Chapter 106: The Pen as Sword, Public Opinion as Weapon

Inside Qianqing Palace.

Sandalwood incense burned in the hall, its pale smoke curling upward in utter stillness.

Zhu Youjian sat behind the imperial desk, a sheaf of manuscript pages in his hand, his brow furrowing tighter and tighter.

Before the imperial desk, Gao Shiming stood in attendance, hands at his sides.

In the center of the great hall stood several scholars in varied attire, each as silent as a winter cicada, too frightened to even breathe loudly.

They were the tabloid scribes whom Zhu Youjian had ordered Wang Tiqian to "invite" from every corner of the capital.

The eldest among them had graying hair and a face weathered by hardship; the middle-aged ones looked somewhat down at heel, their washed-out Confucian robes patched in places; even the youngest appeared to be well past thirty.

What they all had in common was that each had stalled at the xiucai level, never advancing a single step further in their lives, scraping by on the tales of gods and spirits and romantic gossip they spun in the marketplaces.

At last, Zhu Youjian could not help but shake his head and toss the manuscript pages onto the imperial desk.

The sound was not loud, yet it made every one of those scholars shudder in unison.

"Ah…"

A long sigh echoed through the empty hall.

"Fiction is not written the way you people have been writing it."

The moment the words left his mouth, the scholars reacted as though they had heard a thunderclap, throwing themselves to the floor with a thud and kowtowing without pause.

"Your Majesty, forgive us! Your Majesty, forgive us! We commoners are worthless — we deserve to die!"

Watching them tremble like chaff in a sieve, Zhu Youjian felt only a headache coming on.

He rubbed his brow and waved a hand with some exasperation.

"All of you, get up. We did not say We meant to punish you."

The men rose unsteadily to their feet, heads bowed, lacking even the courage to glance at the dragon throne.

Gazing at these "top dogs" of the Great Ming capital's fiction scene, Zhu Youjian had a bellyful of rants to unload, yet for a moment he hardly knew where to begin.

What he had assigned them was a set-topic composition.

The core of the story was simple: a youth from a Liaodong hereditary military household loses his family and home during the Battle of Liaoyang-Shenyang and is carried off into slavery by the Later Jin along with his kin.

After enduring inhuman torment and oppression, the youth rises up in resistance from the depths of despair, eventually rallying righteous men deep inside Later Jin territory, slaying his enemy with his own hands, and escaping back to the Great Ming.

What he wanted was a revenge tale steeped in blood and tears — a heroic epic capable of rousing readers to shared hatred of a common foe.

And what had this bunch handed in? What kind of mongrel, neither-fish-nor-fowl rubbish was this?

In one version, the protagonist summoned a black dragon at a moment of crisis, learned the Thirty-Six Transformations, and slaughtered his way across the land… This was plainly the monkey from Journey to the West dressed up in a different skin.

Another had the protagonist standing one zhang tall with a waistline also one zhang — a perfectly square slab of muscle — forever tearing into great chunks of meat, swilling wine by the bowl, and letting men race horses across his arms… Which mountain stronghold out of Water Margin had this reckless brute stumbled out of?

The most outrageous was the third manuscript. The protagonist himself was normal enough, but the author had lavished page after page on the widow next door who had been abducted alongside him, painting her in such vivid, voluptuous detail that it held him captive for a full ten minutes — heaven knew which marketplace curiosity he had cribbed from.

Yet none of these were the real crux of the matter.

The biggest problem was — they were not entertaining!

Admittedly, a large part of why they were not entertaining probably lay in the story's subject matter itself.

But right now, what he needed was precisely the kind of writer who could take a dull set topic like this and spin it into a tale of twists and turns.

Yet as things stood, the only hands he had at his disposal were these few sorry leftovers.

Literary talent in the Great Ming flourished in the south and withered in the north — he could hardly go to the Hanlin Academy and ask those Zhuangyuan and Bangyan to write fiction for him, could he?

By the standards of this age, that would be tantamount to an insult.

He was, after all, a "sage sovereign" — he could not very well go about doing such bizarre things.

So be it. A pit one digs oneself, one must fill oneself.

But in his later life he had been no bestselling author; his own writing skills were pathetically weak — he could draft a proposal, but he could not write fiction.

He would just have to doctor a dead horse as though it were alive.

Zhu Youjian drew a deep breath and resolved to deploy the full store of his ten-plus years—

"First of all, do any of you know what the 'Golden Three Chapters' are?"

His voice was not loud, yet it carried clearly to every man's ears.

The scholars looked at one another, their faces blank with bewilderment.

Zhu Youjian sighed and continued, "The so-called Golden Three Chapters mean that a story must grip the reader from its very opening."

"The opening must have crisis! The reader must feel his heart hanging in suspense alongside the protagonist from the very first line!"

He brandished the manuscript pages in his hand, his tone carrying a note of frustration at their failure to improve.

"Look at what you have written — hundreds of characters of background exposition and life history right at the start. Who has the patience to read that? Writing of this sort is nothing but wastepaper!"

"Listen!" Zhu Youjian's voice hardened. "We want you to establish the protagonist's first crisis within a hundred characters!"

"For example: Liaoyang's walls have fallen, and the protagonist is about to be hacked to death before his own eyes! Or: the protagonist is on the run and finds himself surrounded by Later Jin outriders! In short — immediately, at once — there must be crisis!"

He paused, took in the half-comprehending expressions on the faces below, and softened his tone.

"A story, as they say, should unfold within the bounds of reason yet turn upon the unexpected. Only with the peril of reining in at the cliff's edge comes the joy of finding a way out from certain death. Without crisis, where is the reversal?"

"Once the crisis is there, the reader will wonder how the protagonist is to stay alive. And what you must write next is how the protagonist resolves that crisis."

"However—" Zhu Youjian shifted tack, "merely resolving the crisis is not enough. You must also write what the protagonist gains by resolving it."

"Is he safer? Has he acquired a weapon? Or has he obtained a piece of intelligence far more vital than the rest?"

"Let the reader see the protagonist's growth, even if only by a fraction! Is that understood?"

This time, the scholars below responded with a scattered murmur of "Understood."

Zhu Youjian paid no mind to whether they truly understood or not, and pressed on: "After that, crisis upon crisis must keep piling up. After a few small crises, a still greater crisis must arrive."

"Through each narrow escape, the protagonist steadily grows; the people he comes into contact with rise ever higher in status, and thus he is drawn into ever larger whirlpools."

"Until at last comes the story's great climax! The protagonist has amassed sufficient strength, coordinates with the Great Ming's imperial forces from within and without, and slaughters every last Later Jin officer and soldier who ever persecuted him — thus avenging his blood-deep, ocean-deep hatred!"

"This — this is the story We want! Do you hear and understand?!"

This time, perhaps sensing the gravity in the Emperor's tone, the literati finally answered in unison: "We commoners… understand!"

Zhu Youjian waved his hand wearily: "Withdraw. Rewrite it as We have instructed. If you cannot write it well, then keep writing until you do!"

"We obey the edict!"

As if granted a great reprieve, the men bowed and took their leave, their steps hurried, as though a fierce tiger were chasing at their heels.

Soon, silence returned to the hall.

Zhu Youjian leaned back against the dragon throne, rubbing his aching temples.

Why not simply write The Heaven Sword and Dragon Saber? Why not transplant The Legend of the Condor Heroes?

For one thing, he was only a half-baked reader; he remembered the plots in scattered fragments. To truly reproduce them, he would likely have to throw himself into it completely — but where would he find the time!

And the more important reason was this — literature must serve politics!

He was now the Emperor, not some common city-dweller who needed to earn a living by writing books.

Writing those Jin Yong martial arts novels might indeed create a sensation for a time, but what if the gallant heroes and knight-errant wanderers under his rule multiplied by an order of magnitude as a result?

When the time came, with Mount Hua Sects and Mount Heng Sects popping up everywhere, and the White Lotus sect reinventing itself and proclaiming itself the orthodox Ming Cult…

That would be simply digging his own grave, bringing disaster upon himself!

Precisely because of this, what he needed was not some artistic treasure that could be passed down to posterity, but "custom-made literature" that could serve him right now, that could serve his political objectives!

Wrapped in the formulas of later generations' power-fantasy fiction, appearing on the surface to be a tale of swift vengeance and bold adventure, it must in truth etch the brutality and savagery of the Later Jin, and the suffering of the Han people of Liaodong, deep into the heart of every reader.

In this way, the morale on the Liaodong front lines, and the resistance to the Liaodong levy in regions like Jiangnan and Zhejiang, might both be improved.

Even if the improvement was small, what was the cost? Merely supporting a dozen or so down-and-out literati.

The cost-effectiveness was off the charts — why not do it?

It was just… these literati were truly a bit useless.

From the moment he had crossed over until now, everyone he had dealt with was among the most elite talents of the Great Ming.

Even an inconspicuous official in the Messenger Office was a jinshi who had legitimately fought his way out from among thousands upon thousands of contenders.

But these xiucai before him, who could not even pass the juren examination, were truly the most "bottom-tier" group of people he had ever encountered.

Who knew how long they would need to be tempered before they became usable.

Zhu Youjian sighed inwardly once more. He turned his head and looked at Gao Shiming, who had remained silent all this while.

"Companion Gao."

"This slave is here."

"Do you understand what We were truly trying to accomplish with today's actions?"

Gao Shiming bowed his body, pondered for a moment, and then answered with extreme caution: "Your Majesty intends… through these stories, to boost the morale of the troops in Liaodong? To let the officers and soldiers know of the brutality under Later Jin rule, so that when they go into battle, they will fight with greater desperation."

Zhu Youjian nodded, finally feeling a bit more at ease.

Although Gao Shiming had not guessed it entirely correctly, he was no fool after all; it was merely a limitation of his vision and perspective.

"Companion Gao's words are not on the mark, yet not far off either."

Zhu Youjian stood up, walked to the window, and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing at the high, distant autumn sky beyond the hall.

"Among the common people of the Great Ming today, fiction is in vogue. Yet what circulates in the marketplaces is merely historical romances, urban hearsay, and tales of gods and ghosts — there is almost nothing that strikes directly at current affairs like this."

"We intend to launch the New Policies, and it is precisely through this that We shall create a wind of momentum among the people, making Our New Policies the irresistible general trend!"

His voice was calm, yet carried an unquestionable force.

"What you saw today is the story of Liaodong. Tomorrow, it can be the story of cadastral land surveys, the story of punishing corruption, the story of… rectifying the salt certificates!"

He paused, and in the end, did not say: it could also be… the story of the great drought in Shaanxi, of people exchanging their children to eat, and of aid coming from all directions.

Zhu Youjian shifted his tone, his gaze burning as he looked at Gao Shiming.

"In sum, the surface of this matter lies in Liaodong; but the core of this matter lies in Our desire to control public opinion and popular discourse!"

"The pen is the sword, and public discourse is the army. Our New Policies are not merely a struggle within the court; they are a war for the hearts and minds of all under Heaven. Where the hearts of the people incline, the general trend follows — without this, it is insufficient to reform the realm."

"Put this way, does Companion Gao perhaps understand now?"

Gao Shiming's heart shook violently. He finally understood what profound and far-reaching scheme lay hidden beneath the Emperor's seemingly frivolous actions.

He said solemnly: "This subject understands!"

Zhu Youjian let out a long breath and said:

"Keep a close watch on these few literati for Us. Ensure that they write the stories well, according to Our requirements."

"Additionally, you may dispatch men among the people, especially to Jiangnan, to seek out more writers skilled in fiction and bring them to the capital. The criteria for assessment shall follow what We just laid out."

"Those who can write good stories according to Our requirements shall be rewarded with extra silver and given monthly tickets; those who cannot write shall all be dismissed. Weed them out quickly and produce a group of capable hands."

"We obey the edict!" Gao Shiming acknowledged, then, as if suddenly remembering something, added: "Your Majesty, the last time you were reading the Capital Gazette, the Princess Consort mentioned the Master of the Ink-Fool Studio, the Master of the Instant-Emptiness Studio, and that Lu Renlong. This slave has since investigated and confirmed that these men are indeed all in the Southern Metropolitan Region. Should they be summoned to the capital as well?"

A flicker of approval passed through Zhu Youjian's eyes.

This was the Great Ming's top-tier chief secretary — even if he could not answer on the spot one time, a few days later, he would have done his homework thoroughly on his own.

"Yes. Send fast riders to fetch them. Ensure that they enter the capital even earlier than those Donglin Faction men!"

Zhu Youjian turned and walked back to the imperial desk, pulling over a blank sheet of xuan paper.

"This is merely one move in the game of public discourse and momentum — far from sufficient."

"Henceforth, in addition to the Capital Gazette issued by the Office of Transmission, We shall establish a new gazette."

Zhu Youjian picked up the imperial brush, dipped it fully in thick ink, and wrote four large, bold, and vigorous characters on the xuan paper.

"— The Great Ming Times"

He simply drew a few boxes on the paper and, pointing to the first section, said: "First, here, publish memorials just as the Capital Gazette does, but not all of them — select only the most important, the most influential, and those that do not involve confidential military intelligence."

He glanced at Gao Shiming and continued: "We recall you mentioned last time that the civil and military officials dislike the classification of memorials, and that tightening the confidentiality of memorials over the years has always met with controversy and reversals."

"That being the case, We shall not touch this hard bone for now. Only within the Directorate of Ceremonial and the Grand Secretariat, in addition to the existing classifications, establish a new 'Secret' level."

"Once this method has been implemented for a period, We can then gradually plan to narrow the scope of the Capital Gazette issued by the Office of Transmission."

Gao Shiming nodded repeatedly as he listened, and blurted out in praise, "Your Majesty governs the realm without haste or slowness, moistening all things silently — truly the bearing of a sage sovereign."

Zhu Youjian pointed to the second module.

"This section will be used to serialize the custom-written stories by those men of letters. Have each of them write a full two hundred thousand characters per story. Print ten thousand characters per issue, to keep the readers' appetite whetted."

"So long as they grow interested in the stories, they will naturally follow each issue — only then can this new gazette sustain its influence."

Then came the third module.

"This section will print the daily prices of rice, flour, oil, salt, cloth, and all other goods in the capital. Have Wang Tiqian report them every day."

"In this way, merchants from every region, eager to grasp market conditions, will be sure to scramble to buy and circulate it — which will carry this gazette farther and wider."

Finally, he pointed to the fourth panel — the most conspicuous, most centrally placed position.

Zhu Youjian drew a deep breath and said, one word at a time, "This space is reserved exclusively for publishing Our edicts!"

"But the edicts chosen must always be those that investigate corruption in some locale, purge local despotic gentry, or bring relief to disaster victims in some region!"

"We must make certain that all subjects under Heaven know that the myriad disorders of the Great Ming are not Our true intent — that We, too, are pained and grieved by them, and are striving with all Our strength to reverse them!"

"Our voice must reach the wilds, not be heard only at court. This gazette shall be Our mouth and tongue, Our ears and eyes — letting the myriad people know Our heart, and letting Us know the suffering of the myriad people."

He turned his head, his gaze burning like a torch as he fixed it on Gao Shiming, and asked in earnest, "Now that We have said this, do you understand?"

Gao Shiming fell silent.

He lowered his head, his frame trembling faintly, as though digesting the Emperor's world-startling words.

Only after a long while did he slowly raise his head, and in his eyes there actually flickered a strange, unusual light.

"This slave ventures, in order to carry this matter out better, to ask Your Majesty one question."

"Speak."

Gao Shiming drew a deep breath and, with an unprecedented gravity of tone, asked:

"Your Majesty stands together with the myriad people of the realm, while the hundred officials and the scholar-gentry stand on the other side — is this so?"

As his words fell, inside Qianqing Palace, one could have heard a pin drop.

Zhu Youjian was stunned.

He looked at the white-haired eunuch before him, a flash of surprise passing through his eyes, a flash of emotion — and in the end, all those feelings dissolved into a great, irrepressible burst of laughter.

"Ha ha… ha ha ha ha!"

The laughter echoed through the hall, brimming with relief and vindication.

Only after a long while did he rein in his laughter. He clapped Gao Shiming on the shoulder, yet did not answer his question directly.

"Very well. With this matter entrusted to you, We are at ease. Produce the first edition as quickly as you can and bring it for Us to see."

Gao Shiming nodded, accepted the order, and withdrew. Turning out of the hall, he headed straight for the side hall, intending to supervise those down-and-out scholars as they churned out their copy.

And in the main hall of Qianqing Palace, watching Gao Shiming's receding figure, Zhu Youjian's lips still bore a smile.

Perhaps this seal-holder of the Directorate of Ceremonial, who had long dwelt deep within the palace, was actually the first "comrade" on his long, long road.

Even if Companion Gao himself might only understand, far in the future, what Zhu Youjian's true ambition really was.

But — that was already enough!

Zhu Youjian rubbed his face, shook off the stray thoughts in his mind, and picked up a book from one corner of the imperial desk.

— The Record of Instructions, Wang Yangming's lecture dialogues, compiled and printed by his disciples.

These past few days, whenever he had a spare moment, he had been grinding through the Four Books and the Five Classics, asking Companion Gao about anything he could not understand — and Companion Gao, as it turned out, could answer every question.

As of today, his reading schedule had advanced to the Yangming School of Mind.

After all, if one meant to overturn and renew the realm, how could one possibly bypass this towering mountain of Confucianism?

And on the mountain of Confucianism today, were not the Cheng-Zhu school and the Yangming school those two sky-scraping trees?

Time to start grinding!

(Chapter 106: We Are About to Start Cheating~)