Chapter 163: Volume One — End-of-Volume Reflections (and the 100th-Day Celebration of This Book's Launch)

A reader said, "I feel like Yi Que Chai actually enjoys writing these standalone notes more."

That comment hit me right in the guilty conscience. I'll write fewer of them in the future, but let me do one this time — after all, it's the end of the volume, and I'd feel bottled up otherwise.

This book doesn't really have strict volume divisions; the six line statements of the Ze Huo Ge hexagram just represent a broad trajectory of reform.

Ending at the third Daily Lecture with "all bared their right shoulders" would have worked.

Ending at yesterday's grand court assembly with "the snow fell, a vast expanse of white" would have worked too.

Or ending at the great climax of next month's grand court assembly would also work (I'll keep that one under wraps).

Let me divide what I have to say today into three parts.

Part One — How are the results? Is it making money yet?

Right now the average subscription is at 7,000, monthly income is around 40,000 yuan, and by the time the whole book is finished (5 million characters), the pre-tax total will be roughly 1 million yuan.

That already exceeds what I earn now after retirement.

But…

A line from Schopenhauer for everyone: "Leisure is the very essence of life; apart from it, a man's entire existence is nothing but toil and labor."

I've already labored for over a decade; I've saved up enough rice.

For the second half of my life, I'd much rather just bask in the sun and pick off fleas. Grinding myself to death is simply not happening.

This month, to fulfill my promise of a burst release, I haven't walked the dog even once — I truly can't stand this dog's life any longer!

That said, the October update count I promised during the first Northern Expedition will still be delivered. Rest assured!

What I say, I will definitely do!

Part Two — What will be written in Volume Two, Six-Two: "On the si day, then reform. To go forth: good fortune. No error"?

The capital's garrison and civil renewal campaign, the bloodletting across Northern Zhili, the troop reorganization in Liaodong, the shifts involving Hong Taiji / the Mongols / Joseon, the seven route armies from Shaanxi returning to the capital and exposing problems, and the initial emergence of the Little Ice Age (next year the capital region will see a minor drought).

Beyond that, in terms of groups: the resistance and fracturing of the ennobled aristocracy, the palace eunuchs, and the northern landlords; the civil officials of different factions; the imperial estates; the Capital Camps and the capital's commoners; the surrounding guard stations; the commoners, bandits, artisans, canal households, and salt households of Northern Zhili; the examination candidates awaiting the exams; and certain currents of thought from the new learning (science) — each of these will take the stage in turn.

The perspective in this volume will be broader than Volume One, no longer confined to the imperial palace and the capital.

I will also boldly go after the interests of various groups.

But to put it plainly, most of it still consists of traditional contradictions within the feudal system.

New classes, new interest groups, and the influence of new productive forces will begin brewing in Volume Two, but they won't erupt that quickly.

That belongs to Volume Three, Nine-Three: "To go forth: misfortune. Perseverance: danger. The words of reform thrice brought forth, there is trust."

Only a clash of interests at a more fundamental level warrants language like "to go forth: misfortune," and only that is worthy of efforts like "perseverance: danger" and "the words of reform thrice brought forth."

Incidentally, appended here are the natural disasters of the first year of Yongchang. This novel adheres strictly to historical fact regarding natural disasters, treating them as immune to the butterfly effect.

(The review wouldn't pass this image — go check the book review section to see it.)

Part Three — Some issues readers have frequently raised during the writing process, along with my own frustrations or planned improvements.

The problem of character portrayal.

This is a real issue, and I'll work on improving it in Volume Two.

Aside from my own lack of skill, there are some objective reasons too.

On one hand, too many characters have appeared, and there's no figure like Zhang Juzheng who can remain a constant presence.

Apart from the protagonist and Companion Gao, I can't sustain the portrayal of many people.

For example, Sun Chengzong's "urgency and regret" — once the conversation was over, I kicked him off to Liaodong.

For example, Lu Xiangsheng's "down-to-earth nature" and "earnestness" — once the conversation was over, I kicked him off to the Ji Garrison.

As for many of those now sitting in high positions at the central court, I simply can't be bothered to portray them — people like Huang Liji, Li Guopu, and Yang Jingchen are honestly a bit formulaic.

The most successfully portrayed is probably Zhu Youjian; by now everyone should believe he's the reincarnation of a beast of burden.

The problem of reforms advancing too smoothly.

When a Ming emperor gets things done at the central court, the civil officials truly find it very hard to resist.

Especially since Volume One didn't really do all that much — just the capital's new policies, the secret police and inner court, the inner palace reorganization, dispatching various personnel, and the three Daily Lectures that drew out the conflict between people and land.

Things like cadastral surveys, anti-corruption campaigns, Capital Camps reorganization, and the capital region's guard stations — none of that has been touched yet.

The Great Rites Controversy under Jiajing and the Succession Struggle under Wanli — the problem there was that they gave the civil officials a "shared moral banner," which allowed them to unite.

As long as you don't stir up something on that scale, the emperor's authority is still immense.

Alternatively, if the emperor simply casts aside all pretense and runs a compliance test — killing and killing, replacing and replacing — that can succeed too.

For instance, under Tianqi, letting Wei Zhongxian erect living shrines and call himself Nine Thousand Years was a classic compliance test.

Or take the third year of Chongzhen, when the tax exemption silver for government students was actually abolished.

Where was the resistance from the landlord class or the civil-official class in all that? I didn't see a trace of it…

Wait for Volume Two — I'll write about the struggles and suffering of the Northern Zhili landlords, the ennobled aristocracy, and the palace eunuchs.

And the chain reaction in other provinces as they watch Northern Zhili get carved up.

The agony of writing emperor fiction — pure venting.

Authors who write emperor fiction must have broken their wings in a past life.

What makes emperor fiction hard to write is that the emperor is, to a large extent, invincible.

Historical emperors didn't know the future, couldn't tell the loyal from the treacherous, and often didn't even know the theory — but a transmigrator knows all of that.

The most important thing in writing a novel is "breaking through suppression." Without suppression, there's no satisfaction.

That's why so many emperor stories start from childhood, with an empress dowager above, powerful ministers, and high officials treating him like a child.

Only then is there enough conflict to keep reading.

That's why many readers complain about certain novels, saying the emperor never grows up, just like Conan.

The root cause is that once the emperor grows up, that point of suppression vanishes, and you enter the garbage time of "invincibility."

So to maintain the thrill, you have to create a powerful antagonistic character.

So you'd have the Eight Great Jin Merchants, the Jiangnan landlord bloc, and what else was there again?

But this kind of forcibly manufactured confrontation usually makes everyone involved look stupid.

For example, say I've just finished the grand court assembly, right.

Cut straight to a scene: the Duke of Xu, the Marquis of Baoding (who controls the Capital Camps), and the Marquis of Lingbi (who controls the Red Helm Generals) are sitting together in a dark little room.

And they say, His Majesty is about to overhaul the Capital Camps — let's stir up some trouble, fabricate a few ghost-god omens, let him learn what he's dealing with.

Spread some rumors, whip up a pay riot, get the men in the Capital Camps to start shouting about why the enthronement bounty still hasn't been paid out.

Then the Emperor orders the Valiant Guard Camp and the eunuch corps — "Divine troops, strike!" — and crushes them in one blow.

Then lop off a few marquises' heads, and the Capital Camps overhaul is complete.

I couldn't convince myself these nobles were that stupid, so in the middle I wrote that there were rumors in the Capital Camps, but the officers still suppressed them.

Because who would dare, who would even want to stir up trouble right when a new sovereign is ascending the throne? I honestly can't imagine.

If you're going to make a move, you'd wait until later — and if you're going to make a move, you'd target your colleagues.

What do you even get out of making the Emperor lose face… the tax revenue from those few acres of land? The piddling ten thousand taels or so of graft from the Capital Camps each year?

Since ancient times, if you cozy up properly to a Ming emperor, the land grants come in thousands of qing, thousands of qing at a time — the money the Emperor gives out comes far faster than what you can grab by land enclosure yourself.

The nobles also routinely petition for all sorts of shops, mines (like the coal mines in the Western Hills), and the Emperor just grants them, grants them, grants them — grants them everything.

Tell me nobles hide land during cadastral surveys — I'll believe that. Tell me they'd kill the Emperor over this pittance…

I really can't bring myself to write it.

Another example: let me cut to another scene.

Han Kuang (a Shanxi man), Liu Hongxun (a Shandong man), Cheng Jiming (a man of the Metropolitan Province) are sitting in a small room holding a meeting.

The Emperor actually wants to strip the remonstrance officials of their right to report on hearsay?!

This is a power grab against the civil officials!

Unacceptable — we have to take him down!

Even though the Chief Surveillance Bureau is currently in the hands of Fang Zhuangli (of the eunuch faction).

And the majority of the Censors are people with eunuch-faction backgrounds.

They have absolutely nothing to do with us Donglin. (Whether the Donglin even still exist is debatable.)

But we absolutely must take him down!

The Emperor is cutting himself off from us, the body of civil officials — what is that dog-footed wretch thinking?! Does he actually want to be a real emperor?

Sigh…

I'm the kind of insufferable jerk who, when watching TV dramas with my parents or my wife, keeps up a running commentary of snark the whole time.

It's very hard to balance this conflict between "novel" and "logic."

So the more I write, the more agonizing it gets.

I know I need to find someone to be the antagonist, but in the first volume I genuinely couldn't find a single moron who could serve as the villain.

I can only wait and see if the second volume provides one.

Ah…

So in historical fiction, a minor character transmigrating is far, far easier to write than an emperor.

The character at the start doesn't need to be developed nearly as much, and all kinds of difficulties and problems are naturally there waiting for you.

Beat up the runners, and above them there's the County Magistrate, then the Prefect, then the Provincial Administration Commission…

Fight your way up step by step — the satisfaction points, the pacing, it couldn't be easier.

—Why did I have to write an emperor story aaaaaaaah TT sobbing tears TT

Some poison points

Wei Zhongxian has issues; I will rewrite him and notify you when it's done.

The Duke of Ying has some issues; he will also be rewritten, notification to follow.

Li Zicheng is not an issue — wait and see, he's a loose thread that leads to a brilliant plotline.

Zhou Yu is borderline, but deposing the empress is impossible — she'll still need to be written occasionally later on. Deposing the empress right now would be handing the civil officials a "common moral banner," which is basically suicide at this point.

If you have other issues, you can curse me out here.

Finally, let's tally up the stats.

From the book's launch to the end of the first volume was exactly 100 days (absurd! I had no idea about this coincidence).

To celebrate the 100-day anniversary of this book's launch, I'm taking the day off today!

Hahaha!