Chapter 992: One Thousandth Chapter: Loyal Bones Long Since Offered Before the Sovereign, Still Glowing Like the Old War Saddle

Zhu Yiliu glanced at Han Qingde once more, then departed the Jinshan Prefecture prison with his entourage.

Zhu Yiliu, the sole prince within the fifth degree of kinship, could act as he pleased within the actual territory controlled by the Great Ming—he was the Emperor’s only living brother, and he had willingly come to Jinshan City to establish his fief, contributing to the Great Ming’s maritime expansion.

As long as this truth endured, the Emperor would spare no effort to protect him.

Zhu Yiliu sat atop the high platform of the Zhengya Bell and Drum Tower, the highest point in Jinshan City, where he loved watching the sunrise and sunset, the ebb and flow of the tides.

He missed home—not a sign of weakness or shame, but for a son of the imperial bloodline, being exiled to this barren land of Jinshan Country was hardship; yet he also felt reluctant to leave Jinshan City, for he cherished watching it rise from nothing, brick by brick, day by day.

“Your Highness, the air is chilly.” Meng Jinquan draped a large cloak over the Prince of Lu.

“Jinquan, sitting upon the throne of a ruler, I finally understand why my elder brother was so cold and heartless.” Zhu Yiliu murmured, as if speaking to Meng Jinquan, yet more so to himself.

The Prince of Lu, who had grown up chasing after his elder brother, splashing in mud and puddles, had heard countless words since childhood—words he forgot the moment he heard them; now, as ruler of Jinshan Country, those forgotten words suddenly returned, etched into his mind.

My elder brother once said: Where the broom doesn’t sweep, dust won’t vanish on its own.

This seems like nonsense, yet it reveals a fundamental truth: Don’t expect vermin to awaken and reform themselves—they won’t die unless you eliminate them; you must possess sufficient, irrevocable resolve and courage to sweep away this dust.

The Wanli Four Cases were in fact five; each case was personally handled by His Majesty, never delegated, as he himself took up the broom.

Once, Shandong had countless bandits; Shandong possessed unparalleled natural advantages capable of sustaining all its people, yet these bandits were driven into rebellion by oppression.

When Zhao Mu’s father and neighbors slaughtered the landlord’s entire household, he had already done enough by not joining the bandits.

My elder brother once said: Power is wealth, affairs, people, and law—but ultimately, it is the violence one can control.

At that time, Zhu Yiliu was still young, far more interested in birds and beasts than in people; when his elder brother explained the basic logic of power, Zhu Yiliu merely listened and went through the motions during monthly examinations; today, however, Zhu Yiliu understood wealth, affairs, people, law, and violence far more profoundly.

Control over financial authority, administrative authority, personnel authority, legal interpretation authority, and control over violence—these five elements form the five pillars of power.

As a ruler, if you cannot control all, you must fully control violence, then gradually seize partial control over the other four.

My elder brother once said: Relationships between people form small circles; these small circles constitute the great circle of the Great Ming; the Great Ming is the public, these countless uncountable small circles are the private; public and private are opposing yet unified contradictions.

These were the words his elder brother used to teach him the concept of public and private, to help Zhu Yiliu grasp their complex, relative nature.

Even so, it was still difficult for Zhu Yiliu—far less interesting than assembling models; back then, he spent four full months assembling a five-masted ocean-going ship model.

Protected under his elder brother’s wing, Zhu Yiliu never needed to understand these things—but he still remembered them, and today, he finally grasped their true meaning.

Within any organization, over time, interest communities bound by unwritten rules accumulate; these small circles constantly devour public interests to satisfy private desires.

To enter such a circle, one must offer sufficient proof of loyalty—exploit the lower classes, act recklessly, defy all laws, commit acts that plunder public wealth, to prove loyalty to the circle.

This explains why so many jinshi and juren—the brightest among men—performed so many seemingly foolish acts.

They could have exercised their power more fairly, more in accordance with public order and law, yet they deliberately broke the law.

This was not stupidity—it was their effort to squeeze into the circle, the concrete manifestation of these unwritten rules.

As these circles develop, they inevitably diverge from the Great Ming’s overarching mission and interests.

To gain more privileges, the first step these circles take is to stir up chaos; only by thoroughly muddying the waters can they fish in troubled waters—in short, they must provoke conflict.

Only when the waters are muddy and conflict erupts can they pluck the peaches, seize sufficient gains, and distribute them among circle members—only then can the circle survive.

The circle’s existence is to safeguard the collective interests of its members, yet the internal exploitation within the circle is often fiercer than that imposed by the largest public circle.

Because small circles have no oversight.

When a circle can no longer protect its interests, it has no reason to exist—such as the Jin Party, or the Jinshan gentry.

The Jinshan gentry exist to protect the interests of all exiled gentry sent to Jinshan Country; thus, they defy the Prince of Lu to preserve their circle’s interests.

The Jinshan gentry’s price hikes are a display of their authority and a demand for greater benefits, distributed among circle members; those who act as their henchmen are merely trying to squeeze into the circle.

Port expansion benefits everyone in Jinshan Country, yet the Jinshan gentry demand the largest share—and demand the Prince of Lu pay for it; they profit, yet portray themselves as victims.

In the heartland of the Great Ming, this would be perfectly normal; the usual solution: negotiate, offer them a little.

But this is Jinshan Country—a land no bigger than a palm, with only a few gold mines, incapable of sustaining small circles.

One mu for two taels, Zhu Yiliu accepted; one mu for twelve taels, Zhu Yiliu could only kill them.

One must learn: Do not overindulge; know when to stop.

In November, Zhu Yiliu held a public trial and execution for the entire case, fully exposing all details; what angered Zhu Yiliu was that these remnants dared to curse his elder brother; what angered the people of Jinshan Country was that these men obstructed Jinshan Country’s development.

The Prince of Lu arrived, did not build a grand Prince of Lu mansion, but constructed a port—to accommodate the massive cargo volume after the establishment of the Pacific Trade Alliance; after the port's expansion, how many lives could it sustain?!

Yet the Jinshan gentry, to grab one more bite, forced the Prince of Lu to bow—this was not forcing him to bow, but forcing all the people of Jinshan Country to yield their gains and support them!

Amid curses, Han Qingde and his followers were dragged to the execution ground, the executioners awaiting the Prince of Lu’s order to behead.

On the twelfth day of November, the weather was poor; Zhu Yiliu did not wait until noon, but threw his command arrow, ordering immediate beheading.

As Han Qingde faced death, he suddenly remembered his father—his father had indeed taught him the principle of knowing when to stop, but he had forgotten, because his father had forgotten too.

In truth, when Quan Tianpei first approached him and offered to revert to the original price, he had already decided to accept—but he wanted to push further, and thus enraged the Prince of Lu.

Imperial bloodlines do care about face, but to ignore such defiance would be even more humiliating; nobles cannot tolerate defiance.

“Click.”

The bone-prying knife split his spine; Han Qingde instantly lost control of his limbs—he knew he was dead; as the blade rose and fell, he felt the world spin; in his final consciousness, he hated his father.

He hated his father for his audacity, for not withdrawing after securing sufficient profit, for his insatiability, for greedily betting the entire Pingliang Prefecture treasury on the gold and silver markets.

A great drought killed countless people, drawing the wrath of heaven—and with it, he was exiled to this savage land.

On the thirteenth day of November, heaven wept.

Dark clouds rolled in, lightning flashed within, thunder roared; beneath them, the sea surged violently, waves crashing against the port; all ships had retreated into Jinshan’s inner sea to shelter from the storm; the wind howled, even roadside trees were uprooted.

Rain and heat occurring at different times was the typical climate of Jinshan City.

Jinshan City was a natural harbor, for at Cape Fortress lay only a three-li-wide outlet; this Jinshan Strait, less than three li wide, blocked the violent storms of the East Pacific; within this outlet lay a bay spanning 1.6 million mu, providing ample shelter for ships.

Within the bay, one could fish, harvest seaweed and sea vegetables; Jinshan City itself was built entirely around this inner bay.

In his first year in Jinshan Country, the Prince of Lu executed Xie Ruixiang, the commander of the mercenary troops who colluded with the red-haired barbarians; leveraging the formidable strength of the navy, he expanded Jinshan City’s control by 120 li, forcing the Mexican Governor’s Office to pay thirty thousand taels annually as tribute, armed patrols through the three Pacific Governorates, then executed these greedy Jinshan gentry who dared to push further.

These were the Prince of Lu’s three fires after arriving in Jinshan Country; after burning them, Jinshan Country established a ruling class with the Prince of Lu as its absolute core and supreme authority, overseeing all affairs.

The Prince of Lu was imperial blood—he would hold his rightful status even if he were a fool, for behind him stood the entire Great Ming; yet the Prince of Lu was no fool—he did these things even better.

Everything proceeded smoothly; the only thing that troubled Zhu Yiliu was that he was occupied all day, as busy as a mill donkey!

The words he once mocked his elder brother with now struck him squarely between the eyes!

"If you send me another official document, I'll return to the Great Ming! Don't send any more!" Zhu Yiliu slammed his table after finishing today's paperwork: "A peasant stole a chicken from another peasant—do I have to handle this? What is the Jinshan Prefecture office for?!"

Quan Tianpei hurriedly replied: “Your Highness, the Wang and Zhao villages clashed over the chicken—over three hundred people involved, three dead, more than sixty wounded.”

Quan Tianpei protected these Jinshan gentry not because he had any vested interest with them—he had an escape route; His Majesty had personally promised him that if things became untenable, he could return to the Great Ming, and the Great Ming would find another way to expand.

Quan Tianpei controlled the gold mines and the Great Ming’s goods distribution—the greatest interest in Jinshan Country; the silver he might gain from colluding with the gentry was negligible.

Quan Tianpei protected the gentry to preserve the fundamental stability of Jinshan Country’s lower classes; if the gentry existed, such a large-scale brawl over a few chickens would never have occurred.

These gentry knew nothing else—but human relations and social niceties, they mastered thoroughly.

The Prince of Lu understood this principle; thus, he accepted the gentry’s first demand—but their second price hike pushed him into a corner.

“Blame me? If I don’t deal with them, tomorrow they’ll ride on my neck and do as they please!” Zhu Yiliu rubbed his forehead, slightly annoyed; since the gentry’s arrest, minor disputes had erupted into major conflicts without end.

“Your Highness, I have a strategy.” Meng Jinquan, seeing the Prince’s headache, placed a memorial on the table before him.

“Oh?” Zhu Yiliu’s eyes lit up; he opened the memorial and read for a long time; it was complex, indeed—nearly five thousand characters—but simple, reducible to two words: Qin system.

Establish a twenty-rank merit-based nobility system, restructure Jinshan Country’s entire order, and correlate each rank with land and housing allocations.

Clearly define noble ranks and titles, allocate land and residences according to rank.

Entirely based on Shang Yang’s reforms, combined with Jinshan Country’s current conditions, this was a complete legal system.

“Prince of Jin, take a look.” Zhu Yiliu handed the memorial to Quan Tianpei, who grew increasingly alarmed as he read—he had underestimated Meng Jinquan; this scholar’s heart and liver were black.

This system was perfectly suited to Jinshan Country, where private feuds outweighed public conflicts, internal oppression outweighed external pressure, and expansion outweighed management; yet once implemented, countless barbarians would die, for noble ranks would be determined by barbarian heads.

Truly, one general’s glory is built on ten thousand bones.

“I don’t fully endorse this system, but under current circumstances, it is the most suitable.” Quan Tianpei cautiously expressed his stance—principally opposed, practically in agreement.

The Qin method was ideal for impoverished states; Jinshan Country at this moment was the poorest of the poor; killing to earn merit, determining social status, land, and housing—perfect for expansion.

“What does General Luo think?” Zhu Yiliu retrieved the memorial and passed it to Luo Shangzhi.

“If Your Highness finds it feasible, then it is feasible.” Luo Shangzhi didn’t read the memorial first—he answered Zhu Yiliu’s question, then opened it; the flowery language seemed tedious, yet Luo Shangzhi understood it, and spotted some issues.

But Luo Shangzhi said nothing; he was the general appointed by His Majesty to protect the Prince of Lu; after three years, he would return to the Great Ming to serve as Commander of the Southern Seas Navy; Jinshan Country’s affairs, he merely followed orders.

This method was good, but its one flaw: no sufficient system to prevent violence from spiraling out of control.

Meng Jinquan watched Luo Shangzhi’s expression, slightly frustrated; his main purpose in unveiling this Qin law was not to collect barbarian heads—but Luo Shangzhi himself; precisely, he wanted to keep Luo Shangzhi in Jinshan Country.

The memorial’s flaws—or rather, its insufficient constraints on the military—were designed to show Luo Shangzhi the benefits of being a great general in Jinshan Country: nearly absolute autonomy.

Yet Luo Shangzhi remained unmoved.

“Why don’t Luzon, Jiugang, and Jinchih use the Qin system?” Zhu Yiliu asked his question; this system suited expansion so well, yet Luzon, Jiugang, and Jinchih did not adopt it.

Meng Jinquan paused, then whispered: “Your Highness, Jinshan Country is a vassal state of the Great Ming, distinct from the Governorates; the governors have their own concerns.”

The Prince’s fiefdom was a branch family; the Governorates were direct extensions of the Great Ming—fundamentally different.

Meng Jinquan gently reminded the Prince: The governors knew perfectly well, and wanted to, but could not—they dared not act recklessly, or their descendants would find it nearly impossible to return to the Great Ming, slowly becoming assimilated into local barbarians.

To avoid the degeneration described by Yin Zongxin, the governors dared not act so recklessly; the Qin system was somewhat taboo.

Zhu Yiliu's status was different; no matter how recklessly he acted, he would never incur the Emperor's wrath or suspicion; the Prince of Lu mansion's descendants could always return to the Great Ming, avoiding the degeneration of colonists.

“Then, Master Meng shall oversee this matter.” Zhu Yiliu, synthesizing all opinions, approved Meng Jinquan’s proposal: implement Qin law, advance through military merit.

Central Plains dynasties have walked this path for over four thousand years; the ancestors long ago paved the way.

The reason Luzon, Jiugang, and Jinchih Governorates don’t use this method is simple: they are not poor; they are not far from the Great Ming, key links in the triangular trade, receiving ports for Japanese and barbarian slaves, raw material sources—they are wealthy enough, needing no such method.

For the Prince of Lu, this was simply no choice.

Jinshan Country lacked a sufficient core for state-building; Zhu Yiliu was the authority core, but institutions were another core; for the poorest of the poor, Jinshan Country could only use this method to divide social classes, then distribute benefits.

Quan Tianpei and Luo Shangzhi chose to leave; Meng Jinquan and Zhao Mu remained in the Qinying Palace’s imperial study; Meng Jinquan handed the latter half of the memorial to the Prince of Lu: how to constrain violence—this was the accumulated experience and lessons of Central Plains dynasties over a thousand years; Meng Jinquan had designed it.

“Your Highness, if we cannot retain General Luo, it will be a tremendous loss to Jinshan Country; I dare to say, once General Luo departs, chaos will follow.” Meng Jinquan sighed heavily; Luo Shangzhi’s departure after three years would be Jinshan Country’s greatest test—perhaps even a test of life and death.

“I want to keep him too, but General Luo’s ambitions lie elsewhere; in every meeting, he merely follows orders.” Zhu Yiliu sighed helplessly: “My elder brother granted me nearly every request—except keeping General Luo in Jinshan.”

Zhao Mu pondered for a moment, then whispered, “Your Highness, promise General Luo a five-year window to seize Mexico!”

“Once General Luo returns to the South Seas, all he faces is Annan; Japan is already on its last breath; the Mughal Empire is a cesspool. More importantly, so far, not a single silver mine has been found in the entire Western Ocean—but Mexico has silver mines. Three of them. Each capable of mining for centuries.”

“General Luo craves military merit.”

Luo Shangzhi did not crave unchecked power—that was an impossibility.

His Majesty had bound himself tightly to the dragon throne for so long that he and the imperial authority it represented had become one. General Qi, though ennobled as Duke of Feng, still strictly restrained his subordinates, never daring any act of overreach—except for one troublemaking young lord, Huang.

Meng Jinquan had misjudged the direction entirely. Zhao Mu, a man of military origins, knew clearly: young officers thirsted for glory.

In the grand tide of Wanli’s reforms, amid the seismic shift of opening the seas, securing three stable silver mines for the Great Ming was a monumental achievement that would secure the dynasty’s century-long fate. Luo Shangzhi could not remain unmoved!

For the next two to three centuries, the Great Ming could never escape precious-metal currency. The monetary system remained the empire’s fundamental policy. Gold Treasure Notes were an essential supplement—paper notes redeemable in silver, whose foundation was still gold and silver.

If General Qi could become Duke of Feng, why shouldn’t Luo Shangzhi aspire to become Duke of Zhenhai?

“Jinquan, you see—you’ve never served in the ranks, so you don’t understand what General Luo thinks. Zhao Mu, you spoke excellently.” Zhu Yilu immediately confirmed that Zhao Mu’s proposal was sound.

The Governor of Mexico, Petto, was indeed exceedingly submissive—but the mines must be held directly by the Great Ming to ensure true security.

“I shall speak in detail with General Luo.” Zhu Yilu rose at once and headed for the Grand General’s Mansion—a mansion Zhu Yilu had ordered built specially for Luo Shangzhi, and where he had even arranged numerous foreign beauties.

But Luo Shangzhi disliked foreign beauties and disliked gold and silver treasures.

When Zhu Yilu arrived at the Grand General’s Mansion, he checked the hour. At this time, it was Luo Shangzhi’s martial practice hour. He did not have the eunuchs announce the arrival of the Prince of Lu; instead, he went straight to the training ground.

Luo Shangzhi wore full iron armor, wielding a twelve-foot steel spear. The spear lay horizontally before him like a coiled dragon ready to strike. Unlike his calm, scholarly demeanor in the Qiwang Hall, now Luo Shangzhi radiated an aura of deadly slaughter.

Luo Shangzhi had no background in the military. He was neither a guest soldier under Li Chengliang of Liaodong, nor a cavalryman under Ma Fang of the northwest, nor one of Qi Jiguang’s southern troops. A mere company commander by origin, he had no silver to bribe or purchase promotion. He had only his physical strength, his courage forged in blood, the still-warm blood on his spear’s tip, that carried him to where he stood today.

“Hah!”

The spear shot forth like a dragon!

A thunderous roar shattered the silence of the training ground. The spearhead shrieked through the air, rising like a furious dragon’s head, striking with the force of thunder.

Luo Shangzhi swung his arms, sweeping the spear wide. Leaves and pebbles beneath his feet stirred with the wind of his strike. Before the spearpoint touched ground, the long spear surged upward in a diagonal arc, slicing through falling leaves. His waist and abdomen coiled together, the spear following his retreat like a dragon, then another flash of cold light shot straight forward—faster than lightning.

Zhu Yilu had trained in martial arts since childhood. Watching this, his eyelid twitched. These five simple moves—thrust, sweep, lift, withdraw, thrust again—were simple, yet he could not block even one. The pressure, even from several zhang away, crashed against him.

“Split the Mountains of Hua!”

Luo Shangzhi’s voice cracked like spring thunder, deep as a bronze bell. The spearshaft tightened in his grip, carrying a thousand-jin force, carving an arc through the air before crashing down with a thunderous boom.

With a dull thud, the spearhead struck the stone block on the table. The stone shattered instantly, sending up a cloud of dust. The spearpoint still trembled, humming faintly.

Finally, Luo Shangzhi completed the thirty-six forms of spearplay. He stilled, standing like a pine, like a bamboo, iron-clad and rooted to the spot—like a tower. This was his stance training, practiced for over twenty-three years.

“Excellent! Excellent! Excellent!” Zhu Yilu clapped continuously as he entered the training ground, deeply moved. “If the Great Ming has generals like you, how could it fail to flourish?”

“Your Highness.” Luo Shangzhi had seen the Prince of Lu during his practice but dared not stop mid-form. Only when the prince drew near did he hasten to pay his respects. Yet this was somewhat dangerous—Zhu Yilu had entered Luo Shangzhi’s attack range.

Luo Shangzhi’s spear could not only be wielded—it could be thrown. Zhu Yilu was no coward, but he could not dodge it.

Yet this pair of imperial brothers, the Emperor and the Prince of Lu, had never felt such distance. When generals like Qi Jiguang, Li Rusong, Ma Fang, and Ma Lin trained, His Majesty never cared about the breach of protocol in appearing unarmored.

After paying his respects, Luo Shangzhi set aside his spear, removed his iron armor, then returned to the training ground and bowed again.

“Forgive me for embarrassing Your Highness. With firearms now dominant, martial training serves only to strengthen bones and sinews, forge the body, and cultivate perseverance.” Luo Shangzhi was remarkably humble. His martial skill was indeed formidable, but times had changed. Heavy armor could not stop a nine-pound cannon or a flintlock musket. The Pingyi musket struck true every time.

Zhu Yilu gestured for Luo Shangzhi to sit and speak without ceremony.

His elder brother once said: weapons are tools for men. If the man is weak, even the finest weapon is useless.

Even in the age of firearms, Luo Shangzhi could still shine brilliantly. Yi—perseverance—is a rare virtue. Zhu Yilu saw the characters Hong and Yi in Luo Shangzhi.

In the battles of Pyongyang, Kaesong, Hanyang, Incheon, and Busan, it was not Luo Shangzhi, Zhao Ji, and others who broke through the enemy’s defenses first that opened these iron shells. Without them, the Great Ming’s first campaign against the Japanese would not have gone so smoothly. Firearms merely added wings to a tiger. The Ming army had always been the tiger—only before, it had been half-starved.

"General Luo, I have come to ask you to stay. I intend to seize Mexico." Zhu Yilu sat upright, speaking as a sovereign—to make clear to Luo Shangzhi his resolve. The red-haired barbarians were still barbarians; the Kingdom of Gold must be built upon the skulls of the foreigners.

Zhu Yilu did not beat around the bush. He laid out his terms: the system of military merit, noble titles, land, and estates; elite naval troops; and the command of Lou Hu, the White Tiger’s head.

“Your Highness, I returned to the Great Ming only to repay the Emperor’s boundless grace. I harbor no other ambition.” Luo Shangzhi shook his head. If His Majesty needed him, he would return. If His Majesty ordered him to seize Mexico, he would become Bai Qi—kill until rivers ran red.

Iron armor torn to shreds to fulfill my lord’s vow; when the tiger tally breaks, the Jade Pass grows cold.

Silent march by night across Qilian’s snow; tossing heads, startling the moon above Tian Shan.

Whale waves rage, crashing against the side of warships; I offer my broken body to calm the sea’s wrath.

My loyal bones long pledged before the throne; still gleaming, as they did beside my old campaign saddle.

Luo Shangzhi was from Zhejiang. He was not originally naval—he was a regional commander in Datong of the northwest, earning great merit suppressing western barbarians, then transferred to the coast. These four lines were his life’s epitaph—the very words His Majesty had gifted him.

In the nineteenth year of Jiajing, before Mao Bowen launched his campaign against Annan, the Jiajing Emperor composed a seven-character regulated poem, “Sending Mao Bowen.” It was an ancestral custom of Ming emperors to bestow poems upon generals departing for war.

His Majesty was no poet. The poem had no formal meter, barely even basic parallelism—but Luo Shangzhi loved it deeply.

Luo Shangzhi was not ungracious. He bowed again, lowering his head. “If His Majesty gives the order, I shall cleave through brambles and surging waves to return to the Kingdom of Gold.”

Zhu Yilu’s move was like trying to pry away a general from his elder brother’s side—but he could not pry him loose. And he should not be able to. As one of the 132 Eastern Expedition stars, if he could be swayed by fame, wealth, or profit, he would not be Lou Hu.

Indeed, Luo Shangzhi craved merit—but that craving was subordinate to loyalty.

Loyal ministers and capable generals must be cultivated personally. There is no shortcut.