Chapter 989: The Old Man-Aging Tactic May Be Shameful, But It Works

“Yang Yinglong of Bozhou, I have already given him one chance, ordering him to meet with Governor Ye Mengxiong in Guizhou to resolve matters peacefully, and warning him not to act recklessly while Great Ming is engaged in foreign campaigns.” Zhu Yijun spoke with ill temper upon hearing Zeng Shengwu’s memorial.

Previously, the Emperor had shown leniency, seeking to pacify Yang Yinglong for the sake of the larger campaign against the Toungoo in the southwest.

He refuses the cup of wine, and insists on drinking the cup of punishment.

But Yang Yinglong not only disrespected the Emperor—he refused to travel to Guizhou for the inspection and rejected the imperial-appointed officials sent by Great Ming.

“Your Majesty, regardless, Yang Yinglong has not yet torn open the veil—he has not killed these imperial officials. There is still room for reconciliation. If he persists in his defiance, we must crush him with thunderous force, lest it undermine our broader strategy in the southwest.”

“Your Majesty once said: when fighting externally, move slowly; when fighting internally, move swiftly.” Grand Secretary Shen Li stepped forward to mediate.

Yang Yinglong’s disloyal intentions are not new; the court and local officials of Yun, Gui, and Chuan have long been aware of them.

Decision-making requires sacrifice. Clearly, in Shen Li’s view, continuing to inch forward against the Toungoo is more vital than recalling Han troops to punish Yang Yinglong.

Yang Yinglong can be beaten anytime; a fool like Mang Yingli among the Toungoo is rare. Great Ming has finally gained moral leverage—we must beat the Toungoo to death, ideally carving out a seaport for Yunnan.

Shen Li does not mean not to beat him—he means to wait until preparations are complete, and when we strike, strike to kill outright.

External wars must be slow; internal wars must be swift.

After brief deliberation, Zhu Yijun spoke: “Grand Secretary’s words are sound. I am not an unreasonable ruler. I never repeat mercy beyond twice. I will grant him one more chance.”

“This time, conditions are far worse: issue an edict to Bozhou ordering him to bind himself and come to Chongqing Prefecture for trial. By law, he deserves execution—but I may pardon him slightly, allowing him to retain his status as Bozhou’s native chieftain.”

Zhu Yijun offered a second chance—but this time, Yang Yinglong must bind himself and travel to Chongqing to face judgment. The Emperor’s pardon for his past crimes would be the sole grace extended.

This condition is vastly inferior to the first.

“Your Majesty’s benevolence is the great fortune of our realm, yet the native chieftain fails to comprehend Heaven’s will and ignores Your Majesty’s virtuous intent, instead growing bolder, grasping at more than he has.” Zeng Shengwu hurried to warn the Emperor: these native chieftains do not understand such reasoning—they do not feel gratitude for imperial grace; they only see weakness.

Zhu Yijun immediately said: “If he defies again, crush him utterly.”

“Your servant obeys.” Zeng Shengwu had been waiting for these words—he knew full well the mindset of these native chieftains. It mirrored precisely the campaigns against Jiusi and the Dujiang Man, down to the timing.

Repeated defiance demands a crushing blow—only then can peace last two or three decades.

The story of the pacification of Jiusi in Wanli Year One is now nineteen years past; these native chieftains have forgotten it.

This time, the complication lies in the fact that Han troops in Sichuan are all engaged against the Toungoo—Sichuan is left vulnerable. To crush Yang Yinglong, careful planning is essential.

“Your Majesty, I humbly request an imperial edict to repair the Temple of the Marquis of Wu.” After deliberation, Zeng Shengwu presented his prepared proposal.

Repairing the Temple of the Marquis of Wu is to rally the people’s hearts.

The court, thousands of miles away, has underestimated the unifying power of Zhuge Liang in Sichuan. Repairing his temple is a clear signal of impending war.

Zhuge Liang holds exalted status in Sichuan—even his mediocre son, Zhuge Zhan, is enshrined alongside him.

Zhuge Zhan failed the people of Sichuan by not stopping Deng Ai’s conquest of Shu Han—but he died without turning back, sacrificing himself for his country, and thus earned the people’s respect.

“Good.” Zhu Yijun pondered and asked: “Shall we deploy the Capital Troops?”

“I believe not—for northern troops are unskilled in mountain and forest warfare,” Zeng Shengwu replied. The Capital Troops are primarily northern, skilled in large-scale formations; sending them into the southwest’s jungles would be overkill. Sichuan’s Han troops are better suited.

Even with Sichuan empty, ten thousand Han troops are more than enough to crush Yang Yinglong like dry grass before a storm.

“Then entrust this matter to the Grand Minister of Works. Whatever you need, tell me directly. Above all, win. After victory, we discuss everything else.” Zhu Yijun knew little of the southwest—he had only been as far as Yiwu in Zhejiang—and trusted Zeng Shengwu’s judgment.

“Thank Your Majesty’s boundless grace.” Zeng Shengwu bowed deeply and accepted the order.

The first batch of newly issued firearms for Sichuan’s Han troops had already arrived in Chengdu. With these weapons, Yang Yinglong’s famed Hai Long Guard could be reduced to rubble.

Zeng Shengwu, as Minister of War, understood the power of Great Ming's new firearms: cast-forged from a copper-iron alloy, bored and re-bored, these new cannons could unleash thirty-six times the power of old ones with one jin of gunpowder—not an exaggeration, but the result of prolonged measurement and calculation.

Even the mere granulation of gunpowder increased firepower over twentyfold.

Great Ming is entering the age of full firearms. The line-and-file musket tactics are rapidly spreading from the Capital Troops and Navy to frontier armies.

The age has truly changed.

Zeng Shengwu returned to his place and realized the Emperor lacked the art of governing subordinates.

How could a minister not even request aid before the Emperor promised, “Tell me what you need”? This places responsibility squarely on the Emperor’s shoulders and bestows credit upon his ministers.

Yet Zeng Shengwu also felt this openness and candor was the proper demeanor of a wise sovereign. With the Emperor’s promise, he could act boldly—repeat what he had done to the Dujiang Man.

“Your Majesty, I report on the maritime grain transport.” Liang Menglong, the minister of Personnel and former disciple living in Zhang Juzheng’s shadow, stepped forward to report on maritime transport.

Liang Menglong returned to the capital in Wanli Year Nine as Vice Minister of War. That same year, Zhang Juzheng began fully returning power; as Chief Grand Secretary, he began separating Personnel Ministry affairs. In Wanli Year Twelve, Liang Menglong transferred from War to Personnel and became Minister of Personnel, known as the Shadow Minister.

Because Liang Menglong followed his master Zhang Juzheng in every matter, for over a decade he had done only one thing: Great Ming’s maritime grain transport.

Liang Menglong spent a full half-hour detailing the development, institutional evolution, and current state of maritime transport. He could now say with a clear conscience: Great Ming’s maritime transport had succeeded triumphantly, becoming the second great artery connecting north and south after the Grand Canal.

“The skilled warrior achieves no famed victories; the skilled physician leaves no brilliant name.” After listening to Liang Menglong’s report, Zhu Yijun sincerely praised: “Minister Liang, you are truly a pillar of Great Ming.”

“I still recall, in Wanli Year Two, when you, Minister Liang, stood before me and said: ‘If you do not treat the skin, you must treat the blood vessels; if not the blood vessels, then the intestines.’ Truly, this is practical wisdom.”

These were Liang Menglong’s own words—the very reason he pursued maritime transport relentlessly. It was medical logic—he was diagnosing Great Ming.

Great Ming was ill. Especially the Grand Canal, this great artery, worn thin after two centuries of use, now crawling with bloodsucking parasites. If this single artery is not healed, Great Ming will soon die.

After nineteen years of building the maritime transport system, the Grand Canal’s flow had been restored.

The trial of maritime transport relieved the canal’s burden. The canal economic belt had formed—lights blazed day and night along its banks, unleashing immense economic vitality. Local governments now had both motive and silver to dredge rivers.

The two great arteries—canal and maritime transport—formed a pincer: strike left, right supports; strike right, left supports. They complemented and strengthened each other, creating a dual circulation that unified Great Ming’s north and south economically.

“Grateful for Your Majesty’s excessive praise. I submit ‘A Strict Examination of Maritime Transport.’” Liang Menglong bowed and presented a book to the Emperor.

“A Strict Examination of Maritime Transport” contained: a complete maritime map, consultations on maritime routes, trials of maritime transport, measurements of maritime paths, the shortest maritime routes, maritime ports, distances, daily schedules, anchorages, prohibited zones, arrival deadlines, coastal patrols, naval inspections, and more—collecting decades of practical experience.

Zhu Yijun decided to place it permanently in the side-palace’s Zhengzi cabinet after reading.

“Bestow a reward.” Zhu Yijun waved his hand, signaling Feng Bao to present the already-prepared Star of the Lesser Purple Emperor.

This reward had been prepared long in advance—even Liang Menglong’s biography was engraved on the medal. A palm-sized, one-jin weight, solid green jade, with thirty-six flawless green cabochons—a family heirloom.

Zhu Yijun did not know what else to bestow upon this Shadow Minister. Liang Menglong chose to remain a shadow, pouring his soul into maritime transport. He did not even seek advancement—he only wished to do his duty well.

He resembled Pan Jixun in many ways. Pan Jixun could have taken a Ministry of Works post in the capital, yet he plunged into the dunes of Suiyuan and stayed ten years, never seeking further promotion.

Liang Menglong and Pan Jixun were not alone. Earlier, Shaanxi Viceroy Shi Mao could have returned to the capital as a Ming Gong, yet he rooted himself in the northwest to finish his work.

These men were loyal—not to the throne, but to their own hearts and spirits.

Nothing else needed to be given—only a treasure worthy of passing down.

Zhu Yijun was never a monarch who offered empty praise and painted grand promises. For ministers who worked with sincerity, he gladly granted them honor, fame, and reward.

Liang Menglong stared at the reward, speechless. He had not worked for this gift—he only wished to heal Great Ming, to leave something behind proving he had lived.

Yet he could not refuse it, nor would he be allowed to. Even Zhang Juzheng and Qi Jiguang had tried to decline such honors—and failed.

“Your servant kneels and thanks Your Majesty’s boundless grace.” Liang Menglong performed the full kowtow and accepted the imperial gift.

“Now that you have accepted my reward, I have another urgent task—Minister Liang, assist the Grand Marshal.” Zhu Yijun glanced at Zeng Shengwu, then turned back: “The Grand Marshal is aging, his strength waning. For the campaign against Yang Yinglong in Bozhou, Minister Liang, assist him.”

Just as Tan Lun had chosen Zeng Shengwu as his successor, Zeng Shengwu now chose Liang Menglong. This assignment was both a commission and a test—if he succeeded, Liang Menglong would rise from Shadow Minister to Grand Marshal of the Realm.

Liang Menglong, seasoned in court politics, understood the Emperor’s intent. He bowed again and said: “Your servant obeys.”

He had fought in Liaodong, served as Viceroy of Ji-Liao alongside Qi Jiguang. He could ride a horse—he met every requirement of a Minister of War.

Zhu Yijun carefully weighed the Bozhou matter and finally felt at ease. Qi Jiguang had repeatedly warned him: before using force, consider how to recover from defeat.

To avoid defeat, new firearms were one factor; appointing senior ministers was another. Yang Yinglong should die without regret—the Emperor deployed new firearms and two of the realm’s greatest ministers against him.

Yang Yinglong should thank Great Ming’s Emperor for his attention—because this means he will die faster, and with less suffering.

The court deliberation continued. Though this council system still resembled a makeshift structure under strongman rule, its decision-making efficiency was extraordinary. Few arguments erupted; ministers spoke directly, without circumlocution or hidden meaning, swiftly handling state affairs.

Speed was essential. The Emperor’s memorials were never left overnight—he was astonishingly efficient. If court deliberations lagged, it would be a great joke.

“We humbly bid farewell to Your Majesty.” The ministers bowed again as the Emperor departed the Wenhua Hall. Four eunuchs carried the dragon throne down from the terrace, to be restored after tomorrow’s deliberation.

Ling Yunyi had something to say. He pulled Zhang Juzheng aside, and the two whispered on the steps before the Wenhua Hall.

“Your Majesty lacks the art of governing subordinates. Did the Grand Secretary ever teach this during his lectures?” Ling Yunyi’s tone was not accusatory. After the incident where Shen Shixing was carried into the Wenhua Hall, Ling Yunyi had truly seen Zhang Juzheng’s deference—profound, even among his disciples.

“I did not teach it,” Zhang Juzheng replied, troubled. “Not because I refused—but because the Emperor refused to listen.”

Zhang Juzheng now regretted not teaching the Emperor the art of governance. While he lived, he could guide him. But if he died, and the Emperor remained unskilled, he would suffer greatly.

“Forget it. The Emperor has his own reasoning. And this art cannot be taught—it must be learned through suffering.” Ling Yunyi paused, then decided to say nothing.

The Emperor turns thirty this year. At thirty, one stands firm. The path must be walked by the Emperor himself.

“Indeed.” Zhang Juzheng set aside his worries and spoke at length with Ling Yunyi about population relocation.

Relocation was for population growth. Without celestial change, under the Wanli Reforms, Great Ming should have seen a population explosion. But under celestial change, growth must be slow.

By Wanli Year Fifty, Great Ming must reach 250 to 300 million people to satisfy the Emperor’s expansion needs. Relocating people to Liaodong and the South Seas was to free land for population growth.

“Your concerns, Master and Vice Minister Ling, are entirely unnecessary.” Zhu Yijun returned to the Tonghemen Palace study, rested fifteen minutes, read twenty minutes of miscellaneous reports, then waited for the Wenyuange memorials.

Ling Yunyi submitted a private note—not through formal memorial channels, and not requiring the Emperor’s reply.

Ling Yunyi frankly stated he believed the Emperor lacked the art of governing subordinates.

"Yet the current ministers are all those tempered by the Japanese pirates crises and barbarian rebellions—loyal and devoted to the state. There is no need for such artifice." Zhu Yijun annotated the note: not because he could not, but because he did not need to.

He wrote on the note: Break the legs of the clever and shrewd.

The art of governing subordinates is not hard to learn. He simply never learned it—no one taught him. Once he finished reading the Veritable Records of Emperor Shizong, he would understand governance. It was, after all, family learning.

Emperor Shizong spent his life in meticulous calculation. Even sequestered in the Western Garden, he maintained absolute control over the court.

Emperor Shizong’s “Precious Instructions” totaled twenty-four volumes. These were the Daoist’s family teachings—the so-called art of imperial rule—recording his dialogues with ministers and imperial edicts, forming essential ancestral law, covering filial piety, treatment of imperial in-laws, frugality, court discipline, and more.

Emperor Shizong’s “Veritable Records” totaled five hundred and sixty-six volumes, documenting every major and minor event in Great Ming.

If the Veritable Records seem too long, read only the Precious Instructions. If the Precious Instructions seem too dry and you refuse to learn, read Lin Fu’s “Journey to the South Seas”—you will still learn the art of governance.

Though the art of governance seems complex, Lin Fu’s “Journey to the South Seas” distilled it into one phrase: Break the legs of the clever and shrewd.

With this, combined with the tactics of starvation, the estate owners could sleep peacefully.

When Lin Fu was exiled to the South Seas, he observed plantations for years. In plantations, plantation owners dealt with clever slaves in one way: break their legs.

The more clever a slave, the more he understood the source of suffering—and the more likely he was to stir unrest among slaves, secretly build power, incite rebellion, or lead escapes.

Even if fearful and unwilling to act, these clever slaves would still find ways to flee.

Thus, plantation owners observed each new group of slaves. When they found a clever one, they broke his legs—never entrusted him with authority over others.

Plantation owners preferred brutal, thoughtless, physically strong men who knew only to oppress their subordinates as slave overseers.

With this, combined with the means of hunger, the estate owners could sleep peacefully.

Lin Fu spent three years traveling across countless mountains and rivers, visiting hundreds of plantations, and finally understood why the estate owners acted this way.

Among slaves themselves, there was exploitation; once a body became crippled, no matter how brilliant one’s intellect, one would be bullied—being bullied meant having no prestige, and raising a cry, rallying support, or rising in rebellion all required immense prestige.

Even with legs broken, one could still work: opening gates, feeding livestock, reeling silk, turning spindles, and so on.

Lin Fu wrote an account of his southern tour, and upon publication, it caused a great uproar; because of this passage, Lin Fu was viciously criticized—human relations and worldly wisdom had been laid bare by him.

Interestingly, Grand Secretary Shen Li, after reading the travelogue, mentioned in a private audience with the Emperor that what Lin Fu described was neither false nor novel.

Because during the Shang and Zhou dynasties, there had been a similar punishment: “Those who had their feet amputated were assigned to guard the imperial animal enclosures.”

“Those who had their feet amputated” meant people whose legs had been cut off, sawed off, or broken;

“Assigned” meant dispatched;

“Guard the animal enclosures” meant to watch over the imperial gardens where animals were kept.

In the palace there was a ding vessel, a bronze artifact from the Western Zhou, named: “Western Zhou Bronze Ding with a Disabled Guard at the Door”; at the furnace door stood a slave who had undergone the amputation punishment, guarding the entrance.

The arts of governing subordinates are myriad; if one fully understands the phrase “break the legs of the clever and nimble,” one will grasp the arts of governing subordinates.

This maximally preserves the estate owner’s authority and ensures stable order.

Similar practices, throughout history, were not uncommon among emperors.

Emperor Gaozong of Song killed Yue Fei—Yue Fei was too formidable, too clever and nimble, yet lacked deep backing; Emperor Wanli Zhu Yijun purged his former tutor Zhang Juzheng and expelled Qi Jiguang, the commander guarding the north.

These emperors’ modes of thought were nearly identical to those of estate owners: they cared nothing for national righteousness, only whether their thrones remained secure.

Zhu Yijun was not disdainful of the arts of governing subordinates; he simply had no need for them under the Kaocheng system’s selection mechanism.

“Has the transcription of the veritable records into small-format copies been completed?” Zhu Yijun asked about an old matter.

In the sixteenth year of Wanli, he ordered the Hanlin Academy, with Shen Shizhen as chief editor and Liang Menglong as deputy, to transcribe all previous veritable records for the Emperor’s convenient reference.

After the Ming veritable records were compiled, all prior documents were burned, including draft manuscripts from the historiographical process; only the official and duplicate copies were preserved, serving as a definitive judgment on the past.

After compilation, the veritable records were divided into official and duplicate copies: the official copy stored in the Gujin Tongji Library, the duplicate in the Wenyuan Pavilion.

In the thirteenth year of Jiajing, a palace fire prompted the Daoist Master to order the construction of the Huangshicheng, where the Hanlin scholars made a copy for storage as a backup.

Zhu Yijun became curious and wished to read all previous veritable records, so he ordered another transcription into small-format copies.

The official and duplicate copies were large-format volumes, inconvenient to carry and view; each viewing required bathing, burning incense, and an announcement to ancestral spirits—highly cumbersome.

The small-format copies were made for ease of access; this transcription also had another primary purpose: to facilitate surveillance by the common people.

Keeping all eggs in only two baskets—the palace and the Grand Secretariat—was dangerous; Hanlin scholars often made extra copies, either as favors or for silver and gold, selling them to private collectors.

During the Qianlong era, after the History of Ming was revised, both official and duplicate copies of the Ming Veritable Records were burned; without the archive editions and private transcriptions corroborating each other, many events of the Ming dynasty would have remained unknown.

“Completed. From Hongwu to Longqing, totaling two thousand three hundred and forty-five scrolls, bound into one hundred sets,” Feng Bao reported all details.

Zhu Yijun thought for a moment and said: “Send me the veritable records of the Shizong Emperor—one scroll each morning and evening.”

Ling Yunyi and Zhang Juzheng feared the Emperor did not understand the arts of governing subordinates; Zhu Yijun intended to demonstrate his grasp by reading the Shizong Emperor’s records cover by cover, thereby mastering the arts and relieving the two ministers’ concerns.

“Your servant obeys the decree,” Feng Bao bowed and accepted the order. The Emperor’s time was already tight, and now even less; Feng Bao grew anxious, unsure what to do.

An hour later, Zhang Juzheng and Ling Yunyi received the Emperor’s vermilion annotations; upon seeing the peculiar comment, they immediately understood: the Emperor truly understood—he simply chose not to use it.

“Last month, the Governor of Nanjing, the Prefect of Songjiang, and the Commander of the Water Forces jointly petitioned for His Majesty to relocate his court to the Huangpu River palace. What is your opinion, my lords?” Zhang Juzheng laid down his brush and raised the matter of relocation; if the Emperor intended to reside in Songjiang, preparations must begin.

In August, the Emperor went to dine, signaling his stance; Zhang Juzheng expressed his concerns.

“I approve,” said Ling Yunyi, his expression grave. “This must be done sooner or later. I support it for another vital reason: the Emperor is truly exhausted. Residing in Songjiang would be lighter. The Han dynasty certainly had loyal ministers, but time spares no one—we must give them time to grow into towering trees.”

Ling Yunyi’s words were blunt; all present ministers understood clearly.

The donkey in the mill was merely the idle talk of Prince Lu; the Emperor laughed it off, even occasionally self-deprecatingly calling himself the mill’s donkey—yet it revealed the price the Emperor paid for the Wanli Reforms.

In a strongman regime, an authoritarian regime, what matters most is endurance.

Endure until all those clinging to the old ways are dead; then the reformers win.

For the stubborn Confucians to win, they too must endure—endure until the Emperor’s strength wanes, until he grows weary of affairs, until he loses passion for state matters, until his political life is worn away, and then they may strike back.

No man can remain wise forever—not even Qin Shi Huang, Han Wu Di, Tang Taizong, or Song Taizu.

Thus, balancing labor and rest for the Emperor becomes crucial; residing in Songjiang Prefecture is an act to extend the Emperor’s political life.

The “wear out the old men” tactic may be disgraceful, but it works: once all the old men are dead, the court will be filled entirely with those raised under the Wanli Reforms.

Even if history were to reverse, it could not last long, because everyone believes it ought to be so.

After hearing Ling Yunyi’s reasoning, Zhang Juzheng gritted his teeth: “I originally opposed relocating after the expressway’s completion, because the affairs of Shuntian Prefecture are utterly beyond control.”

Zhang Juzheng was furious.

A brilliant method to sustain the Wanli Reforms and prolong the core political life was blocked by Shuntian Prefecture’s abysmal one-in-a-hundred voluntary enlistment rate—this made Zhang Juzheng gnash his teeth.

Everything was ready, awaiting only the east wind; yet Shuntian’s shocking one-in-a-hundred made the plan impossible.

Upon hearing “Shuntian’s one-in-a-hundred,” Ling Yunyi’s face changed several times, even with anger; yet this was reality. He frowned deeply and said: “If I am still alive when the expressway is completed, I will remain in the capital; if I am dead, let Gao Qi remain.”

“I cannot solve this problem—I can only solve people. Likewise, Gao Qi is a solitary minister; used well, he is a sharp blade.”

“After Gao Qi, use Wang Qian. The Duke of Wencheng can pave the way for his son; Wang Qian cheated on his provincial exam—he has only the path of the solitary minister left.”

“What do you all think?” Zhang Juzheng turned to the other three ministers, seeking their views.

“I agree with the Chief and Deputy Chief’s proposal, but I must say: how many rebels could there possibly be in the Ming? We need not overestimate the enemy. His Majesty is enlightened, radiant as the sun—how dare goblins and demons dare to act?” Shen Li expressed his view; he saw no need for Ling Yunyi to slaughter, citing that during the last southern tour, the nine-year-old Crown Prince governed without incident.

The Capital Garrison stood nearby—who would dare act rashly? The Chief and Deputy Chief underestimated the bonds among the Nine Clans.

“Shuntian’s one-in-a-hundred,” Zhang Juzheng repeated his reason.

“The Chief’s words are reasonable,” Shen Li finally sighed.

This one-in-a-hundred was too glaring; every decision inevitably brought it to mind. Suixuan had completed registration: its voluntary enlistment rate was four in a hundred—Suixuan was newly annexed territory!

Shuntian’s one-in-a-hundred was simply indefensible.

“I agree. Songjiang is a land of gold and silver. The Emperor must go.” Zhang Xueyan, as Minister of Revenue, chose to concur.

“I agree,” Lu Guangzu exhaled in relief; as a minister appointed for anti-corruption, the pressure had been immense—he always said “I agree too.”