Chapter 994: Chapter One Thousand and Two: This Is the Only Way, There Is No Alternative

Zhang Juzheng’s intentions were easy to guess: to nip problems in the bud.

While the situation has not yet deteriorated to the point requiring a massive cost, one must summon the courage to cut off the poisoned arm—act early, rather than wait until the illness has reached the marrow, when all rescue efforts will be too late.

Early detection, early diagnosis, early intervention, early treatment—this was Zhang Juzheng’s consistent principle.

This move against Wang Zhuan was based on these four “earlies”; if we delay further, by the time Zhang Juzheng passes away, Wang Zhuan will no longer enjoy his current treatment—he still has a chance to survive now, but if this path of error continues, in a few years Wang Zhuan will surely die.

Zhang Juzheng had another reason for this action: the will of Heaven had changed.

It was not that His Majesty had lost trust in him as Imperial Tutor; by now, the Wanli Reforms had reached this stage, and the Emperor and the Grand Secretary were already on the same rope, like locusts bound together.

Zhang Juzheng felt the will of Heaven had changed because, after holding power so long, suspicion would inevitably grow heavier.

Rather than wait for the Emperor to strike the first blow, it was better to strike first himself, so the Emperor would know Zhang Juzheng remained a loyal minister.

According to Xu Chengchu’s investigation at the Anti-Corruption Office, Wang Zhuan’s offenses were not grave—mostly matters of silver, with no involvement in political stance or allegiance; in other words, his crimes did not warrant death.

If Wang Zhuan truly stood in the Wenhua Hall and, before the ministers, exposed the scandals of Grand Secretary Zhang Juzheng from the Jiajing forty-fifth year, the Emperor would have no choice but to have Wang Zhuan beaten to death.

The decree “He who speaks ill of his master shall be beheaded” still holds.

“Wang Zhuan, governance is easier when strong, harder when weak and chaotic. On this hall, there is likely only I who remembers those days. Those old, tangled accounts must not be revisited.” Zhu Yijun reiterated his stance: if Wang Zhuan refrained from reckless speech, he still had a chance to live.

Wang Zhuan had been thrown into shock by this sudden upheaval, but after being rebuked by the Emperor, he had fully regained his senses: his own offenses amounted to no more than 300,000 taels of silver, but to reveal the humiliations of his master during his time of hardship—that would be deserving of death many times over.

Former Governor of Sichuan Luo Yao was also a disciple of the Master; he embezzled 340,000 taels, yet the Emperor did not execute him—even now, under the Anti-Corruption Office, he merely suffered hardship and would ultimately survive.

Had the notorious rebellion at Qingma Bridge in Rongcheng not occurred, the corruption case involving the Jingguang Expressway would never have escalated to such extremes.

“Your servant is ashamed.” Wang Zhuan bowed again.

Zhu Yijun waved his hand, signaling the court inspectors who had prepared to act to step back; the inspectors had rushed to Wang Zhuan’s side the instant the Emperor grew angry, ready to correct his breach of protocol—he did not wish for dignity, yet he must have dignity.

Zhu Yijun flipped through Wang Zhuan’s memorial; Xu Chengchu’s investigation had lasted over two months, and Wang Zhuan had sensed the wind—otherwise, how could a third-rank official like him have gone to knock on the door of a minor official like Xu Chengchu?

Wang Zhuan’s decline began in the eighth year of Wanli, when he was at the height of his ambition, rising from Assistant Censor-in-Chief to Left Vice Censor-in-Chief; at that time, an old classmate approached him, accused of wrongdoing, and Wang Zhuan intervened to protect him.

From then on, Wang Zhuan embarked on the path of accepting bribes to shield others; at first, it was only classmates, but later, anyone who paid could seek his favor.

Wang Zhuan was Zhang Juzheng’s first hound; in the eyes of all ministers, whenever Wang Zhuan bit someone, it was because Zhang Juzheng ordered it; when Wang Zhuan sought to protect someone, all had to grant him face—and he never needed to act personally; his steward merely visited the steward of the official in charge, and the matter was quietly settled.

After all, upright ministers like Hai Rui and Xu Chengchu were rare; for twenty years under Zhang Juzheng’s Grand Secretaryship, the Zhang faction held overwhelming power—who dared provoke the first hound?

Later, Wang Zhuan’s household began engaging in commerce; these ventures did not involve contraband such as opium—Wang Zhuan was extremely cautious on this point; black goods were the most dangerous of dangers, and exposure meant widespread repercussions.

Moreover, black goods were not profitable; only desperate outlaws profited from them—how could they compare to the profits of white goods, with their far greater volume?

Wang Zhuan’s commercial dealings were primarily driven by merchants seeking protection and patronage.

Even Sun Kehong, head of the Songjiang Overseas Trading Company, had to cultivate connections with Wang Zhuan; in this age, doing business from Songjiang Prefecture to every corner of the empire meant passing through a ghost gate at every border.

With Wang Zhuan as a protective talisman, whenever the Songjiang Overseas Trading Company arrived in a region, the local yamen would at least grant them some face; with proper bribes to officials above and below, the ghost gate was passed.

“Wang Zhuan, do not harbor resentment; the Master is saving you. You have already set one foot through the ghost gate, yet you remain unaware.” Zhu Yijun, gazing at Xu Chengchu’s memorial, spoke gravely: “Good and evil are summoned by one’s deeds; fortune and misfortune are drawn by one’s own hands. Your greed has grown too great.”

“Your servant acknowledges his guilt.” Wang Zhuan bowed again.

In Great Ming, merchants were divided into white, red, gray, and black; Wang Zhuan’s bribery had already expanded from white to red and gray; if this continued, he would become a shield for black and evil elements—law shows no mercy, and the end would be decapitation.

Zhu Yijun pondered, then picked up his vermilion brush and said: “Wang Zhuan, for associating with faction and flattering, violating laws and disrupting governance, his official position is revoked; let him return home via the imperial relay system.”

Only his office was stripped, not his degree—he would return home still as a respected jinshi, still able to live comfortably as a local gentry; this punishment was not severe, but the fall from court minister to country gentry was itself a penalty.

Primarily, it was out of respect for Zhang Juzheng’s face; purging the faction was one thing, but harming Zhang Juzheng would strike at the very foundation of the Wanli Reforms.

“Your Majesty, such light punishment may invite criticism. I humbly beg Your Majesty to impose a stricter penalty.” Zhang Juzheng immediately stepped forward as the punishment was announced; his goal was to purge the faction, and if such a grave offense received only a light penalty, no one would dare challenge the Zhang faction in the future.

“What does Grand Secretary Lu think?” Zhu Yijun turned to Lu Guangzu, who oversaw the Anti-Corruption Office; he wished to hear the view of the Director of the Anti-Corruption Office and Left Grand Censor.

Lu Guangzu hesitated, then stepped forward and said: "Your Majesty is right. Though Wang Zhuan's crimes are grave, he has served the state well; his 'Examination of River Defense,' written during his tenure as Inspector of River Patrols, still safeguards the empire's realm and altars. Corruption is vile, but excessive punishment may chill the hearts of ministers eager to serve."

“The Grand Secretary is also right. The Grand Secretary has guided the state for twenty years, cultivated the ruler’s virtue, restrained favorites, enforced strict performance evaluations, verified names and realities, purified the postal system, surveyed landholdings, revived decayed institutions—undoubtedly a capable statesman. Yet his authority has grown too heavy; his disciples, relying on his power, have acted recklessly and must be severely punished as a warning to others.”

“This matter is of great gravity, and its proper weight is difficult to gauge. I humbly beg Your Majesty to make the final decision.”

“It is indeed difficult for Grand Secretary Lu.” Zhu Yijun waved his hand, signaling Lu Guangzu to return to his place; the Emperor was right, the Grand Secretary was right—they had played a game of Taiji, finally deferring to the Emperor’s judgment, kicking the ball back to him.

Lu Guangzu knew perfectly well what to do—he simply dared not offend Zhang Juzheng; internal strife within the Zhang clan should be resolved by the Zhang clan themselves.

Lu Guangzu appeared to say nothing, yet he had subtly expressed his stance: he dared not involve himself, even though Wang Zhuan’s case was being handled by Zhang Juzheng’s Xu Chengchu, not by Lu Guangzu himself.

This confirmed Zhang Juzheng’s claim: the Zhang faction was powerful, ministers were silenced, and Great Ming’s correction mechanism had become ineffective against the Zhang faction.

“Severe punishment is warranted”—this was Lu Guangzu’s true position.

Zhu Yijun had been Emperor for twenty years; he understood precisely what his ministers meant by their words.

“Then, as the Master suggests, add the revocation of his degree.” Zhu Yijun intensified the punishment: stripping his office and now his degree as well—this was a very severe penalty.

“Master, regardless, Wang Zhuan’s reorganization of river defense was a great service to the state; no more need be said.” Zhu Yijun added, seeing Zhang Juzheng about to speak again.

Wang Zhuan’s “Examination of River Defense” primarily established the defense system along the Yangtze, targeting water pirates and Japanese raiders.

Although since the founding of the Great Ming navy, Japan had dared not invade the empire’s coasts, Wang Zhuan’s “Examination of River Defense” revitalized the Yangtze River as a vital artery; today’s success in opening the seas owes Wang Zhuan a share of credit.

As Lu Guangzu said, relentless pursuit would dampen the hearts of scholars eager to serve the state.

Some who once walked the path have indeed strayed, yet they remain capable ministers of Great Ming.

“Your servant kneels to thank Your Majesty’s boundless grace!” Wang Zhuan finally understood: when Zhang Juzheng moved, no one dared plead for him; only the Emperor’s insistence had granted him a marginally dignified end.

He had served Zhang Juzheng as disciple and aide for thirty years, done countless deeds for him—and now ended like this!

Yet as Wang Zhuan reflected, he sighed: it was not Zhang Juzheng’s fault for disregarding their master-disciple bond.

Good and evil are summoned by one’s deeds; fortune and misfortune are drawn by one’s own hands. Zhang Juzheng had warned him, openly and covertly, many times—but he remained blinded by greed, refusing to correct his ways; was he not the chicken sacrificed to frighten the monkeys?

He deserved it.

“Morning, he ascended the Emperor’s hall; evening, he became a peasant—this was already a favorable outcome.”

Fortunately, the state was now stable, with no factional strife; had this been the early Wanli years, the Jin faction would have seized him as an excuse and relentlessly attacked him—he did not know the outcome of factional wars, but he knew his own fate would have been far worse.

“Withdraw.” Zhu Yijun waved his hand, signaling Wang Zhuan to leave court.

Wang Zhuan bowed again, rose, bowed deeply, and retreated to the entrance of the Wenhua Hall, then turned and stepped out; as soon as he exited, the Embroidered Uniform Guards surrounded him, stripping off his crown, sash, and official robe; Zhang Hong handed him a Confucian robe, and the guards helped him put it on.

The Emperor had no intention of humiliating a minister; letting Wang Zhuan change into a Confucian robe ensured his dignified departure.

After donning the Confucian robe, Wang Zhuan turned and bowed deeply to the Emperor atop the moon terrace, head bowed, and said: “Your humble subject bids farewell to Your Majesty. May Your Majesty live ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand ten thousand years.”

After bowing farewell to the Emperor, Wang Zhuan rose and descended the moon terrace of the Wenhua Hall, reached the Zuoshun Gate, and stood there for a long, long time; he had spent half his life passing the imperial examination, and the other half stumbling to become a Ming minister, ascending the Emperor’s hall—this was his final look at the Wenhua Hall, the Wenyuan Pavilion.

“It is self-inflicted.” Wang Zhuan sighed at last, and under the guidance of a eunuch, left the palace.

“Master, I had intended not to revoke his degree, but to assign him to Japan, to redeem himself through service.” Zhu Yijun said, somewhat regretful after Wang Zhuan’s departure.

Wang Zhuan was highly capable; he had overseen the Yangtze defense excellently; his six-volume “Examination of River Defense” was no less valuable to Great Ming than Liang Menglong’s “Examination of Maritime Transport.”

Zhu Yijun planned to reappoint Wang Zhuan after Zhang Juzheng’s internal purge had passed, sending him to Japan to redeem himself, continuing to serve Great Ming.

Great Ming had many useless men, few capable ministers, few talented ones; Wang Zhuan was among the most exemplary of officials; Zhu Yijun cherished every talent, for usable men were exceedingly rare.

“If we do not punish severely, how can we turn the blade inward?” Zhang Juzheng sighed, bowed and returned to his place; Wang Zhuan’s case was merely the opening of the purge within the Zhang faction.

The Emperor’s intention to reappoint him was precisely what Zhang Juzheng feared most!

Zhang Juzheng knew well whether Wang Zhuan was capable; he became the Zhang faction’s first hound not through connections, but through ability—evil ministers are not fools.

If the Emperor developed a fondness for talent and reappointed Wang Zhuan, his return to court was all but certain—rendering this entire purge utterly meaningless.

The court deliberation continued, but ministers were distracted; on the eighth day of the first month, Zhang Juzheng had delivered a powerful shock to all Great Ming ministers.

He dared to execute his own first hound—how much less mercy would he show others? For a moment, the ministers’ thoughts were no longer on state affairs.

It was still the New Year season, and no other major events had occurred.

Last year, Beijing suffered three heavy snowstorms; snow in Suiyuan was so heavy it blocked doors; Shaanxi, Gansu, and Suiyuan suffered no drought; the Emperor visited the Altar of Prayer for Good Harvests and fasted for five days, thanking Heaven for the snow that spared these impoverished lands.

Aside from favorable weather, Great Ming’s harvest last year reached a new record.

The state’s annual revenue in Wanli nineteenth year exceeded sixty million taels for the first time: 60.12 million taels, of which land tax was under ten million taels (9.24 million), and His Majesty again reduced land tax to counter natural disasters; commercial tax reached 50.88 million taels, far surpassing last year’s 46.58 million.

Of the 50.88 million taels, over 1.2 million came from the Yangtze Inspection Stations, a legacy of Wang Zhuan’s reorganization of river defense, modeled after the expressway management system.

Reorganizing river defense brought the court over 1.2 million taels in annual tax revenue, while Wang Zhuan embezzled only about 320,000 taels from Wanli eighth to Wanli nineteenth year.

Wang Zhuan’s political stance and allegiance were unimpeachable—how could the Emperor bring himself to punish him severely?

In his day, Yan Song spent years struggling to gather one million taels to build the Yongshou Palace for the Daoist Master.

The advent of the Shengping No. 10 Iron Horse signified further progress in Great Ming’s steam engine miniaturization technology, benefiting improvements to the previous nine low-power steam engines; the influence of Great Ming’s Iron Horses was gradually spreading along the expressways throughout the empire.

Great Ming had extracted vast wealth from overseas, promoting technological advancement and raising productivity—this was the fundamental response to natural disasters.

Good news arrived from Xuzhou: the first phase of the Xuzhou Machinery Factory was completed ahead of schedule, with production of various small Iron Horses and machinery initiated, featuring miniaturization and weight reduction improvements.

All were good tidings, yet Zhang Juzheng’s internal purge still left ministers deeply uneasy.

“Master, remain. The court is dismissed.” Zhu Yijun, seeing ministers lost in thought, halted the deliberation and kept Zhang Juzheng behind.

Ling Yunyi, sensing the tension, feared the Emperor and Zhang Juzheng might truly quarrel; without imperial order, he chose to stay; the three of them retired to the Tonghe Palace Imperial Study, where they deliberated for an hour before concluding.

The good news: the Emperor and Grand Secretary did not quarrel.

The bad news: Zhang Juzheng convinced the Emperor to launch a full investigation into all Zhang faction members for corruption and abuse of power.

“Grand Secretary, Shen Shixing was reprimanded, Wang Zhuan dismissed—your intentions are noble, but perhaps too harsh.” Ling Yunyi, aboard the small steam train to the Wenyuan Pavilion, conversed with Zhang Juzheng about the purge.

Zhang Juzheng, who had been resting with closed eyes, opened them, his gaze complex: “I have watched the Yan faction, the Xu faction, the Jin faction build their towers, host their banquets, then watch them collapse. I cannot leave the Emperor a tower destined to fall.”

“The Yan faction, the Xu faction’s reformers, the Jin faction—they did not begin as great harms to the state; they all sought to save the nation, to rescue the empire.”

“Wang Chonggu, a civil jinshi, suppressed pirates in the south and repelled barbarians in the north—he never intended to become a corrupt minister, a traitor to the state—but the Jin faction pushed him to that point.”

“I can only do this. There is no other way.”

In the Tonghe Palace Imperial Study, Zhang Juzheng fully convinced the Emperor to support his internal purge, arguing that unless the Zhang faction was purged, it would follow the Xu faction’s path: corruption, bribery, favoritism, lawbreaking, and governance disruption.

Once the Zhang faction reached such a state, it would face universal condemnation, become a target of public hatred, and the Wanli Reforms would become merely a ripple in the river of history.

“Reform begins with governing officials; without governing officials, nothing can be accomplished.” Zhang Juzheng reaffirmed his reform principle: without governing officials, nothing can be achieved.

“Fine, fine, you’re right, you’re right!” Ling Yunyi waved his hands, ceasing his persuasion; Zhang Juzheng, growing old, had become more stubborn, less compassionate, the opposite of the sentimental Wang Chonggu.

“Grand Secretary, has His Majesty issued any edict regarding next year’s imperial residence in Songjiang Prefecture?” Ling Yunyi brought up another matter.

Zhang Juzheng’s expression turned strange: “The Emperor agreed; Songjiang Prefecture has prepared thoroughly—but the Southern Court has heard the news and is reluctant; these days, the Southern Censorate and its censors have submitted repeated memorials, urging the Emperor to reside in Yingtian instead.”

Acting Provincial Governor Wang Xiyuan thoroughly repaired the Southern Imperial Palace by Moyou Lake, established official offices, and left the position vacant in anticipation.

“The Southern Palace isn’t repenting—it knows it’s going to die.” Ling Yunyi gazed out the carriage window at the gloomy sky; after a cold wind, snowflakes began falling again over the capital. The heavens seemed to be in a strange mood—last year not a single flake fell, this year heavy snows came, and after the New Year, gentle rains poured down.

Spring rain is still a good thing; this year’s spring plowing will let the people breathe easier.

Once the Emperor confirms his residence in Songjiang Prefecture, Nanjing—the Yingtian Prefecture—will be effectively abandoned, reduced to just another ordinary prefecture of the Great Ming. Songjiang Prefecture will gradually assume all of Yingtian’s functions. Now you want to show loyalty? Too late!

The Fifth Great Case of Wanli—the Wanli Sixteenth Year Selection Case—the Emperor’s southern tour the following year saw 622 powerful gentry families of the Southern Palace beheaded, with His Majesty personally overseeing the executions at the Southern Palace.

“Do you think the Southern Palace is better, or Songjiang Prefecture?” Ling Yunyi asked.

“What do you think, Vice Minister?”

Ling Yunyi answered swiftly: “Songjiang Prefecture.”

“The Emperor thinks so too.” Zhang Juzheng played the conservative in court, and he truly believed Yingtian Prefecture was better—it was the birthplace of the Great Ming.

“You favor Yingtian Prefecture?” Ling Yunyi asked, surprised.

“It’s not my decision—it’s the Emperor’s.” Zhang Juzheng smiled. He and the Emperor often disagreed; sometimes he persuaded His Majesty, sometimes the Emperor persuaded him.

On the afternoon of the first day of the New Year, the Emperor visited his Yicheng Marquis residence, brought up the matter, and convinced Zhang Juzheng: from Wanli Twenty-One onward, the imperial residence would be moved to Songjiang Prefecture.

After leaving his Yicheng Marquis residence, the Emperor went to pay New Year’s respects at the neighboring Grand General’s mansion—a tradition he observed every year.

But how could an Emperor pay New Year’s respects to his ministers? Yet when the Emperor came, Zhang Juzheng and Qi Jiguang had to tear down their thresholds so His Majesty could walk as if on level ground.

Zhang Juzheng felt that establishing the imperial residence in Songjiang Prefecture was too absolute, leaving no retreat—it signaled an irrevocable commitment to opening the seas. Once the Emperor resided in Songjiang, the Great Ming would have utterly abandoned the policy of isolation.

Residing in Yingtian Prefecture, by contrast, allowed for flexibility: under the banner of honoring the High Emperor Taizu, should the Emperor later grow weary or wish to abandon sea-opening, he could cancel it at any time and send officials to offer sacrifices.

The Emperor’s argument to convince Zhang Juzheng was simple: he wanted to build five great tiled halls for the Great Ming. Only when all five were completed could he declare the Wanli Reforms a success.

The Dinghai Education System was too costly—it could only be sustained through overseas expansion.

Education works this way: universal education demands money—huge sums. It’s harder than ensuring every subject of the Great Ming has enough to eat.

“Then Songjiang Prefecture it is.” After careful consideration, Ling Yunyi settled on this choice.

“What do you think of Gao Qiyu?” Zhang Juzheng raised Gao Qiyu’s name, asking Ling Yunyi’s opinion.

Ling Yunyi looked at Zhang Juzheng and said firmly: “Making him Grand Secretary of the Imperial Library is a waste—he should be Vice Minister. Shen Shixing is still too soft-hearted. If Shen Shixing becomes Chief Minister, his desire to please everyone will cost him dearly. Gao Qiyu is harsher.”

“This time it wasn’t Gao Qiyu who launched the impeachment, but his hosting of banquets will bring trouble later.”

“Fine.” Zhang Juzheng spoke, then closed his eyes to rest. The coming purge would be a storm—he was sixty-nine, old, and already weary.

Shen Shixing was clever—he met with every member of the Zhang faction during the New Year. It wasn’t that he hadn’t guessed what Zhang Juzheng intended; it was his nature. Though he’d learned the art of compromise in Songjiang, Shen Shixing’s heart still wasn’t hard enough—he still wanted to please everyone.

Just after seizing the leadership of the faction, Shen Shixing should have met some and avoided others. For instance, Wang Zhuan—Xu Chengchu had investigated Wang Zhuan, and Shen Shixing knew it. Yet he still met with Wang Zhuan, believing that thirty years of master-disciple ties between Wang and Zhang Juzheng shouldn’t end this way.

Gao Qiyu was ruthless—ruthless toward himself, even more so toward others—and he followed the path of the solitary minister, effectively balancing Shen Shixing’s softness.

Throughout the entire first lunar month, the sweeping purge began in earnest. This storm even overshadowed the imminent twenty-year imperial examination. Starting with Wang Zhuan, many of Zhang Juzheng’s followers were taken away by the Anti-Corruption Office, their fates unknown.

“This one won’t do. The Grand Secretariat will know—Fu Zozhou must be spared.” Zhu Yijun flipped through the Anti-Corruption Office’s list. He spared one man—a Jinshi of Longqing Five, now serving as Assistant Censor-in-Chief of Yingtian Prefecture, overseeing river defense and the Longjiang Shipyard—a capable administrator.

Fu Zozhou was Zhang Juzheng’s fellow townsman, from Jiangling County, Jingzhou Prefecture. Xu Chengchu confirmed Fu Zozhou had accepted bribes totaling forty thousand taels of silver.

From the facts, Fu Zozhou deserved demotion by three ranks; the bribery was proven beyond doubt.

But Fu Zozhou oversaw the expansion of the Longjiang Shipyard. During the last southern tour, he had already petitioned the Emperor directly on this matter and received His Majesty’s pardon. Some silver, if he didn’t take, would make merchants uneasy.

Mainly regarding construction projects, ship quotas, and river passage fees—Fu Zozhou, as commander of river defense, if he refused these bribes, merchants traveling into the Huguang interior would be bled dry along the way.

Those who live by water feed on it. How many private checkpoints lined the Yangtze? Local offices showed no mercy when they devoured.

If Fu Zozhou refused these silver payments, merchants would lose more than they gained on each trip—they simply wouldn’t come at all.

“Your servant obeys the imperial command.” Feng Bao accepted the order, yet still felt uneasy. He personally went to the Grand Secretariat, met Zhang Juzheng, and delivered the Emperor’s verbal edict verbatim.

“During the southern tour of Wanli Seventeen, Fu Zozhou already petitioned His Majesty directly, who then pardoned him, saying: ‘Minister Fu works tirelessly for the state; river defense is of paramount importance—do not slacken.’”

“After Fu Zozhou left, His Majesty told me: ‘If I issued one decree abolishing all private checkpoints along the river, our Great Ming would already be clear and bright.’”

Feng Bao finished recounting the past, then lowered his voice: “Grand Secretary, spare Fu Zozhou—he was already pardoned by the Emperor’s own mouth.”

“Capable administrators must act pragmatically—compromise is inevitable. Grand Secretary, your pursuit of Fu Zozhou is too harsh—he hasn’t even reached the Anti-Corruption Office’s fifty-tael threshold.”

Zhang Juzheng finally said: “If His Majesty pardoned him, then let it go.”

Not everyone was like Shen Shixing, favored by the Emperor—demoted three ranks and still with a bright future. If Fu Zozhou were demoted three ranks, within half a year he’d be impeached by censors until he was forced to submit his own resignation.

“Then I shall return to the palace to report.” Feng Bao, relieved that Zhang Juzheng agreed, breathed easier and hurried to leave, fearing he might change his mind.

Wang Zhuan had already been stripped of his office and scholarly title; along the river defense line, everyone lived in fear. If Fu Zozhou fell too, the line would erupt in chaos the Emperor did not wish to see.

Capable administrators are never pure scholars—because to get things done, they must compromise. Zhang Juzheng’s harsh internal purge would easily paralyze such men.

Internal purging must be done—without renewal, the Zhang faction would eventually follow the fate of the Jin faction.

But the degree of severity was exceedingly hard to gauge.