Chapter 2: Mother

Seeing his demeanor, Lady Li did not buy it—she knew her son better than anyone.

She frowned, her tone sharp with accusation: “What? Are you going to do again what you did last time at Huiji Gate—fear the officials like tigers and wolves, cowering in this Ciqing Palace and refusing to show your face!?”

She spoke without sparing her own son’s face, for Zhu Yijun’s behavior was not the first time.

A few days ago, civil and military officials had petitioned at Huiji Gate urging him to ascend the throne; by ritual propriety, Zhu Yijun should have personally declined.

But Zhu Yijun, timid and cowardly, was so terrified he dared not appear, leaving him trapped between a rock and a hard place, forced to issue an oral edict to hastily settle the matter.

It nearly drove Lady Li to despair, and she scolded him severely afterward.

Today, at Wenhua Hall’s morning court, representatives of the people and civil-military officials were about to urge his ascension once more, yet Zhu Yijun hid inside the hall again—how could she not be furious?

Zhu Yijun, possessing the memories of this body, naturally understood what was happening.

He sighed inwardly; no wonder Empress Li refused to return power even after Wanli’s wedding—this temperament made her unable to trust or rely on him.

He organized his words, his face solemn as he spoke: “Mother, Father’s age was but thirty, flourishing in spring’s vigor, his imperial lineage destined for long prosperity—yet he suddenly passed away, abandoning the realm.”

“My grief pierces my soul, as if cast into boiling water or fire; I lost my composure then, leading to my previous indecisiveness. After your reprimand, I have reflected deeply these past two days—I will never repeat such a mistake.”

“Today, I truly did not mean to delay.”

Zhu Yijun’s careful diction was not for show—it was simply borrowing phrases from his earlier refusal, now cited to show he had truly listened to your lesson; in daily speech, he never spoke this way.

The technique was crude, but perfect for a child his age.

In short: Father died suddenly; he, a perfectly fine crown prince, was thrust onto the throne in an instant—of course he was flustered. Now he’s regained his senses, next time he’ll do better! Mother, please stop scolding.

Indeed, Lady Li, seeing his composed demeanor and measured speech, softened slightly.

But she did not let him off easily, frowning: “Civil and military officials wait at Wenhua Hall—what excuse do you have for lingering inside?”

Lady Li came from common stock, once a palace maid; her speech carried no formal polish.

Her tone was stern—she would not tolerate any excuse that wasn’t solid.

The moment she finished speaking,

Zhu Yijun lifted his head to look at her, his eyes slightly reddened.

As if suppressing deep sorrow, he spoke clearly: “Mother, during the eclipse just now, I seemed to be haunted.”

“I faintly saw Father in the hall, smiling warmly, reaching out to take my hand—but when I reached for him, I could not touch him.”

Though his face remained stiff, tears streamed down his cheeks, his voice trembling with suppressed sobs.

This was the power of a seasoned actor—effortless and natural.

Lady Li, seeing his state, froze.

Gazing at Zhu Yijun’s sorrowful face, she suddenly remembered: her rebellious son, whom she had harshly scolded these past days, was, after all, merely a ten-year-old child who had lost his father unexpectedly.

Perhaps he had not rested well these past days—this was just a nightmare.

Her heart softened slightly.

She was about to bend down and comfort him, but stopped herself, extinguishing the thought.

He was about to ascend the throne; the Nine Provinces, the myriad people, would rest on his shoulders—there was no room for cowardice.

In times of crisis, one must be ruthless in upbringing to prepare him for great responsibility!

Thinking this, Lady Li immediately frowned and rebuked sharply: “This behavior is utterly unbecoming.”

Zhu Yijun, of course, was not begging for pity—he stepped back and bowed again.

Then he wiped his face roughly and declared firmly: “Mother, I did not weep from self-pity, but because I recalled Father’s words just now—I could not stop my grief.”

In his reply, he left Lady Li a hook.

Indeed, Lady Li immediately seized on the key point.

Her expression changed, startled and uncertain: “Did the late Emperor leave any final words?”

Lady Li had worshipped Buddhism since childhood and always believed in ghosts and spirits, if only to be safe.

Historically, she had even ordered the release of all condemned prisoners, fearing capital punishment disrupted heavenly harmony.

Earlier, Zhu Yijun had merely said he had a nightmare; she had not thought much of it—but now he claimed the late Emperor had spoken? This was a divine manifestation!

Her thoughts instantly turned to spirits and the supernatural.

At this thought, her gaze toward Zhu Yijun grew serious, waiting for his answer.

Beside her, Feng Bao tensed instantly.

He feared the Crown Prince had been manipulated into uttering some shocking claim.

Years of political struggle had sharpened his instincts—he had seen this trick too many times!

He had just removed Meng Chong from the position of Chief Eunuch of the Directorate of Palace Affairs; Meng had once held power, and with his influence fading, who knew what poison he might concoct?

And Meng’s patron in the Grand Secretariat, Gao Gong, also saw Feng as a thorn in his side.

He was the current Grand Secretary—a three-dynasty veteran!

Feng had recently uncovered a flaw in him and was preparing to strike; could Gao Gong have gotten wind of it and moved first?

Feng’s mind raced with a hundred thoughts, staring fixedly at Zhu Yijun, cursing his inability to interject—only anxiety gnawed at him.

Zhu Yijun felt Feng Bao’s gaze but ignored it.

His small face still streaked with tears, appearing innocent and pitiful: “I faintly heard Father tell me… tell me… that we three—fatherless, motherless, and widowed—must rely on each other, and that I must be filial to Mother and the Empress, or else he could not rest easy.”

The Empress he referred to was the late Emperor’s Empress—his legal mother—hence the phrase “the three of us.”

Upon hearing this, Feng Bao exhaled inwardly in relief.

The words were unremarkable.

Too bad he was too close to the situation, too narrow-minded—he had no idea Zhu Yijun was here to compete for Lady Li’s favor!

This was the subtle art of influence.

Power cannot be seized with a few words.

No matter what, he was now Emperor in name only—a child monarch.

Power never lies vacant; since he could not wield imperial authority, it naturally fell into Lady Li’s hands.

Thus, his path to personal rule depended entirely on this mother.

If she insisted on entrusting power to the Directorate of Palace Affairs and the Grand Secretariat, Zhu Yijun would wait forever.

Historically, this Lady Li had refused to return power even after Wanli’s wedding.

How could that be allowed?

Ten years without governing—how much could he accomplish?

If he could not swiftly take charge of state affairs, what use was his transcendent knowledge? How could he restore the Great Ming to greatness?

Since his predecessor was unreliable and made Lady Li so distrustful, he must learn from the past—start small, slowly build her confidence.

Thus, every action he took just now was staged for her.

From his measured conduct, to his choice of words, to the final emotional appeal—all were aimed at persuading her, winning her over.

In short: he wanted her to know her son was intelligent, politically astute, filial and righteous—in short, utterly trustworthy!

For a woman of common birth, untouched by politics, emotional appeals were the most effective strategy.

Historically, this Lady Li delayed returning power for two reasons: one, she viewed Wanli as a child.

Two, perhaps she had held power too long, the political order too stable, and feared change.

So, one must act early!

Why trust outsiders over one’s own son?

Fortunately, Zhu Yijun was different—he could effortlessly manipulate the emotions of such women, and with his eight-year-old face, he was naturally deceptive; even Feng Bao, at his most alert, had only suspected manipulation by others—how much less could Lady Li suspect?

Advantages must be fully exploited.

Today was merely an appetizer.

He must perform even better in the future!

That was why he had laid the groundwork at the end.

He needed a reason—a sudden awakening.

The Crown Prince, grieving the late Emperor, transformed his behavior—this was a justification valid anywhere!

What a perfect story—back in his past life, he could have written ten different reports on it.

Indeed, under Zhu Yijun’s relentless assault, Lady Li finally showed some emotion.

A flicker of sorrow passed through her eyes.

The late Emperor’s sudden death had left them mother and child alone, the state uncertain—his words struck her deepest fears, resonating within her.

Her lips moved, but no words came.

Instead, she looked down at Zhu Yijun, slowly extended her hand, and gently wiped away his tears.

After a long while,

Lady Li spoke solemnly: “If so, my son must study harder and cultivate virtue, never idle or negligent—do not betray your father’s hopes.”

“You have been studying for over three months now. When I ask about your progress, your tutors all avoid answering. If you truly mean it, read the Four Books and Five Classics thoroughly before the Confucian lectures begin.”

She paused, then added: “Do not repeat your past behavior—be energetic for two or three days, then lapse back into laziness.”

The Crown Prince's early studies were merely introductory—reading aloud was sufficient; however, the Confucian lectures involved deep analysis of classical texts and political philosophy—there was a clear distinction.

Zhu Yijun heard this and choked.

He sighed inwardly—so intermittent bursts of ambition were a universal flaw? How inconvenient.

Clearly, Lady Li was not easy to win over; though her attitude had softened, the road ahead was long.

Well, at least some progress was made. He had time—this was no task for a day or two; it was dripping water wearing through stone.

He nodded firmly, his childish voice clear: “Mother’s teaching is right—I will never fail the hopes of Father, Mother, and the Empress!”

“From now on, I will study and cultivate virtue, master the Four Books and Five Classics as soon as possible, so Mother and the Empress may test me!”

Having finished speaking, he bowed respectfully toward the direction of the Empress, his ritual mother, to show he had heeded the late Emperor’s words—remembering all three of them, without omission.

Lady Li said nothing in response.

“Come, a nine-story terrace begins with piled earth. I’ll see you to the entrance of Wenhua Hall. Later, when you stand before the ministers, display the imperial dignity—do not shrink back as you did last time.”

Then she took Zhu Yijun’s hand and walked out; the two were flanked by palace maids and eunuchs, heading toward Wenhua Hall.

Wenhua Hall was where court deliberations were held—the emperor’s private audience hall. By longstanding political consensus, the imperial harem had no right to enter, and could only be escorted to the outer gates.

When the Ming Yingzong, Zhu Qizhen, ascended the throne at age nine, some ministers petitioned his grandmother, Empress Dowager Zhang, to preside behind a screen. A heated debate followed, until Empress Dowager Zhang finally settled it with one remark: “Do not break the ancestral rules.”

Now Lady Li was not even the Empress Consort; she dared not overstep ancestral law.

The group had just left Ciqing Palace.

They had not walked far.

Suddenly they saw—

A eunuch running hastily toward them, holding a lantern.

Lady Li immediately frowned. She recognized the man had come from the direction of Wenhua Hall—why was he rushing here at such a critical moment?

But she did not need to ask aloud.

Feng Bao stepped forward at once, seized the young eunuch, and slapped him hard: “You fool! Do you dare to charge into His Majesty’s presence?!”

The young eunuch, stunned by the blow, dared not protest.

He only clutched his face, fell to his knees with a thud, and gasped: “Your Imperial Highness, Your Royal Highness—urgent news to report!”

“Chief Grand Secretary Gao Gong, waiting long for the Crown Prince’s arrival, just said to me in the hall: ‘If this is how it is again, the Crown Prince will surely not come. Go fetch another imperial order.’”

“I dared not act on my own—I hurried here to report!”

Zhu Yijun’s heart skipped a beat. He glanced subtly at Feng Bao, who had stepped aside, eyes lowered, nose to heart.

He thought: This is bad.

—

Note 1: The first petition for accession appears in “Longqing Sixth Year, fifth month, Jia Yin: The civil and military officials, along with the people, presented a memorial at Huijimen urging accession. The imperial reply read: ‘I have read your memorial and deeply appreciate your devotion to the state. But my grief is overwhelming; how can I bear to hear of succession so soon? Your request is denied.’”—《Ming Shenzong Shilu, Volume One》

Note 2: Zhu Yijun’s journey to begin formal studies as Crown Prince was fraught with delays. At age eight, ministers—including Zhang Juzheng and Gao Gong—petitioned for him to leave the palace and commence studies. The Longqing Emperor delayed action until March of the year he was near death, when he finally allowed Zhu Yijun to begin his education.—《Ming Muzong Shilu, Volume Five》

Note 3: Not only Lady Li, but throughout the Ming dynasty, speech was often colloquial—“you” and “I” were common, even in edicts. For instance, before Wanli’s wedding, Lady Li issued a maternal decree: “Tell the Emperor: your wedding is nearly complete; I shall return to my own palace.”

Note 4: (Lady Li) was devoted to Buddhism; she built numerous Buddhist temples inside and outside Beijing, spending millions. The Emperor also donated countless sums. During Zhang Juzheng’s tenure, he once advised against it, but his counsel went unheeded.—《Ming Shi, Biographies, Volume Two》

Note 5: When petitioned to preside behind a screen, the Empress Dowager said: “Do not break the ancestral laws. Only suspend all non-essential matters.”—《Ming Shi, Biographies, Volume One》

(End of Chapter)