Chapter 986

When authority is light but responsibility is heavy, that is the flaw in the current Grand Secretariat system of the Great Ming.

There are currently five Grand Secretaries in the Great Ming: Zhang Juzheng oversees the Ministry of Personnel, Ling Yunyi oversees the Ministry of Justice, Shen Li oversees the Ministry of Rites, Zhang Xueyan oversees the Ministry of Revenue, and Lu Guangzu oversees the Censorate; this is a unique arrangement of the Wanli era, and logically, once appointed as Grand Secretaries, they should relinquish these duties and focus solely on their role as Grand Secretaries.

In practice, they sit their shifts in the Wenyuan Pavilion, while the actual duties of each ministry are handled by the respective Minister or Left Vice Minister.

But, to return to the point!

The Emperor and the Chief Grand Secretary played their cards cleverly: the actual decision-making body of the Great Ming is the Wenhua Hall court deliberation—a special system of shared governance that emerged during the Wanli era due to the young emperor and the uncertainty of the state.

Logically, such a special system during a special period should revert to its original form after the Emperor assumes personal rule, since the shared deliberation of Wenhua Hall somewhat undermines imperial authority.

During the time of a young emperor and a fragile state, Wenhua Hall deliberations were meant to prevent ministers from bullying the Emperor; this shared system protected the young sovereign, when Feng Bao would scold one minister after another, wielding great power.

After the Emperor assumed personal rule, this shared system began to challenge imperial authority, for when ministers jointly decide, it is tantamount to the Emperor being collectively sidelined; if ministers privately agree among themselves, how can the Emperor’s decisions avoid being entirely blocked?

This flaw remained hidden because the Emperor’s authority grew ever stronger; by Wanli nineteenth year, “My will is decided,” and no one dared oppose it.

This authority was earned through the Emperor’s daily inspection of troops, control of the Capital Garrison, his diligence in handling memorials without delay, his frugality in the Inner Treasury, and his dedication to state affairs—mirroring the example of the Taizu Emperor.

This shared deliberation system still runs smoothly, but only by exploiting a bug.

If the Emperor’s authority in military, financial, or administrative matters were even slightly diminished, he would be sidelined;

If there were no shared deliberation system, the Emperor’s authority would face no opposition, and ministers would become paper Grand Secretaries and clay Six Ministers;

If ministers harbored ulterior motives, if incompetent men multiplied, or if the Emperor grew lazy, this shared system would turn into a never-ending squabble—inefficient and powerless.

Precisely because these forces balanced each other, this shared system became the optimal solution of the present.

The world is a vast makeshift operation, and even the Wenhua Hall, the supreme seat of power in the Celestial Empire, is no exception.

Lose any single component, and instability will arise, triggering a massive political storm that sweeps across the entire Great Ming.

The Emperor can delegate state affairs to ministers to ease his burden; ministers have a place to bicker without fully tearing apart; policies can be swiftly decided and implemented.

Zhu Yijun did not know how long this system could remain stable, but he knew Ye Xianggao’s concern was correct: light authority and heavy responsibility was the current predicament of the Grand Secretaries.

In the original timeline, during the Wanli era—or even throughout the Great Ming—Shen Shixing was the last Grand Secretary bold enough to act.

Even though he tried to balance all factions, even though he wished to satisfy everyone, he always ended up satisfying no one; it seemed absurd, yet he struggled to maintain this mess, hoping the Great Ming might recover.

Once Shen Shixing departed, the Great Ming plunged fully into factional strife.

No authoritative figure, no political strongman; everyone struggled in the mire, slowly rotting, none willing to step forward and assume responsibility, none willing to raise a banner and sweep away old evils to renew the state; all chose to blend with the dust, all chose to endure for the sake of the nation.

Zhu Yijun pondered without resolution, and his inquiry to the Grand Secretariat yielded no answer.

Night was deep, the moon hidden, the sky ablaze with stars; inside the Wenchang Pavilion of the Quanchu Guildhall, Zhang Juzheng sat by the window, gazing at the hackberry tree outside—the very tree planted by the hand of the imperial examination laureate, now towering and lush, its branches and leaves casting shimmering reflections upon the lime-lit lamps within the Wenchang Pavilion.

The Grand Secretaries had long recognized the substance of the Emperor’s inquiry today, but no one had dared to pierce this thin veil; Ye Xianggao was clever, yet every man who reached the rank of Grand Secretary was clever.

Ye Xianggao had discovered it; past Grand Secretaries had discovered it too.

For example, at the beginning of the Wanli era, Zhang Juzheng sought to implement the Kaocheng Law, but Minister of Personnel Yang Bo fiercely obstructed him; Zhang Juzheng could not push it through until the Wang Jinglong case erupted, when he used the case to quell unrest and secured the implementation of the Kaocheng Law, even receiving direct imperial inquiry.

Later, Zhang Juzheng gritted his teeth, resolved himself, and took direct control of the Ministry of Personnel, finally pushing through the Kaocheng Law, then forming an alliance with Wang Guoguang to advance the land survey.

At that time, the Wenhua Hall shared deliberation system had not yet formed; it was only gradually established after the first Grand Secretary began returning authority to the Emperor, starting around Wanli sixth year.

Zhang Juzheng knew this system was unstable, but he had no solution; the Wenhua Hall shared deliberation was the very center of the power vortex.

How this center should operate stably, efficiently, without mutual obstruction or mutual slander—since ancient times, there has been no standard answer.

Zhang Juzheng picked up his brush, then set it down; in the end, he left behind a blank memorial, utterly at a loss for how to design the current center of power.

“Master, tomorrow His Majesty will arrive in person; the entire residence has been thoroughly cleaned.” You Shouli entered Zhang Juzheng’s study and reported the preparations; tomorrow was again the twenty-third of the month, and the Emperor would come to the Quanchu Guildhall for another meal.

This was one of the delicate balances of Wenhua Hall deliberation: the Emperor and the Chief Grand Secretary, his imperial tutor, enjoyed an exceptionally close relationship, and the Emperor himself delighted in displaying this intimacy; this unbreakable monthly meal reinforced for ministers that sowing discord between Emperor and Chief Grand Secretary was truly impossible.

Precisely because of this intimate bond between the Emperor and the head of the civil officials, the Wenhua Hall ministers could never form a united front to sideline the Emperor.

“Has word come from the palace?” Zhang Juzheng thought a moment and asked.

One sentence.

You Shouli did not know what message his master meant, and replied honestly: “Word came from the palace: tomorrow proceeds as usual.”

“Understood.” Zhang Juzheng nodded.

The next day, after morning court, the Emperor’s jade carriage reappeared before the Quanchu Guildhall; not only did the Emperor come for his meal, he brought the Empress, Crown Prince Zhu Changzhi, and second son Zhu Changchao along.

Zhu Changzhi and Zhu Changchao trained together and had an exceptionally close bond; Zhu Changchao was frail, so Zhu Changzhi always yielded to him; the two were inseparable.

Of course, it would be better if they stopped destroying the ornamental fish in the Quanchu Guildhall.

These young princes, both skilled with tailless arrows, were now competing to shoot fish; the fish in the Yanhui Pond of the Quanchu Guildhall had suffered greatly.

The young princes shot fish, the Empress sat in a pavilion by the pond to escape the heat, palace attendants stood respectfully beside her, while from within the Wenchang Pavilion came a steady din of quarreling.

Wang Yaozhuo glanced at the Wenchang Pavilion and found it perfectly normal.

A leader of the young reformers and a leader of the conservatives—of course they quarreled; such arguments came every two or three months; Wang Yaozhuo had once been terrified, but later realized the frequency had not increased nor had relations broken, so he stopped paying attention.

Then again, quarreling was good; when they quarreled, they spoke bluntly, revealing their true thoughts.

This quarrel between the Emperor and the Chief Grand Secretary was amusing—it revolved around the old topic of the Emperor’s youth: whether the sovereign and the state were one, whether they could be separated, whether the sovereign was sovereign and the state was the state.

The Emperor still believed they could be separated; the Chief Grand Secretary called the Emperor childish; they argued, then stopped.

“Enough, enough, I understand.” Zhu Yijun chose compromise; Zhang Juzheng was right—if truly separated, the Emperor’s power and responsibility would become unequal: too much power, too little responsibility.

Zhang Juzheng naturally opposed it; the Jiajing Emperor had devoted himself to Daoist cultivation, the late Emperor had withdrawn from public life; now, after so long, a diligent sovereign had emerged, and Zhang Juzheng would do anything to prevent the Emperor’s power-responsibility imbalance.

The Great Ming could not afford another lazy monarch.

“Your Majesty is wise.” Zhang Juzheng, seeing the Emperor accept his view, withdrew gracefully, without pressing further.

“This light authority and heavy responsibility of the Grand Secretaries—Master, do you have a good solution?” Zhu Yijun raised Ye Xianggao’s concern.

Zhang Juzheng pondered carefully, then shook his head: “Your Majesty, things are fine as they are. Where the Emperor is, the court is.”

The Grand Secretaries overseeing the Six Ministries or the Censorate solved the problem of light authority; because the Emperor was sufficiently authoritative and the Wenhua Hall shared deliberation system ensured collective decision-making, there was no fear of overstepping; as long as it ran stably, it was best not to tamper with it.

Moreover, Zhu Yijun, having ruled for so many years, had found that the more he sought perfection, the more he tried to satisfy everyone, the more he made a mess; action must involve trade-offs.

Whoever refuses to make trade-offs ultimately accomplishes nothing.

Sometimes, doing nothing is also wisdom.

“Master’s words are sound; it is better not to tamper.” Zhu Yijun and Zhang Juzheng reached consensus on this matter; he wished for perfection, but reality told him it was impossible—so he would maintain the status quo.

“How is the second prince’s health?” Zhang Juzheng looked out the window at Zhu Changchao shooting fish and asked about the prince’s condition.

“I nearly ruined him, but fortunately, the chief physician Chen Shigong’s skill is extraordinary, bordering on resurrection.” Zhu Yijun spoke of Zhu Changchao’s illness—he had fully recovered.

Previously, Zhu Yijun had clung to false hope, thinking the child would grow better with age and avoiding surgery whenever possible, which only allowed the illness to worsen.

Zhu Yijun gazed out the window, smiling: “Now, Changchao grows an inch every month—he’s nearly as tall as his brother, and much stronger.”

“Excellent.” Zhang Juzheng, hearing this news, felt genuinely relieved.

The Jiajing Emperor’s obsession with Daoist cultivation was linked to the successive deaths of his sons; between Jiajing sixteenth and nineteenth years, four princes born in quick succession all died before reaching one year of age.

Zhang Juzheng had feared for Zhu Changchao’s health, for once such a pattern begins, it tends to repeat.

Infant mortality was common in this era, but four princes dying before their first birthday in succession was suspicious.

When Zhu Changchao fell gravely ill, Zhang Juzheng feared the pattern would resume—but now, the two brothers playing together eased his mind, indicating the Tonghe Palace’s defenses remained impenetrable.

“What are you worrying about?” Zhu Yijun keenly sensed Zhang Juzheng’s mood had improved.

“I worry whether Shen Shixing can handle his duties—more precisely, whether he can protect Your Majesty.” Zhang Juzheng, in his own home with no one else present, voiced his concern.

“Hahaha.” Zhu Yijun laughed loudly; Zhang Juzheng, aged sixty-eight, had fallen into his old habit of suspicion—even distrusting a disciple he had known for decades.

“I will protect myself.” Zhu Yijun would never entrust his personal safety to anyone, not even Zhang Juzheng.

Imperial authority is invincible beyond three zhang, but within three zhang, one must protect oneself; reliance on anyone is unreliable.

“General Chen Lin of the Songjiang Naval Force has submitted a memorial, requesting that after the expressway is completed, Your Majesty reside in Songjiang Prefecture for several months.” Zhu Yijun handed Zhang Juzheng the joint memorial from the Nanjing Regional Governor Wang Xiyuan, the Songjiang Regional Governor Li Le, the Songjiang Prefect Wang Qian, and the Marquis of Shouli Chen Lin.

Zhang Juzheng read the memorial and pondered deeply.

There were advantages and disadvantages, but the advantages outweighed the drawbacks.

The benefits were clear: the Great Ming pursued both land and sea, prioritizing maritime opening; many urgent matters required the Emperor’s personal presence in Songjiang, especially as the naval force grew stronger, and trust issues became increasingly apparent; the Emperor’s presence in Songjiang could alleviate or even resolve these problems.

The drawback was the Emperor’s potential danger; if he stayed away from the capital too long, disloyal elements within the capital—though outwardly loyal—might cause trouble, putting the Emperor and the princes’ safety in question.

Should either the Emperor or any prince suffer harm, it would trigger a catastrophic upheaval the Great Ming could not endure.

“I believe it is not urgent,” Zhang Juzheng expressed his view; he disagreed—or rather, it was safer to wait until the princes grew older.

Zhu Yijun frowned: “Actually, it is urgent.”

The extravagance in Songjiang Prefecture and concerns over the Songjiang Naval Force were pressing matters; Zhang Juzheng’s “not urgent” sounded overly cautious.

“Slow matters become smooth; slow people become safe; it can wait,” Zhang Juzheng considered again and held firm; even the flawless defenses of Tonghe Palace might develop vulnerabilities, endangering the princes.

Zhang Juzheng stated his reasoning: “Your Majesty, the matters raised by the two Regional Governors and the Marquis of Shouli can wait; wait until the Crown Prince grows older and can manage affairs independently, then permanent residence in Songjiang will be timely.”

“Slow people become safe”—Zhang Juzheng had made himself perfectly clear; the Emperor understood.

Some matters, if one misstep occurs, bring heaven crashing down; if any prince dies under suspicious circumstances, trust between sovereign and minister will shatter completely, and the entire system of Wenhua Hall deliberation, sustained by delicate balance, will become meaningless.

“Master’s words are sound, but I must go,” Zhu Yijun gazed out the window at the two children running and playing, pondered long, and finally made his decision.

Zhang Juzheng was not exaggerating; the very fears he voiced had occurred in the Great Ming—not once, but many times.

Zhu Yijun was no longer alone; he was the father of several children; if he stayed away from the capital for long periods, visiting Songjiang for months or even half a year each year, he would place his children in extreme danger.

This was a trade-off: state affairs or family affairs? Ultimately, Zhu Yijun chose state affairs.

“Your Majesty, the sovereign has no private affairs; Your Majesty’s family affairs are state affairs,” Zhang Juzheng urged again; the Emperor had chosen state affairs first, which pleased Zhang Juzheng, but the Emperor had no family affairs—only state affairs; the princes’ safety directly affected the fate of the Great Ming.

Zhu Yijun hesitated; Zhang Juzheng was right—it could wait. As long as he remained, the Songjiang Naval Force would not collapse; the trust issue was not so severe; with the secret memorial system, Zhu Yijun could communicate privately with Chen Lin, clarifying many matters.

Slander and intrigue were not easily effective; Zhu Yijun was no fool; all ministers of the Great Ming knew the Emperor was not easily deceived.

Zhu Yijun pondered a moment, then shook his head: “Wait until the expressway is completed. Initially, use the excuse of escaping the cold, stay in Songjiang for one or two months, then gradually extend the time.”

The Emperor did not make an immediate decision, but chose to wait until the expressway was finished, then decide based on circumstances; initially, he could visit once every two or three years, staying one or two months each time, gradually increasing frequency and duration.

“Your Majesty is wise.” Zhang Juzheng approved the Emperor’s proposal.

“Your Majesty, I believe the Guild of Artisans and the Artisan Official Selection system are in conflict,” Zhang Juzheng said gravely: “They have been granted too much power—it is not good.”

“Your Majesty,” Zhang Juzheng said solemnly, “I feel there is some conflict between the Guild Alliance and the Artisans’ Bureau. The power granted is too great—it’s not advisable.”

The examination for artisans in the Zhuntian Prefecture is underway, and Zhang Juzheng keenly sensed certain problems.

The tale of the dragon-slayer becoming a dragon has played out among the artisans.

This is not surprising: once one wields power, one is transformed by it. First, doubt creeps into the heart—why must I persist? Then the heart changes—why can others take it, but not I? Slowly, dragon scales grow, until one becomes the very dragon.

People are always so forgetful: the oppressed daughter-in-law becomes the mother-in-law and begins oppressing others; the student who railed against corruption and a dark world becomes an official and doubles down. People forget the suffering they endured, the torment they suffered—and thus repeat the same mistakes of their predecessors.

“Does the Master mean we must choose between the artisan examination and the Artisans’ Alliance?” Zhu Yijun pondered. “Which do you think is better?”

“We need both,” Zhang Juzheng waved his hand. “My point is that it is too hasty. We only reformed the official workshops with the shenggu system earlier this year, established the Artisans’ Alliance in midyear, and now in August we are launching the artisan examination—too fast.”

“Haste makes waste. The Western Hills Coal Bureau, managed excellently by Wen Cheng Gong, can fully withstand such drastic change. But the official workshops across the realm, driven primarily by the shenggu system, must first allow artisans to adapt to their new status. Wait a while, then proceed with forming the Artisans’ Alliance.”

“Without sufficient conflict, harmony cannot be achieved. The Western Hills Coal Bureau is exceptional.”

The capital troops are formidable, but that does not mean the border armies are equally capable.

The Western Hills Coal Bureau succeeded because Wang Chonggu, while alive, had explored the Artisans’ Alliance four times—and failed. Only then could Shen Shixing accomplish it so smoothly.

In other regions, such aggressive policies should not be pushed. The three matters concerning artisans—the shenggu system, the Artisans’ Alliance, and the artisan examination—are fundamentally rooted in the shenggu system.

We must make artisans the masters of the official workshops, and make them aware that they are masters, aware of the power they hold.

Zhang Juzheng does not blame the dragon-slayer for becoming a dragon; at least in this transformation of the artisans,

it is the court that moved too quickly.

“Then let us follow the Master’s advice: first, push forward the shenggu system.” Zhu Yijun readily accepted Zhang Juzheng’s view. The conservatives have their value—they can restrain the extremists among the radical reformers, allowing policies to proceed gradually, achieving harmony through conflict.

At present, the external environment of the Great Ming is not dire. The capital troops guard the north, the navy guards the south—there is no need to move so swiftly or so drastically.

Zhang Juzheng plainly expressed his desire to retire. After the New Year, he would be sixty-eight. His age weighs on him—he lacks energy, grows increasingly stubborn, and listens less to others. He feels it is time to leave the court and entrust it to the next generation.

At seventy, one is rare indeed; at his age, Zhang Juzheng is nearly a sage. He believes continuing as Chief Grand Secretary hinders the progress of successors. He plans to retire after the New Year, read and edit books, tend fish, and enjoy his remaining years.

Wang Chonggu was fully aware of his own flaw—excessive personal favoritism—but as one grows old, one becomes like a child: stubborn, convinced one’s path is utterly correct and beyond question.

This stubbornness was evident: he insisted on establishing the Artisans’ Alliance despite his excessive favoritism. Unsurprisingly, he failed many times. Wang Chonggu knew clearly that he himself was an obstacle to workshop reform—but he could no longer change.

“Master, others may retire in the face of rushing currents—but you cannot. You understand what I mean.” Zhu Yijun truly wished Zhang Juzheng to rest, unrelated to power, imperial authority, or ministerial conflict.

This old man had devoted himself utterly to the Great Ming, exhausting every ounce of strength. If he could rest in his old age, he naturally agreed.

But could he truly retire?

“It is true—I did harbor such fantasies,” Zhang Juzheng paused, then chuckled bitterly. Others might retire, but he could only die in the seat of Chief Grand Secretary. Opening reform demands a price: a dark old age, an unpeaceful end—that is the price.

When Zhang Juzheng first became Chief Grand Secretary and launched the Kaocheng Law, he had foreseen this day. Yet now, in his old age, he had foolishly dreamed of retiring from the rushing current.

On this point, Zhang Juzheng admitted he did not see as clearly as Wang Chonggu.

Wang Chonggu knew until his death that he could not take a single step back.

The Emperor has gone again to the Quanchu Guildhall for a meal. As long as the imperial carriage still arrives regularly at the Quanchu Guildhall’s gate, it signals the basic stability of court politics—like the sun rising as always, bringing comfort.

After leaving the Quanchu Guildhall, Zhu Yijun turned aside to visit Wang Guoguang’s home to see the elderly minister. Wang Guoguang is now eighty—reaching this age is already extraordinary.

Zhu Yijun’s visit was not because Wang Guoguang’s condition had worsened into its final stage, but because after Zhang Juzheng’s previous visit, Wang Guoguang’s health improved dramatically.

Zhu Yijun wished to see him again while he was still lucid.

“Your Majesty has grown so tall,” Wang Guoguang said, bewildered upon seeing the Emperor. In his memory, the Emperor was still a short, chubby boy. The image of the imposing sovereign clashed repeatedly with the memory of the little boy.

Zhu Yijun sat before Wang Guoguang and smiled. “I am nearly thirty.”

“Good, very good,” Wang Guoguang said, deeply reassured by the Emperor’s appearance. The more he looked, the more satisfied he became. Such a martial and noble sovereign—when he met the late emperors in the netherworld, he could finally give his account.

The late Emperor and the Shizong Emperor entrusted the empire to us ministers. Today’s Great Ming—our generation need feel no shame.

“Your Majesty, I have thought long and hard: General Qi’s proposal to relocate the people of Shaanxi, Gansu, and Suizhou remains flawed.” Wang Guoguang struggled to sit upright, gesturing for his son to bring a memorial. For days, he had dictated, and his son had written—this memorial was complete.

“Shaanxi, Gansu, and Suizhou are too distant. It is more prudent to relocate people from Shanxi, the Northern Metropolitan Region, and Shandong. Then, even under celestial change, the people of Shaanxi, Gansu, and Suizhou will have places to go.” Wang Guoguang continued: “Our ancestors’ relocation policies were desperate measures—when ten households were empty, we had no choice but to move them far. Now, we can move them nearby.”

Wang Guoguang immediately saw the flaw in Qi Jiguang’s relocation memorial: relocating people from Shaanxi, Gansu, and Suizhou to populate Liaodong, even with the benefit of imperial highways, was still too distant. Better to relocate people from Shanxi, the Northern Metropolitan Region, and Shandong to populate Liaodong—this leaves a population buffer, allowing Shaanxi, Gansu, and Suizhou to be relocated nearby.

Zhu Yijun read Wang Guoguang’s memorial with surprise. Wang Guoguang was ill, even unable to recognize the Emperor—but the entire memorial remained logical, well-reasoned, and clearly structured.

Wang Guoguang’s idea was concrete: focus on nearby relocation from Henan and Hebei, reducing their populations to within the land’s carrying capacity, primarily to prevent civil unrest.

More specifically, it was Henan.

“Civil unrest is like fire; the people are fuel. Remove the firewood from under the pot,” Zhu Yijun fully understood Wang Guoguang’s intent.

The regions most severely affected by celestial change are Shaanxi, Gansu, and Suizhou—high risk of civil unrest. But these areas have few people; a brief uprising, a wave of deaths, and order returns.

Henan has a vast population. If a large-scale rebellion breaks out, Henan is the critical point. If Henan’s population drops to within the land’s carrying capacity, if Henan remains stable and the people’s hearts are not lost, we can contain civil unrest within Tongguan.

This seems cruel: are the people of the interior not people? Are the people of Shaanxi, Gansu, and Suizhou not people?

Wang Guoguang made it clear: the court’s foremost duty is the survival of the state. This is the final safeguard—when all else fails, we must contain civil unrest within limits.

“A few days ago, Ling Cifu came to visit me. He served as Provincial Governor in Henan. He believes my memorial is feasible.”

Wang Guoguang told the Emperor: Ling Cifu had read and revised this memorial. If Shaanxi, Gansu, and Suizhou truly erupt, the court must prepare to cut off the arm to save the body.

“It will not come to that. The Great Ming will never reach the day of cutting off the arm to save the body. As long as I live, I swear it will never happen,” Zhu Yijun solemnly promised Wang Guoguang.

If celestial change continues to worsen and signs of great chaos emerge, Zhu Yijun will turn the blade inward—first execute the powerful, the wealthy, the local gentry—and launch a complete land redistribution in Shaanxi, Gansu, and Suizhou.

Sacrificing one region cannot save the whole.