Chapter 65: The Butterfly Effect Arrives So Soon?

The main hall was so silent you could hear a pin drop.

A junior eunuch, carrying two stacks of examination papers in his arms, hurried in from outside.

Gao Shiming, seeing this, frowned almost imperceptibly and gave a slight shake of his head, signaling him not to make a sound that might disturb the Emperor.

The junior eunuch quickly slowed his steps, placed the two stacks of papers gently on the desk, and then withdrew as softly as he had come.

Zhu Youjian sat right behind the desk, yet he noticed none of this, his brows tightly knitted.

While the candidates outside had been writing their answers, he, a master of time management, had simply told Gao Shiming to bring in today's routine memorials for cross-checking.

And that cross-checking had just unearthed two enormous headaches.

The first: "Yang Chao, Eunuch Superintending Taolin Pass, reports: Chahar's Khutughtu Khan, in his drunkenness, was stabbed to death by his consort Khatun."

That latter half, a string of seemingly garbled text, was actually the result of the Ming court's phonetic transliterations of Mongol tribal names.

The so-called "Chahan" was the Chahar tribe,

belonging to the Southern Khalkha Mongols, bordered by the Khorchin to the north and adjacent to Ningyuan-Jinzhou and the Jurchens to the east.

The so-called "Huduntuhan" was Ligdan Khan.

As for "Fuhatun," that was khatun.

To put it plainly, it was simply the outcome of transliterating Mongolian into Chinese.

(p. s. I could only find a Mongol map from the Wanli era; in reality, at this point the Ming held only Pidao and Lushun beyond Jinzhou.)

Once this information was reassembled, the meaning of that sentence became startlingly clear — and startlingly shocking.

Ligdan Khan of the Chahar tribe, because he was drunk… was killed by his own wife?

The moment he finally managed to parse that sentence, Zhu Youjian felt his entire body go numb.

Ligdan Khan… dead?

That same Ligdan Khan who, in the original history, was wildly ambitious, styled himself "Great Khan of All Mongol Tribes," only to be routed by the Later Jin, turn west on campaign, shatter his own Mongol tribes into pieces, and finally die of illness in Qinghai — that idiot Ligdan Khan…

Dead, just like that?

And because he got drunk and was stabbed to death by his own wife?

Zhu Youjian felt his mind was in some disarray.

How long had it been since he transmigrated? Wasn't this temporal disturbance a bit excessive?

Just a few days ago, he had given the order for the Embroidered Uniform Guard to dispatch Banner Officers to the Nine Frontiers to investigate military and civilian conditions.

By his reckoning, those Banner Officers might not even have left the capital region's borders by now.

What breed of space-time butterfly wing am I, that I can swat Ligdan Khan dead from thousands of li away with a single flap?

That aside — was Ligdan Khan's death, for the future situation, a good thing or a bad thing?

Zhu Youjian racked his brains, but for the moment he simply could not think it through.

He had already prepared himself for history to become unrecognizable as his reform measures advanced.

But he had never anticipated that such a massive change would occur so quickly.

— But why was it Ligdan Khan who was stabbed to death, and not Hong Taiji who fell off his horse and died?

I would gladly trade ten Ligdan Khans for one Hong Taiji!

Ligdan Khan alive was indeed a calamity; he campaigned everywhere across the steppe, and wherever he went, the Mongol tribes surrendered at the mere rumor of his approach.

Yes, surrendered at the mere rumor — only they all surrendered to the Later Jin…

But now that he was dead…

Would the Later Jin seize the chance to subdue the Chahar tribe, and then directly bypass the passes and strike south?

Would the Jisi Incident of the second year of Chongzhen be brought forward to the seventh year of Tianqi?!

The more Zhu Youjian thought, the more agitated he became; a thousand thoughts swirled in his mind, yet he could not tease out a single thread.

Suddenly, a flash of insight struck him.

No…

Given that the Great Ming's current military intelligence system was worse than dog shit, he probably shouldn't be asking first whether this was good or bad.

What he should be asking first was…

Was this damn thing true or false?

Son of a bitch!

The Great Ming frontier defense system's intelligence relied entirely on generals sending out their own Night Scouts and merchants.

A report from a frontier eunuch — heaven only knew how much water it held.

Having thought through to this layer, Zhu Youjian's state of mind settled instead.

He raised his head, handed that memorial to Gao Shiming beside him, and spoke directly:

"Convey Our edict: order the defending generals of the Ji Garrison to investigate further and report again."

"From what source did this news come? Who heard it, and who witnessed it personally? Is it confirmed? On what day did the incident occur?"

"What movements has the Chahar tribe made since? If this matter is true, who will be its successor?"

"Investigate every last detail for Us and report back by 300-li express! There must be no error!"

"This slave obeys the decree."

Gao Shiming bowed in acknowledgment, then immediately walked to a side desk, took up the vermilion brush, and meticulously wrote the Emperor's edict as a red endorsement at the end of the routine memorial.

After that, he placed the memorial back into its envelope, handed it to the junior eunuch waiting outside the door, and gave a few low-voiced instructions.

The junior eunuch accepted the order, took the memorial, and hurried off once more.

Having dealt with this mess that very likely was a false alarm — he hoped it was a false alarm.

Zhu Youjian picked up the second routine memorial: "Memorial of Mao Wenlong, Regional Commander of Dongjiang, Petitioning Five Grievances!"

The moment he opened the memorial, what hit him full in the face was a dense, almost tangible miasma of resentment and murderous rage.

Hundreds of words poured out in sweeping passion, but boiled down, they were five gut-wrenching questions.

First: I, Mao Wenlong, have struggled to hold on deep behind enemy lines, fighting bloody battles against the barbarian chieftain, while those people in Liaodong only know how to cower behind their walls and defend their cities, sitting back and watching the barbarian chieftain grow strong — is this fair?

Second: The funds, grain, and military pay of my Dongjiang garrison are skimmed and withheld at every turn; my officers and men go without proper clothing and without enough to eat. Yet the troops in Liaodong have ample grain and pay, but not a shred of battle merit — is this fair?

Third: Assistant Regional Commander Li Kuang of Lushun, Mobile Corps Commander Gao Wanchui of Shicheng Island, and others abandoned their cities and fled in the face of the enemy — crimes beyond pardon — yet in the end they were reinstated to their original posts. Is this fair?

Fourth: I, Mao Wenlong, possess a loyal heart that can shine upon the sun and moon, yet there are people who slander me as nothing more than a plodding, cautious clerk, too timid to fight with courage — is this fair?

Fifth: In the Joseon campaign this spring, I personally led my officers and men in a desperate battle against the barbarian cavalry at Tieshan, yet there are people who say I "avoided the barbarian cavalry's sharp edge" and sat by watching allied forces be defeated and destroyed — is this fair!

Fair! What I, Mao Wenlong, want is nothing but goddamn fairness!

Numb.

Zhu Youjian was numb again.

He truly did not know how to answer these five questions.

In later ages, the commentary on Mao Wenlong and Yuan Chonghuan was so abundant it could fill a house to the rafters; all manner of short videos and clickbait accounts swarmed over it, gorging themselves on the traffic.

Back then he had followed along and watched with relish, gleefully observing the two camps beat each other bloody.

But now, sitting on this dragon throne himself, facing this real memorial, he realized that all those commentaries were utterly useless.

Could he really rely on a few impressions from centuries later to rashly judge that Yuan Chonghuan was loyal and Mao Wenlong was treacherous?

Or the reverse?

That would be gambling with the very fate of the Great Ming! How absurd!

He turned this routine memorial over and over, reading it for a long time, his fingers unconsciously tapping lightly on the desk.

After pondering at length, he called Gao Shiming over once more.

"Companion Gao."

"This slave is here."

"No need to wait for the afternoon announcement of the roster for the joint audience with the ministers." Zhu Youjian's voice was somewhat hoarse. "Sun Chengzong's native place is Gaoyang County. Send someone at once, bearing Our edict, to summon him to Beijing by fast horse."

He paused, then added: "The edict may be delivered by fast horse. As for Master Sun himself, let him travel slowly — there is no need to rush."

Fast horse — because it was urgent, truly urgent.

Travel slowly — because they feared he might be jolted to death on the road; after all, he was already sixty-five.

In any case, Gaoyang County was only two hundred li from Beijing; waiting five or six days would surely be enough.

Gao Shiming bowed and said, "This slave understands."

"As for this routine memorial…" Zhu Youjian picked up Mao Wenlong's memorial, hesitated, and in the end set it aside.

"Hold it in the palace for now. We will decide after We have consulted Master Sun."

"As commanded."

Gao Shiming acknowledged the order once more.

Yes — Yuan Chonghuan, Mao Wenlong: these two men, Zhu Youjian dared not trust either one arbitrarily.

But Sun Chengzong — this Imperial Tutor, this former Supreme Commander of Jiliao, a capable minister who had personally walked the lands inside and outside Shanhai Pass — he felt he could trust him, just a little.

Until his own reach truly extended to the Nine Border Garrisons, the only person he could trust was Sun Chengzong.