Chapter 987

Zhu Yijun had one final move to respond to the celestial change: equal land distribution, not land restitution, but equal land distribution.

Land restitution meant the court compensated landowners to reclaim their estates, then either allocated or leased the land for peasants to till themselves—not outright confiscation without compensation.

Equal land distribution, however, meant executing the gentry and redistributing their land—its nature was entirely different: outright confiscation of property. This was the last resort; if even equal land distribution failed, Zhu Yijun could only die alongside the Great Ming.

Zhu Yijun told Wang Guoguang about the assassination of Imperial Envoy Xu Chengchu in Rongcheng County and the subsequent military deployment there, revealing he still held a hidden card.

In Zhu Yijun’s view, the current policy of relocating populations merely aimed to limit the scale of potential peasant uprisings; his fallback strategy differed fundamentally from Wang Guoguang’s.

Wang Guoguang listened patiently to the emperor’s thoughts, pondered long, then said: “Your Majesty, truly caring for the people—your ministers are utterly unworthy.”

Upon hearing the Rongcheng Qingma Bridge case, Wang Guoguang recalled he had seen the report; for any attack on an imperial envoy, regardless of motive, he must follow the emperor’s lead and march on Rongcheng!

The assassination of an imperial envoy warranted any fierce response—no matter how extreme—even if the Rongcheng County Magistrate Sun Qifeng acted without malicious intent, such action was still justified.

During Emperor Wen of Han’s reign, there was a maternal uncle named Bo Zhao, whose sister was Emperor Wen’s mother; after the Lü Clan Rebellion, Chang’an ran red with blood, and ultimately, they chose to install Emperor Wen.

Emperor Wen harbored doubts about this outcome and dispatched his maternal uncle Bo Zhao to Chang’an to negotiate the terms of his ascension.

Bo Zhao had earned the merit of installing the emperor and was a chief architect of the coup; Emperor Wen indulged him greatly.

In the tenth year of Emperor Wen’s reign, Bo Zhao illegally executed a Han imperial envoy; Emperor Wen sent ministers to persuade Bo Zhao to take his own life and preserve dignity for all—but Bo Zhao refused to show dignity, so Emperor Wen ordered all officials to go to Bo Zhao’s home and weep as if at a funeral, forcing him to commit suicide.

Despite being the emperor’s own maternal uncle, the hero who installed him, and a chief strategist, Emperor Wen still went this far.

In the end, even Bo Zhao, whose face was as thick as city walls, had no choice but to kill himself; had he not, Emperor Wen would have come to his door himself to weep.

Killing an imperial envoy, for any reason, must be treated as regicide; Your Majesty’s decision to march on Rongcheng is entirely justified—and even remarkably merciful.

Your Majesty executed the powerful elites and gentry of Rongcheng County, exiled their families to the Jinchí Viceroyalty, redistributed the land, and did not punish nine clans—who dares say Your Majesty is not merciful?

When Your Majesty spoke of equal land distribution in Rongcheng, he was telling Wang Guoguang: as emperor, he possesses the capacity, responsibility, and means to counter the celestial change.

Wang Guoguang was confused, not mentally incapacitated.

The greatest difference between these two fallback strategies—one is cutting off the arm to save the body, the other is equal land distribution—lies in the emperor’s genuine care for the people, even when massive unrest erupts, he refuses to abandon these “troublesome peasants.”

In the emperor’s heart, he never sees these peasants, forced to rise in rebellion, as “troublesome”; looking across dynasties, such thinking is truly, truly extraordinary.

Ministers think and worry within their own positions; though all loudly proclaim “the people are the foundation of the state,” in decision-making, they still unconsciously prioritize preserving the court and the dynasty.

Cutting off the arm to save the body—blocking unrest within Tongguan, letting celestial change and rebellion kill the people, reducing population to within land-carrying capacity, ignoring the lives of Shaanxi-Gansu-Sui peasants—this is not preserving the greater good.

It preserves nothing at all, for the state loses its great trust; the people will suspect: will I be the next discarded?

Blocking rebel forces within Tongguan, preventing them from crossing the pass, is merely the Great Ming’s final gasp.

The emperor before us is entirely different: his decisions fully follow the principle that “the people are the foundation of the state; when the foundation is firm, the state is secure,” and he acts upon it.

There is a major problem here: if the emperor implements equal land distribution in Shaanxi-Gansu-Sui, he must implement it across the entire Great Ming.

Otherwise, the inland gentry and elites, fearing policy expansion, will turn against the emperor, while Shaanxi-Gansu-Sui sinks into peasant rebellion—the emperor’s rule will be utterly destabilized.

Any large-scale policy like equal land distribution or equal wealth—either do not enact it at all, or sweep through the entire Great Ming; and over these many years, the emperor seems to have been preparing precisely for this.

Indeed, in the emperor’s heart, whether the Great Ming falls or not is not his primary concern; what he seeks is merely that China not perish and civilization not vanish.

Wang Guoguang clearly sensed the emperor’s unwavering will, his courage to face problems head-on, his relentless perseverance, and his resolve to burn everything together.

“Your Majesty, I am old, and grown foolish.” Wang Guoguang withdrew his memorial; the issue of distant relocation in Qi Jiguang’s memorial was surely not unknown to Qi Jiguang.

Could Qi Jiguang not understand? Could Zhang Juzheng, who drafted the memorial for him, not understand?

Zhang Juzheng, Qi Jiguang, and the emperor shared the same goal: if necessary, impose military rule and equal land distribution!

Zhu Yijun spoke with Wang Guoguang for a long time before leaving his mansion; truly, Wang Guoguang’s memorial and Ling Yunyi’s opinion represented the most rational consideration—preserving the dynasty while preventing unrest from spreading inland, a rational choice.

The emperor and Qi Jiguang’s thinking and actions were simply more resolute—they were willing to sacrifice even the Great Ming court itself.

“To report to the Son of Heaven and save the common people has never been empty words.” Wang Guoguang sat on his reclining chair, gazing at the hackberry tree before him, pondering long, finally understanding the emperor’s conviction.

When ten thousand men unite as one, the world is invincible; if the military spirit endures, the Great Ming has no obstacle it cannot overcome.

Wang Guoguang leaned back in his chair, one foot swaying it gently, utterly at ease; his mood was excellent, light and free. If this military spirit could endure, he could not promise much—but at least he could ensure internal peace within the Great Ming.

To live in peace and contentment, to have days of tranquility, to gossip about state affairs in alleys and under trees—this was the finest time for the people.

To make a choice is to choose: he himself remained among the masses; the emperor once again chose the masses, not himself—just as with the imperial highways, just as with the Dinghai education system.

Zhu Yijun returned to the Tonghemen Imperial Study and reflected on the policies of the eighth month of Wanli 19, discovering two things.

The instability of the Great Ming’s institutions; the difficulties brought by the celestial change were harder than imagined.

Ye Xianggao’s question was, in fact, about the instability of the Great Ming’s institutions.

The system of collective deliberation in the Wenhua Hall required too many coincidences to remain stable; each link depended on another. If one link failed, the entire system collapsed like dominoes.

For instance, now that Zhang Juzheng had retired, the emperor and the chief minister were no longer inseparable; the system now appeared incapable of functioning effectively.

Zhu Yijun must, through long-term practice, continuously summarize experience and strengthen the stability of the public deliberation system.

Zhu Yijun believed the Wenhua Hall deliberations were more resilient than Zhang Juzheng and Ye Xianggao believed—not as fragile as imagined, crumbling at the slightest touch.

The Wenhua Hall deliberations were an institution born from long practice; though they seemed accidental, they possessed inherent necessity. Based on Zhu Yijun’s experience, institutions tested by practice often possessed far greater resilience.

The Wenhua Hall deliberations would undergo drastic change when key figures departed—but such change was adaptation, self-correction, adapting to change and new environments, not total collapse as Zhang Juzheng and Ye Xianggao imagined.

Because the Wenhua Hall court deliberation was a system born from the long-term practice of the Great Ming, it appeared to have great contingency, but in fact possessed a certain necessity; according to Zhu Yijun’s experience, systems tested by practice often possessed greater resilience.

The celestial change—droughts and floods out of balance—demanded far greater caution from the court; the court had underestimated its potential harm. Wang Guoguang’s idea of cutting off the arm to save the body was no exaggeration.

Shaanxi-Gansu-Sui, already lacking in grain reserves, would become critically deficient due to the celestial change; resolving this required the utmost caution.

“Your Majesty, Prince De requests an audience.” A eunuch entered, bowing.

Shaan-Gan-Sui, already lacking in grain strength and slightly deficient, would become severely deficient in grain strength due to celestial changes; how to resolve this required the court to proceed with the utmost caution.

Zhu Zaiyu bowed and said: “Your servant pays homage to Your Majesty. May Your Majesty’s health be well.”

“Rise.” Zhu Yijun smiled: “Sit. Your Royal Highness never visits without cause—what brings you to this mortal realm?”

Zhu Yijun’s Tonghemen Palace was also a mortal realm.

The Ge Wu Academy transcended the mundane, existing beyond the five elements.

“I have three matters. First: since the introduction of universal mathematics, our Great Ming has trained tens of thousands of mathematical talents, including Li Kaifang, Li Zhizao, and Xu Guangqi—yet the time has been short, and Western mathematics still holds unique advantages. I humbly request Your Majesty’s grace to permit the foreign scholar Kepler to join the Ge Wu Academy as a mathematics professor.” Zhu Zaiyu presented his first request: Kepler’s admission to the Ge Wu Academy.

This was a special favor, for Kepler had not submitted a token of loyalty; before Galileo entered the Ge Wu Academy, he had spent a year as a physician, vaccinating the Great Ming’s people against smallpox—Kepler had submitted no such token.

But Kepler came to the Great Ming with his beloved, seeking truth; moreover, his eyes and hands were damaged by smallpox. Zhu Zaiyu believed he deserved trust and leniency.

“I have heard this man is highly learned. I grant your request.” Zhu Yijun approved Zhu Zaiyu’s petition. Kepler differed from the missionary Matteo Ricci: Ricci came to proselytize; Kepler came to conduct scientific research on astronomy.

“My second matter: I bring a sign of auspiciousness.” Zhu Zaiyu gestured to the eunuch to present the Shengping No. 10 steam engine model before the emperor.

Zhu Zaiyu detailed how the Shengping No. 10 improved upon the Shengping No. 9: its horsepower remained at 450, but its weight dropped from ten thousand jin to four thousand seven hundred jin—a refined model.

Reduced weight and miniaturization granted this steam engine greater possibilities: halving its weight meant using less coal and less water.

Greater horsepower and smaller size were the Ge Wu Academy’s relentless pursuit; according to Zhu Zaiyu’s design, soon a fifty-thousand-jin, eight-thousand-horsepower iron steed would usher the imperial highways into a golden age.

“Excellent, excellent.” Zhu Yijun manipulated the model, added water, lit the alcohol lamp; the steam engine emitted a brief whistle and began turning. Zhu Yijun inquired in detail about process improvements; the Great Ming’s eighteen-year effort on cylinder machining had steadily improved its airtightness.

“My third matter: my glider has seen some progress, but I have abandoned the idea of mounting a steam engine on it.” Zhu Zaiyu’s third matter was admitting his failed exploration; years of research proved he had entered a dead end.

Coal, water, and steam engines together were simply too heavy—even if the steam engine were further miniaturized, it could not fly; coal’s calorific value was far too low, and it consumed vast quantities of water—flight was impossible.

Zhu Yijun smiled: “If it succeeds, naturally best; if not, it is still the pursuit of infinite principles. Did not the weight reduction of the Shengping No. 10 emerge from glider research? On the path of exploration, failure is also success.”

Zhu Yijun offered Zhu Zaiyu a generous bowl of chicken soup, urging him not to lose heart: brief failure paved the way for future, greater success.

“Thank Your Majesty for your comfort,” Zhu Zaiyu said, his expression uneasy: “I have wasted one million taels of imperial treasury—please forgive me.”

Taking the emperor’s silver without delivering corresponding results was a sin.

“What’s the big deal? One million taels is nothing.” Zhu Yijun waved it off; it was petty cash compared to the Ge Wu Academy’s glorious achievements.

Merely studying astronomy and the celestial navigation technique, enabling ships to return safely, was a merit lasting millennia.

“Thank Your Majesty,” Zhu Zaiyu finally sighed in relief; as long as the emperor did not blame him for wasting one million taels from the imperial treasury.

“How is your steam turbine coming along?” Zhu Yijun still remembered the steam turbine he had once seen—capable of turning, but unusable; it had tremendous power.

Zhu Zaiyu shook his head: “No progress. Unstable, unreliable, materials cannot withstand the stress. Further advancement is currently impossible.”

Not every research project succeeds; on the contrary, failure is routine, success is rare.

The progress on the steam turbine was nearly identical to what the emperor had seen before—but during this R&D, the Great Ming had accumulated vast experience in controlling high-pressure, high-temperature steam.

Zhu Yijun asked about several projects; all answers were similar: few projects showed progress, but as long as research continued, these mountainous obstacles would be slowly overcome.

“Does the Ge Wu Academy lack funds? My imperial treasury still holds two million one hundred thousand taels.” Zhu Yijun considered, then raised it himself; Zhu Zaiyu rarely requested funding—since the Ge Wu Academy’s founding, it had requested only two million taels from the emperor.

“The Ge Wu Academy still has funds—over eight hundred thousand taels, sufficient for now.” Zhu Zaiyu shook his head; his visit was to report progress, not to request money.

Zhu Yijun and Zhu Zaiyu discussed the Dinghai education system; the Ge Wu Academy would fully support talent cultivation under it.

“Your servant takes leave.” Zhu Zaiyu reported the Ge Wu Academy’s recent developments and departed the Tonghemen Imperial Study.

The success of the Wanli Reforms was assembled piece by piece—no divine power, only the relentless efforts of comrades sharing the same purpose and joy.

“Imperial Censor Liu Yushan impeaches Wang Qian, Prefect of Songjiang.” Feng Bao sifted through documents, pulled out a memorial, and bowed.

“Your servant is dull—I see no issue,” Feng Bao murmured. “According to Censor Liu, for every thousand shi of grain harvested from the Dujiangyan Jimin Canal, the court loses three taels.”

A strange account, a peculiar calculation.

Zhu Yijun finished reading the memorial: “The poison of excessive calculation. Letting the people gain a slight advantage feels like taking their life.”

Zhu Yijun had seen such memorials before—not once. He called them “the poison of excessive calculation”; their style was identical: ignoring the whole, focusing only on partial facts.

When Wang Qian went to Sichuan to handle the Dengtou case, he used his own silver to rebuild the Dujiangyan and constructed three hundred li of the Jimin Canal to irrigate Guanzhong lands.

Water conservancy facilities cannot last forever; they require annual maintenance. The cost of maintaining these three hundred li of canal fell on local yamens.

Liu Yushan’s calculation was cunning: he subtracted the maintenance cost of the Jimin Canal from the increased land tax of newly reclaimed fields, then allocated the deficit to the new land, concluding the people owed the court—every thousand shi of grain, they owed three taels.

“Liu Yushan’s meaning is that the people along the Jimin Canal should pay silver—just ten wen per mu.” Zhu Yijun stretched his shoulders: “The people have never owed the court, nor the yamen.”

The local yamen’s maintenance of the Jimin Canal incurred losses because the increased land tax could not cover expenses—this deficit arose primarily because the court had massively reduced land taxes to respond to the celestial change.

Water conservancy facilities, once built, cannot be used forever; they require annual maintenance, and the cost of maintaining this three-hundred-li Jimin Canal fell upon the local yamen.

Liu Yushan’s calculation was shrewd: he deducted the increased land tax from the newly reclaimed fields from the maintenance cost of the three-hundred-li Jimin Canal and imposed the remainder on the newly reclaimed land, concluding that the people owed the court—three fen of silver for every thousand shi of grain.

“Liu Yushan’s idea is to make the people along this three-hundred-li Jimin Canal pay silver—not much, ten wen per mu,” Zhu Yijun said, rolling his shoulders. “The people never owe the court, nor do they owe the yamen.”

The local yamen’s maintenance of the Jimin Canal left its land tax revenue insufficient to cover expenditures; this deficit arose primarily because the court had massively reduced land taxes to respond to celestial changes.

The contradictions here are intriguing: the court could never make up this deficit, local yamen didn’t want to acknowledge it, so in the end, they thought of asking the common people for maintenance fees for the canals.

Feng Bao pondered for a while before replying: “Your servant believes we must not open this door. I cannot reclaim wasteland, nor farm, nor audit accounts—I cannot make sense of these books.”

“But I know what the Ming officials and gentry are like: once this imperial study issues a vermilion approval, the reclaimed land along the three-hundred-li Jimin Canal will have nothing to do with the common people.”

Feng Bao understood perfectly well the crux of the issue—he was simply giving the civil officials a sharp jab, speaking ill of them!

Speaking ill of civil officials must be done daily; it cannot be omitted. One must remain ever vigilant against these crafty men!

“You’re right,” Zhu Yijun agreed with Feng Bao’s view. No matter how much the yamen lost, it was still public money—but land consolidation, once seized, became private gain.

Ten wen per mu may seem trivial, but once the emperor approves a new tax, all manner of disguised levies and exactions will descend like a storm. This single vermilion annotation is a license for private plunder, an imperial decree permitting consolidation.

Zhu Yijun reread the memorial before saying: “There’s a crucial question here: is this three-hundred-li Tonghe Jimin Canal truly unprofitable? Is the yamen a merchant? Does it care only for profit and loss, not the paramount duty of pacifying the land and nurturing the people?”

“Three taels of silver could yield a thousand shi more grain—what a magnificent thing! Only when the people rise in revolt will they realize their folly.”

“Even if we look purely at the numbers, Feng Daban, do you truly believe the local yamen haven’t collected this canal dredging fee?”

“Your Majesty is wise—these local yamen invent arbitrary fees to collect every unreasonable silver coin; as for reasonable ones, they’ve likely already collected them a hundred years in advance!” Feng Bao hurriedly replied.

The emperor is not easily deceived; he knows full well what the local yamen are like.

He has a clear picture.

“This memorial is, in fact, a test. Some yamen in our Great Ming are now spending more than they earn,” Zhu Yijun said, his expression grave as he studied the memorial.

Zhu Yijun didn’t expend energy on this memorial because its argument was compelling—he dealt with it because it revealed a deeper problem.

Under the special backdrop of years of tax exemptions amid celestial changes, the local yamen of the Ming, whose revenue relied primarily on land taxes, now faced a crisis in the distribution of interests.

In simple terms: the wolves are still the same, but there’s not enough meat to go around.

The meat-eaters are still the same, but the meat has shrunk—so they must find ways to plunder the people. Under a small-farmer economy, if you don’t reach into the people’s rice bins, what other option is there?

The officials and gentry don't even want to bear the blame—they want the emperor to take the infamy.

Feng Bao finally understood the emperor’s words; his brow furrowed. This problem was indeed thorny. Not every local yamen in the Ming was as wealthy as Songjiang Prefecture, where silver was so abundant it could fund the emperor’s imperial palace.

“Your Majesty, what should we do?” Feng Bao could not think of a solution.

“Do nothing,” Zhu Yijun thought for a moment, then stated his course of action.

“Do nothing?” Feng Bao was truly baffled. This seemed a grave issue, yet the emperor’s solution was to do nothing.

Zhu Yijun explained: “Feng Daban, the officials are testing me. Why test? Because they dare not act recklessly—so they come to me for an imperial decree.”

“Why dare they not act recklessly? They fear my punishment. If they sneak around and are exposed by censors or provincial governors, they lose their official caps—and that cap is more important than their lives.”

“Second, they fear popular unrest. The tax reduction is a policy proclaimed to all the people. They dare not tamper with land taxes, so they seek other means. Without an imperial decree, if unrest breaks out, local officials lose their heads.”

Zhu Yijun’s solution was to do nothing: if they can collect silver without an imperial decree, these vermin will never write to the emperor.

The people of the Ming are capable of armed tax resistance. Every year, when yamen runners go to the countryside to collect land taxes, it’s “a thousand men rise with clubs, ten thousand line the roads to watch.” If they overreach, it becomes: “Cut down their trees, raise your banners, follow me—kill the tax collectors!” The people of the Ming are by no means passive lambs.

The peasant uprisings in Ruijin and Ninghua counties even breached the county yamen.

With too many wolves and too little meat, and no more plunder from the people, and the emperor refusing to grant moral justification—then the wolves must turn on each other.

“Liu Yushan went to the Ministry of Works’ Material Estimation Office—he’s skilled in accounting. Sending him to audit the material accounts is most fitting.” Zhu Yijun vermilion-approved Liu Yushan’s memorial and assigned him to the Material Estimation Office.

The Material Estimation Office was a newly established bureau under the Ministry of Works, wielding no real power, working day and night over ledgers, exhausting their minds.

Because it was new, it was desperately short-staffed.

Having little power yet being buried in work—that is the true portrait of most yamen. Only by climbing higher can one, amid the chaos, seize real authority.

Power is the most seductive thing. Gao Qi, though a senior official of the Ministry of Rites, still stayed up late writing memorials voluntarily—because he had truly gained sufficient power and reward.

“Your Majesty, Xu Chengchu and the Anti-Corruption Office have audited the six departments of Shuntian Prefecture,” Feng Bao presented Xu Chengchu’s preliminary findings before the throne.

“What’s the result?” Zhu Yijun picked up the memorial, skimmed the summary slips, then asked Feng Bao.

Feng Bao thought a moment and said: “Petty clerks are massively corrupt.”

The anti-corruption storm in Shuntian’s six departments had just begun. Xu Chengchu’s memorial was merely a preliminary report—the larger purge was still brewing.

Petty clerks being massively corrupt was a common phenomenon—some stole more than ministers. Preliminary audits already revealed over 1.5 million taels embezzled across the six departments; further investigation by the Embroidered Uniform Guard was needed.

This scale rivaled the Grand Canal corruption scandal—but the Grand Canal involved massive public works. The six departments’ corruption siphoned every last copper from the people, making it even more hateful.

“What? Does Xu Chengchu mean we should thank them for their corruption? This is the strangest thing in the world!” Zhu Yijun said, astonished as he read.

Because these six-department clerks, having stolen silver, were now using it to subsidize Shuntian Prefecture’s deficit!

Never before in history had clerks stolen to fill the yamen’s coffers—instead of emptying them, they were replenishing them!

Zhu Yijun could never have imagined: after all this investigation, the emperor was expected to thank these corrupt officials for keeping the yamen running.

Shuntian’s retained land taxes and commercial levies were more than enough to sustain the prefectural yamen—but the capital was filled with too many powerful elites. Today a marquis’s mansion sent word, tomorrow a minister wrote a note—so the deficit grew ever larger.

Ministers writing notes to grant favors was common. For example, the famed Northern Song chancellor Fu Bi once wrote a note to help his son. Logically, the note should have been burned—but the helper treasured Fu Bi’s calligraphy and kept it, later becoming the famous “Son’s Note.”

That was only the note Fu Bi had ordered destroyed but was preserved—how many others had been destroyed?

Shuntian's vice-prefect Yang Jun was accused by censors of prioritizing tax collection over governance—not falsely, not without grounds. Yang Jun indeed had the suspicion of governing through bribery: those who could pay their taxes could obtain an official post through the official recommendation system.

Thus Yang Jun had begged for imperial favor to earn a chance at redemption.

Shuntian had its own difficulties—it couldn’t ask the emperor’s tax inspection bureau for help over every trivial matter.

So Shuntian’s accounts became strangely odd: the tax base was shrinking, yet tax collection was always completed on schedule.

The scale of corruption among the six-department clerks was indeed massive—large enough to subsidize the yamen.

“Not taken from above, it must be taken from below—all is the people’s flesh and blood,” Feng Bao did not consider these clerks good men, for to fill Shuntian’s deficit, they first filled their own bellies.

“Moreover, Shuntian’s deficit was caused by them in the first place. Most of these six-department clerks and yamen runners are the claws and fangs of powerful elites,” Feng Bao added.

The fundamental logic of this corruption case was: plundering the people to make up for deficits created by the powerful—sacrificing public interest to satisfy private gain, thereby harming all the people under heaven.

The definition of public and private: public is the larger collective relative to private. To satisfy private gain inevitably harms the greater collective.

The definition of public and private: public refers to a larger collective relative to the private; satisfying the interests of private factions inevitably harms the greater collective.