Chapter 6: The Emperor Is Dying? Heaven Be Praised!

Wenhua Hall, the hour of the rabbit.

Zhu Youjian swallowed the last cake.

In the dim hall, a faint bewilderment suddenly rose within him.

In two more double-hours, he would ascend the throne and become the master of this vast, ancient empire.

But…

What comes after that?

This question had always lurked deep in his heart, yet the crush of affairs these past two days had left him no chance to think it through.

He spread his palm open; every line was clearly visible.

The first transverse line, high and supreme, was the natural calamity brought by the Little Ice Age.

First Shaanxi starved, Shanxi starved.

Then Henan starved, Huguang starved, the capital starved, and every prefecture from Huai to Yang starved.

By the tenth year of Chongzhen, across the empire's two capitals and thirteen provinces — drought in the north, flood in the south — not a single place was spared.

"They burned human bones for fuel. They boiled human flesh for food."

The historian's offhand phrase "that year there was a great famine" — behind it lay bleached bones blanketing the wilds.

The second transverse line, rising from the tiger's mouth and ending at the palm's center, was the swine calamity.

The sky was red as blood, yet the court's crushing levies piled on without end.

The desperate starving people broke bamboo for spears, wove grass for armor, and in the end trampled through the capital, forcing the exalted emperor to hang himself on Coal Hill.

After that, Liaodong turned traitor, the Qing armies rode across the Central Plains, and from north to south they swept the realm.

The ten-day slaughter at Yangzhou, the three massacres at household retainers, and after eighty-one days at Jiangyin the whole city was dyed black.

"The multitude of officials who died for the Ming cause in its final season far surpassed what the Han, the Tang, or the Song could claim."

The martyred officials recorded in the histories alone numbered over a thousand — to say nothing of those nameless, unremembered common soldiers.

Thus the divine land sank, robes and caps were cut off, and the backbone of China was utterly broken.

The third, slanting line grew upward from the base of the palm.

It was the corrupt officials of this Great Ming, the fief-fattened princes, the landlords who practiced "flying and scattering, fraudulent registration," shifting the tax burden onto the common people.

Their roots and tendrils ran deep, one body with the state, sucking the last blood and marrow of the Great Ming, until at last they dragged this battered leviathan down into the abyss.

Zhu Youjian studied his palm a moment, then closed his hand and clenched it tight.

So what?

Struggle with heaven — the joy is boundless; struggle with earth — the joy is boundless; struggle with men — the joy is boundless.

Come then, let me see just how far this unfinished game of Go has been played!

"Attend me! Dress me in my robes!"

At the hour of the horse, outside Wenhua Hall, bells and drums sounded in unison.

Zhu Youjian, wearing the dragon robe and the tasseled crown, was led by the officials of the Court of State Ceremonial as he slowly entered from the side hall.

Before the enthronement, he had to make offerings to Heaven and Earth, the ancestral temple, and the gods of soil and grain, and kneel in obeisance to the successive ancestors and the late departed Emperor.

After this set of rituals, so elaborate they reached the extreme, by now his whole person was somewhat numb.

He was like a puppet pulled by silk threads, mechanically completing every movement under the guidance of the Court of State Ceremonial officials.

Until — the moment he rounded the last screen and stepped into the main hall of Wenhua Hall.

"Weng—"

In Zhu Youjian's mind, everything went instantly blank.

Before his eyes was a vast, dark sea of people.

Civil officials east, military officials west, arrayed on either side.

Crimson robes, blue robes, green robes — the three colors of court dress flowed like rivers with sharply distinct courses, stretching from inside the hall out to the vermilion steps, and onward to the limits of sight.

He saw the Duke of Ying, Zhang Weixian.

He saw the Chief Grand Secretary, Huang Liji.

He saw the civil and military dignitaries, the cabinet ministers and bureau chiefs — the very top echelon of Great Ming power — now before him, their heads lowered.

Every man was bent at the waist; even their breathing seemed suppressed to the utmost limit.

The entire great hall was silent, yet it seemed as if some vast, grand voice was reverberating.

That voice was — the Emperor!

This ancient dynasty, stretching ten thousand li and enduring over two hundred years, was waiting for its Emperor to ascend the throne!

"May Prince Xin ascend the seat…"

The long, drawn-out chant of the Court of State Ceremonial official broke the stillness.

Zhu Youjian steadied his spirit, stepped forward, and walked to the imperial throne atop the nine-tiered dais.

Before the throne, the guards of the Embroidered Uniform Guard raised their long whips and lashed them fiercely into the air!

"Crack!"

The crisp sound of the whip-crack rang through the hall.

At once, the civil and military officials inside and outside the hall, like wheat stalks bent by a sweeping wind, dropped to their knees in unison.

"Your subjects humbly beseech Your Highness to ascend the throne!"

Voices like the roar of mountains and the surge of the sea came from every corner, converging into a mighty torrent that rushed straight to the clouds.

Zhu Youjian stood before the throne, gently stroked the cold armrest, drew a deep breath, and slowly sat down.

The very moment he sat, a shudder rose from his back, instantly jolting every hair on his body upright.

The master of ceremonies chanted again.

"Five prostrations, three kowtows —"

The hundred officials bowed and knocked their heads in unison; over a thousand ministers, rank upon rank, somehow produced an astonishingly uniform muffled thud.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

This — is this the supreme sovereign?

This — is this the Emperor of the Great Ming?

This — is this the most exalted man in all the world under heaven?

For a moment Zhu Youjian felt dazed, nearly unable to contain himself.

Countless thoughts flashed through his mind.

In the end he forcibly suppressed them, merely opening his mouth slowly to complete the final rite.

"Ministers, rise."

The ceremony marshals followed at once, calling out in relay.

"Rise —"

With that the rites were concluded, and the bond of sovereign and subject was fixed.

Zhu Youjian let out a soft breath, yet his heart still surged and churned.

His gaze passed over the dark mass of officials below, over the towering palace gates, and toward the horizon.

The warp and weft of all under heaven stretches nineteen lines across.

Who among the heroes and beasts destined for the history books of later ages is already in place, and who is straining to leap onto the board?

At the same moment, in Shaanxi, Baishui County.

The autumn sun hung at its zenith, carrying little warmth but still glaring.

The dry, cold autumn wind swept up the yellow dust from the ground and lashed it against people's faces, stinging.

Several gaunt men squatted beneath the dead locust tree at the village edge, their faces full of misery.

"Damn it all. Once this year's autumn tax is handed over, all our family will have left is next year's seed grain. Even the winter rations are looking dicey."

A dark-faced man spat fiercely.

The spittle left a dark mark on the parched ground, soon covered over by the blowing dust.

"Ain't that the truth. Living gets harder to bear with every passing day."

The man beside him sighed along, his voice hoarse.

The middle-aged man squatting in the center had wrinkles on his face as deep as if carved by a knife.

He listened in silence to everyone's grumbling, and only after a long while did he speak, his voice carrying the steadiness of a man whose edges had been worn smooth by life: "Let's wait and see a bit longer. There's bound to be a way."

"Wait? How can we wait?" The dark-faced man grew agitated. "Look at neighboring Chengcheng County — I heard that Zheng Yanfu took the lead and cut down the magistrate! Now they've got a new official, and I hear life's gotten a lot easier!"

At those words, a buzz of envious chatter rose all around.

"But that's killing an official! A business where you lose your head!"

"Yet those folk are living easy now!"

"I heard our county's magistrate has finished his term this year too — does that mean he's being replaced? Maybe the next one will be better?" A young man's eyes glimmered with a thread of hope.

A flicker of expectation also passed through Wang Er's eyes, but it quickly dimmed again. He only said, "Who knows what sort of man will come. Better we just pray the heavens open their eyes."

At the mention of the heavens, everyone instinctively looked up at the glaring white sun, and despair filled their hearts.

"These dog-spawned heavens — if it doesn't rain soon, the wheat seed in the fields will be practically parched beans!" someone cursed bitterly.

Suddenly, a man who had barely spoken all along edged closer, lowered his voice, and said mysteriously, "Hey, let me tell you something I heard from a clerk in the county seat. Don't you go spreading it around."

Seeing his manner, everyone perked up and leaned in.

"He said… the current Emperor seems gravely ill, like he won't last."

Those words were like a rock hurled into a still pond — every man's eyes lit up in an instant.

"For real?"

"Then… then does that mean there'll be a general amnesty?"

"When the new Emperor ascends the throne, could he remit this year's grain tax for us?!"

In that moment, all the misery and despair seemed to be swept away by this sudden news.

Attached map: Baishui County is 50 kilometers on foot from Chengcheng County, roughly 12 hours.