Chapter 985: Replacing a Batch of People Was Nearly Equivalent to Replacing the World

Zhu Yijun was indeed the richest man in Great Ming, but faced with a realm that needed silver everywhere, he dared not indulge in extravagance; every bit of silver he had was invested in the expressways and the Dinghai education system.

The wealthy of Songjiang Prefecture did not need to consider social responsibility; competing in luxury became a natural thing.

And this trend reached the academies, taking the form Zhu Yijun now saw.

Even to avoid provoking the Emperor’s wrath, Wang Qian and Li Le had been extremely conservative; yet a few exceptional students dressed even more splendidly, their attire worth far more than 35,700 jin of rice.

The Great Ming Emperor, who had originally thought Wang Qian too radical, now recognized the harm of academic extravagance and endorsed Wang Qian’s radicalism.

To correct a deviation, one must overcorrect—then adjust later—but the academies must never indulge in luxury; these students studied to cultivate values, and if this root grew crooked, the great tree of Great Ming might grow crooked too.

Zhu Yijun approved Wang Qian’s memorial, endorsing his actions; it seemed the bureaucracy was truly meddling too much—dictating what students ate and wore. But Great Ming was a county-based imperial system; the Emperor was the sovereign father, and while he governed broadly, his obligations were equally vast.

After the three-day holiday following the Wanli Nineteenth Year’s Imperial Birthday, the Great Ming Emperor grew active again; his presence appeared everywhere in the capital, and the capital’s people, accustomed to it, cared most for the changes around them—the capital had truly improved!

The reason was simple: the six departments’ clerks and yamen runners had been entirely replaced; entering the city no longer meant paying extra levies to corrupt officials.

His Majesty, seated high above, attended to myriad affairs daily; even beneath his own gaze, he barely understood these corrupt officials’ ways—they’d even suck the air from a dung cart passing by!

A single corrupt clerk living off free meals and goods was a minor matter, a small loss; the people had endured it for years. But this reform brought a feeling as if clouds had parted to reveal the sun’s radiant glory.

For the first time, the capital, the foremost virtuous place, truly felt like the foremost virtuous place.

Some corrupt clerks monopolized markets, drove away honest merchants, and preyed on men and women; take one old yamen runner in the west city—he seized two common women; their husbands dared not speak out, for their businesses were held hostage, and when they went to the yamen to file complaints, the six departments refused to accept them.

Monopolizing markets, foreign rice, flour, oil, and grain merchants could not enter the Grain Market Gate, Vegetable Market Gate, or Oil Workshop; arriving at Chaoyang Gate, they had to hand over their goods to Beijing merchants, or these corrupt clerks would appear instantly, seize their carts and cargo, and beat them if they resisted—light injuries broke bones, heavy ones left them bedridden.

The city’s gangs, colluding with yamen officials, became utterly lawless.

Now, all this was slowly vanishing from Beijing; several gangs buried within the city were jointly apprehended by yamen runners, the Five City Military Command, and the Embroidered Uniform Guard.

Beijing’s atmosphere grew solemn and upright.

As for outside the city? The Grand General flew into a rage; artillery fired for three days, and every insignificant mountain bandit stronghold was leveled to the ground.

Beijing’s people, over tea and meals, discussed how many heads would be cut off—but soon, the Ministry of Justice announced only twenty-seven ringleaders would be executed at the Vegetable Market Gate; the rest, without murder charges, were exiled to Hami to reclaim land for the Marquis of Ningyuan.

Beijing's transformation was so great that even the once eerie purple smog now seemed tolerable.

Before winter arrived, the Governor of Suiyuan, San Niangzi, entered Juyong Pass once more, bringing her people to deliver wool to the Yongding River Woolen Mill.

This was the year’s final wool shipment—vast, totaling 170,000 bags, each 150 jin; this wool was the grassland people’s lifeline for winter.

San Niangzi, watching the Lugou Bridge Inspection Station grow nearer, pulled out ten silver notes, felt they were insufficient, pulled out ten more, preparing to bribe officials at the station.

“These bloodsucking yamen corrupts!” San Niangzi, seeing her cart halted before the station, felt rage swell in her chest.

These corrupts were even harder to deal with than the Great Ming Emperor.

Over the years, San Niangzi had realized: the Emperor’s campaigns against the grassland aimed to stabilize it; once stable, the court need not waste effort on the grassland, delaying Great Ming’s maritime opening.

Thus the Emperor treated the grassland with special favor; as long as they didn’t raise too many horses, the grassland’s profits held little interest for him.

“These corrupts’ appetites grow ever larger,” San Niangzi sighed, gazing at the yamen; to her, it was no different from the Gates of Hell—anyone who passed through lost a layer of skin.

“Mother, can’t we file a complaint when we enter the capital?” asked a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old girl, softly; this was San Niangzi’s adopted daughter, Mu Qing.

San Niangzi had taken a Han surname, Mu, but no one called her by her name—they called her the Loyal and Obedient Lady; she didn’t mind, as long as her daughter had a name.

“Qing’er,” San Niangzi shook her head, “I’ve complained before. In Wanli Eleven, I could bear it no longer—I petitioned the Emperor face-to-face. He acted, but what did it change?”

“This inspection station changed its people, but it’s the same as before—still the claws of powerful elites.”

"The next year, they blocked our wool passage; we barely managed to get through, but when I returned to the grassland with purchased goods, they detained me for a full month—claiming contraband was hidden, and spending a whole month inspecting!"

“By the time I returned to the grassland, snow had begun to fall; the goods I bought from Great Ming piled up in Guihua City, nearly failing to reach all the tribes.”

She had complained, the Emperor had acted—but replacing people made no difference.

It was changing the broth but not the medicine—and even invited extra hardship.

Later, San Niangzi understood: Beijing was a cursed place; even the Emperor had no good solution—there were simply too many powerful nobles.

“Stay inside the cart. Don’t come out.” San Niangzi had brought Mu Qing to Great Ming to broaden her horizons; though these corrupts wouldn’t dare target her daughter, it was better she saw less of them.

“Mother, is it because we’re barbarians, northerners, that they treat us so harshly?” Mu Qing shrank into the cart and whispered.

“Nonsense!” San Niangzi rebuked sharply. “What barbarians? What northerners? We are Great Ming people now—don’t degrade yourselves. Barbarians are those horse-slaves of the northern steppes.”

“And this devouring yamen gate doesn’t target us alone—Han merchant caravans are eaten too, treated equally. Have you seen wolves on the grassland that distinguish between black and white sheep?”

The Lugou Bridge Inspection Station treated everyone equally—anyone passing through was bitten; no one was exempt.

“So,” Mu Qing had thought it was because of their grassland identity, but after her mother’s explanation, she found it reasonable—just as her books taught: exploitation knew no region.

San Niangzi entered the inspection station with her silver notes—and walked out with them still in hand. She was bewildered; this time, unlike ever before, her silver notes had not been accepted—it was as if the sun rose in the west!

Mu Qing peeked out and whispered, “Mother, what happened?”

“Nothing. The heavens have changed—this time, truly changed.” San Niangzi gazed at the smog with faint bewilderment; the inspection station had changed its people again, but these new ones were utterly unlike the old.

This time, both broth and medicine were changed—had His Majesty found the cure?

An unsolvable problem seemed resolved by the wise and sagacious Great Ming Emperor; San Niangzi had no idea where His Majesty’s limits lay! Each time she came to the capital, Beijing changed anew.

Not just the Lugou Bridge Inspection Station—the entire capital’s atmosphere had grown noticeably clearer. Soon, San Niangzi learned exactly how the Emperor had solved the problem.

A decisive variable had appeared.

A collective, possessing certain means of production and capable of replacing the scholar-gentry, quietly ascended onto the stage of power and history; this variable had been brewing for nineteen years, and now bore fruit.

“Was this also within His Majesty’s foresight?” San Niangzi murmured.

On the twenty-second day of the eighth month, San Niangzi was granted an audience with the Great Ming Emperor; he remained as robust as ever, seated on the dragon throne like a mountain, offering profound reassurance—as if, so long as the Sage Emperor lived, all would flourish.

“Mu Qing has grown so tall?” Zhu Yijun smiled, looking at Mu Qing, now poised and graceful; the last time he’d seen

this girl, she was nine.

Mu Qing quickly kowtowed and cried out, “Your Majesty, may Your Majesty’s health be well!”

“Rise, rise,” Zhu Yijun told Feng Bao, “Bestow gifts.”

The gifts were not lavish: a down-lined jacket and a hat with ear flaps; the grassland was bitterly cold, and the Emperor had granted winter clothing.

San Niangzi reported on the grassland’s year-long condition, the progress in demarcating pastures, and that this year’s sheep population had increased 3.2% over last year—a slower growth than usual, as weather changes heavily impacted the grassland.

As long as the grassland did not raise horses but maintained large flocks, the court could rest easy; the grassland’s climate was no longer what it had been centuries ago—raising too many horses would kill many: by starvation, freezing, battle, or raids southward; grassland people would die, and Great Ming would lose many too.

Now, this suited both sides; over time, all would become Great Ming people, indistinguishable.

To deal with the grassland people, Wang Chonggu’s tactics—usury, raiding camps and driving off horses, and wool trade—were indeed sound policies.

“I never expected replacing the six departments’ clerks and yamen runners would bring such dramatic change,” Zhu Yijun admitted; he had understood Beijing’s transformation, but never imagined it would be this profound—replacing a batch of people was nearly equivalent to replacing the world itself.

Zhang Juzheng, while implementing the official selection law in Beijing, had observed and proposed further refinements.

The six departments’ clerks and yamen runners should best form a tripod: official factory artisans, civilian-registered juren, and military-registered juren; only then would the three balance each other, completing the official selection law.

This suggestion came from Shen Shixing.

“Could Suiyuan adopt the same reform?” San Niangzi asked, her eyes hopeful, pleading for policy support.

Zhu Yijun shook his head. “Impossible. Suiyuan lacks enough literate resident craftsmen.”

The Wuma Gang and Shengzhou official factories in Suiyuan were built far later than Beijing’s four major factories; too few resident craftsmen were available for selection—no immediate change possible.

Policies must suit local conditions; Suiyuan lacks the conditions for such reform. Right now, the priority is to stabilize pastoral boundaries and settle the people.

Everyone wants a stable life; grassland people were not born to yearn for nomadic wandering—it was a life of insecurity, of constant displacement, never knowing if tomorrow’s sun would rise.

Without material foundations, policies cannot be implemented.

“Thank Your Majesty for clarifying,” San Niangzi said, disappointed but soon cheered; today’s impossibility didn’t mean tomorrow’s—work hard, produce steadily, and when the time came, it would be done, even if delayed.

“The number of Datong women has been steadily decreasing

?? You must also pay attention to this in Suiyuan—crack down on the human traffickers too; in the past, people sold sons and daughters because they couldn’t survive, giving rise to the Datong women trade.”

“But these years, though the grassland hasn’t been wealthy, people can at least eat—don’t turn a blind eye anymore,” Zhu Yijun spoke of the Datong women trade.

Since Wanli Nine, Xuanfu and Datong had used the marked-recapture method to estimate the total number of Datong women.

As Great Ming’s civilizing influence spread, Jin merchants’ usury and camp raids ceased; the number of Datong women rapidly declined, and today, fewer than fifteen thousand remain—now is the time to crack down on human traffickers.

Currently, Songjiang, Yingtian, and Shuntian Prefectures have fully abolished brothels and prostitution; as the commodity economy evolves and the court's will is enforced, the ban on prostitution will expand further.

Zhu Yijun didn’t know if he’d live to fully suppress prostitution and human trafficking, but he would persist.

Roads are made by walking; if one attempt fails, try again—eventually, the path must be cleared; if you can’t walk it, your descendants can follow your footsteps and avoid detours.

“Thank Your Majesty for your boundless grace,” San Niangzi bowed deeply; the Emperor was a benevolent sage ruler—even if he were a merciless tyrant.

When the strongest can suppress all societal opposition, society’s form lies under that strongest will.

The strongest now is the Emperor; he intervenes in the lives of all people, in every aspect, as if he were the infinite principle of all things.

Great Ming calls this strongman politics; this system revolves around the Emperor’s will, yet the order it establishes collapses instantly upon his death.

San Niangzi didn’t know Great Ming’s ultimate fate, but this profound legacy would ensure its prosperity for over a hundred years.

San Niangzi left the Tonghemen Imperial Study; Mu Qing gazed at the three-story building behind them—not as gilded as she’d imagined—this was the highest hall of the Great Ming realm; the Sage Emperor had left her a profound impression.

“Mother, is the Emperor the kind of great man you often speak of?” Mu Qing asked curiously.

“The Emperor? He is the greatest of great men,” San Niangzi smiled.

Mu Qing finally understood what her mother meant by “great man.”

Zhu Yijun received Yao Guangqi’s memorial; they had arrived safely at the Naha Port Management Office, whose compound covered only about eighty mu; the appointed commissioners from the governorates would arrive gradually next year.

Starting next year, each member must pay varying sums to sustain the office’s operations.

The Pacific Trade Alliance is a crucial step for Great Ming toward becoming a world empire.

Take one step.

“Hmm, this Guangdong-Guangxi Provincial Governor Liu Jiwen and Wan Wenqing have some interesting ideas,” Zhu Yijun picked up Liu Jiwen’s memorial, studied it long, and saw Liu proposed: if there’s a Pacific Trade Alliance, could there be a Western Ocean Trade Alliance?

Zheng He sailed the Western Ocean; some nations existed there—Mughal, Ceylon, Kozhikode, Hormuz, Mecca, Aden, Mogadishu, Malindi, Mozambique, Jibuti—could these be integrated into a Western Ocean Trade Alliance?

Zhu Yijun thought the idea sound, but one problem: these places lacked sufficient silver; though some silver mines existed, they were too few to justify the effort.

The Pacific Trade Alliance was driven by silver—what would drive the Western Ocean Alliance? What would make Great Ming expend great effort to promote trade? Liu Jiwen’s answer: barbarian slaves and Kunlun slaves.

Great Ming’s overseas development always lacked labor; barbarian and Kunlun slaves could provide ample manpower for developing the southern territories under the governorates.

But whether these barbarian and Kunlun slaves could become the primary drivers of a Western Ocean Trade Alliance required practical testing; the Emperor noted his doubts in the vermilion rescript, instructing Liu Jiwen to give it a try—success would be ideal, but if it failed, then another way must be found.

The Nagasaki Viceroy’s office sent word: the Jōraku Sect had indeed shown signs of decline after reaching its peak.

It was not that Toyotomi Hideyoshi had suddenly come alive—he still shouted slogans loudly, but delayed action against the Jōraku Sect, while the old turtle Tokugawa Ieyasu waited for Hideyoshi and the Jōraku Sect to exhaust each other.

The Jōraku Sect had split internally.

No one knew the exact cause; in the sect’s stronghold, the town beneath Hiroshima Castle, a violent internal conflict erupted, killing and wounding nearly ten thousand. In the end, the sect divided into two factions, and the conflict intensified, with neither side able to gain the upper hand.

Since Great Ming’s eastern expedition won nine victories and fully seized the Iwami Silver Mine, Mōri Terumoto’s power rapidly declined. After several failed attempts to retake the mine, he suffered heavy losses, and his control over the town beneath Hiroshima Castle gradually weakened, turning it into the Jōraku Sect’s stronghold.

Great Ming’s maritime patrol inspectors found it hard to infiltrate the Jōraku Sect’s stronghold, for the sect’s method of selecting fanatical followers was extremely cruel.

Though the cause of the split remained unknown, the Jōraku Sect now had two factions: one seemingly moderate, the other extreme—the Present World Faction.

Toyotomi Hideyoshi used his remaining Japanese ships, plus three large vessels borrowed from Great Ming’s garrison command at Osaka Bay, and launched a surprise attack on the town beneath Hiroshima Castle during the internal strife.

The raid succeeded brilliantly: not only did he seize the town, but he also captured and beheaded several protectors of the Present World Faction, finally achieving a long-desired triumph.

The Jōraku Sect remained powerful, but the destruction of the Present World Faction greatly boosted Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s prestige, and internal resentment against the sect in Japan began to surface, finally allowing Hideyoshi to curb its expansion.

Japan’s situation did not improve after the annihilation of the Present World Faction; the Jōraku Sect was the symptom, the collapse of order and failure to establish a new one the root cause. As long as the collapse of order remained unsolved, this chaos of demons dancing would persist until Japan’s demise.

The number of Japanese slaves was slowly decreasing, but slaves from Annan filled the gap left by this decline.

“Good. Toyotomi Hideyoshi has done well.” Zhu Yijun praised Toyotomi Hideyoshi for the first time—this man’s ability to seize every opportunity was formidable, and his actions decisive. The Jōraku Sect could not continue expanding chaotically.

Zhu Yijun wrote a lengthy vermilion annotation, communicating with the Nagasaki Viceroy’s office on numerous matters concerning Japan, especially Xiong Tingbi’s recent situation.

Output from the Iwami Silver Mine continued to rise; it was one of the few clean patches in chaotic Japan.

Moreover, Xiong Tingbi treated Japanese slaves as human beings, and the miners and kiln workers showed high production enthusiasm. This year, silver flowing from Japan into the Great Ming increased by three hundred thousand taels, surpassing four million taels.

Xiong Tingbi was assassinated three times, but each time he killed his attackers in return, and suffered no injury.

“Ye Xianggao has spent three years studying in the Hanlin Academy and three more serving as my secretary, writing the Daily Records. It is time for him to be posted outside. Is there any place you wish to go?” Zhu Yijun held Ye Xianggao’s memorial and asked where he wished to serve. The time had come—he could not remain writing Daily Records forever; he needed field experience to advance further.

“Your Majesty, I wish to go to Jilin to reclaim wasteland.” Ye Xianggao offered an unexpected choice—Jilin, a land of barren mountains and harsh waters, was then extremely frigid.

Zhu Yijun shook his head. “Choose a more central region for your posting. You, a scholar with no strength to lift a chicken, will die in Jilin if you go.”

Ye Xianggao thought carefully, then shook his head again. “Governor Hou endured such hardships—I can endure them too. As Marshal Qi said, under heaven’s changes, Liaodong may become the birthplace of dragon ascension.”

Hou Yuzhao endured hardship by opposing others as a censor and being expelled from the capital; even now, he had little interest in returning to court office. Ye Xianggao had never opposed anyone nor been ostracized.

“So you’re forcing yourself to suffer, are you? Don’t regret it later—I’ve given you the chance.” Zhu Yijun smiled.

“Your Majesty, Marshal Qi said: ‘If Liaoning is peaceful, the realm is at peace.’ I still wish to go to Jilin.” Ye Xianggao gave a clear answer—he would not regret it.

“Very well. Pay attention to your safety. Don’t charge ahead like a reckless fool.” Zhu Yijun finally agreed. Each jinshi was precious, especially one as gifted as Ye Xianggao.

“In these years by my side, what have you observed?” Zhu Yijun asked curiously, wondering what Ye Xianggao had learned from writing the Daily Records.

Ye Xianggao pondered long and hesitated before bowing deeply. “Your Majesty, I dare speak boldly: after observing governance for so long, I have seen but one truth—Grand Secretaries never meet a good end.”

“Hmm?” Zhu Yijun sat upright, his laziness gone. “Explain.”

Ye Xianggao was nervous but spoke on. “The ancestors established the Grand Secretaries merely as literary attendants, their weight limited to drafting draft edicts; their delegated authority differed entirely from that of previous chancellors.”

“A powerless official attempting to perform powerful duties will inevitably fail; assigning powerful duties to a powerless official makes fulfillment impossible. This is why Grand Secretaries have never preserved a clean reputation—and thus never meet a good end.”

"Hmm?" Zhu Yijun sat up straight, shedding some of his laziness, and said, "Tell me in detail."

Great Ming’s Grand Secretaries of the Wenyuan Pavilion differed entirely from chancellors: chancellors had subordinate officials, oversaw administration, and participated in decision-making.

Grand Secretaries had no subordinates, did not oversee administration, yet were entrusted with confidential affairs.

Grand Secretaries were caught in an unbearable dilemma: to act meant forcing powerless hands to perform powerful tasks—no matter how fierce the momentum, failure was certain.

To demand that an official without real authority accomplish tasks requiring authority was to demand the impossible.

This contradiction arose from a severe imbalance between power and responsibility.

The powerless could neither mobilize needed resources nor coordinate other departments, yet were held accountable for outcomes—trapped in the plight of a wife unable to cook without rice.

The root cause of this contradiction was flawed institutional design, leading to governance failure.

As Zhu Yijun listened to Ye Xianggao’s analysis, names flashed before him: Xia Yan, Yan Song, Xu Jie, Gao Gong, Zhang Juzheng, Zhang Simei, Shen Shixing. In the original historical line, only Shen Shixing had wisely withdrawn; the others had all met bad ends.

“You are correct,” Zhu Yijun said after long thought, nodding. “I won’t burden you with two questions: you’ve analyzed the phenomenon, the problem, the cause—do you have a solution?”

Ye Xianggao bowed quickly. “Your servant is dull—I have no solution.”

Ye Xianggao felt he had already done enough: seeing the phenomenon, identifying the problem, analyzing the contradiction, and finding the cause—it was already impressive!

The emperor asked for a solution—he had thought about it, but didn’t know what to do. He believed even if he became Chief Grand Secretary, he could do nothing, for Zhang Juzheng had failed too—if Zhang Juzheng had had a solution, the Zhang Faction wouldn’t have existed.

The patronage system, this distorted product, was born from the Grand Secretaries' helplessness: lacking subordinates, they could not coordinate the ministries.

Zhu Yuanzhang was diligent—he abolished the chancellorship and ruled alone, and it worked. Zhu Yijun was diligent too, so this imbalanced Grand Secretariat could stumble forward.

But once the emperor’s energy waned and he grew lazy, the problem would become undeniable.

Its rise was swift, its fall sudden. Strongman rule was hard to achieve and impossible to stop—but its collapse came unexpectedly, all at once.

Zhu Yijun paused, then shook his head. “Let me discuss this with my teacher—I won’t press you further.”

“Your servant takes leave.” Ye Xianggao exhaled in relief—if the emperor pressed further, he could only beg for forgiveness.

Zhu Yijun ordered Feng Bao to send a decree to the Grand Secretariat seeking advice. Soon, he received replies: five blank draft slips. The Grand Secretaries’ meaning was clear—they were powerless.

Zhu Yijun pondered for a moment, then shook his head and said, “I’ll consult with Master and not make things difficult for you.”

“Your servant takes his leave,” Ye Xianggao sighed; if the Emperor asked further, he could only beg for pardon.

Zhu Yijun ordered Feng Bao to send a memorandum to the Grand Secretariat for advice, and soon he received a reply: five blank floating tickets—the Grand Secretaries’ intent was clear, they were powerless.