Chapter 250: North Zhili and Ji-Liao: A Comprehensive Review of the New Policy

There's an old saying: ruling a great state is like cooking a small fish.

And since we're about to start cooking, isn't it perfectly normal to first light the fire, heat the pan, and bring things to a boil?

The month-long North Zhili cadre examination was like a fire lit in great haste.

From interviews to training, everything was compressed to the extreme because of the rush to meet the autumn tax deadline.

As for this fire, Zhu Youjian never expected from the start that it would produce any fine delicacies.

His true aim was far more profound than a perfect "New Policy Implementation Pledge."

He wanted these hundred-odd prefectural and county officials to be thoroughly cooked by the flames of the New Policy right here in the great cauldron of the capital.

He wanted them, through document reviews, in-person interviews, and intensive training, to absorb the working methods and the working attitude of the New Policy.

He wanted them, through this ritual, to form virtual teams with officials, juren, and Imperial Academy student families from the same native place — teams that were now out in the open. They would lay bare the accumulated abuses and local conditions of each region under the sunlight, and then rely on one another when they actually took up their county posts.

Even more, he wanted them to witness with their own eyes and hear with their own ears, right here in the capital, and to feel viscerally just how precious a New Policy appointment was, and just how many potential achievements lay hidden in their posts.

This — this was the most valuable output of that grand, tumultuous, and desperately rushed "North Zhili Cadre Month."

In a sense, perfecting the plans was incidental; the shared imagination of the New Policy's future was what he truly sought to shape. This is what is meant by a grand imagination encompassing smaller ones.

As for the plans themselves, once they returned to their posts, there would be ample time to adjust and refine them in practice.

Zhu Youjian had also long prepared countless backup measures and feelers, ready at any moment to monitor and maneuver the chessboard of the North Zhili New Policy.

And those juren and Imperial Academy students specially permitted to audit the proceedings were more like the "bellows team" Zhu Youjian had invited for this grand drama.

To expect these scholars, who poured their hearts and souls into the classics and the examinations, to ask any truly incisive governance questions? That would be sheer fantasy. The rule granting each person one chance to ask a question had, to this day, been used by only a handful of brash young men who didn't know the immensity of heaven and earth. Most simply sat there quietly, listening, taking notes, and then carrying every whisper of wind and stir of grass from the capital back to their home villages intact. They were the foreshadowing deliberately planted by the Yongchang Emperor.

Because the core objective of the North Zhili New Policy's first phase came down to a single word: win.

To dismiss that as a platitude would be to gravely underestimate the Yongchang Emperor's game.

North Zhili is just one region. Even if you completely resurveyed the land and squeezed its potential to the utmost, how much more tax grain could it really produce?

The fiercer the squeeze, the fiercer the resistance, and the lower the entire New Policy's chance of success.

Rather than chase a perfect, one-step solution and drive the entire locality into opposition, leading to a catastrophic failure, Zhu Youjian would far rather choose a seventy-percent victory.

Win first, even if the victory isn't pretty. Then, riding the momentum of that victory, push the wave of reform into the surrounding provinces of Shandong, Henan, and Shanxi.

As long as you keep winning, even if it's only seventy percent each time, win enough, and you'll naturally have the confidence to demand that one-hundred-percent victory.

Besides, who said the North Zhili New Policy would have only one phase?

Every year from now on, North Zhili will have new policies, and these will spread, one by one, to the other provinces.

This is the "fundamental doctrine of winning" that runs through all of Zhu Youjian's governance: accumulate small victories into a great victory.

The Yongchang Emperor, steady as an old dog, gambled once at the Battle of Qingcheng and then folded his hand and stopped gambling.

That is why political signaling must be done — the local powerful landlords and the yamen runners and ruffians must be given ample time to understand and prepare.

It must even be trumpeted loudly, blown until hearts are panicked and the roof is about to be torn off.

When everyone thinks the house is about to collapse, the truly clever people won't cling stubbornly to a single door; they'll take the initiative to push open a window, look outside to see what the scene really is, and search for a way out.

And what Zhu Youjian needs to do, the instant they open that window, is hand them a boat ticket.

To invite these clever people who are willing to open the window, one by one, aboard his great ship called the "New Policy."

Then, steering this great vessel with the force of a thunderbolt, he will smash those "un-clever people" who refuse to open windows or doors and foolishly try to obstruct the New Policy — smashing them, house and all, into splinters.

Finally, the Great Ming court and these clever people who boarded the ship will share the fruits of victory together.

This logic is cold, but effective.

Yet in the process of repeatedly gaming it out with the secretariat, Zhu Youjian faintly sensed an even more tragic possibility.

He realized that most of those who ultimately failed to board the ship might not be truly "stupid people," but simply… ordinary powerful families with no influence, no connections, and no channels of information.

After all, a country squire who could, through various connections, fully understand every decree and backup plan of the New Policy, and a country squire who could only glimpse the workings of heaven through fragmentary reports in the Great Ming Times — the informational basis for their decisions would be utterly different.

What the former saw might be opportunity and a path to offer allegiance; what the latter saw might be only fear and loss.

On this point, Zhu Youjian had no intention of finding a solution.

Reform can rarely be entirely fair.

Its success or failure lies in grasping the big and letting go of the small, in whether, at every critical juncture, you can consistently unite the "majority" to win one victory after another.

As for how to define the "majority"?

That can only be dynamically adjusted according to the principal contradiction at each different stage.

At least for now, these "clever people" who can discern the opportunity in advance and are willing to support the New Policy are the "majority" he needs to unite. As for when these clever people will be kicked off the great ship by him to make room for new ones, that will depend on future developments.

But for the moment, the New Policy's fire has not yet reached the right temperature.

This dish is not yet at the stage where he, the Son of Heaven, needs to step in personally and micromanage.

Let the realm boil a while longer first, and then we shall see.

The interview with Yuan Chonghuan ended much faster than anticipated.

Zhu Youjian had originally prepared many candidate questions for this interview.

For example: What is your view on the disastrous defeat at the Battle of Liuhe?

This could, on one hand, further gauge Yuan Chonghuan's relationship with Sun Chengzong.

On the other hand, from the degree of politeness or radicalism in his answer before the imperial presence, one could probe his character.

Another example: Wang Zhichen is currently Governor of Liaodong; what are your reasons for believing you are more suited to the post than he?

This was to see his assessment of a former political rival, and his analysis of his own character and conduct.

There were even some sharper questions.

Such as:

Back then, without Sun Chengzong's permission, you summarily executed men who had padded the rolls, and did not report it afterward — do you consider that action appropriate?

If We were to bestow upon you the Imperial Sword today, under what circumstances would you again execute first and report later? Questions of this sort — over a dozen in total, all meticulously assembled scalpels drawn from clues in the case files and fragments of later memory, prepared to dissect Yuan Chonghuan's inner self layer by layer.

But now, none of these questions were needed.

With just two questions, Zhu Youjian had already grasped the fundamental cast of this man's character — a stubborn rock, hard and sharp, but all too prone to shatter. Still, being quick to yield had its advantages too.

It gave him an unexpected stretch of undisturbed time, time he could use to weigh and reconsider.

He shot a glance at Gao Shiming, said only "We shall be alone a while," then turned and stepped into a locked room. This was forbidden ground, a place where he alone held the key, and which even Gao Shiming could not set half a step into.

The brass key slid into the lock with a crisp click.

Once the door swung open, enormous screens stood in ranks like silent giants, dividing the space into a labyrinth of passages.

This place was the chessboard from which he maneuvered the entire realm.

Zhu Youjian threaded his way past several screens with practiced ease, finally halting before a great screen painted with a territorial map.

This screen was nothing less than the military and civil personnel chart for the entire Ji-Liaodong defense zone.

Across it, a vast tree-like structure clearly marked the names and posts of every Regional Commander, Governor, Assistant Regional Commander, and Mobile Corps Commander, their lines of authority and subordination laid out at a glance.

(Attached illustration: if I really do transmigrate, the map will be more detailed than this; I'll come back and update it then.)

His gaze settled on the names circled in vermilion.

Those red circles meant that the fates of these men still hung upon a single thought of his, suspended and undecided.

For instance, Tianjin Governor Huang Yuntai and Denglai Governor Sun Guozhen.

The former he was certain to replace. Every sign indicated the man was a colossal embezzler. But he had yet to find a suitable replacement, so for now he could only keep fattening this hog.

As for the latter, he was still unsure of the man's fundamental ability, so he would paper over the cracks and keep him in service a while longer, to observe his future performance.

His gaze moved rightward, and there was Mao Wenlong.

Sun Chengzong had written in his own hand summoning him to a meeting, yet Mao had quibbled for half a month, claiming the barbarian chieftain was on the move, and stalled until the Bohai Sea froze solid, completely cutting off the sea route. Taken in a minor light, this was arrogance and insubordination; taken in a major light, it was hoarding troops and defying orders.

In Zhu Youjian's heart, suspicion of the man had already deepened to a perilous edge.

He had made up his mind: the moment the ice thawed in spring, he would issue an edict at once, summoning Mao Wenlong to the capital.

When the time came, if Mao was willing to come, all could be settled amicably. If he still sought every possible excuse to avoid making the journey…

Then even if Yuan Chonghuan did not cut him down, he, Zhu Youjian, would cut him down with his own hands!

No matter how heroic and extraordinary a man might be, once he became a chess piece that refused to obey commands, he was a dead piece, a wasted piece — even a poisoned piece that might at any moment turn and devour the player!

Dongjiang could not be allowed to go wrong.

If it ever became an asset to the Later Jin, then the entire Ming grain-transport operation across Bohai Bay would no longer be safe.

His gaze continued rightward, onto a strange code name listed under the "intelligence" heading.

"Fish-Skin Dumplings."

This was the code name he and Sun Chengzong had assigned in their cipher telegrams to Liu Xingzuo — the son-in-law of the Later Jin Khan Nurhaci, a Jianzhou commander who had resolved to defect. "Fish-skin" alluded to the Jurchen pursuits of fishing and hunting.

"Dumplings" signified that the matter within was savory and rewarding.

Hence the code name.

In all his dealings, Zhuge Youjian lived by two words alone: caution and prudence.

Therefore, to guard against any contingency, even telegrams sent by cipher transmission used code names for reference.

Sun Chengzong had written that the line of contact was established, and that the man indeed possessed a sincere intent to defect.

But when the optimal moment to break away would be, and how to extract him — all that required meticulous deliberation and would have to be decided in light of circumstances at the time.

So when this high-level talent poached from a "rival firm" would actually report for duty remained an unknown.

After all, the "non-compete agreement" he carried on his back — if mishandled, the price would be the heads of his entire family.

Zhu Youjian withdrew his gaze and let out a long breath.

The personnel arrangements for the entire Ji-Liaodong region were still only a rough framework taking shape; many key pieces he was still turning over in his mind, adjusting. Yet he held one firm principle in his heart.

Once these candidates were finally settled by him and placed in their respective positions,

then no matter how grave the errors they might later commit, no matter how catastrophic the defeats they might suffer — so long as they did not fundamentally betray the path of his new policies, he would do his utmost to protect and preserve them.

At the very least, he would give them a full three years to prove themselves.

Deliberation done, it was time for adjustment.

Zhu Youjian reached out a finger and gently pried from the screen the wooden plaque inscribed with the characters for "Governor."

He picked up a blank wooden plaque, took up his brush, wrote the two characters for "Civil Administration," and pasted it on with crisp finality.

With that one simple act, he drew an inviolable red line across the office of Liaodong Governor.

Henceforth, civil and military authority would be divided, and military power would belong solely to the generals.

This was the centerpiece he was about to implement in Liaodong.

In logistics, armaments, anti-corruption, and pay audits, there could be countless voices, countless hands to carry out the work.

But on the battlefield — when to fight, how to fight — only two men would have the final say.

One was the man seated at the center, planning the overall strategy: the boss of Ji-Liaodong, Sun Chengzong.

The other was the man holding the command tally, present in person on the front line: the top enforcer, Ma Shilong.

Apart from those two, anyone else, on the matter of "fighting a war," must keep his mouth shut.

Zhu Youjian's gaze lingered for a moment on Ma Shilong's name.

Once the pay audit and reorganization were complete, he would push further to reform the entire Ji-Liaodong officer corps, bringing all the mutually independent Regional Commanders, Assistant Regional Commanders, and Mobile Corps Commanders under Ma Shilong's sole command, eliminating as far as possible the evils of divided authority.

But the precondition for all of this was that Ma Shilong must deliver sufficiently brilliant results on the new task he had set him.

Next, Zhu Youjian's hand moved again.

Under Liaodong Civil Administration, he removed the original plaque bearing "Wang Zhichen" and pasted it onto a blank space to the side.

Then the plaque for "Yuan Chonghuan" took its place. He stepped back half a pace, scrutinized the change, and after a moment picked up the vermilion brush once more.

On the three plaques — Ji Garrison Regional Commander Man Gui, Shanhai Pass Regional Commander Ma Shilong, and the newly appointed Yuan Chonghuan — he drew a striking red mark across each name.

Only after completing all this did he nod with satisfaction and survey the new organizational chart once again.

(Attached illustration)

In the first year of Yongchang, the Ji-Liao region had only two tasks: defense and consolidation.

Defense goes without saying, but consolidation was certainly no quick blaze of glory.

Like the new policies in Northern Zhili, it had to follow a principle of gradual progression.

The Ji Garrison and the Ning-Jin defense line, which faced the Later Jin directly, were the empire's shield — they could not be lightly disturbed.

Zhu Youjian would not abruptly push through bone-deep military reforms here; that would be no different from tearing down the Great Wall himself.

He would only use the most traditional, gentlest method of the Great Ming — like a fine-toothed comb, lightly grooming once over, clearing away the most superficial filth and tangles.

This was a compromise.

Trading incomplete reform for stability of military morale, for a slight improvement in combat strength and cohesion.

The true, thorough transformation, however, he placed on Ma Shilong at Shanhai Pass.

Those three thousand elite cavalry who had fought at Qingcheng would form the backbone of the new army.

Zhu Youjian's plan was to use them as the core, gradually selecting, eliminating, and expanding, to forge a cavalry force ten thousand strong.

The reason this force was to be stationed at Shanhai Pass — its very location was laden with meaning.

It was like a wedge, driven into the throat of Ji-Liao.

Northward, it could race to reinforce Ning-Jin at any moment.

Westward, it could keep constant watch over the Ji Garrison's movements, guarding against a possible breach of the passes.

(See attached map)

This was the "living eye" on Zhu Youjian's chessboard — a mobile force to meet every contingency.

Once Ma Shilong's troops were trained, and the reforms of the capital's Valiant Guard Camp and even the Three Great Camps had begun to show results —

only then would he free his hands to launch the second phase, a true and meaningful consolidation of Ning-Jin and the Ji Garrison.

By that time, soldiers would be strictly divided into garrison troops and field armies, with clearly defined duties.

And the new drill manual that Sun Chuanting had been polishing for a year among the Shanhai Pass new army, the Valiant Guard Camp, and the Capital Camps seed units would also be rolled out on a large scale. In short, there must be no haste — no rushing in clamoring for some Ji-Liao New Deal.

A meal must be eaten one mouthful at a time; a road must be walked one step at a time.

As for the tangled internal affairs — auditing payrolls, fixing quotas, military farmland, provisions and fodder — these were the real reason he was willing to give Yuan Chonghuan a chance. Sun Chengzong was, without question, a fine candidate for a theater commander: he was steady, tactful, and could unite everyone.

But for that very reason, he was not a good reformer.

A Ji-Liao where everyone was all smiles and perfect harmony was absolutely not the situation Zhu Youjian wanted to see.

This was not out of some imperial paranoia, some fear that they would band together and rebel.

Given the current state of morale and institutions in the Ming, no one was yet qualified to even speak the word "rebellion."

It was because that vague style of "you're fine, I'm fine, everyone's fine" — that atmosphere where everything was about compromise and balance — simply could not truly advance reform.

Reform inevitably disturbs interests; it inevitably offends people.

Therefore, he needed a "catfish."

A catfish who was not on good terms with Sun Chengzong — stubborn by nature, daring to clash, unafraid of others' tongues.

Yuan Chonghuan was the ideal candidate.

Tossing him into the seemingly placid deep waters of Ji-Liao was precisely to make him stir up the winds and clouds, to tear open the festering sores hidden beneath all that false harmony. Of course, this "double-edged sword" was exceedingly sharp, and it had to have a scabbard.

Sun Chengzong's seniority and prestige would be the first scabbard to restrain him.

And the special payroll-audit team led by Yuan Jixian, answering directly to the emperor, would be the second, more finely crafted scabbard.

With these two layers of restraint, it should be enough to keep Yuan Chonghuan's unstoppable edge in check.

But no matter what, just like Ma Shilong at Shanhai Pass and Man Gui at the Ji Garrison, Yuan Chonghuan had to deliver visible results in stages during his tenure before he could truly win Zhu Youjian's full trust.

This was precisely why the three of them had been marked together with the vermilion brush.

These three men — he was not looking to replace them, but to watch them.

To see whether they were worthy of his trust.

Zhu Youjian stood before the screen, his gaze moving back and forth among the names and lines, repeatedly working through every possibility.

After a long while, feeling there was nothing left to weigh, he could not help but let out a long sigh.

An inexplicable emotion welled up in his heart.

He did not know, either, whether what he was doing could really be considered right.

After all, no matter how meticulous the planning, in the end it still felt like armchair strategy.

In his later life, where had he ever undertaken planning and enterprise on such a grand scale?

He shook his head self-deprecatingly and pushed that thread of doubt and hesitation back down.

Never mind — try it first, and if something seems off, adjust it later.

Zhu Youjian withdrew from the room, closed the hall doors with his own hands, and dropped the brass lock into place.

When he turned and walked back into the brightly lit front hall, his face had returned to calm.

"Companion Gao," he said, "bring me Wang Zhichen's memorial."

Gao Shiming answered and turned, striding quickly toward the tall bookshelves.

In the interval while waiting for Gao Shiming to fetch the memorial, the hall fell momentarily silent.

Zhu Youjian felt a little bored; his gaze swept around and landed once more on the letter from Sun Chengzong lying on the desk.

He simply unfolded the letter and reread it. This letter was a reply to one he had written in his own hand, asking Sun Chengzong's opinion on Yuan Chonghuan succeeding Wang Zhichen.

And this was Sun Chengzong's response.

The letter was not long:

"…Your Majesty deigns to inquire; this subject is filled with trepidation."

"Yuan Chonghuan is a man of Yue. His ambition is keen and fierce; his talent and strategy are serviceable. He may be used as a sharp instrument."

"Yet his nature is somewhat impatient, prone to break and shatter — not the way of a great minister."

"If Your Majesty employs him, this subject will devote himself to training him — using state affairs to wear down his sharp edges, using sovereign grace to nourish his nature. Given time, I will surely reshape his character for Your Majesty, forging him into a pillar of the state, as pliant as Yu Qian..."

Loyalty?

Every word, every phrase, seemed to exude a heartfelt devotion to recommending talent for the country, utterly devoid of selfish motive.

But Zhu Youjian lingered on that final name.

Yu Qian?

With so many renowned ministers and fine generals to choose from, why single out Yu Qian?

Yu Qian, whose loyalty outshone the sun and moon, who turned back the tide and saved Beijing, who preserved the Great Ming.

And what was his end? Slandered by treacherous ministers and suspected by his emperor, he died unjustly in the Western Market.

What exactly was Sun Chengzong thinking when he wrote that name?

Was he obliquely warning him that Yuan Chonghuan, though loyal, had a nature too rigidly unbending — that without a sovereign's absolute trust, he might well repeat Yu Qian's tragedy?

Or was he using it to show that he, Sun Chengzong, truly bore no grudge over Yuan Chonghuan's breaking with him back then, and was willing to protect him as he would have protected Yu Qian? Or was he, by this deliberate show of factional solidarity, subtly hinting to Zhu Youjian not to send Yuan Chonghuan there at all — that sending him would make Liaodong an impenetrable bloc?

In this letter, how much was truth, and how much was pretense?

Zhu Youjian let out a long sigh and slowly set the letter down.

A feeling of powerlessness, like a tide, submerged him.

Having become Emperor, all he saw were loyal ministers kowtowing before him; all he heard were fine generals pledging their lives.

Yet in the end, beneath this treacherous fog of human hearts, he found he could trust no one at all.

"Your Majesty, this slave has found Wang Zhichen's dossier."

Gao Shiming's voice roused him from his deep musings.

Zhu Youjian nodded, forcing that sense of desolation back down into his heart, setting it aside.

Trust in men's hearts — but never trust in men's hearts alone.

This, now, was the only path he, as sovereign, ought to walk.

After all, he was only seventeen; he had time enough. He would learn slowly, and eventually master the intricacies of this.

He took the dossier and read through it carefully.

The file was not long, and Zhu Youjian soon turned to the final page.

He pondered a moment, his decision already made, and spoke:

"Companion Gao, relay Our decree."

"Tomorrow, insert an urgent additional audience. Have Huang Liji, Sun Shenxing, and Yan Mingtai all enter the palace."

"We wish to discuss with them the matter of Wang Zhichen's subsequent appointment."

The words had barely left his mouth when, unexpectedly, Gao Shiming flatly refused:

"Your Majesty, it cannot be inserted."

Zhu Youjian, still absorbed in his plans for Wang Zhichen, did not react at once and asked reflexively:

"All fully scheduled? Then the day after tomorrow — or the day after that will do. Just shift one of the later audiences with the local gentry to make room." Yet Gao Shiming still refused.

"Your Majesty, never mind the day after tomorrow or the day after that."

"Even ten days from now, not a single thing more can be inserted."

Only then did Zhu Youjian fully come back to himself.

He raised his head and met Gao Shiming's old face, set in a rigidly stern expression.

He froze for only an instant before he understood completely, and an embarrassed chuckle escaped him unbidden.

"Urging Us to rest again?"

"Did We not say? State affairs have been tangled of late; We truly cannot get away."

"The day after tomorrow — We guarantee, the day after tomorrow We will certainly rest. Will that do?"

But Gao Shiming, cold and merciless, directly exposed his utterly insincere promise.

"Your Majesty, on the sixteenth, when rest was due, those were your words. On the seventeenth, those were your words again. On the eighteenth, those were still your words. And now, it is already the twenty-second!"

Zhu Youjian, stung by this, grew somewhat embarrassed and softened his tone further.

"The very last time. We guarantee it — this is absolutely the last time!"

"Once this great matter of Liaodong is properly settled, We will rest at once! We will not go back on Our word!"

He looked at Gao Shiming, his voice even taking on a pleading note: "Good Companion, just this once — go make the arrangements. We stake Our personal honor on it — absolutely the last time!"

Gao Shiming looked at that face, still so full of youthful naivety, and in the end, helplessly relented.

"... Very well." He seemed like a deflated ball. "Then this truly is the very last time. Your Majesty's words are golden — do not go back on them again."

At this, Zhu Youjian burst into laughter.

"Ha ha ha! Of course! A sovereign's word is no jest — absolutely the last time!"

By now it was nearly dusk.

The setting sun streamed into the room. The young emperor's laughter was brilliant, to be sure.

But beside him, on the head of the old eunuch standing there, every single white hair stood out starkly.