Chapter 20: Rumors in the Streets: Same Moss, Same Rock

At the same time, in Ciqing Palace.

……

“What? You mean, throughout Huguang, every powerful clan is secretly mining mines!?”

Zhu Yijun nearly gasped in shock.

Zhang Hong secretly broke into a cold sweat.

Over the past two days, he had finally caught a eunuch sent to Huguang to collect taxes, interrogated him thoroughly, and come straight to the Crown Prince this morning to report.

But the matter was complex—he himself had been stunned upon first hearing it, and now seeing the Crown Prince’s reaction, he grew even more cautious.

He replied honestly: “Your Highness, the eunuchs we send to the palace can only glimpse a fraction of the truth; what they see may not even be real.”

Zhu Yijun had no patience for such soothing words.

He paced back and forth in the hall, pondering what Zhang Hong had just said.

The Provincial Administration Commission, also known as the formal name for the provinces in the Two Capitals and Thirteen Provinces system.

Huguang was one of those thirteen provinces, rich in iron and copper mines.

Now Zhang Hong told him that in every prefecture and county of Huguang, officials not only dared to privately grant mining rights to major clans and powerful families, but openly split the profits fifty-fifty!?

How brazen could they be?

Mines! Those were the source of ironware, weapons, and coinage!

What were they trying to do by mining secretly!?

He muttered to himself: “What is Governor Wang Daoqin even doing?”

Zhang Hong, seeing the Crown Prince muttering, hesitated whether to respond, then finally said: “Your Highness, Governor Wang only holds the concurrent post of Minister of War.”

The implication was that although Wang Daoqin held a prestigious position, he had authority only over troop deployments, not over civil administration.

Zhu Yijun spoke coldly: “Then what of the Provincial Administration Commission? Are they unaware too?”

The Provincial Administration Commission, commonly called the Fan Tai Yamen , was the key office responsible for governing a province, carrying out imperial edicts, and administering civil affairs.

Compared to the Provincial Governor, the Provincial Administration Commission was the permanent governing body of the province.

He simply could not believe that the highest official in the province knew nothing.

Zhang Hong weighed his words: “Your Highness, last year, Left Provincial Administration Commissioner Sun Yi was promoted to Prefect of Shuntian Prefecture; his successor, Left Commissioner Tang Bin, is not from Huguang.”

“In February this year, the Ministry of Personnel transferred He Bangqi from the Seal and Inspection Office to become Right Assistant Commissioner of Huguang’s Administration Commission; in March, they sent another Censor.”

The Provincial Administration Commissioner was the province’s top official—this clearly implied that the former commissioner, Sun Yi, was a native of Huguang.

As for the Ministry of Personnel’s transfers to local posts, there was clearly more to it.

But Zhang Hong said no more; after these days of service, he had gradually realized how brilliantly insightful his master truly was.

Indeed, Zhu Yijun’s brow furrowed even tighter.

He understood Zhang Hong’s meaning: after Tang Bin took office, the local officials still looked to the departed Sun Yi as their patron; Tang Bin had no control over the situation.

Perhaps the central government had already sensed something—whether Sun Yi’s promotion was a reward or a demotion remained unclear.

Or perhaps Tang Bin had simply reported the matter on his own.

Either way, the Ministry of Personnel and the Censorate soon dispatched officials, and even the palace sent eunuchs to inspect tax collection.

Not sending anyone down was unthinkable—this was not a problem solvable by a single imperial edict.

To expect governance to flow smoothly through edicts alone? That was not ruling a state—it was playing a simulation game.

Not just now, this issue had always been a massive challenge.

When he held office himself, even the biggest scandals below had to be handled under the covers.

Even when he issued stern orders demanding reform, the local officials still paid lip service and did nothing.

Whether big or small, unless several officials were pulled from various ministries to form a special team and sent down, you could never uncover the truth beneath the local cover-ups.

With today’s transportation and communication conditions, dealing with Huguang’s local affairs was naturally even harder.

But after sending people down, the other two sides fell silent, and the palace’s inspectors were simply driven back by this humiliating tactic.

The waters here were clearly too deep to fathom.

“Sun Yi…”

Zhu Yijun silently added another name to his list, feeling a quiet sense of helplessness.

This was not just Sun Yi’s problem—it was not something a mere Prefect of Shuntian could shield. The web of involvement surely extended far beyond him.

From the central patrons, to the Administration Commission, down to the prefectures and counties, the scholar-gentry and powerful clans had woven a dense, tangled net.

Now they called it a region in decay; in his past life, he called it a collapse.

Punishing Sun Yi would do nothing—there would be ten, a hundred others.

To cleanse officialdom, you couldn’t patch holes with scraps—you had to redesign the system from the top. Great Ming’s corruption was simply too severe—if mining continued like this, within a few years, every corner would be filled with men secretly stockpiling weapons and armor.

But whether reforming official selection or eradicating entrenched abuses, it all required the Ministry of Personnel’s cooperation.

Zhu Yijun pressed his temples, sighing.

The Ministry of Personnel was under Gao Gong’s control—even if he were willing to conspire with Gao Gong, Gao Gong would never let him touch it.

This matter still rested on Gao Yi.

Once he ascended the throne, he would force Gao Gong to retire; then, he could appoint Zhang Juzheng as Chief Grand Secretary and Gao Yi to head the Ministry of Personnel.

His recent efforts to court Gao Yi had borne fruit; with a little more time, he could operate from behind the scenes and influence him.

And the recent uproar over the Examination Performance Method—clearly championed by Zhang Juzheng—might also be an opportunity.

Even by his own standards, it was still crude, almost like a brutal, reckless medicine.

Should he intervene? And how?

If he could use this to insert himself into personnel appointments and signal to Zhang Juzheng his support for reform, it might not be a bad move.

But he must still be careful with his methods.

“Your Highness, it’s time for Wenhua Hall—today is the day the officials urge your ascension,” Zhang Hong softly called.

Zhu Yijun came to his senses.

He looked up at the sky and nodded.

As soon as he stepped out of the hall, Jiang Keqian stepped forward to join him.

This was Zhu Xizhong’s backdoor arrangement, naturally allowing Jiang Keqian to serve as the Crown Prince’s personal guard at all times.

Even after he moved to Qianqing Palace, these men would remain by his side.

Jiang Keqian’s talents were not outstanding, but he had his strengths.

He spoke little, acted decisively, had been diligent these past days, and had not failed in any task assigned.

Zhu Yijun glanced at him and praised: “You’ve done well.”

Yesterday afternoon, when he paid respects to the two palaces, Consort Li had repeatedly praised him for growing up, becoming sensible, and bringing her comfort.

He suspected she had boasted about him often before the noble ladies and courtiers.

Combined with his deliberate display of wisdom, benevolence, and filial piety during his daily lessons, he had won high praise from many of his tutors—even Gao Yi had couldn't help but praise him several times.

As a result, certain high-ranking officials with strong scholar-official sentiments had gradually begun to regard him with respect, privately remarking that he bore the appearance of a true sovereign.

With this combined internal and external effort, he had already gained considerable public favor.

Though it seemed to have no immediate practical effect, its invisible influence was immense—everyone understood, but none spoke of it.

With more time to ferment, the effect would become even clearer.

At that point, he would no longer be the rebellious, incorrigible Crown Prince—he would have successfully severed himself from the old Zhu Yijun.

He would no longer be the Zhu Yijun whom Feng Bao could sabotage, Consort Li could force to write a self-censure edict, or Gao Gong could belittle at will.

Even if he overturned the table, there would be some moralists ready to die for him.

Ritual propriety was power; reputation was influence.

No rush—take it slow; he still had time.

Next, he must continue influencing Consort Li, secure Gao Yi, and slowly infiltrate personnel appointments.

Then, many more things would become possible.

Jiang Keqian knew none of these subtle machinations—he simply clung firmly to his patron: “To relieve the sovereign’s worries is my duty; I dare not claim credit.”

Zhu Yijun asked: “What have my key ministers been doing lately?”

With only four days left before his ascension, their actions should be growing more frequent.

It would be best to detect them early—otherwise, if he was blindsided at the last moment, that would be disastrous.

Jiang Keqian lowered his head: “I was just about to report this to Your Highness.”

“Grand Secretary Gao Gong has hardly left his residence and has received no visitors. Yesterday, however, he went out to several calligraphy and painting shops—he seems to be having the calligraphy scrolls you gifted him mounted.”

Gao Yi truly was a toad—poke him once, he jumps once.

Even at the rank of Grand Secretary, if no one prods him, he won’t stir a finger.

Jiang Keqian continued: “Grand Secretary Zhang has recently been meeting privately with Minister Lu Diaoyang and Caohe Viceroy Wang Shizhen.”

Zhu Yijun walked ahead, keeping his attention sharp.

Zhang Juzheng’s associates were all New Party members; for now, no signs of action were evident.

“As for the Chief Grand Secretary, he has received many visiting officials—such as censors Han Ji and Song Zhihan…”

Zhu Yijun waved his hand to cut him off: “No need to mention his disciples—stick to the essentials.”

Jiang Keqian hurriedly replied: “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Also, Vice Minister of Personnel Zhang Sihui and Minister of War Yang Bo have secretly visited him.”

“Yesterday, the son of Viceroy of Guangdong and Guangxi Yin Zhengmao also paid a call.”

“And some unidentified individuals—I’ve had men tail a couple of them; they appear to be household servants from Nanzhili delivering messages.”

In addition, nine ministers including Censor Ge Shouli and Minister of Revenue Zhang Shouzhi also received messages from their household servants.

Zhu Yijun’s expression grew grave.

A few days ago, Gao Gong openly defied Empress Li’s edict, and he had already grown wary.

Even if Gao Gong’s tactics were crude, there was no reason he wouldn’t realize that once Empress Li became Empress Dowager Li, he would suffer dire consequences.

Yet he showed no fear at all—this could not help but raise suspicion.

Now he is frequently associating with court officials—what exactly is he planning?

“Can you find out what they are discussing?” Zhu Yijun asked slowly.

Jiang Keqian paused, looking uneasy.

He spoke cautiously: “Your Highness, the Grand Secretary’s household is quite modest, with few servants.”

That meant no spies could be planted there.

Another clean official.

Zhu Yijun’s expression turned peculiar—he felt as if he himself were the villain targeting an upright minister.

Jiang Keqian suddenly added: “Your Highness, there is news from Zhang Siwei’s side.”

Zhu Yijun turned to him.

Jiang Keqian continued: “The Grand Secretary appears to have promised Wang Chonggu a seat in the Grand Secretariat in exchange for handing over military and civil authority in Xuan and Da.”

Hmm?

Zhu Yijun frowned, his surprise deepening.

Since when could Gao Gong decide who joined the Grand Secretariat?

Has Gao Gong become so arrogant that he fears no reckoning?

How does he intend to fulfill this promise? Does he truly believe the Two Palaces will honor his word?

He exhaled slowly: “Keep watching.”

Overthinking is useless. Today is the sixth; in four days, he will ascend the throne. He would see what tricks these men had up their sleeves.

…

Wenhua Hall, side hall.

“Grand Secretary.”

“Grand Secretary Gao.”

Gao Yi arrived late; numerous officials bowed to him outside the hall.

“Master.”

Gao Yi turned and saw his disciple Wang Dingjue, along with his elder brother Wang Xijue, a top-three imperial examination graduate.

He snapped: “What master? How many times have I said—during official business, use your official title.”

Though he reprimanded them, he remembered the Crown Prince, who always called him “Master” during official duties, and his expression grew complex.

Wang Dingjue quickly apologized.

Wang Xijue spoke up: “Grand Secretary, the Grand Secretary and Grand Secretary Zhang are waiting for you.”

Gao Yi nodded, excused himself, and moved forward to his place in the line.

Once he was out of sight, Wang Dingjue sighed: “Brother, doesn’t Master’s temperament make him far more likable than the Grand Secretary and Grand Secretary Zhang?”

Just now, when they bowed to Gao Gong, they received not even a glance.

Zhang Juzheng had merely murmured a noncommittal reply, but he clearly seemed lost in thought.

Wang Xijue shook his head: “If you think like that, you’ll never accomplish anything.”

Once in the Grand Secretariat, no one can afford to be a harmless man.

To push through new laws, you must be firm—or you’ll be fooled at every turn.

Gao Yi’s temperament is unsuited for the Grand Secretariat; he belongs back in the Ministry of Rites.

He had no patience to scold his younger brother; he simply waited for the Crown Prince.

Since arriving in the capital, he had heard nothing but rumors about this man—he was eager to see what kind of man he truly was.

If he turned out to be a fraud inflated by flattery, Wang Xijue would make sure to record it well in his personal notes.

He only hoped he possessed even a third of the reputation.

At that moment, a eunuch entered the side hall and whispered to Gao Gong.

Gao Gong cleared his throat; the officials immediately moved to their assigned positions.

Wang Xijue knew the Crown Prince had entered the hall and was awaiting the officials’ audience—he quickly pulled his brother back into line.

He had missed the previous two petitions for accession; today was his first time witnessing it.

“Ascend the throne!”

At the cry, bells and drums from the rear hall began to sound.

Wang Xijue followed closely behind, turning from the side hall into the main hall.

On either side of the hall stood the Embroidered Uniform Guard in qilin robes and flying-fish suits, tall and imposing, watching with hawk-like intensity.

Two ceremonial officers stood below the imperial dais, expressionless, inspecting the ministers.

Wang Xijue stole a glance left and right along his row.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Amid the music, three ceremonial whips cracked.

Wang Xijue looked up—the Director of the Directorate of Ceremonial swung the whip, chanting something.

His position was near the back; he could no longer hear the words.

All he saw was the child in mourning attire, seated solemnly upon the imperial desk.

The ministers bowed, holding their tablets.

The Ministry of Rites had informed them of the procedure; Wang Xijue knew exactly what to do—he bowed along with the others, mumbling half-heartedly: “We humbly welcome the Crown Prince to court.”

“We inquire after the Crown Prince’s health.”

The two ceremonial officers rose and walked among the ranks.

Their eyes, like falcons, scanned every minister.

Even a single bead of sweat now would be a grave offense punishable by dismissal.

“I am well.”

Wang Xijue heard only a voice, young yet steady and calm.

It sounded composed enough—but he could not see clearly.

Had it not been for the consequences, he would have climbed onto the ceremonial officers’ backs just to glimpse the dais.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The bells and music sounded again.

Wang Xijue realized, in his moment of distraction, that Gao Gong had already stepped forward to petition for accession.

A senior minister in crimson robes raised his tablet first.

Wang Xijue hurried to follow his colleagues, a beat late: “By Heaven’s blessing upon the people, a sovereign is appointed to bring peace to the four seas; a father who holds all under heaven passes it to his son, desiring eternal rule—especially when the people’s songs and homage all converge upon him, and the ancestral temples and altars demand a master.”

…

“Though we remain in grief, we have not forgotten our sorrow; yet the weight of myriad affairs demands we heed the solemn trust left behind. We, your ministers, are filled with dread and humility, our petitions to the palace ever more urgent—we beg you to ascend the throne, that the hearts of all may be comforted.”

As the petition continued, the ministers’ voices grew increasingly synchronized.

Behind the hall, the great bronze bell rang, the music serene.

Inside the hall, the roar surged like ocean and mountain, thunderous.

Wang Xijue, who had come as a spectator, now felt his mind go foggy—he joined the crowd in passionate fervor.

The half-mumbled phrases gradually rose into loud, unified cries.

…

“We humbly beseech Your Highness to forever remember the words spoken at your father’s bedside, to accept the imperial mandate with gratitude, to illuminate the imperial way and expand the imperial model, to glorify sacred virtue as the sun and moon illuminate the earth, to secure the phoenix’s reign and establish the great empire, to extend the state’s destiny as heaven and earth endure.”

When he finished the final line, Wang Xijue’s back was soaked with sweat, yet he dared not move, still kneeling.

He stole a glance upward.

At that moment, the Crown Prince slowly rose from behind the imperial desk.

He dismissed the support of the senior eunuch Feng Bao.

The Crown Prince seemed to gaze down upon the civil and military officials inside and outside the hall.

He spoke clearly: “Your united petitions, repeated again and again, have fully conveyed your loyalty.”

“The imperial throne is of utmost weight; it cannot remain vacant long. Moreover, the late Emperor’s final command rests upon me—I dare not refuse.”

The Crown Prince paused. The hall grew even more solemn.

The officials and commoners waited for his reply. Not a sound stirred. A pin could be heard falling.

Wang Xijue’s heart stopped. It rose to his throat.

He found himself strangely eager to hear what came next.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to shake off the tension, yet unconsciously held his breath, awaiting the Crown Prince’s decree.

Finally, the voice above spoke again.

The Crown Prince spoke slowly, each word clear and heavy: “I shall, reluctantly, accede to your request.”

As if the final brushstroke completed a painting, as if a falling object finally landed, as if a held breath could finally be released.

These words satisfied everyone’s expectation.

Wang Xijue no longer needed to follow the others’ rhythm; almost instinctively, he performed three full kowtows.

Zhang Hong cried out: “The sacred dynasty has an heir; the Great Ming is greatly blessed!”