a warning to others.”

“What does Chief Censor Hai propose as punishment?” Zhang Juzheng asked Hai Rui.

Hai Rui replied succinctly: “Return the land.”

The ministers exchanged glances, their expressions saying: Of course—he’s always been this way. Hai Rui had launched his boomerang against the Grand Secretary’s compromise precisely to land on these two words: return the land.

Confiscate the means of production—confiscate the land.

The primary crisis in the southeast today is land consolidation by powerful elites and the resulting displacement of commoners. Land, as the greatest productive asset, is the best means to alleviate this crisis.

Hai Rui explained to all: “When I served as Provincial Governor in the south, I saw how most of the land seized by gentry was acquired during the pirate uprisings. At that time, natural disasters struck; the gentry enjoyed judicial, examination, and tax exemptions—yet they were expected to stabilize the countryside and care for the people. Instead, they seized land ruthlessly, terrorizing villages.”

The most brutal period of land consolidation in the fourteen prefectures of the south coincided precisely with the pirate raids.

When the primary crisis shifted from defeating pirates to halting land seizures, the land taken must be returned as it was taken.

“That is reasonable,” Zhang Juzheng nodded. “The Gu family seized over two thousand two hundred hectares of land. Let them return it.”

“Two hundred twenty thousand mu—a big fish indeed,” Hai Rui said, his face lighting up with a smile upon hearing the Grand Secretary’s approval.

“What do you all think?” Zhang Juzheng asked the court ministers.

Wan Shihé opened his mouth but hesitated, then said nothing. In Wanli’s first year, the Ming state and private coffers were so empty that people survived only on northwest winds. Southern gentry had already seized every possible common land—there was no more to take, no more to consolidate, no more to annex. State tax revenue had collapsed entirely.

After seizing these common lands, the gentry exploited their tax exemptions and court tolerance to evade taxation, causing the Ming’s tax base to shrink severely.

“Since no one objects, then so be it,” Zhang Juzheng began attaching floating slips to the memorial, requesting the emperor’s seal.

Zhu Yijun glanced at it, took the Wanli Imperial Seal, and stamped it. The two hundred twenty thousand mu would now go to Yu Dayou, who could settle a large number of captives.

Zhang Juzheng pulled out another memorial: “Chen Tang, Censor of the Huguang Circuit in Nanjing’s Censorate, impeaches Gu Zhangzhi, Director of Nanjing’s Guanglu Temple and Prefect of Yingtian Prefecture: along the Yangtze River, bandits abound; in just half a month of the twelfth lunar month, over fifty robberies occurred. Nanjing is no longer peaceful. He impeaches Gu Zhangzhi for dereliction of duty, corruption, and indulging criminals.”

Chen Tang, a loyal factional of the Zhang party, wrote a lengthy impeachment detailing how Gu Zhangzhi was a useless official who failed to hunt or kill bandits, accepted bribes, protected his own cronies, and turned Nanjing into a den of chaos: over a month, over a dozen gang battles erupted, civilians were terrified, yet Gu Zhangzhi ignored it all—and even protected bandits through bribery.

This corruption and indulgence severely damaged the southern administration. Though hard to prove, the confirmed bribes totaled over one hundred thousand taels.

Zhang Juzheng continued: “Wan Gong, Vice Minister of the River Conservancy, impeaches Gu Zhangzhi for embezzlement: the Jiangnan canal stretches over eight hundred li. Every year, the canal was opened in early summer to ensure smooth transport. Last year, the sluices were opened in December instead, causing silt buildup, river blockages, and the closure of the Jingkou port. Dredging costs reached tens of thousands of taels; thirty-four battalions, totaling 10,200 laborers, were conscripted. The total expenditure was over 480,000 taels, yet only 120,000 taels were actually disbursed. Gu Zhangzhi embezzled over 300,000 taels—the people’s grievances fill the roads.”

Two memorials, both directly accusing Gu Zhangzhi of corruption and indulgence.

The second memorial struck with devastating force: in border regions, they build fortresses; in the south, they dredge rivers. Gu Zhangzhi received 480,000 taels from the court to dredge the canal—and stole over 300,000 for himself!

Dredging rivers always involved graft—everyone took a cut. If not excessive, no one would impeach. Since the Jiajing era, corruption had spread throughout the Ming. But Gu Zhangzhi took 300,000 taels outright—that was too much.

He took 300,000 taels, leaving nothing for earth, stone, timber, or laborers’ wages. The thirty-four battalions of 10,200 men received no food. Local government offices were overwhelmed trying to appease these starving, landless laborers, tenant farmers, and wandering servants—only by exhausting every effort did they prevent the canal project from sparking a rebellion like the one at the end of the Sui dynasty.

In the end, Wan Gong traced the 300,000-tael shortfall to its source and submitted a memorial directly to the throne.

It pointed straight at the Kunshan Gu family.

Zhang Juzheng considered and said: “Gu Zhangzhi should be immediately dismissed and brought to the capital for interrogation by Xu Xing.”

Both charges against Gu Zhangzhi were solid. If he were not brought to the capital and exposed, who would answer for the 300,000-tael shortfall?

“Confiscate his estate,” Tan Lun said, frowning. “Delay the confiscation, and the court will have to cover the 300,000-tael loss.”

Confiscating now might still recover something. Delay, and the silver would already be moved. Land cannot be moved, but silver can. If the Gu family acts faster than the court, they can vanish 300,000 taels—sell the Ministry of Revenue and still not fill that hole.

Last year, the court’s entire surplus was only 100,000 taels—still from taxing large ocean-going ships.

Ge Shouli’s mood was complex: the northern frontier defenses in Xuanfu and Datong also had massive deficits—nearly two million taels, created by Wang Chonggu and Zhang Siwei. Yet the court still let Wang and Zhang fix it themselves, pretending nothing happened.

Because Wang Chonggu held the key to Altan Khan’s tribute submission; the imperial guards were weak, so they dared not press too hard—everything was swept under the rug.

But Gu Zhangzhi? His estate would be confiscated to plug the hole.

Because the pirate threat in the southeast was crushed, but in the northwest, the Tatars had founded the Great Ming Jin State—this was the danger of nurturing enemies to strengthen oneself. Rituals and military authority now came from regional lords; rewards and punishments no longer reached them.

Is Zhang Juzheng going to squeeze the soft pear? Will he avoid squeezing the hard one? If he avoids the hard ones, why bother revitalizing the military and rebuilding the imperial guards?

“Confiscate his estate,” Ge Shouli, Chief Censor responsible for impeaching officials, said without hesitation. “Do it.”

Hai Rui strongly approved: “Confiscate.”

Why provoke Zhang Juzheng? Everyone in the empire knows he holds grudges.

Hai Rui proposed, Zhang Juzheng led, the emperor approved—the southern gentry land-return case. They returned the land obediently, perhaps even gaining ship permits in return, transforming from landowners into sea merchants. But if they insisted on stirring trouble, slandering Song Yangshan and Wang Daoqun, angering them—now their entire estate was seized.

Zhang Juzheng was a pragmatic administrator who understood compromise. He only wanted to get things done, to realize his governing agenda, to hand back the empire to the young emperor not as a crumbling ruin, but as a restored realm. If southern gentry had accepted Xu Pan’s proposal—abandoning land seizure and turning instead to sea trade—

Zhang Juzheng would have agreed, even urged the emperor to issue an edict praising the Ming gentry for their wisdom, their patriotism: the state’s finances were in ruin, the realm oppressed by consolidation; the southern gentry led by returning seized land to the court—this was a model, an example for all gentry. If they requested special privileges for maritime trade, the court would surely grant them.

But Xu Pan had been stripped of office and exiled to Jizhou. Now the Gu family’s estate was confiscated.

“Does anyone still speak for the Gu family?” Zhang Juzheng asked Wan Shihé. This man always jumped up whenever gentry interests were threatened, invoking ritual law and ancestral precedent. Now this was a brutal confiscation case—cold-hearted, cruel to the gentry.

Wan Shihé immediately shook his head: “Confiscate! Must confiscate! A 300,000-tael shortfall!”

Wan Shihé had finally learned his lesson. After being scolded so many times, if he didn’t change his thinking, his position as Minister of Rites wouldn’t last long—and he wouldn’t die a peaceful death.

“Good,” Zhang Juzheng smiled, writing his opinion on the floating slip.

When Zhu Yijun stamped the memorial, he specifically checked: Luo Si Gong’s father, Luo Bingliang, had acted properly. After seizing the armor and crossbows, he had already allied with southern troops to surround the Gu estate completely, denying them food until they revealed their silver sources. He had already mapped out the Gu family’s assets: approximately 780,000 taels in silver and over 220,000 mu of land.

In other words, Luo Bingliang had already confiscated the Kunshan Gu family’s wealth. Whether Gu Zhangzhi lived or died depended on the court’s judgment—but the silver and land? Not a single coin or inch would be allowed to leave. Dig down three feet if you must.

All officials and gentry feared the Embroidered Uniform Guard because of this: during Jiajing’s reign, when Lu Bing was commander, the imperial authority was at its peak, and everyone feared the Guard. Their investigations were ruthless, merciless, and utterly without scruple.

“Xu Pan was right: how many small fish must you eat to be full? One big fish, and you can burp,” Zhu Yijun said, picking up his vermilion brush to change the division of confiscated assets from fifty-fifty to seventy-thirty, then stamped the memorial.

Minister of Revenue Wang Guoguang was astonished: according to Yongle-era precedent, all confiscated assets went to the inner treasury—but back then, the inner treasury was the state treasury, funding all rewards and expenditures.

According to Jiajing-era precedent, it was fifty-fifty: “Don’t worry about scarcity, worry about inequality”—everyone split it evenly, reluctantly. But now the emperor’s small hand had redrawn it to seventy-thirty.

The emperor’s small hand moving meant something.

Sure enough, Zhang Juzheng pulled out another memorial: “Generals Yu Dayou, Chen Lin, Song Yangshan, and Wang Daoqun of Songjiang petition: Songjiang Prefecture, a crossroads of nine provinces, is a deep-water port. During Yongle’s reign, our empire sailed westward seven times from Liujiagang in Suzhou’s Taicang, enriching state and private coffers alike. We petition for permission to open the seas, establish a Songjiang Maritime Trade Office, three port facilities, and three shipyards. His Majesty, please issue an edict to the Grand Secretariat for court deliberation.”

The map is unfolded, the dagger appears.

Wang Guoguang instantly understood! No wonder the young emperor had mentioned the Aoshan fireworks before the court deliberation—it was a clear signal: both court and palace must seek new revenue and cut expenses.

To save a few taels, they had even halted the Aoshan fireworks, established since Yongle’s reign—that was cutting expenses.

Opening the seas? That was generating revenue.

The emperor agreed to the seventy-thirty split precisely because he was eyeing the lucrative maritime trade—this was bribery in advance, using silver to silence opposition to opening the seas.

After all, the monthly revenue from the Yuegang Maritime Trade Office was split fifty-fifty between state and inner treasury—that was the big money.

“The Ministry of Revenue has no objection,” Wang Guoguang immediately declared. The Ministry was broke, spending more than it earned. As Minister, he was already overwhelmed. If the emperor would open new revenue streams, that was excellent—even if the emperor hadn’t changed the split to seventy-thirty, Wang would have agreed.

The empire’s finance minister, staring daily at an empty treasury, sighing as everyone came begging for money—it couldn’t go on.

“The Ministry of Justice has no objection,” Wang Zhigao said second. Yuegang had long been practiced; as long as the red-haired foreigners weren’t granted land, they couldn’t take root and cause worse damage.

Minister of Personnel Zhang Han considered and said: “Grand Secretary, your handling is masterful.”

Tan Lun thought and said: “Everyone knows: since I served as Provincial Governor of Fujian, I’ve been advocating opening the seas—even Yuegang was too limited. I once petitioned specifically: opening it slightly does nothing. The Ministry of War also supports the Songjiang Maritime Trade Office. If conflict arises, General Yu’s might in the southeast will ensure order.”

Let the Japanese pirates return! Back then we slaughtered them clean; now we can do it again. Best of all, kill the southern gentry, wealthy merchants, and powerful elites behind them too!

Kill! Kill! Kill! Let blood flood the rivers! Let them be wiped clean!

Tan Lun was a jinshi, but the thing he did most in his life was kill. He had none of Zhang Juzheng’s patience. If Tan Lun ruled, he wouldn’t cut slowly like Zhang Juzheng—he’d act boldly, decisively. Disobedience? Rebellion? Conflict? What conflict?

Just kill them all—then there’s no conflict left.

Of course, Tan Lun knew he couldn’t do that. After suppressing Fang La, Emperor Huizong of Song, desperate for money, killed one in ten middle-class households—and the people turned against him. Later, Huizong was captured by the Jin and locked in a cellar.

Governing the state? Tan Lun knew he wasn’t suited for it.

Four ministries had no objections. The matter was approved. Once the young emperor stamped it, it became legal.

But Zhang Juzheng still wanted to hear dissenting opinions—each one could help avoid pitfalls.

Establishing a Maritime Trade Office inevitably clashed with ancestral precedent, especially the Jiajing-era ban on sea trade. This would be debated. Reverence for Heaven and adherence to ancestral law were imperial edicts.

Wan Shihé, not opposing, sighed: “In early Hongwu, Gui Yanliang wrote in ‘Twelve Essentials for Governing Barbarians’: ‘The way to govern barbarians is to prioritize defense, then consider offense. Provoking borders for petty gains is the lowest strategy. If barbarians are occasionally disobedient, cultivate virtue to attract them, send envoys to explain—then they will fear your might and cherish your virtue, and submit willingly. Why waste troops on distant campaigns?’”

“The Taizu followed this, establishing fifteen non-aggression states.”

To pacify distant peoples and make the four barbarians submit, to bring all nations to pay tribute—this was the primary reason and goal of Hongwu’s tribute-trade system, because the primary crisis then was different.

At that time, the Song dynasty had been gone a hundred years; the Ming was new and needed the legitimacy of tributary states to strengthen cohesion.

Wan Shihé’s words reflect the three pillars of Ming foreign relations.

First, cultivate distant peoples; trade is a means to achieve diplomatic goals, not the goal itself.

Second, emphasize civil virtue; what matters is instilling awe and moral influence in foreign states to achieve cultural assimilation, not military rule.

Third, avoid military campaigns; force is used only when absolutely necessary, and partial political subjugation is sufficient.

For example, the Yongle era’s campaign against Annan and the establishment of Jiaozhi would never have happened had not the Li Viet usurpers repeatedly provoked and ambushed the five thousand Ming troops escorting Chen Tianping home.

Wan Shihé said with a strange expression: “At the time, the Ming was newly established, urgently needing popular support and rest for the people, hence the goal of cultivating distant peoples, bringing all barbarian states to submit, and attracting tributes from myriad nations.”

“The Yongle era was the same: after the Jingnan Campaign, the realm was in chaos, coastal states stirred with unrest, so we had to display military might—hence the seven voyages to the Western Seas, showcasing Ming’s grandeur and heavenly authority.”

“Heaven changes, earth changes, people change, and the Dao changes too.”

“During the Jiajing and Longqing eras, the contradictions shifted: as Tan Sima said, the stricter the maritime ban, the higher the profit, and the more people rush to violate it. When private trade is blocked, plunder follows—this is precisely the intent.”

Contradictions change, goals change, and methods change.

Contradictions drive the cyclical development of all things.

The strict maritime ban of the Jiajing era and the opening of the seas in the Longqing era conform to the nature of development. Tan Lun made this clear in his memorial ‘Petition on Unfinished Matters After Pacifying the Japanese pirates’: the stricter the ban, the deeper the contradiction, the more people gather in rebellion; the more private trade is forbidden, the more plunder and unrest arise.

“Ah, Minister Wan, you read about contradictions?” Feng Bao asked in astonishment: “I thought you regarded it as heresy and refused to read it—so you do read it, then?”

“I am a scholar!” Wan Shihé retorted, his face flushed with anger at Feng Bao’s sarcasm.

Feng Bao grinned: “Ah, yes, yes, now you sound more like yourself.”

Feng Bao could kill with words—his sarcasm pierced straight to the heart; Wan Shihé had read the texts, yet still got scolded.

What kind of talk is this? What does “like” mean? Wan Shihé was a jinshi, a Ming scholar forged through thousands of battles in the imperial examinations!

Once you read and truly understand contradictions, it’s like climbing out of a cesspool and washing clean—you can never jump back in.

It’s already the second year of Wanli, yet they still cling to the stale Confucianism of the Three Dynasties—it’s truly decayed! Rejecting contradictions as heresy is absurd; even embracing Wang Yangming’s unity of knowledge and action would be better!

“Last year, the court had only one hundred thousand taels left—but far better than Jiajing forty, when the deficit reached over two million taels, and finally, Grand Secretary Yan had to beg the emperor to draw from the inner treasury to cover it,” Wang Guoguang remarked nostalgically.

The Yan faction fell in Jiajing forty-one, when Yan Shifan’s bribery of the Prince of Yu was discovered by the Jiajing Emperor.

In Jiajing forty, the court fought the Tatars in Xuanfu and Datong, suppressed the Japanese pirates in the southeast, the realm was in turmoil, expenditures soared, taxes went uncollected, and the deficit neared two million taels—Yan Song entered the palace that year and persuaded the emperor to withdraw funds from the inner treasury.

The Jiajing Emperor believed that executing Yan Shifan and confiscating the Yan family’s wealth would fill the treasury’s deficit—but when Xu Jie seized Yan Song’s estate, by Jiajing forty-four, he had delivered only one hundred thousand taels to the emperor.

Zhu Yijun smiled and said: “Yu the Great controlled floods by dredging, not blocking. People live by the sea and live off the sea. The court establishing a Maritime Revenue Office to earn profits is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Material conditions determine the superstructure: the Ming court is poor—just one word, poor.

Without money or grain, nothing can be done. If you have no rice in hand, even calling a chicken won’t get a response.

The Maritime Trade Office matter has passed the court deliberation; implementation will fall to Yu Dayou, Wang Daoqun, and Zhang Cheng.

Zhang Juzheng’s offensive temporarily paused: he issued a stern edict ordering the southern gentry to return seized lands under the pretext of Gu family’s illegal possession of armor and weapons; he accused Gu Zhangzhi of corruption and leniency, then sacked the entire Gu family as a warning; leveraging Xu Pan’s proposal, he pushed forward the establishment of the Songjiang Maritime Trade Office.

When Zhang Juzheng launched his offensive, how should the southern gentry respond?

From the northern court to the southern gentry, a fast horse takes fifteen days—slightly delayed due to snow, but the court’s edict ordering all powerful families in the south to surrender armor and crossbows still sparked a massive uproar.

At the Xu family’s ancestral home, Luo Bingliang stood outside, sword at his side.

Xu Pan was innocent; Luo Bingliang knew this clearly and had gathered abundant witness testimonies, physical evidence, and written proof showing Xu Pan had not been present at that brothel that day.

On the day of the murder, Xu Pan had quarreled with Xu Jie at the ancestral home, then went straight to bed—he could provide ample alibi. He had weighty matters on his mind, matters concerning his family’s survival—how could he possibly have sought pleasure?

Luo Bingliang detained all witnesses and sent them to Xu Xing in the capital for interrogation; whether Xu Pan would be convicted was beyond Luo’s control.

This was a frame-up, but the court had already decided: exile to a frontier garrison. Yet they sent him to Jizhou—clearly a protective gesture. The southern gentry will surely erupt in a storm over the land-return order; Xu Pan remaining in Songjiang cannot protect the Xu family, let alone Xu Jie.

By sending Xu Pan north to Jizhen, Zhang Juzheng preserved a thread of the Xu lineage—even if the entire Xu family fell, they would not be utterly extinguished. It was Zhang Juzheng’s final act of loyalty to his disciple.

After Xu Pan’s case, when Zhang Juzheng and Xu Jie met again, they would be true enemies.

Luo Bingliang stood with sword at his side, waiting as Xu Pan bid farewell to his father.

Xu Pan knelt, bowed three times, tears streaming down his face—he did not know what he could do to save the Xu family.

“When you reach the north, obey Zhang Juzheng. My disciple is ruthless, but he still remembers our old ties. Saying he stripped your rank and exiled you was to spare your life,” Xu Jie set down his teacup and said: “I know you resent me, hate me. Now that it’s come to this, no more words between father and son.”

Xu Pan stood up, frowning: “Father, do we also hide armor and crossbows?”

“Yes,” Xu Jie sighed and nodded. Among southern power families, who doesn’t keep such weapons? Otherwise, landless tenants, wandering laborers, and mountain bandits would have long since looted them.

Xu Pan wiped his tears and sighed: “The court has issued a stern edict demanding all families surrender armor and crossbows—how should we respond?”

“Refuse? The Gu family is already being sacked as a warning—refusing means death. Surrender? The court demands land return; resist further and you’re dead again—no resistance possible.”

“Either way, we wait for death.”

Xu Jie’s face was grim as he looked at Xu Pan: “This is struggle—life or death.”

The essence of contradiction is fierce struggle; struggle is not a banquet—it demands bloodshed. The court is strong; the power families are weak.

Xu Pan raised his hands urgently: “Father, give in! Return the armor and crossbows, and ask the court for shipping permits. I’ve heard the edict: the court plans to establish a Maritime Trade Office in Songjiang. Songjiang connects nine provinces—it’s a prime location. With even modest management, it would outstrip ten Battalion Commander by hundreds of times. Not eternal, but at least five generations of prosperity.”

Xu Jie rose, walked to Xu Pan, brushed the dust from his clothes, and studied him carefully: “You still don’t understand. I’m willing to yield—but others won’t let me. I know your meaning, but it’s not stubbornness on my part.”

“Once you reach the north, without me as your shield, you must endure, avoid trouble. My bond with Zhang Juzheng is severed—your path ahead is yours alone.”

“If I die, remember: the emperor, Zhang Juzheng, the court—they are not your father’s killers. Do you understand?”

“I did not kill Bo Ren, yet Bo Ren died because of me.”

Xu Jie could not clearly express his meaning—he had not yet read Zhang Juzheng’s ‘Public and Private’ treatise. Once he did, it would all become clear. For now, he only knew: he had no retreat.

The true killer of Xu Jie was himself—the southern power families. Whether he acted or not, in this storm of land consolidation, he stood at the epicenter.

“Why? Why must the court establish a Maritime Trade Office in Songjiang? Can’t we southern gentry then sail out to sea? Why forsake silver for tilling soil?” Xu Pan could not fathom why these gentry refused to change their thinking.

Xu Jie smiled: “Seizing land ensures eternal inheritance; trading cannot. Trade brings profit and loss—nothing compares to land for ensuring a family’s prosperity, does it?”

Xu Pan’s expression was complex: “People don’t live forever—how can any family endure eternally, hereditarily?”

“Once, swallows flew in the halls of the Wang and Xie families; now they nest in common homes.”

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