Chapter 18: Worries Overwhelm, Yet Unafraid

“Master, Jiang Keqian has arrived. I had him wait outside the hall.”

Zhang Hong spoke softly beside Zhu Yijun.

Zhu Yijun grunted: “Let him in.”

He was bent over, copying Daoist scriptures, appearing utterly casual.

Just now he learned that the Yutian Bo line was even more isolated than he’d imagined—even among the noble clans, they were poorly regarded.

The reason was simple: it stemmed from roots planted by Emperor Shizong.

After Emperor Wuzong drowned, he died suddenly with no heir; according to ancestral custom of “elder brother dies, younger brother succeeds,” the fourteen-year-old Prince of Xing, Zhu Houcong—the later Emperor Shizong Jiajing—ascended the throne.

Such a princely succession raised a sensitive issue.

By what legal legitimacy should the throne be passed?

Should Zhu Houcong be adopted into the main lineage, or should the minor branch replace the main one?

Put more simply: who should the new emperor, Zhu Houcong, recognize as his father?

Some argued that to affirm legal continuity, he should recognize Emperor Xiaozong as his father, and his biological father, Prince Xian, be renamed merely “Imperial Uncle.”

That meant adopting Zhu Houcong, the only son of Prince Xian, as Emperor Xiaozong’s son, thus formally making him Emperor Wuzong’s younger brother, fulfilling the “elder brother dies, younger brother succeeds” principle to inherit the throne.

Among those holding this view were the then Grand Secretary Yang Tinghe and even the Empress Dowager in the inner palace.

Zhu Houcong refused outright, citing the late emperor’s edict: “I was named successor to the throne, not as a prince.” He rejected the Grand Secretariat’s proposal that he enter through the Dong’an Gate and reside in the Wenhua Palace under princely rites, insisting instead on being urged to ascend from the suburbs, entering through the Great Ming Gate directly to the Fengtian Palace for his coronation.

After his enthronement, despite court opposition, he posthumously honored his biological father, Prince Xian, as Emperor Xian, and his mother as Empress Cixiao Xian.

He elevated Prince Xian’s spirit tablet to the Imperial Ancestral Temple, ranking it above Emperor Wuzong’s—and to make room, even removed Emperor Renzong’s tablet from the temple due to limited space.

The Empress Cixiao Xian enshrined during this Great Rites Controversy was the elder sister of Jiang Keqian’s grandfather—his great-aunt.

The tangled politics of the Great Rites Controversy extended far beyond lineage succession.

It involved intense power struggles among factions, and over a dozen officials, merely for kneeling in protest at the Zuo Shunmen, were beaten to death.

The intensity of the situation was beyond recounting.

Regardless, although Emperor Shizong ultimately honored Xiaozong as father and Wuzong as elder brother, the outcome was clear: the minor branch seized the main lineage.

Nearly all noble status tied to the main lineage plummeted.

The Yutian Bo clan, representing Emperor Shizong’s maternal relatives, had risen to their titles by stepping on the bodies of the fallen main-line nobles.

With conflicting interests and sudden elevation, their conduct naturally turned brazen.

Later, many noble families indulged in boastful, humiliating antics.

Because of these historical grievances, many noble clans had pushed to downgrade the Yutian Bo line.

After their decline, they were beaten by countless fists.

No wonder the Chengguo Duke had pushed Jiang Keqian forward.

Already despised by civil officials, now further crushed by noble rivals, his situation was obvious.

Precisely because of this, Jiang Keqian was pulled forward by his family’s fading fortune and pushed from behind by the Chengguo Duke—he had no choice but to pledge loyalty to the imperial house.

Naturally, Zhu Yijun needed no effort to subdue him; his attitude grew casually dismissive.

Soon, a young man in his early twenties, clad in a flying-fish robe, followed Zhang Hong into the hall, stepping precisely in his footsteps.

Upon entering, he knelt at once: “Your subject Jiang Keqian bows before the Crown Prince.”

Zhu Yijun didn’t lift his head, continuing to copy the scriptures.

He spoke with divided attention: “Jiang Qing, why have you come?”

Jiang Keqian had written books—even on music theory—so he was no fool.

Hearing this, he instantly understood: his answer would define his loyalty to the throne.

Jiang Keqian bowed his head deeply and replied: “I have heard that the Embroidered Uniform Guard serves as the Emperor’s eyes and ears.”

“Now that the late Emperor has passed and the new sovereign reigns, and as I serve in the Embroidered Uniform Guard while also guarding the Eastern Palace, I ought to come and pay my respects to Your Highness.”

The Crown Prince was asking: had he come on the Chengguo Duke’s orders, or on his own initiative?

He answered without reservation: he had seized the opportunity from the Chengguo Duke and volunteered to serve loyally.

For Jiang Keqian, there was no hesitation whatsoever.

Not only was this the Chengguo Duke’s intention, but even if the Duke harbored ulterior motives, he would abandon him entirely and cling tightly to the new sovereign’s leg!

The revival of the Yutian Bo line depended entirely on this—he had no other choice.

When Zhu Xixiao saw him struggling, he repeatedly urged him, saying this Crown Prince was deeply calculating and would reward sincere loyalty handsomely.

Though he had appeared reluctant then, in truth he had already decided: even if the throne were occupied by a pig, he would crawl over to flatter it thoroughly.

If there was even a single straw to grasp, he would cling to it!

Indeed, upon hearing this, Zhu Yijun smiled: “Rise quickly, my loyal minister! We are both sovereign and subject, and also kin—privately, you need not kneel.”

His words made it seem as if he had never made anyone kneel to answer.

As for kneeling rituals, throughout Ming history, they had been established, abolished, and reinstated repeatedly.

Privately, whether to kneel or stand depended entirely on the reigning emperor’s whim; courtiers had their own justifications, but in truth, they didn’t care.

Jiang Keqian exhaled in relief, rising and humbly declining: “It is my duty as a subject—I dare not claim kinship with Your Highness.”

By generation, the late Emperor was his peer, so the Crown Prince should call him “cousin-uncle.”

He’d be insane to claim kinship and act as the sovereign’s elder.

Zhu Yijun gently reassured him: “In the previous reign, the imperial favors bestowed upon your Yutian Bo family were the most generous.”

“Even if later generations have faltered, your Yutian Bo household’s dignity will not be lost.”

“I rely on you to restore its standing.”

Jiang Keqian was overjoyed.

He immediately knelt to thank him: “Your subject will forever remember Your Highness’s instruction and never tarnish the reputation of the imperial kin.”

Like dry tinder and blazing fire, a single exchange of questions and answers sealed a political pledge and act of loyalty.

Jiang Keqian now inherited a demoted rank; after one more generation, his line would be indistinguishable from commoners.

The only one who could pull him from this mire was Zhu Yijun.

And Zhu Yijun, naturally, made generous promises: your kinship is close, your foundation solid; even if you’ve made mistakes, they’re not grave—so long as you serve well, I shall remember the Yutian Bo line.

Jiang Keqian, hearing this, bowed without hesitation.

He was on fire—he didn’t care about Grand Secretariat dominance or the Directorate of Ceremonial’s duplicity.

Jiang Keqian never lacked the spirit of a gambler.

Especially since this successor had already begun courting noble clans before his enthronement, clearly resembling Emperor Wuzong—this only strengthened his resolve.

Zhu Yijun nodded in satisfaction: “Has the Chengguo Duke told you everything I intend to do?”

He didn’t mind that Zhu Xizhong had merely tested the waters.

After the Classical Prose Movement and the Qingli Educational Reform, Dong Zhongshu had been discarded like a worn-out shoe.

The emperor was no longer the Son of Heaven, divinely ordained and entitled to unquestioned loyalty through cosmic resonance.

Now, loyalty required interest and personal obligation as its foundation.

Of course, if Zhu Xizhong had already placed his bet, could Zhu Yijun really let him slip away?

Jiang Keqian bowed and replied: “Your subject understands. This morning I dispatched men—every tavern and teahouse is already stirring. By sunset tomorrow, the news will spread through town and countryside alike.”

This was the Embroidered Uniform Guard—the most feared secret police agency among civil officials.

Zhu Yijun warned: “You may proceed slowly—it’s fine.”

Too fast, and everyone would suspect something was amiss; only the Embroidered Uniform Guard and Eastern Depot could move this swiftly.

Give it more time—make it seem natural, as if the rumor spread organically.

Even if someone grew suspicious, any official with modest means could have done this; with too many suspects, the waters grow muddy.

Jiang Keqian, being young, failed to see this—he was impatient and lacked maturity.

Jiang Keqian lacked experience but was not untalented; once pointed out, he immediately understood and apologized: “Your Highness is right—I was rash.”

As he spoke, he stole a glance at the successor.

Previously, he had dismissed Zhu Xixiao’s praise as mere flattery, believing the Chengguo Duke was merely courting the Crown Prince’s favor.

Now, after this exchange, he realized: this Crown Prince’s depth and skill had made him forget the boy was only ten!

His words were sharp, his demeanor seasoned—he seemed older than Jiang Keqian himself.

Zhu Yijun didn’t care what he was thinking and said: “There is one more matter.”

Jiang Keqian bowed to listen.

Zhu Yijun said: “Can the Embroidered Uniform Guard still spy on civil officials’ homes?”

Secret police politics weren’t impossible—but they required subtlety.

Jiang Keqian was startled, then hesitated: “Your Highness, the Embroidered Uniform Guard is no longer what it was in the founding era…”

In the beginning, the Embroidered Uniform Guard could infiltrate everywhere like mercury poured on the ground—that was because Emperor Taizu stood behind them.

Since then, the situation has deteriorated rapidly—without Emperor Taizu’s authority, why should civil officials tolerate secret police rule?

Today’s Embroidered Uniform Guard resembles more a military guard with functions akin to the Ministry of Justice.

Zhu Yijun paused, then said: “Then… keep watch on the public movements of several Grand Secretaries.”

“And watch Zhang Suiwei closely.”

He gave no explanation—Jiang Keqian only needed to act.

Jiang Keqian lowered his head, his eyes complex.

Setting up a baozi stall to watch carriages outside a door was still feasible—but to spy on Grand Secretaries… this Crown Prince was far more alarming than he’d expected.

He suppressed his thoughts and replied with confident assurance: “Your Highness, rest assured—I’ll act immediately upon returning.”

After finishing the official business, Jiang Keqian assumed it was time to take his leave.

Unexpectedly, the Crown Prince brought up something he had not anticipated: “Jiang Qing, I hear you are compiling a qin score?”

Jiang Keqian froze.

It was no secret that he was compiling a qin score—his grandfather, father, and he himself had all devoted themselves to this task—but he did not know why the Crown Prince had mentioned it.

The Crown Prince’s intentions were unclear; fearing he might say too much and make a misstep, Jiang Keqian replied cautiously: “Your servant neglects his duties; I humbly beg Your Highness’s pardon.”

Zhu Yijun shook his head: “Music, chess, calligraphy, painting—these are refined arts. How can they be called neglecting one’s duties?”

Jiang Keqian paused, then hesitated and said: “Your servant may perform a piece for Your Highness.”

Zhu Yijun laughed in disbelief.

What did Jiang Keqian think he was?

He smiled: “No need. But when your book is published, may I have the draft copy?”

Draft copy?

Jiang Keqian was even more confused and ventured tentatively, “My book is still some time from completion—I fear I cannot present it as a gift for Your Highness’s ascension…”

This overthinking was too much. Zhu Yijun suddenly lost interest.

He grew listless and waved his hand with mild boredom: “Wait until the book is done. You may go now.”

The Crown Prince fell silent abruptly. Jiang Keqian had no idea why.

Seeing no further movement from above, he bowed deeply, turned, and withdrew, burdened with thoughts.

Zhu Yijun said nothing more, quietly copying Daoist scriptures.

Now that the Embroidered Uniform Guard was in place, matters were far easier. Jiang Keqian already served in the Eastern Palace; summoning him was convenient.

Yet this exchange left Zhu Yijun feeling strangely lonely…

He knew Jiang Keqian’s book, *Complete Collection of Qin and Books*, and knew that by the time it reached later generations, portions had already been lost.

The Ming Dynasty had many such lost texts, including its greatest literary achievement—the *Yongle Encyclopedia*, hailed as an encyclopedia.

As one who had crossed over, Zhu Yijun naturally harbored the original intention of preserving classics; he had long held a rough idea about these lost texts.

Though he held no power yet and could not act, today was simply fortuitous.

It was precisely because he wished to preserve these classic works that he had casually mentioned it.

But he had made a fool of himself.

Jiang Keqian’s constant speculation about his intentions left him listless.

He could not blame Jiang Keqian for such behavior—after all, they were ruler and subject, meeting for the first time; this reaction was normal.

Zhu Yijun simply felt, suddenly, a loneliness no one understood.

He was not a man who sought only power and domination; on the contrary, he had his own pursuits and ideals. Even though these days he had been seizing authority and influence, he had not forgotten who he was or why he fought.

Zhu Yijun refused to be assimilated by power, by the throne.

Yet he surveyed those around him.

Previously, Zhang Hong saw him as an emperor who schemed and seized power.

Now, Jiang Keqian saw him as a emperor who secretly allied with nobles and cultivated factions.

To him, this was no less than an insult.

If not for the necessity of great deeds requiring great power, why would he spend his days scheming here?

Aside from himself, who knew that his vision extended far beyond mere power, that his heart held more than just the imperial throne?

This empire has been cursed by a three-hundred-year cycle. Today, apart from him, who else will dare to break it?

The fall of the Mongol Yuan is before our eyes—if we do not purge the accumulated corruption and boldly reform, shall we turn back the clock again?

The Western Renaissance is nearing its end. How can this three-thousand-year civilization of Huaxia regress instead of advance?

Billions of years of resources offer civilization only one chance to develop.

The wheel of history rolls forward, with no room for reversal.

Just as farmland, if left fallow for twenty years, is erased by geological forces.

Since humanity first learned slash-and-burn agriculture, there has been no turning back—only forward.

He was born under heaven’s mandate, having crossed over. Who else but he can steer the Great Ming?

The great edifice is on the verge of collapse. Who but he can blaze a new path and fulfill heaven’s will?

Alas, no one in this world understands him.

His confidants—Zhang Hong, Jiang Keqian—see him as a schemer; his allies—Gao Gong, Zhang Juzheng—see him as a rival.

Zhu Yijun, truly, is a solitary man.