Chapter 17: Soft Blade Cuts the Heart, Fallen into Dung, Drifting onto Blossoms

Longqing Sixth Year, sixth month, third day, morning.

……

Before dawn, Gao Yi set out from home toward the Imperial City.

He bought two scallion oil pancakes on the street and ate them as he walked.

It wasn’t that he had no time to prepare breakfast at home—he simply had no appetite today.

Yesterday, someone from the palace arrived unexpectedly, delivering a bundle of daily necessities and a few taels of silver, leaving him baffled.

He learned it was a favor granted at the Crown Prince’s request, with Imperial Consort Li’s approval.

The eunuch’s exact words were: “The Crown Prince has spoken: ‘Master has greatly benefited me; how could I bear to see you in distress?’ The Imperial Consort concurred.”

He stood frozen, utterly taken aback.

Unlike Gao Gong and Zhang Juzheng, Gao Yi was a traditional scholar, or rather, one who retained traces of rigid scholar-official character.

His apathy stemmed only from dissatisfaction with the present—not from rejection of traditional rites.

On the contrary, precisely because the current world failed to fulfill his longing for traditional rites, he had become a passive, easygoing man.

As the saying goes: when a ruler treats his ministers as grass and dirt, the ministers regard the ruler as an enemy.

Just as the Hongwu Emperor treated scholar-officials as grass and dirt, the Zhu family emperors’ attitude toward civil officials had eroded Gao Yi’s trust in them.

Not to mention the Jiajing Emperor, selfish and excessive, quick to blame his subordinates; or the late emperor, indulging in pleasure and neglecting state affairs.

How could he possibly respect them?

But the Crown Prince… he actually noticed Gao Yi’s humble circumstances, truly treated him as a disciple, and regarded him as a father-king!

This teacher-student propriety, this father-king intent, stirred in Gao Yi a long-dormant paternal affection and loyal devotion.

A scholar-official must know: when a ruler treats his ministers as hands and feet, the ministers regard the ruler as heart and entrails!

Yet he still hesitated.

Was this Imperial Consort Li using the Crown Prince’s name?

Or had someone advised her?

Even if the Crown Prince truly meant well, might he not be seeking something in return, treating Gao Yi with political cunning?

Still, Gao Yi could not suppress a quiet hope within him.

To be entrusted with guardianship, to be honored as father-king and teacher—what scholar-official would not yearn for such a noble tale? Was not Zhuge Liang’s example before them, stirring every heart?

His mind churned with conflicting thoughts; he barely slept all night.

Today was the third day—on the third, sixth, and ninth, the Crown Prince held court, no daily lecture required. Gao Yi felt a pang of disappointment, yet also a sigh of relief.

The disappointment was obvious; the relief came because he truly did not know how to face the Crown Prince now.

Yesterday he had been asked to alter the lecture content—his conscience weighed heavy.

Gao Yi walked the streets lost in thought.

All ministries began their morning roll call—slightly later than court, but not by much.

Officials in robes of varying colors gradually converged toward the Imperial City.

As a Grand Secretary, Gao Yi was prominent; on the road, he was constantly greeted and exchanged pleasantries.

“Grand Secretary.”

“Grand Secretary Gao.”

“Grand Secretary.”

People kept bowing to him; his face ached from smiling, and his thoughts finally stilled.

“Grand Secretary, why not ride together?” came a voice from behind.

Gao Yi turned and saw a six-man palanquin; inside, an old man and a young man lifted the curtain to greet him.

He recognized their faces—it was Zhu Xixiao of the Chengguo Duke’s household and Jiang Keqian of the Yutian Marquis’s family.

Oh… nobility. Then it didn’t matter.

Gao Yi no longer needed to smile—he turned away as if they were air.

He felt helpless: what did they take him for? Even nobles came to flatter him, as if any noble could be Zhu Xizhong?

He dismissed it and walked off on his own.

As he neared the Imperial City, someone called out to him again.

“Zixiang, why do you look so unwell?”

Gao Yi turned his head—it was Zhang Juzheng, walking beside Minister of Rites Lu Diaoyang.

Lu Diaoyang bowed: “Grand Secretary.”

Gao Yi did not dare to be arrogant; he quickly returned the bow: “Minister Lu, Left Chancellor.”

Zhang Juzheng was the Vice Grand Secretary; Gao Yi always addressed him as “Left Chancellor” in person, to show respect.

After returning the bow, he smiled bitterly: “I’m growing old. Yesterday the palace sent fresh bamboo shoots—I greedily ate them all, then felt bloated and couldn’t sleep till late.”

Lu Diaoyang chuckled, stroking his beard: “It’s good you still have such an appetite. Unlike me—my teeth are loose, I can’t even eat what I want.”

Gao Yi was humble and amiable, on good terms with all court officials.

Zhang Juzheng spoke up: “Zixiang, good—Lu and I were discussing the coronation rites for the Crown Prince. Join us in deliberating.”

“Heqing” was Lu Diaoyang’s courtesy name.

The coronation rites included the ceremonial protocol, sacrificial texts, and appointments for each task.

The three walked together: Zhang Juzheng and Gao Yi ahead, Lu Diaoyang falling half a step behind.

Gao Yi asked: “When is the third petition for accession set?”

Zhang Juzheng replied: “The Two Palaces approved the memorial yesterday; the second petition is set for the sixth. After the Crown Prince accepts, he will ascend the throne on the tenth.”

Gao Yi paused, then said: “The state is in turmoil; he should ascend the throne before the late emperor’s coffin.”

Imperial mourning periods often substituted days for months, or months for years.

Zhu Yijun’s mourning period was twenty-seven days—from the late emperor’s death to the tenth, barely over ten days—clearly, he should ascend before the coffin.

As Minister of Rites, Lu Diaoyang bore the heaviest burden; he sighed: “The funeral and coronation rites aren’t difficult—it’s the Ministry of Revenue’s tight budget that’s the problem. Thank heaven the Two Palaces are reasonable.”

Gao Yi nodded. This was one advantage of the Grand Secretariat: women could not withstand the collective will of civil officials.

Recall how the late emperor always demanded money from the Ministry of Personnel, stashing it in his private treasury.

He suddenly remembered something: “Has the imperial tomb site been decided?”

That is, selecting a fengshui site for the mausoleum.

Zhang Juzheng shook his head: “That matter is being discussed by the Chief Grand Secretary and the Ministry of Works. They must first locate the dragon veins and survey the land—still choosing personnel.”

Lu Diaoyang took up the thread: “The only unresolved matters now are the tomb site and the sacrificial text.”

“Grand Secretary Gao, you specialize in such matters—perhaps you should compose the sacrificial text?”

Palace Grand Secretaries were naturally responsible for writing sacrificial texts; nearly all could pen fine Qingci poetry. Moreover, Gao Yi had been Minister of Rites before joining the Grand Secretariat—he was perfectly suited.

Gao Yi had no objection: “Just don’t say my scholarship is too poor.”

Lu Diaoyang flattered: “I fear your prose will be so obscure the Crown Prince will groan memorizing it.”

At this, Zhang Juzheng and Gao Yi both burst into laughter.

Lu Diaoyang, confused, chuckled along.

“I’ll go prepare the memorial for the court deliberation—we’ll discuss it at morning court.”

Gao Yi excused himself and walked ahead.

Zhang Juzheng and Lu Diaoyang bowed in return and slowed their pace.

After Gao Yi departed, Lu Diaoyang spoke slowly: “Grand Secretary Gao seems to have won the Crown Prince’s deep affection lately.”

The palace had sent fresh bamboo shoots to everyone.

But Gao Yi received extra gifts—this could not escape the court’s notice, and its implication was hard to ignore.

Zhang Juzheng shook his head, helplessly: “Just bullying an honest man.”

Lu Diaoyang looked at him, puzzled.

Zhang Juzheng did not dwell on it, but asked another question: “Has the Chief Grand Secretary contacted you privately?”

Lu Diaoyang shook his head: “He hasn’t contacted you either—why would he contact me?”

Zhang Juzheng was leader of the Chu Faction, but this faction was not defined by region—it included men from all over, named only because Zhang was from Huguang. Its regional character was not yet as pronounced as later factions.

Lu Diaoyang, though from Zhejiang, was also counted among the Chu Faction.

Rather than Chu Faction, it was better called the New Faction.

Why hadn’t they rallied around Gao Gong? Wasn’t Zhang Juzheng following Gao Gong’s lead?

For Gao Gong, his vision was higher—he saw no difference between Qingliu, Chu, Jin, or Zhe factions; whether Yang Bo or Zhang Juzheng, as long as they served, he would use them.

Zhang Juzheng sighed, voice barely above a whisper: “Before the Chief Grand Secretary retires, we must leverage his authority to secure the general outline of the Examination System among the Six Ministries and Nine Ministers—only then can we act effectively.”

The Examination System was what later generations called official performance evaluation—the foundation of the New Laws.

Such a reform targeting the civil bureaucracy always met fierce resistance.

If we fail to finalize it before Gao Gong retires, when I become Chief Grand Secretary and must manage the fallout and reconcile factions, I’ll waste far more time.

The time left to implement the New Laws is already scarce.

Lu Diaoyang asked curiously: “How do you plan to do it?”

Zhang Juzheng waved his hand: “I don’t know.”

“Come, let’s go to morning court.”

……

Today’s morning court, Zhu Yijun was silent.

He did not interfere in the court deliberation, nor did he ask Feng Bao any questions, causing Feng Bao to keep stealing glances at him.

Of course, this was not him pretending to be profound—he was genuinely exhausted!

Copying sutras and writing notes was even more tormenting than he had imagined.

Yesterday, back in the Eastern Palace, he wrote for two hours; his arm still ached and numb, and he was utterly drained, forced to conserve his energy and think and speak less.

Zhang Juzheng really is a cruel bastard, bullying a child like this—don’t give him the chance to get away with it.

While cultivating his inner stillness, Zhu Yijun glanced at Gao Yi through the screen.

Unfortunately, these seasoned veterans had mastered composure to perfection; not a hint of reaction showed, and he couldn’t tell whether yesterday’s overture had moved them at all.

It seems more pressure must be applied.

The court deliberation proceeded in orderly fashion.

Matters such as spring tax conditions across provinces, court-recommended appointments for Provincial Administration Commissioners, and imperial noble criminal cases under court review.

This was Zhu Yijun’s first time witnessing court recommendation and court review.

Court recommendation meant that when a senior official vacancy arose, court ministers—such as the Nine Ministers, Assistant Censor-in-Chief, and Director of the Imperial Academy—would jointly recommend two or three candidates for the Two Palaces to select from.

Court review meant that for major criminal cases, especially those involving imperial nobles, a decision had to be made collectively by court ministers.

But how exactly did they recommend? How did they deliberate—by casting votes with human heads?

Zhu Yijun found it fascinating to watch; it truly felt like a board meeting, with strong déjà vu.

Of course, before the public recommendation, all sides had already reached tacit agreements, and the outcome was predictable.

He stared intently, thoroughly entertained.

When all matters were concluded, he assumed the court session would end—but then Feng Bao stepped forward two paces: “Your Excellencies, I have one more matter.”

He looked down at Gao Gong: “According to precedent, the spring tax should contribute one hundred thousand taels to the Inner Treasury; this was the practice during the late Emperor’s reign. Yesterday, I obtained the Noble Imperial Consort’s edict, instructing court ministers to deliberate—so why was this omitted in today’s deliberation, Grand Secretary?”

The Treasury of the Grand Granary was the Ministry of Revenue’s treasury, while the Inner Treasury was the imperial household’s private fund; other institutions like the Bureau of Imperial Horses, the Bureau of Imperial Banquets, and even provincial and prefectural offices each had their own treasuries.

Each office, big or small, ate from its own pot.

Gao Gong naturally knew of this matter; he didn’t even blink: “I am somewhat aware of it, and was just about to inform you, Eunuch Feng.”

“The moment the Noble Imperial Consort issued her edict yesterday, the Six Boards’ Censors immediately rejected it as ‘an unlawful order, not to be obeyed.’ Even I, the Grand Secretary, did not know the edict’s contents.”

The Six Boards’ Censors were responsible for attending the emperor, offering advice, correcting omissions, reporting misconduct, and overseeing the Six Ministries and all bureaus—equivalent to a disciplinary inspection committee.

They also held the power to reject imperial edicts—a right enshrined in ritual, openly exercised.

Gao Gong remained calm, as if the matter concerned no one but himself.

Feng Bao, furious, pointed at Gao Gong: “Gao Gong! You… dare to defy heaven!”

Gao Gong replied coldly: “Eunuch Feng, watch your tongue.”

Seeing the court protocol officer stir, Feng Bao’s chest heaved violently; he swept his sleeve and withdrew: “I shall report this truthfully!”

Zhu Yijun observed the entire exchange, frowning deeply.

Gao Gong had offended Feng Bao—but to directly authorize the rejection of Noble Imperial Consort Li’s edict? That exceeded his expectations.

Even if it was merely an imperial consort’s edict, technically, it could be refused.

But Li Shi would become Empress Dowager in mere days; then it would no longer be an imperial consort’s edict, but an Empress Dowager’s decree.

Gao Gong unilaterally rejected it without consultation—leaving absolutely no face.

Doesn’t he fear Li Shi’s retribution later?

Though Gao Gong now wields immense power, once the two sides break open, Li Shi can simply overturn the table and intervene directly—then Gao Gong’s only option will be to retire. This is not the Song dynasty.

What is his confidence based on?

History is clear, yet not fully known; Zhu Yijun only knew that Gao Gong was eventually expelled by Li Shi.

But the precise details of their confrontation remained unknown.

Was Gao Gong merely a reckless fool—or did he have some hidden maneuver?

…

On the way back to the Eastern Palace, Zhu Yijun continued pondering this question.

He didn’t even notice Zhang Hong coming to greet him.

Zhang Hong followed him for a long stretch before he finally came to his senses.

“Zhang Daban, you’re here—why didn’t you call me?”

Zhang Hong bowed his head humbly: “Your Highness was deep in thought; your servant dared not disturb you.”

Zhu Yijun smiled, pleased with his attitude: “Speak—what is it?”

Zhang Hong paused, then ordered the palace maids and eunuchs to keep their distance.

Only then did he whisper beside Zhu Yijun: “Just now, a Jianyi Guard on duty at the Eastern Palace secretly approached me—he said Jiang Keqian wishes to meet you. Should I announce him?”

Zhu Yijun froze.

He asked in confusion: “Jiang Keqian? I don’t listen to music—why seek me out?”

He had heard of this man—a musician famous even in later generations—what did he want?

Was Feng Bao planning another scheme to distract him with frivolous pleasures?

Zhang Hong choked. The Crown Prince knew Jiang Keqian was compiling qin scores—but had no idea of his true identity. How strange.

Could it be… that someone besides Zhang Hong had already pledged loyalty to this Crown Prince?

Thinking this, Zhang Hong found it plausible. After all, this Crown Prince had concealed his strength for years—he surely had some influence.

Zhang Hong felt even more awed.

He dared not dwell further, and after careful thought, said: “Your Highness, Jiang Keqian is the direct heir of the Marquis of Yutian. His grandfather, Jiang Lunfang, was the younger brother of Empress Dowager Shizong. His father, after inheriting the title, committed crimes and was demoted to Assistant Regional Military Commissioner of the Embroidered Uniform Guard.”

“He serves under Zhu Xizhong.”

Upon hearing “Embroidered Uniform Guard” and “Zhu Xizhong,” Zhu Yijun instantly understood.

This was Zhu Xizhong’s reply—a fallen nobleman sent as a vanguard.

But this fellow, in his memory, was a musician—he had assumed Feng Bao had sent him to amuse and weaken him. A misunderstanding.

So he was of imperial clan origin—no wonder he had the wealth and leisure to pursue music.

He pondered a moment, then said: “Let him come directly. No need to announce him.”

“Whether to announce” meant whether the meeting would be private or public.

Since he was already assigned to guard the Eastern Palace, meeting him privately was convenient—no need to make it public.

After all, many matters must be handled covertly; drawing attention and triggering sensitivity was unnecessary.