Chapter 991: Go Tell the Jinshan Naval Force!

Zhu Yiliu was indeed a scourge of the world, but he never acted without reason—he was neither barbarian nor Hu, and he valued logic.

His conduct closely mirrored that of the Emperor; as he himself said, had prices not been raised again, he would have been willing to offer concessions to preserve unity.

They were all Han, all far from home; Zhu Yiliu did not wish to descend to such a disgraceful state, but fate defied his wishes.

The world has always been this way: nine out of ten things go against one’s desire.

“Brother Jinshan, I have an escape route,” Zhu Yiliu said, his tone softening after Lou Hu, Luo Shangzhi, and Zhao Mu had departed.

He reiterated: he had an escape route—a vast one. Should his expansion fail and he return humiliated to Great Ming, he would face only mockery, no punishment from his elder brother the Emperor, and even rewards.

The Emperor once had a grand, sky-concealing plan; before departure, Zhu Yiliu had firmly refused it. Should he return humiliated to Great Ming, with the Emperor’s favor, he could even be enfeoffed anew in another land.

But Jinshan State has no escape route.

“This land-grabbing has harmed the overall interests of Jinshan State,” Quan Tianpei sighed. “Your Highness, I know—I refuse to see blood run like rivers. But when greed advances this far, there is no room for feminine mercy.”

Quan Tianpei knew the Lu Prince was right: the Lu Prince could walk away, but Jinshan State, henceforth, would have to cede sufficient benefits to these so-called pioneer meritorious officials in every endeavor. This tiny Jinshan State could never satisfy human greed.

Quan Tianpei recalled certain events: Liu Bang killing Han Xin, the Taizu Emperor executing military meritorious officials.

In the third year of Hongwu, the Taizu Emperor hosted a banquet and addressed the military meritorious officials:

“You have followed me through hardship to achieve these feats—not accomplished in a day or two. I hear your household servants, emboldened by your status, act arrogantly and violate propriety. If such petty men are not swiftly punished, they may breed discord and drag you down with them.”

Zhu Yuanzhang, at the time, saved face for all, claiming the household servants of military officials acted arrogantly and repeatedly broke laws; he merely warned them. This banquet was Zhu Yuanzhang’s subtle reprimand: do not disregard state law.

In the fifth year of Hongwu, Zhu Yuanzhang erected the Six Kill Iron Stele, warning military officials: violate these rules, and you die. Yet the meritorious officials continued as before.

Starting in the sixth year of Hongwu, Liao Yongzhong persistently undermined the salt monopoly system and disrupted border colonies.

In March of the eighth year of Hongwu, Zhu Yuanzhang ordered Liao Yongzhong beheaded—his first execution of a military meritorious official. From the Iron Certificate of Immunity, banquet warnings, and the Six Killings Iron Stele to open slaughter, this marked the gradual escalation of conflict.

In truth, newly established Jinshan State faced the same problems as Great Ming in its early days: these pioneer meritorious officials were asserting their status before the Lu Prince—no problem; the Lu Prince, newly arrived, was willing to concede benefits.

The problem lay in insatiable greed, in advancing inch by inch.

This time, the blame fell entirely on the Lu Prince, yet the benefits went to all of Jinshan State.

“Brother Jinshan, who gave them the nerve to treat me like this—to kick me in the face?” Zhu Yiliu’s tone carried not only anger, but also confusion.

He was the Lu Prince! Even if he tore the sky over the East Pacific, he could return to Great Ming. Who in the world, with his elder brother the Emperor as his back, would dare treat him thus?

“Ah, they think you’re young, and a scion of the imperial house, so you won’t break the surface,” Quan Tianpei truly understood how these men thought.

All were Han, all far from home; they believed the Lu Prince, so young, would panic under pressure. Add to that his noble status—always concerned with face—they were certain he would never tear things open, so they pressed further.

“Wait—so you mean they think I’m easy to bully, so they’re bullying me?” Zhu Yiliu instantly grasped Quan Tianpei’s meaning: young, image-conscious—wasn’t that the very definition of easy to bully?

“Yes.” Quan Tianpei nodded seriously. That was the entire reason.

At first, Quan Tianpei suspected the Five Merchant Houses were stirring trouble behind the scenes. But after a month of observation, he found no other hands involved.

The merchants of the Five Merchant Houses mostly operated in the heartland of Great Ming; offending the Lu Prince meant offending the Emperor. Their businesses would collapse in an instant. Merchants seek profit, not death.

The notion that the Lu Prince was easy to bully was so absurd that Zhu Yiliu was certain it was true.

Not only these land-grabbers thought the Lu Prince easy to bully—even before Zhu Yiliu arrived, Quan Tianpei had thought so too.

A twenty-three-year-old youth, still lacking facial hair, raised deep within the palace, ignorant of worldly affairs, combined with his noble status—altogether, easy to bully.

“I may be easy to bully, but these three thousand elite naval troops? Not easy at all.” Zhu Yiliu’s lip twitched—he had already ordered Luo Shangzhi to advance.

Zhao Mu was sharpening his blade. As he sharpened, his thoughts drifted to childhood, when his father would endlessly hone his knife in the courtyard.

His father’s whetstone was sandstone; Zhao Mu’s was imperial jade from Cuiwei Mountain—this stone bit iron swiftly, and in moments, could polish a blade to perfection.

Sharpening required skill; Zhao Mu had mastered it—his father had taught him.

Zhao Mu smiled. He was carving a boat to find his sword again.

After sharpening, Zhao Mu went to the drill ground. Luo Shangzhi had already assembled troops; the army had already departed.

Zhao Mu’s task was dishonorable: he was to arrest men within Jinshan City, while the army marched to the tidal flats to deal with slaves obstructing Jinshan Port’s expansion.

The slave owners behind these slaves were to be captured by Zhao Mu, accompanied by the Coastal Patrol and the bodyguards.

“Long journey, weary travel—would you care to rest?” Luo Shangzhi spoke kindly to Zhao Mu, yet his kindness carried distance. Youth was fiery, but youth often held too much goodwill toward the world.

If Zhao Mu refused to join tonight’s bloodshed, Luo Shangzhi would personally lead the Coastal Patrol to ensure not a single instigator escaped.

“General Luo, I was born in water, raised in water—I’m not tired.” Zhao Mu, once a shrewd man in Qingyuan Guard, excelled at reading expressions; since childhood, he learned: if he couldn’t read people, he wouldn’t get food—he’d starve.

Goodwill? From age six to nine, begging on the streets, he had long discarded that word.

He believed only in retribution: the Emperor had shown him grace; Ling Yunyi avenged his blood feud and restored what was his; so he repaid the Emperor, repaid Ling Yunyi.

“Turning the blade inward is hardest,” Luo Shangzhi smiled faintly—but a killer’s smile was chilling.

Zhao Mu thought a moment and said: “The first idiom my father taught me as a child was ‘know when to stop.’”

Zhao Mu’s father left Jimo in Shandong to become a mercenary because someone had never learned that idiom. His father and several village strongmen swore blood oaths, slaughtered the landlord’s entire family, and fled as outlaws.

Mercenaries asked no origins; as long as they fought bravely on the battlefield, they received rewards.

His father and neighbors slaughtered the landlord’s entire household—even the children. Who was right? Who was wrong?

Right and wrong? Zhao Mu didn’t care to distinguish, nor could he. He couldn’t articulate grand principles. He had read some books; the Master said in the “Xiangdang” chapter: “Do not overeat.”

Zhao Mu interpreted it as: don’t eat more than your due. Don’t eat what isn’t yours, don’t touch what isn’t yours—otherwise, you’ll choke.

This batch of so-called pioneer meritorious officials in Jinshan State didn’t know when to stop.

When bridges were built, roads repaired, wastelands reclaimed, barbarians driven out, and lives risked—these vermin were nowhere to be seen.

Now, when it came time to pick fruit, these vermin claimed to be meritorious pioneers—and still pressed further.

“Alright, go. Don’t let one escape.” Luo Shangzhi understood Zhao Mu’s meaning and gave the order to arrest.

“Your servant obeys.” Zhao Mu bowed and left the Lu Prince’s mansion, leading one hundred twenty Coastal Patrol officers to Jinshan City’s grand tavern: Jinhai Tower.

This tavern was Jinshan City’s only tavern and brothel; its women came from Great Ming, Japan, and the West—among the few places in Jinshan City where silver flowed freely.

Zhao Mu was already intimately familiar with the case.

In the seventeenth year of Wanli, Shaanxi suffered a great drought, killing over a thousand. Most deaths clustered in Pingliang Prefecture. When disaster deaths concentrate, the place holds grave problems. At the time, the Emperor was touring the south, the Crown Prince governed; the Pingliang famine case shocked the reclusive De Prince Zhu Zaiyu.

Zhu Zaiyu dispatched Embroidered Uniform Guards to Pingliang. The famine case surfaced: the Pingliang prefect had been persuaded by a broker to empty the treasury and hand it over. The broker dumped the silver into the Yanxing Trading House’s gold and silver market, earning some profit initially.

When gold ships from Jinshan City (modern San Francisco) and Jinchichi City (modern Melbourne) arrived, gold prices crashed. The broker, ruined, committed suicide. All Pingliang officials were beheaded; their families were exiled to Jinshan City (Chapter 912).

Most exiles sent to Jinshan State came from powerful gentry families. Because they could read, they were valued in Jinshan City. Over time, these exiles formed the Jinshan gentry class.

These sixteen families behind the land-grabbing and price manipulation were members of the Jinshan gentry.

In short: remnants.

At this moment, in the Zhaode chamber of Jinhai Tower, lights blazed. Twelve lamps fueled by Southeast Asian lime oil illuminated the room. Twelve dancers swayed to music, and each of the dozen men present was attended by a beauty.

But these beauties served neither wine nor food, nor even themselves—they served pipes. The gentry, clad in silk and brocade, reclined on soft couches, puffing clouds from their opium pipes.

Clearly, this was not tobacco, but opium, strictly forbidden in Great Ming.

Music ceased. Dancers, trailing long skirts, slowly departed. The leader, Han Qingde, was the son of the Pingliang prefect executed by imperial decree. Born into the prestigious Nanyang Han clan, his brow now bore an unyielding resentment.

He hated the Emperor, hated the court, and hated the Lu Prince.

The Emperor had killed his father. Court ministers offered no plea, exiling him to this barren Jinshan City. His hatred was natural. He hated the Lu Prince because: now that the Lu Prince had come, justice had arrived.

Before the Lu Prince’s arrival, Xie Ruixiang, commander of Jinshan’s bodyguards, was a pirate who cared only for silver. Give him enough, and he’d turn a blind eye. Quan Tianpei was a soft-hearted man, easily manipulated.

Han Qingde had spent heavily to bribe Xie Ruixiang. Once bribed, the Jinshan gentry could do as they pleased in Jinshan City.

Just after the bribe succeeded, the Lu Prince executed Xie Ruixiang—and severed their newly opened business.

Han Qingde’s trade was opium: from Southeast Asia to Jinshan City, then to Mexico. Profit doubled at every port. Selling just 120 chests a year yielded over 100,000 taels.

This trade was cut off.

Cutting off someone’s livelihood is like killing their parents—especially when the Emperor had truly killed his own father.

Han Qingde waved his hand impatiently. Dancers, musicians, and beauties withdrew slowly.

He despised such scenes. He himself never used opium. Had fate not intervened, he was preparing to travel to the capital to take the imperial examination—he was confident, his talent unmatched across Henan.

Opium was no good thing. Han Qingde never used it. He had once bribed Quan Tianpei with opium; Quan Tianpei avoided him like a venomous snake.

Only when all had regained their composure did Han Qingde speak loudly: “Gentlemen, today’s gathering at Jinhai Tower concerns the harbor and land issue.”

“Today, Brother Jinshan came to me, saying if we return to our original price, he will persuade the Lu Prince to acquire the land. What do you think?”

The Lu Prince, eager to expand Jinshan Port to coincide with the formation of the Great Pacific Trade Alliance, had begun construction without securing the Jinshan gentry’s consent. It wasn’t his youth—he thought the land was wasteland, so he paid no mind. But when work began, every plot had owners.

Originally, the price agreed upon was two taels per mu. The Lu Prince, desperate to expand the port, accepted.

Seeing the Lu Prince agree, the Jinshan gentry, led by Han Qingde, began inflating prices. They sent servants to obstruct construction, demanding twelve taels per mu!

In the afternoon, Quan Tianpei approached Han Qingde, asking if they could return to two taels per mu. In Suzhou and Songjiang, the most expensive land, prices were five to seven taels. Twelve taels was excessive.

“Expanding Jinshan Port is urgent! If the Lu Prince fails the Emperor’s order, he’ll be punished! No reduction! No reduction!”

“Exactly! The Lu Prince doesn’t treat us as human beings. To build a port, he doesn’t even ask—he just starts! Does he think Jinshan City is his own?”

“Let him know whose Jinshan City this truly is!”

…

The Jinshan gentry chattered, refusing to concede. Han Qingde offered a knowing smile and declared to all: “Then don’t reduce. Let’s see how the Lu Prince handles this!”

“Tonight, we drink until we collapse!”

Han Qingde said he was drinking, but after three cups, he excused himself. He had felt uneasy all day—a strong sense of dread.

His goal was simple: use the port expansion to demonstrate his influence in Jinshan City. Stir up trouble, wait a few more days, let chaos grow, then yield—so the Lu Prince would never underestimate him.

Based on his experience in Great Ming, local gentry and officials had fought this way for millennia.

As long as the Lu Prince paid, the Jinshan gentry became victims. That gave them moral footing. If they weren’t victims, why would the Lu Prince pay?

He had considered the Lu Prince might act irrationally—but he quickly shook his head, dismissing the thought. The Lu Prince was imperial blood; the nobler the man, the more he clung to face.

Han Qingde opened the window. The salty sea breeze blew into the room. Since October, Jinshan City had entered the rainy season; storms brewed over the East Pacific.

Soon, Han Qingde sensed something wrong. Tonight, Jinhai Tower’s surroundings were too quiet. No pedestrians on the streets.

Jinshan City had no curfew. It was only the first hour of Xu (8 p.m.). Jinhai Tower, the city’s greatest silver-spending den, was utterly empty. Something was wrong—extremely, profoundly wrong!

Zhao Mu led one hundred twenty Coastal Patrol officers, each trio accompanied by ten bodyguards—four hundred bodyguards total. These bodyguards were Quan Tianpei’s men; Quan Tianpei fully supported the Lu Prince’s operation, his stance firmly aligned with Jinshan State’s overall interests.

Quan Tianpei was a good man, a respectable man; he studied under Xing Yunlu and was more of an astronomer than a magistrate in Jinshan City. He excelled at management but was poor at administration—human nature was too complex, and Quan Tianpei often felt mentally exhausted. He rarely tore faces or overturned tables.

The current state of Jinshan State was deeply tied to Quan Tianpei’s overly lenient nature.

The tooth soldiers were clearing the streets; not a single soul could be seen.

Zhao Mu ordered torches lit, drew his goose-feather saber, and the sharp hiss of its withdrawal echoed along the street. He raised the saber high and shouted: “Waves crash against the prow, I vow to guard the sea with my broken body.”

“Sea Defense Inspector and Jinshan Tooth Soldiers, listen: arrest everyone inside the taverns. Anyone who resists—kill on sight!”

“When the road is uneven, someone must walk it—let us be the first!”

“Loyalty!”

Zhao Mu gave a clear order, slowly lowered his blade, and pointed it toward Jinhai Tower.

Fairness? Justice? Zhao Mu never believed in such things—fairness and justice were nothing but lies spun by scholars!

Zhao Mu obtained his rank as a Company Commander of Qingyuan Guard and regained all he had lost solely because of the Emperor’s will; thus, he must repay His Majesty with loyalty.

Soldiers began entering Jinhai Tower. The servants, waiters, and pimps downstairs had sensed something was wrong—this was the busiest time for gambling, yet today the doors stood empty. All the servants faced the walls, crouched down, and raised their hands.

When Jinshan City was first built, robbers often came. The servants always responded this way. As for warning the masters upstairs? They’d already done their duty by not joining the robbers upstairs.

They earned only a few taels a month—why risk their lives?

Zhao Mu expected fierce resistance, but upon entering Jinhai Tower, he found everyone already crouched against the walls. He ordered his men upstairs; doors were kicked in, screams rose and fell. Zhao Mu sat in the main hall as all suspects were captured.

Han Qingde realized something was wrong and tried to flee—he escaped through the back door before the soldiers entered. He bribed a tooth soldier he knew with a hundred taels, but the soldier acted as if he didn’t recognize him and pinned him down immediately.

Normally, they’d take the silver—but when the Prince of Lu flew into a rage, the tooth soldiers dared not accept it. If the Prince of Lu investigated, no one could escape.

Soon, the Sea Defense Inspector and tooth soldiers were divided into sixteen squads and began raiding the homes of all Jinshan aristocrats found inside Jinhai Tower.

Zhu Yiliu stood atop the highest tower of the Lu Prince’s mansion, watching the city. Torches blazed to life at Jinhai Tower, then lines of fire spread like dragons through the streets.

Arrests and house raids lasted two full hours before ending.

As the city gradually grew quiet, the battle by the sea also ended. The slaves, facing the fully armed Jinshan Navy, immediately surrendered—before the army even launched its assault, few had been killed. Slaves knelt in vast numbers, offering no resistance.

The slaves knew well: they were property. After surrendering, they’d remain slaves—even the Prince of Lu needed them to work. No matter the master, obedience meant survival—worst case, a few kicks.

On the seventh day of the tenth month of the nineteenth year, the Blood Night of Jinshan City ended. Though called a “Blood Night,” few had died.

Zhao Mu began interrogating the cases. During the house raids, many new crimes surfaced: disrespect toward the throne, opium trafficking, trading Han people—each crime far worse than land encroachment at the port.

“Your Highness, here are the confiscated documents from the sixteen families. Fourteen of them harbored deep resentment toward His Majesty; their vile words are beyond description.” Zhao Mu presented the evidence before the Prince of Lu.

Zhu Yiliu reached to open them, but Meng Jinquan pressed the letters and shook his head. “A ruler must not raise an army in anger. I’ve read these. I fear if you read them, your rage will strike your heart.”

Zhu Yiliu gestured for Meng Jinquan to step aside. After reading each document, his temple veins throbbed visibly—his fury was etched on his face.

“I am enraged! Bring me a knife!” Zhu Yiliu slammed his fist onto the solid wood desk, the sound thunderous.

“My elder brother sacrificed so much to revive the Great Ming—I witnessed it myself. Such vile words deserve divine and human condemnation! For this public trial, I shall preside personally. The chief culprit, Han Qingde, shall be beheaded by my hand!” It took Zhu Yiliu a full quarter-hour to suppress the rage that screamed to storm the Jinshan jail and chop each man to pieces.

Zhu Yiliu called the Emperor a mill donkey; Li Yashi called His Majesty stingy—this too was disrespect, but such disrespect mostly accused the Emperor of being overzealous in governance and overly frugal—excess, not virtue.

Excessive diligence shortens a ruler’s political life; excessive frugality, over time, makes even the Emperor ask himself: what am I truly striving for?

But the vile words Zhu Yiliu saw were aimed at the lowest depths—he could not accept them.

He, Zhu Yiliu, was a demon of chaos; being cursed was his due. But his elder brother must never be cursed.

The lack of gratitude from the people of the Great Ming was Zhu Yiliu’s greatest feeling since his fiefdom—whether in the heartland or the coastal frontier.

Because the press and the pen were controlled by powerful elites and local gentry. These men, harmed by or left out of the Wanli Reforms, naturally seethed with complaints and resentment.

“To the jail!” Zhu Yiliu grew angrier by the moment, stood up—he did not take a knife.

Meng Jinquan said hesitantly, “Your Highness, it would be better to execute after the public trial.”

“I know. I won’t kill them.” Zhu Yiliu understood their purpose perfectly—he would hold a public trial to calm the people’s hearts. The inventor of the public trial? He, Zhu Yiliu!

They cannot be killed—not yet. First, beat them to vent his rage.

Zhu Yiliu stormed into the Jinshan Prefecture jail, found Han Qingde, and without warning, delivered a cannon punch to his face, then a knee strike to his stomach.

Han Qingde’s face turned a kaleidoscope of colors—flushed red, then deathly pale, then yellowish. Soon he was drenched in sweat, crouching in the corner, clutching his stomach. He felt he was dying—his vision went blank, stars danced before his eyes.

Zhu Yiliu struck with precision. After a while, Han Qingde’s pain eased.

“Dare to curse my elder brother? I’ll flay you alive!” Zhu Yiliu spat venomously, declaring Han Qingde’s fate.

Han Qingde could barely stand, slumped against the wall. Hearing the Prince of Lu’s words, he felt life held no meaning. He trembled and whispered, “Your Highness, I swear—I never cursed the Emperor.”

“Still you dare to lie?!” Zhu Yiliu flew into a rage.

Meng Jinquan whispered, “Your Highness, the documents seized from Han Qingde’s home contained no disrespect toward His Majesty. Of the sixteen families, only two did not curse the Emperor—Han’s family was one of them.”

Han Qingde hated the Emperor—that was the hatred of patricide. But the deeds his father committed, even Han Qingde admitted, deserved death. Every case the Emperor handled these years was just.

This beating was wasted.

“Bring several quilts. Hang up everyone who cursed my elder brother. I’ll come every day to beat them!” Zhu Yiliu ordered—he intended to work out his fists daily.

Han Qingde, hearing the screams from other cells, shrank further into the corner. His two blows had been light indeed.

The Prince’s martial skill was truly formidable!

After beating the men, Zhu Yiliu’s temper finally eased. He paused before Han Qingde’s cell, looked at him, and said: “Han Qingde, let me make this clear: before he departed, my elder brother told me—absolutely no rewarding chaos as a means for anyone to gain illegitimate advantage.”

“This is not the Great Ming. The Great Ming could tolerate your tricks because it had deep reserves. Jinshan State is barely founded—if you succeed here, Jinshan State will perish.”

“Do you understand?”

Han Qingde was stunned. At last, he sighed. “I understand.”

Jinshan State is not the heartland of the Great Ming. This small territory simply cannot afford it.