Chapter 998

The principle is easy to understand, but putting it into practice is extremely difficult; Confucian teachings on self-cultivation have been discussed for two thousand years, yet how many Confucian scholars have truly mastered self-cultivation? Principles are one thing; actual conduct is another matter entirely.

Similarly, with imperial support, the Zhang faction had become unprecedentedly massive, and Zhang Juzheng’s personal position was as solid as a mountain—almost nothing could shake it; he had become a symbol, a marker of Wanli’s renewal.

At this point, whoever led the faction knew that extreme prosperity inevitably leads to decline, and only through a strict internal purge could the organization survive.

Everyone understood the principle, but actually doing it was immensely difficult; speaking of the courage to cut off one’s own wrist is simple, but if it were truly that simple, why didn’t Yan Song, Xu Jie, or Gao Gong do it? Even Shen Shixing didn’t do it—once he became faction leader, he immediately threw a grand banquet.

Zhang Juzheng chose to subject everyone to scrutiny, including Shen Shixing and Wang Xiyuan, his own loyal disciples within the Zhang faction.

Zhu Yijun felt Zhang Juzheng was being overly harsh, but he had already promised to support the purge, so there was no reason to renege; though it caused some unrest, because of the Fu Zuozhou incident involving forty thousand taels of silver, those not crossing the line would not be closely investigated—the unrest remained contained and showed no signs of further escalation.

In February of the twentieth year of Wanli, the most conspicuous event was the posting of the examination results outside Donghuamen, where these four hundred men became the newly appointed jinshi of the Great Ming, transforming from carp leaping over the dragon gate into the ruling class of the empire’s official selection.

Another matter attracting attention was that the Imperial Anatomical Institute, after long-term research, had uncovered the fundamental mechanism of “blindness.”

The chief physicians of the Imperial Anatomical Institute divided their specimens into two groups and conducted a five-year longitudinal study, ultimately concluding that blindness resulted from sugar poisoning, causing pathological changes in ocular organs—not an eye problem, but a dietary one.

This article on sugar toxicity, published in the Ge Wu Bao, sparked extremely widespread controversy.

This was because the chief physicians had used the diet of Emperor Xuanzong in their research: breakfast included sugar-coated grapes and honeyed tangerines; lunch always featured sesame-oil cakes, sweet-and-sour soup, and brocade-thread cake soup; dinner included milk-and-honey-brewed milk-honey broth and sugary oils.

This appeared somewhat presumptuous, and the symptoms of severe sugar toxicity matched precisely those exhibited by Emperor Xuanzong in his later years.

Blindness, drinking twenty pots of tea daily due to thirst, rising twenty times at night to urinate, foot sores rotting into the bone, and all ten fingers falling off—all were mid- to late-stage symptoms of sugar toxicity.

The chief physicians offered no explanation, and the emperor appeared to investigate nothing, leaving public opinion unable to pinpoint its target in its attacks on the Anatomical Institute.

After all, the one most obligated to object was the emperor—how could one use an ancestor’s diet for research? But the emperor didn’t care; no amount of criticism mattered.

The emperor didn’t care because he had personally approved it; in an era where sugar cost more than medicine, without imperial permission, this research project would have died in the womb.

Emperor Xuanzong had taken the blame for Emperor Renzong; in fact, both emperors ate nearly the same, and their symptoms were very similar.

Emperor Renzong had learned his eating habits from his father, Emperor Yongle Zhu Di; the key was that Zhu Di spent his entire life campaigning, and he ate this way because his energy expenditure was immense—he couldn’t fight without it.

Zhu Yijun initiated this research because, in the twelfth month of Wanli nine, he noticed Qi Jiguang had developed symptoms of diabetes—the “sugar toxicity” described by the Anatomical Institute.

Soldiers on campaign have huge appetites; once combat duties ended and only training remained, Qi Jiguang’s body should have grown heavier—he should have developed a general’s belly.

But after the defeat of Altan Khan in Wanli nine, with no further campaigns and stationed in the capital as Duke of Fengguo, Qi Jiguang instead grew thinner: he ate more, drank more, urinated more, yet his weight dropped—prompting Zhu Yijun to immediately approve this previously dismissed “excessively wasteful” research.

Since then, Qi Jiguang had been eating insufficiently; the chief physicians strictly limited his daily intake, and once Qi Jiguang half-jokingly, half-complained to the emperor: "I've hardly eaten a full meal in my life—I'm afraid I'll die a hungry ghost."

Qi Jiguang had no power over these chief physicians—they were fearless; he could only complain to the emperor, who publicly summoned them and scolded them severely, yet secretly granted them unusually generous rewards.

Your Majesty and the chief physicians meant well for him; he knew this, and he had the willpower—since then, Qi Jiguang had restrained his appetite.

Qi Jiguang’s words were not exaggerated.

He was a hereditary military officer, like Li Chengliang, requiring a substantial sum of silver to inherit the position; to preserve the hereditary rank, his family had to constantly save silver, reserving large sums for succession.

Qi Jiguang’s childhood was far from wealthy; when he went south to suppress the Japanese pirates, he often went hungry, never knowing when he’d get a hot meal.

When he was stationed in Jizhou to resist the northern barbarians, he frequently led his personal guards on reconnaissance missions into the steppes; Jizhou, Xifengkou, and other areas under his command were among the easiest points for northern invaders to breach the Great Wall, requiring constant patrols beyond the frontier.

After finally capturing Altan Khan and bringing him to the capital, the emperor’s appointed chief physicians ordered Duke of Fengguo to eat smaller, more frequent meals and strictly control his diet—no rich meats or fish, not even full meals permitted.

The chief physicians of the Anatomical Institute spent five years tracking and studying wealthy elites exhibiting similar symptoms, developing a dietary plan based on body weight and varying degrees of sugar toxicity, along with a specialized prescription for mild sugar-induced thirst.

This diet was unpalatable, but it truly cured and saved lives.

As Chief Physician Pang Xian put it: "General Qi Jiguang's current physical strength, endurance, and reflexes far surpass those of many thirty-year-old aristocratic playboys; he is sixty-four years old and can still wield a twelve-foot steel spear—how many young aristocratic playboys can even lift one?"

A twelve-foot steel spear—twelve chi (3.84 meters)—weighed sixty-eight catties; it was a martial weapon for training and battle, called a “one-line spear,” with a wooden shaft nine chi long weighing only three catties—the sixty-eight catties were for strength training, a heavy weapon only the strongest generals could wield.

Qi Jiguang could wield the twelve-foot steel spear as if it were an extension of his arm, while most men could barely hold it steady.

Had Qi Jiguang lacked such extraordinary willpower and not cooperated with the chief physicians’ dietary and medicinal regimen, he would have been unable to lift the twelve-foot steel spear by Wanli fifteen or sixteen.

This prescription for thirst caused such controversy not only because of its connection to the deaths of Emperors Renzong and Xuanzong, but also because the sugar toxicity described by the Anatomical Institute was extremely common among the powerful elites of the Great Ming.

“According to the Anatomical Institute’s research, once sugar foot and blindness appear, there is no cure—because the stomach has already taken control of the brain; the hunger pangs at this stage are worse than a drug addict’s withdrawal,” Feng Bao informed the emperor of the unpublished Anatomical Institute findings.

The chief physicians knew that at this stage, there was no hope—but they could not tell the patient this cruel truth.

The human instinct for food had surpassed the limits of willpower; early treatment and intervention were essential.

“According to Fan Wuqi, once the ‘three highs and one low’—eating more, drinking more, urinating more, weight dropping—appear, the disease is inevitably progressing; but General Qi’s extraordinary willpower saved him—this is an extreme rarity,” Feng Bao added.

The chief physicians considered Qi Jiguang’s case of little general value—not because they restricted him well, but because Duke of Fengguo himself suppressed his instinctive appetite, allowing his body to enter a positive cycle; such willpower was simply not possessed by ordinary people.

“Do you think I, too, might one day suffer this disease?” Zhu Yijun asked Feng Bao, setting down the Ge Wu Bao.

Feng Bao replied firmly: “Your Majesty does not overeat; according to Hongwu’s ancestral regulations, morning and evening meals should have twelve dishes, lunch twenty-four; Your Majesty has only two at morning and evening, four at lunch, one bowl of rice, one bowl of soup, and still must inspect troops daily—I believe you won’t get it, and I even think you’re eating too little.”

The emperor was thirty years old; given the common pattern of Ming emperors dying in their thirties, he should be preparing his succession.

But Feng Bao believed His Majesty was no short-lived man; his diet proved it—he was clearly aiming to outlive Zhu Yuanzhang; so robust, so busy, eating so little, he was often hungry, especially from inspecting troops, which consumed immense energy.

The emperor had already deviated from ancestral austerity.

The Anatomical Institute’s research on sugar toxicity and thirst had great medical value and offered an effective treatment—but the question remained: could people actually follow it?

People are even more timid than imagined; forget the regret chair of the Zhenfu Si, even a yamen runner’s knock at the door sends everyone into a panic.

Similarly, human willpower is far weaker than assumed; once the “three highs and one low” symptoms appear, controlling one’s diet becomes nearly impossible.

The Anatomical Institute was a product of Zhu Yijun’s youthful indulgence, and these very products were now bringing countless changes to the Great Ming.

"Your Majesty, during this past New Year, something happened at Xu Chengchu's front gate," Feng Bao said, pulling a report from the Imperial Guard's dispatches and placing it before the emperor.

It was a minor, unremarkable incident.

Xu Chengchu’s second son was only ten years old, at the age of wild play, but Xu Chengchu had closed his doors to visitors during the New Year, leaving his son unable to go out and play; while other children ran outside setting off firecrackers and fireworks, Xu Chengchu’s son was confined indoors, seeing no one.

On the morning of the second day of the New Year, while his father was away, the boy slipped out to play; as soon as he opened the door, a gift-bearer rushed forward—he had been waiting a long time for the door to open.

A ten-year-old boy clashed with this gift-bearer; the gift box contained a raw jade stone from Yunnan, already cut open—weighing nearly five catties; the boy refused it, but the adult kept shoving it inside the doorway.

The boy, overwhelmed, burst into loud tears; the gift-bearer, flustered, pulled out several yellow gold banknotes—at least a dozen—and declared them New Year’s money.

Xu Chengchu’s son tore up the banknotes, slipped back inside while the man was stunned, and slammed the door shut.

The Imperial Guard witnessed this and recorded it, dubbing it: "The upright official hides and dodges; Xu Yingsheng only enters through the back door."

Even a child couldn’t go out to set off a firecracker without hiding—otherwise, someone would seize an excuse to label him a hypocrite, turning Xu Chengchu, the upright official, clean-stream scholar, and anti-corruption censor, into a laughingstock.

Being an upright official was this hard.

The Imperial Guard's later investigation revealed that most who gave gifts to Xu Chengchu merely sought to cultivate goodwill, with no ulterior motive—they simply feared that if they didn't offer silver, the anti-corruption bureau's blade would fall on their office, ruining their business.

The man who gave the jade stone was a broker for a wealthy household in Xitucheng, specializing in jade trade.

This broker, under orders from his employer, had been instructed by the wealthy households of Xitucheng: they had no other intention than to prevent customs checkpoints, inspection stations, and local yamens from using “tightened inspections” as an excuse to block their merchant caravans.

“Tightened inspections” meant paying more; whenever the court made any move, the first to suffer were these merchants; if they established a New Year’s greeting connection with Xu Chengchu, the censor, they could pay less.

“He refused, yet they kept shoving it in?” Zhu Yijun asked, after reading the report, with a sigh.

Feng Bao smiled: “They could shove it in only because Xu Chengchu’s rank is low; if he held a higher office, had a gatekeeper, several guards, and a pair of stone lions out front, they wouldn’t even have the access to shove it in.”

Giving gifts was never easy.

Xu Chengchu, stationed in the Anti-Corruption Bureau, saw clearly how Wang Zhuan had begun by reluctantly accepting social obligations, then assisting with minor legal matters, then progressing to minor matters that were legal but unreasonable.

Had Zhang Juzheng not intervened in time, Wang Zhuan would have continued sliding downward into major matters that were both unreasonable and illegal.

"Unity of knowledge and action, realizing innate goodness—it is truly difficult," Zhu Yijun annotated the report; the Imperial Guard had delayed reporting for a month to investigate whether those giving gifts to Xu Chengchu had ulterior motives, and who lay behind them.

The Imperial Guard used Xu Chengchu as bait to meet their own performance targets; any irregularity became an indicator for every bureau.

Unity of knowledge and action—this was extremely, extremely difficult.

“To Songjiang Prefecture, several censors submitted joint memorials demanding that all local students in Songjiang be required to undergo military drills in the navy camp,” Feng Bao said as the emperor began reviewing memorials, placing them before him.

Zhu Yijun held several memorials, puzzled: “Didn’t I already approve this? They’re being extreme—Wang Qian’s school regulations and motto are sufficient.”

“The censors’ memorials were vague, prompting Minister of Rites Shen Li to issue a formal inquiry to Songjiang Prefecture, asking why they persisted; only then did the censors reveal the details,” Feng Bao explained.

What had these censors seen that made them defy imperial anger and cabinet pressure to submit repeated memorials?

They had been exiled to Songjiang precisely because they had angered the emperor.

These censors had visited a place called Tianma Academy, located in Huating County.

The chaos at Tianma Academy turned these censors into upright officials—they feared their own children might become like its students.

Songjiang Prefecture was changing daily, with many new elites emerging; these new elites were generally busy and lacked ancestral family codes; some turned their attention to these new elites.

The state-run public schools offered group instruction, success depending entirely on individual aptitude; good private academies weren’t open to anyone with silver—strict academies required entrance exams that were nearly impossible for new elites without scholarly lineage.

Under these conditions, Tianma Academy was founded; several brokers pooled resources to hire renowned Confucian scholars, but these scholars, after accepting silver, never taught at Tianma Academy themselves—instead, they sent their own unworthy disciples.

The academy’s original motive—profit—was flawed; its teachers’ character was inadequate; students entering the academy became isolated from the world; parents, busy and absent, neglected discipline, yet paid exorbitant fees, placing excessive—even bizarre—expectations on their children.

These factors ultimately produced students with bizarre thinking, extreme behavior, and vile temperaments.

They competed in extravagance, even to the point of judging whose attendant boy was more handsome or better at fighting; bullying the timid and weak was displayed without shame.

Feng Bao summarized: “These Tianma Academy students are even more pitiful than village children whose parents work away; at least those village children have elders and clan elders to teach them; these children at Tianma Academy have lost all humanity, reduced to nothing but profit-driven entanglements.”

This was a case that horrified the censors; though they dealt with countless cases daily and prided themselves on experience, what terrified them was this: three children murdered another child in front of many others, and not a single Tianma student dared speak up—they concealed it for nearly a month.

Zhu Yijun frowned: “Sending them to the navy for drills would solve this? Is the navy’s drill method some miraculous cure?”

“Yes,” Feng Bao said, picking up a memorial: “General Qi’s training methods truly are a miraculous cure.”

The Ji Xiao Xin Shu detailed military training; the capital garrison and navy shared the same lineage; Duke of Fengguo’s methods primarily cultivated teamwork; individually, elite soldiers might not be the strongest, but in group combat, they were unmatched—because of coordination, because of organization.

“Report to the Son of Heaven, save the common people” was the overarching principle of training; around this principle, the Great Ming imposed moral standards on its soldiers.

These moral standards were: frugality, fairness, justice, humility, prudence, honor, sincerity, compassion.

These eight moral standards were copied by Qi Jiguang from the teachings of the Great Brightness Sect—the Eight Virtues of Your Majesty; after all, in matters of religion, the Westerners were more skilled, experienced, and precise in their refinement.

Upon seeing these Eight Virtues, Qi Jiguang immediately devised a series of training regimens and military codes based on them.

People can be disciplined; tedious, repetitive training forms habits; habits gradually become second nature, perceived as natural; after prolonged training, these Eight Virtues evolve into two words: loyalty.

The censors weren’t acting foolishly—they had seen it firsthand in the navy camp.

“The censors can no longer find any place to train morality; so for the first year, three months; second year, two months; third year, one month—they drill, and even a hypocrite learns right from wrong,” Feng Bao whispered: “In the camp, failure means real beatings.”

For example, frugality: in camp, if any food is wasted, the day’s training is incomplete—you must sleep hungry at night;

For example, prudence: in mock combat, if you’re not prudent, a more prudent opponent will beat you—and drag your comrades down with you;

For example, honor: the army is the place where collective punishment is harshest; neglecting personal or collective honor brings shame upon yourself and others;

For example, honesty: in the camp, lying carries an enormous cost—being kicked by a corporal or squad leader is mild; collective punishment is the most terrifying.

For example, compassion: during cooperative training, failing to care for the weak results in collective punishment—you must help, even if you don’t want to; if you don’t help, the whole squad goes without food.

Similar military regulations were extremely numerous, especially during the first three months of training, each one brutally strict; Qi Jiguang achieved his goal through ingenious design, harsh punishment, clear rewards, and monotonous, repetitive drills, truly turning conscription into a furnace, seizing hold and instantly refining.

No matter what trash is thrown into the ranks, prolonged training will refine them into qualified soldiers.

The censors, witnessing the chaos at Tianma Academy, felt shaken and also became confused: Confucian classics alone could no longer resist the moral erosion brought by materialism; wherever commodity economy reached, the supremacy of money would sweep away all moral cultivation with invincible force.

More than a dozen censors simultaneously turned their gaze toward the military camps; they had no choice but to admit they must turn to soldiers.

“So that’s why,” Zhu Yijun finally understood clearly why the censors had submitted so many memorials in succession; if they had even a sliver of another option, they would never have appealed to the soldiers they once looked down upon.

“But three cycles over three years, totaling six months of military training—isn’t the intensity a bit too high?” Zhu Yijun sensed the problem and spoke up for the students.

The censors were too radical: three cycles over three years, six months total. Zhu Yijun could endure it—he went every day—but could these students, who couldn’t even fight a chicken, withstand such suffering?

The censors’ tactic of three in, three out was meant to reinforce memory, somewhat like training a dog…

“If they can’t endure, then they can’t endure,” Feng Bao’s words carried deep meaning; those who couldn’t endure were the weak and cowardly, naturally destined to be eliminated by a cruel world.

“Alright. Then follow the censors’ proposal—test it in Songjiang Prefecture,” Zhu Yijun approved the memorial; the Dinghai education system was a fundamental state policy, and implementation must not deviate.

Shen Shixing and the five southern prefectures submitted a memorial on returning land, estimating that the five prefectures could be fully restored within three years.

The Great Ming’s land-return policy was advancing slowly but steadily.

Land return aimed to completely dismantle the Great Ming’s small-farmer economy; this process brought both pain and gain. Wang Xiyuan, Provincial Governor of Nanjing, oversaw this task and personally traveled to Hangzhou Prefecture to meet Hou Yuzhao, inquiring in detail about land return issues, and stayed in Hangzhou for three months to deeply understand solutions to land return and its aftermath.

“I never imagined land return would be this difficult,” Zhu Yijun said, looking at this ten-thousand-character memorial, which detailed numerous problems encountered in land return—any misstep could cause the entire effort to collapse.

The most thorny issue was farmers and tenant farmers uniting to oppose the court’s land return—not a localized problem, nor merely agitation by local gentry; if it were only gentry stirring unrest, it would be simple—execute them.

The south had many workshops, offering more opportunities; some who became artisans in cities no longer wished to return home to farm.

Once the court returned the land, it would bind farmers and tenants to their plots; with workshops multiplying, becoming an artisan was preferable to being a farmer generation after generation.

Farming was no noble pursuit; farmers were merely uneducated, not foolish. At present, agricultural surplus fed artisans, and farmers resented being mere producers rather than consumers, the ones who ate.

They did not wish to become the exploited producers in Wanli’s great reform.

True, from the court’s perspective, artisans were also exploited producers—but to farmers, artisan life in the city still seemed better.

A rickshaw puller at Chaoyang Gate earned only a hundred copper coins a day, with poor food and lodging, yet still managed to save something—this was the life farmers deeply aspired to.

The contradictions of land return were far more complex than Zhu Yijun had imagined; the Wanli land survey took nine full years to complete, but Wanli’s land return might never be universally accomplished.

“Your Majesty, land return must proceed slowly; without sufficient economic foundation, it harms the people rather than protects them,” Feng Bao, as the Inner Chancellor, warned the emperor this matter could not be rushed.

If the heavens had collapsed and the mandate lost, then sweeping confiscation and equal land distribution would be justified; but in reforming the old and establishing the new, land return must proceed gradually—not through equal distribution.

Implementing land return in regions lacking economic foundations would only shatter the already self-sufficient small-farmer economy and order; due to poor transportation, low productivity, and other reasons, commodity economy could not form, leaving the people displaced and destitute.

Hard? Good—that’s exactly right.

If it weren’t hard, historical attempts at reform and self-preservation would never have failed.