Chapter 100: Seizing the Moment, the Wisdom of the Past

Zhu Yijun held the memorial in hand, staring in shock at his attendants.

He didn’t expect an answer—this was merely a muttered exclamation born of surprise.

Li Chunfang’s move had truly caught Zhu Yijun off guard.

Kneeling in supplication was one thing, but why come forward to offer his granddaughter for the palace? Just go home and retire in peace—no one will hold it against you!

Leaving aside the ancestral precedent that emperors never marry into powerful clans—such precedents are only invoked when emperor and ministers disagree; when they agree, no one cares about ancestral rules.

For a family like Li Chunfang’s, rooted in the imperial examinations, becoming imperial in-laws was not a good choice.

By imperial custom, even if imperial in-laws took the imperial examinations, they were never appointed to office—even if they passed, they remained mere jinshi, stuck at home fishing and farming.

Though Li Chunfang’s three sons were mediocre, he still had grandsons, great-grandsons.

As a former chief minister, as long as his descendants thrived, he could still dominate a region for generations.

Historically, Li Chunfang’s descendants grew into the prominent clan of Xinghua, producing multiple provincial governors and ministers—no worse than imperial in-laws.

So what exactly was Li Chunfang thinking?

Zhu Yijun sat cross-legged on a mat, lost in thought.

Zhang Hong stood by, carefully attending, and spoke softly: “Your Majesty, shall this memorial be sent to the Grand Secretariat?”

Hai Rui’s secret memorial was delivered directly to the Directorate of Palace Affairs by the Embroidered Uniform Guard—whether to forward it to the Grand Secretariat remains uncertain.

Zhu Yijun looked up at Zhang Hong, silent for a moment.

After a pause, he shook his head: “First, send for the Senior Grand Secretary and the Master.”

For matters of this magnitude, a small meeting is better.

He couldn’t afford to publicly announce his intention to split Nanzhili.

No matter how Xu Jie or Li Chunfang might have guessed, he himself could never admit it.

Some things, if left unsaid, are governed by the person; once spoken, they govern the person.

Still, consulting the Grand Secretariat was necessary.

First, he didn’t fully understand Li Chunfang—he couldn’t be certain of the man’s intentions.

Zhang Juzheng and Li Chunfang were both jinshi of the Jiajing twenty-sixth year, classmates, and both serving in the Grand Secretariat.

Gao Yi had long been Li Chunfang’s colleague in the Ministry of Rites.

All were well acquainted.

Three mediocre officers together can match Zhuge Liang.

Second, matters of this scale cannot be decided alone in the Western Garden.

Through Zhu Yijun’s deliberate and subtle influence, a political atmosphere had taken root: major decisions were always discussed with ministers.

This political trust was rare—he would not lightly break this unspoken understanding.

Zhang Hong reminded him: “Your Majesty, the Prince of Hongnong and the Prince of Kuaiji did not survive the winter; today, Grand Secretary Gao and Imperial Son-in-Law Xu have gone to perform the mourning rites at the imperial temples.”

Zhu Yijun murmured, “Oh—I’d forgotten.”

By protocol, when a prince dies, court is suspended and mourning rites are held.

Though they didn’t die on the same day, to save effort, their rites were combined.

After all that, Gao Yi would be unavailable today.

Zhu Yijun waved his hand: “Go fetch Zhang Juzheng first.”

Even during court suspension, the Grand Secretariat must remain on duty—he’ll be there.

Since the Grand Secretariat lay far from the Western Garden, Zhu Yijun had specially granted shoulder litters to the Grand Secretaries.

As the saying goes: “When summoned to accompany the emperor, they are granted shoulder litters at Donghua Gate”—such honors were worn-out tools for winning favor, yet precisely because they worked, they were overused.

On New Year’s Day, only four Grand Secretaries received this honor; though all four repeatedly petitioned to decline, each time they rode from the Grand Secretariat to the Western Garden, through the Forbidden City, they sat firmly in their litters.

Other ministers, seeing the inscriptions carved on the litters, were filled with envy—the emperor, to prevent confusion, had inscribed each litter with “Grand Pillar of State,” “Tutor,” “Counselor,” and “Virtuous Sage” to distinguish them.

Privately, all lamented: “If only I could get one such inscription.”

Thus, Zhang Juzheng was summoned from the Grand Secretariat to the Western Garden.

…

Zhu Yijun did not receive him in Wanshou Palace; instead, he waited a short while, then changed into everyday robes and went to Chengguang Hall outside Qianming Gate.

Chengguang Hall was formerly Yitian Hall; the Yongle Emperor repaired it and renamed it, meaning “to inherit the light of Ming.”

Zhu Yijun had gradually removed the Buddhist statues and repurposed it as a venue for receiving outside ministers.

Zhang Juzheng was already waiting outside Chengguang Hall.

“Your Majesty,” Zhang Juzheng bowed.

Zhu Yijun quickly grasped his hand and helped him up: “Senior Grand Secretary, no need for such formality—how is your father’s health?”

This natural opening of small talk never failed.

Zhang Juzheng, led by the hand, walked half a step behind the emperor into the hall: “I thank Your Majesty for your concern. The physician says it’s a chronic ailment of the lungs; after taking medicine, he’ll recover once winter passes.”

Zhu Yijun couldn’t help glancing at Zhang Juzheng.

Chronic illness meant incurable disease.

Lifespan was ordained by heaven; in this era, chronic lung disease had no cure—only fear remained: that he might die at the wrong time.

If his father died, Zhang Juzheng must return home to observe three years of mourning.

Zhu Yijun could not yet afford to lose a chief minister capable of controlling the situation—they were still advancing together; a change now would be unwise.

This reminded him.

Before the next winter came, he must bestow further favors: build warm rooms in the residences of Zhang’s father, Gao Yi, and others.

The two entered the hall; Zhu Yijun offered Zhang Juzheng a seat and signaled Zhang Hong to hand over Hai Rui’s memorial.

He slowly sat behind the imperial desk, waiting as Zhang Juzheng read, then said: “Li Chunfang’s proposal is that the central authority show leniency.”

“He and his faction will hand over several ringleaders accused of treason, relinquish control of the salt monopoly, cede part of the grain tax, surrender thirty percent of the tea tax, and…”

Zhu Yijun paused, his tone weary: “And offer his granddaughter for the palace.”

Zhang Juzheng listened while reading the memorial, his eyes scanning every word.

He did not reply immediately, but frowned: “Your Majesty, this memorial should have been copied and sent to the Grand Secretariat upon reaching the Tongzheng Office—why was it delivered directly to the Directorate of Palace Affairs?”

Though Zhang Juzheng was satisfied with the emperor’s current trajectory, the Grand Secretariat must still defend its rights.

This had nothing to do with personal feelings—each position demanded its duties.

Zhu Yijun quickly apologized: “It was Tongzheng Minister He Yongqing’s incompetence—I’ve already reprimanded him. Senior Grand Secretary, please be at ease.”

Whether true or not, he had said it—so it must be the Tongzheng Office’s fault.

Zhang Juzheng nodded.

He had merely stated his position, affirmed the proper procedure.

After all, the matter in this memorial was too sensitive to be made public; some concealment was natural—as long as it wasn’t concealed from him, Zhang Juzheng.

Zhang Juzheng closed the memorial, considered for a moment, then asked: “Has Your Majesty decided on Li Chunfang’s proposal?”

Whether the emperor sought the Grand Secretariat’s cooperation or wished to consult him—each choice demanded a different response from Zhang Juzheng.

Zhu Yijun shook his head: “I am not versed in state affairs—I seek your counsel, Senior Grand Secretary.”

“Yet… with this outcome, I am inclined to sound the retreat.”

The central authority has shown resolve; some in Nanzhili have retreated.

But to demand all of them surrender their lives? The answer is no.

If these talks collapse, the aftermath may become uncontrollable.

So far, Nanzhili’s resistance has been merely exploratory—true open defiance would not be so simple.

Then we might face: grain shipments halted, Japanese pirates again burning and looting Songjiang, gentry and commoners killing officials in protest.

In a sense, it is not the central party or Nanzhili’s high officials who represent Nanzhili.

Rather, it is the widespread popular demands that give these officials their legitimacy.

This “widespread” includes merchants, landowners, farmers, minor clerks, low-ranking officials, and more.

It is precisely because of these broad demands that these high officials can claim to represent a region.

It is not enough to kill all the leaders—then Nanzhili will be peaceful.

Like An Lushan in the Tang dynasty—his power arose from widespread demands in Hebei.

Even if he were captured and executed, Hebei would simply produce another representative to stir unrest for decades.

If Zhu Yijun now ruthlessly purged Nanzhili’s high officials and nobles, it would not help—instead, it would shatter the tax base, and the empire would collapse in an instant.

Therefore, since these representatives have bowed, negotiations must proceed.

Each side makes concessions—endure for the sake of the state.

In my past life, even the tax reforms required the Zhu family to negotiate slowly in the south.

The logic is the same.

Thus, Zhu Yijun never believed killing all these so-called representatives would bring Nanzhili under control.

It was merely Xu Jie’s unconventional moves that forced him to show resolve to these men.

Now that they’ve offered concessions beyond his psychological threshold, it’s acceptable to grant them dignity.

This mission was about securing funds.

Now that the money is secured, there’s no need to stir further trouble.

Zhang Juzheng said nothing, then pressed: “What of Li Chunfang’s conditions?”

Zhu Yijun looked at Zhang Juzheng, asking: “I don’t know Li Chunfang well—what is your view?”

He answered with a question, seeking Zhang Juzheng’s opinion.

Zhang Juzheng did not avoid the issue, speaking heavily: “Li Chunfang is not being honest—he’s testing us!”

Zhu Yijun froze.

He leaned forward, puzzled: “Testing?”

Zhang Juzheng nodded: “He’s testing—after this incident, what is the Emperor’s situation?”

“Has the Grand Secretariat become wary? Has the Two Palaces grown displeased? Has this caused estrangement between sovereign and ministers?”

Zhu Yijun had been frowning in thought.

Upon hearing Zhang Juzheng’s words, a sudden insight struck him.

He slapped his thigh: “No wonder he wants to send his granddaughter into the palace!”

Zhang Juzheng cast him an approving glance—he truly understood at a single hint.

He continued: “If the Emperor’s reception of this matter has drawn excessive resentment…”

“Then under opposition from court ministers and the Two Palaces, his granddaughter could never be admitted.”

“He wants to see whether they… fear the Emperor’s early assumption of personal rule!”

Zhu Yijun fell silent.

According to his earlier thoughts, he had merely assumed Li Chunfang had kowtowed too quickly.

Now, with the truth revealed, he could not help but sigh—these men were nearly spirits incarnate!

Sending his granddaughter into the palace was, in effect, completing the imperial selection process ahead of time.

For the Emperor, this matter brought only advantages and no drawbacks.

As long as the Emperor had sufficient support, he could admit her into the harem at any moment.

But the Emperor’s marriage carried profound significance—marriage essentially meant assuming personal rule!

Li Chunfang is deliberately offering the Emperor a pillow, testing the reactions of court ministers and the Two Palaces to gauge the central situation.

If his granddaughter is not admitted, it shows that while all outwardly submit, they still fear and oppose the Emperor when it comes to fundamental matters.

In such a case, he need not become an imperial relative, yet can still adjust his strategy toward the center according to the situation.

And the so-called division of Southern Zhili would become a delaying tactic.

Conversely, if the Two Palaces gladly accept and court ministers unanimously agree, and his granddaughter is smoothly admitted,

then it proves the Emperor, though young, has already seized control of the situation, and has not suffered excessive resentment in this incident.

In that case, Li Chunfang naturally and logically kowtows, transforms into an imperial relative, and stakes his family’s future for a hundred years.

Then the so-called division of Southern Zhili becomes him willingly serving as the vanguard, relieving the Emperor’s burdens.

Yet one cannot harshly condemn him for this double-dealing—he has already sent his granddaughter into the palace; isn’t that declaration enough?

Truly a clever man.

Zhu Yijun followed Zhang Juzheng’s line of thought: “So, whether to impress outsiders or reassure insiders, I must accept this concubine candidate?”

Since Zhang Juzheng has revealed this, it shows at least he does not fear the Emperor’s personal rule.

What a fine Grand Secretary.

But… she’s three years older—I find that strange, hmm, and she’s a child? Even stranger.

Zhang Juzheng nodded, as if reading the Emperor’s thoughts, and gently reassured him: “Your Majesty, rest assured—in our dynasty, one cannot reach Li Chunfang’s position without proper bearing.”

Stability overrides all.

To give the provincial prefectures a clear symbol of the central will, this matter truly should not be refused.

Zhu Yijun sighed helplessly—being outmaneuvered by Li Chunfang was bad enough.

But what if she’s hideously ugly?

Zhang Juzheng seemed to read his mind and kindly comforted: “Your Majesty, in our dynasty, one cannot hold Li Chunfang’s post without a dignified appearance.”

Zhu Yijun understood Zhang Juzheng’s meaning.

Simply put: if an official is too ugly, he could never rise to the rank of court minister.

So his descendants would not be ugly.

Zhu Yijun barely convinced himself to believe it, waved his hand listlessly, signaling acceptance.

He moved past the matter and continued: “What is your view, Grand Secretary, on Li Chunfang’s proposal to divide Southern Zhili?”

Zhang Juzheng paused, then shook his head: “I believe it is too hasty.”

Li Chunfang, negotiating for advantage, naturally exaggerated the benefits.

But from Zhang Juzheng’s position, he could instantly see the embellishment.

He added: “Even if you appoint a Provincial Governor to divide the taxes, you still must rely on the Grand Canal.”

“The problem is, the Two Huai regions are currently held by Southern Zhili—not something easily resolved by merely carving out a Provincial Administration Commissioner.”

“I fear it will provoke backlash and damage tax collection instead.”

“Moreover, the so-called ‘ten-year achievement’ is clearly exaggerated.”

Two centuries of dynastic precedent are deeply ingrained—it cannot be accomplished in ten years.

Zhu Yijun, after hearing Zhang Juzheng’s words, nodded in agreement: “I share these concerns.”

“Li Chunfang’s intentions are not sincere.”

Indeed, wise men were plentiful—Zhang Juzheng saw at once that Li Chunfang had overstated his case.

If the division of Southern Zhili were openly raised, it would inevitably spark uproar—even Li Chunfang may have intended it as a warning.

Southern Zhili is not without its positive aspects.

The Six Ministries of Nanjing hold considerable authority.

For all lower officials in the southern provinces, evaluations, appointments, and promotions are directly handled by Nanjing’s Ministry of Personnel.

This greatly improves administrative efficiency.

Historically, Nanjing’s Ministry of War has directly deployed troops to suppress rebellions, and its Ministry of Revenue has directly intercepted taxes from Jiangnan to coordinate with the military.

When northern campaigns occur, the south has always been a solid military backing.

It is hard to say these men care only for self-interest and not the state.

Even now, official documents are filled with phrases like “Nanjing as the State Foundation”—an undisputed second center.

These are the sources of Southern Zhili’s legitimacy: a legitimate central authority, possessing active administrative and military functions, backed by the majority of the empire’s taxes, and so on.

Not to mention the hidden alliances among local landlords, gentry, and scholarly clans—deep-rooted and powerful.

Killing officials and rebelling, then erecting another “Stele of the Five Men” to seal their legacy—would not be difficult.

The Japanese pirates’s stirring near Songjiang Prefecture is clear proof.

Both openly and covertly, Southern Zhili possesses a formidable imagined community—its division cannot be simple.

Even the later Manchus, after slaughtering so many in Jiangnan, took years to attempt dividing Southern Zhili.

This is not something Li Chunfang can accomplish with a single word.

Zhang Juzheng looked at the Emperor and spoke: “Your Majesty, I believe this matter must wait until sea transport is established before appointing a Provincial Governor to Fengyang and six other prefectures.”

With the Two Huai regions choking the throat, one’s voice remains weak.

Now that spring has come, the Ministry of Works and Wang Zongmu have begun their second attempt at coastal sea transport.

As long as the center has the will and strength, success is merely a matter of time—there is no need to rush and tear open conflict with Southern Zhili over the tax sources of these seven prefectures now.

Zhu Yijun nodded, agreeing with Zhang Juzheng.

Then he changed the subject: “Yet Li Chunfang’s proposal is not without merit.”

Zhang Juzheng’s heart stirred, hesitating: “Your Majesty’s meaning is…”

Zhu Yijun suddenly rose, took paper and brush, and began sketching a map of Southern Zhili.

He also instructed Zhang Hong beside him: “From now on, hang a map of the empire’s territories in the main hall.”

After giving the order, he continued sketching intently.

In moments, he drew all fourteen prefectures of Southern Zhili, then gestured for Zhang Juzheng to come closer.

“Appointing a Provincial Governor with the title of Minister of Revenue is too overt and too hasty.”

“But your mention of the Grand Canal just now has enlightened me.”

“Bring the Superintendent of River Defense and the Commander of River Defense under central control!”

Zhang Juzheng turned his body, watching the Emperor’s rough sketch, his expression turning to realization.

The Commander of River Defense oversees river defense and troop training.

One civil, one military.

The military post is currently held by Xu Qiaosong, Marquis of Yongkang, who commands the Nanjing Right Military Command, and serves as Commander of River Defense in Nanjing, overseeing river patrols and the command post.

The civil post is held by Zhang Lu, Right Assistant Censor-in-Chief of Nanjing’s Censorate, who commands River Defense and oversees river patrols.

Now the Emperor intends to begin with river defense.

Zhang Juzheng followed the Emperor’s line of thought and asked: “Add Provincial Governor?”

The two exchanged glances.

Zhu Yijun pointed to the seven prefectures of Fengyang: “The Commander of River Defense shall also serve as Provincial Governor of Fengyang, Anqing, Huizhou, Ningguo, Chi, Tai, and Guang, and relocate his seat to Anqing!”

This was a proven precedent—he took it up without hesitation.

Unlike adding a Minister of Revenue, bringing the Commander of River Defense under central control is far more moderate.

First, the former directly seizes tax sources; the latter concerns military authority.

Central reform of military authority is entirely legitimate.

Second, adding a Minister of Revenue abruptly invites suspicion; but the latter is already a mature system.

Changing its seat and expanding its authority is not overly sensitive.

Third, the Superintendent of the River Operations has always been in the hands of the noble families.

Unlike the unified civil officials, the noble families are relatively weak-willed and obedient—otherwise, the Marquis of Huaining and the Duke of Wei would not have simply sat and waited for their fates.

Moreover, bringing the River Operations system, which has been subordinate to Nanzhili, back under central control, it is hard to imagine that Marquis Yongkang Xu Qiaosong would not be pleased.

In short, this approach is subtler and more insidious than Li Chunfang directly seizing the tax sources.

Zhang Juzheng pondered for a moment, then reached out and pointed at the map: “Then the grain and silver must be intercepted directly from the Grand Canal Administration.”

Thus, command over the inland waterways’ military forces was brought directly under central authority.

The Grand Coordinator of the Grand Canal controls the Beijing-Hangzhou Canal.

The Superintendent of the River Operations guards the Yangtze River.

Zhu Yijun grunted: “Then it’s settled. Tell Li Chunfang that if he can make this happen, the matter in Nanzhili is closed!”

As for what comes after… we’ll have to wait until the Superintendent of the River Operations matter is stabilized.

Zhang Juzheng nodded, stepped back several paces, and bowed.

This meant the Grand Secretariat had accepted the matter.

Just as he was about to leave, he suddenly remembered something and halted silently.

Zhang Juzheng looked up at the emperor: “Your Majesty, how much silver can this Imperial Censor Hai bring back?”

Zhu Yijun replied, energized: “I’ve heard it amounts to a hundred thousand taels!”

Zhang Juzheng froze, then realized the emperor was joking.

He sighed, turned back, and stood there quietly, watching the emperor.

Zhu Yijun smiled: “Summon Minister Wang of the Ministry of Revenue. Divide it up, and discuss it.”

(End of Chapter)