Chapter 22: The Truth Lies in Direct Words; Stones from Other Mountains

This is the superior experience from my past life—pilot testing.

Zhang Juzheng moved too fast; even the Two Palaces hesitated.

And if truly rolled out nationwide, today’s administrative capacity simply cannot sustain it.

How many disgruntled officials would arise, and how much trouble they’d cause—impossible to estimate.

It would leave them frantic and waste precious time.

Even if forcibly imposed, provoking widespread outrage, the backlash afterward would likely result in removing the man but keeping the policy—Zhu Yijun refused to let it end so bleakly.

Pilot testing, by contrast, is far more controllable—it’s like boiling a frog slowly.

Among the most influential figures in the Great Ming, whether Gao Gong, Zhang Juzheng, or even himself lurking behind the scenes, all supported the Performance Evaluation Method.

A minor disturbance in Shuntian Prefecture falls well within acceptable limits; it lacks the power to rally officials into a joint petition or to weep at the palace gates.

Even threats of resigning and returning home, or sailing away on a raft, would never gain serious traction.

If you won’t do it, others will—good officials and upright scholars may be hard to find, but surely not impossible to locate within a single prefecture.

Indeed, Li Imperial Consort’s eyes immediately brightened at the words—clearly intrigued; she’d endured no end of scolding from upright scholars and clean officials over the past two days for stalling the Performance Evaluation Method.

Her son’s plan was truly a perfect compromise.

It narrowed the scope of the Performance Evaluation Method, reduced its intensity, yet still allowed the palace to cut expenses and observe results under its own watch.

The palace’s expenditures were already substantial.

Since there was no way to increase revenue, she had no objection to cutting costs—her two sons were still unmarried; if the inner treasury were drained by below, she’d be a failure as a mother.

After a moment’s thought, she added, seeking to plug any gaps: “Shuntian Prefecture is fine, but why isn’t Feng Da in charge of the Needlework Bureau? He’s the Chief Eunuch of the Office of Imperial Secretariat.”

Zhu Yijun’s expression sharpened—good, it was time to whisper poison.

He glanced at Feng Bao behind him, who looked utterly clueless about what was coming.

He whispered to Li Imperial Consort: “Mother, Feng Da is Chief Eunuch of the Office of Imperial Secretariat and also oversees the Eastern Depot. He manages the Imperial Stable Guard, the Inner Treasury—all pass under his eyes. He’s likely stretched too thin.”

“Moreover, even if Zhang Da takes charge of this, Feng Da can still supervise him—after all, Zhang Da was appointed by you as Superintendent Eunuch, yet he still consults Feng Da on every matter.”

Feng Bao holds too much power; he’s complicit in the palace’s accumulated corruption, and he disobeys your appointments with hidden resistance. Mother, you must see men more clearly.

Li Imperial Consort fell into deep thought.

After a long while, she nodded: “My son’s words… have some merit.”

Zhu Yijun exhaled in relief—this was the advantage of Li Imperial Consort’s soft ears; anyone’s whisper could take root.

Li Imperial Consort pressed further: “That’s one point. What’s the second?”

Zhu Yijun had mentioned only one idea—clearly, there was more.

Zhu Yijun continued: “Mother, ‘pilot testing’ is one thing; the second, I call ‘performance rewards.’”

The Two Palaces fear damage to imperial virtue—then let us bestow grace.

Li Imperial Consort frowned: “Performance rewards?”

Zhu Yijun nodded: “The Performance Evaluation Method is too harsh—you know, our officials are lethargic and mostly live off corruption.”

“If we suddenly impose heavier duties while banning corruption, they may not survive.”

“Chaos might follow.”

They were perfectly content lying idle, living well.

Now you introduce the Performance Evaluation Method—forcing them to work while forbidding corruption? Absurd!

Weep at the palace gates! They must weep at the palace gates!

Li Imperial Consort nodded: “I worry about this very thing—even if we limit it to Shuntian Prefecture for now, the Grand Secretariat clearly intends to expand it eventually.”

Zhu Yijun understood leadership perfectly—stability was the priority.

Boiling the frog slowly only ensures initial smoothness; once expanded, when the tipping point arrives, they’ll inevitably unite, raising the banner of resistance against the Performance Evaluation Method.

He explained: “My suggestion is, since we fear unrest, we should divide and categorize.”

“The Grand Secretariat’s Performance Evaluation Method: excellence leads to promotion, adequacy to retention, inadequacy to dismissal—simple and brutal.”

“But Mother, there are countless officials in this empire—how many are truly excellent? How many promotion slots remain?”

“Surely most lie between adequate and inadequate?”

“If they gain only added duties and responsibilities without any imperial grace, resentment will build, and resistance will mount.”

“In my view, for our officials, merely being adequate is already rare—why not grant tangible rewards, some silver?”

“For those inadequate, allow three chances before dismissal—leave them some room.”

“This way, they gain legitimate income, soften the resolve of hesitant corrupt officials, and prevent unity between the two groups—pushing all officials to work diligently.”

“Let the Grand Secretariat play the stern face; you, Mother, play the moderate benevolent face—this will highlight your virtue and benevolence.”

Zhu Yijun finished speaking, his throat dry.

This patched version of the Performance Evaluation Method, though still imperfect, would ease most resistance.

Increasing legitimate income was imperative.

High salaries cannot ensure integrity, but if basic livelihoods aren’t guaranteed, corruption will inevitably spread—it’s unrealistic to expect everyone to be born a sage.

Guaranteeing basic survival while holding a sword above their heads—carrot and stick, mercy and authority together—is the correct strategy.

Pure benevolence is aiding tyranny.

Pure coercion invites counterattack.

A non-dialectical Performance Evaluation will perish with the man.

Why call it “performance rewards” instead of adding it to base salaries?

First, to create contrast and inspire ambition; second, to allow dynamic adjustment—to craft political maneuvering. This power must be firmly held in his hands.

Zhu Yijun glanced back at Li Imperial Consort, lost in thought—clearly convinced—and nodded inwardly.

Li Imperial Consort understood perfectly.

Not only understood—she found it increasingly brilliant!

With this, her greatest fear—damage to imperial virtue—would vanish.

I’ve gone this far; if you still won’t work hard, how can you blame me?

Moreover, she’d earn a fine reputation among upright scholars—after all, officials who wish to serve yet refuse corruption are truly starving for such an opportunity.

The only flaw…

“But will the Ministry of Revenue agree to fund these rewards?”

Zhu Yijun shook his head: “Mother, for this year’s pilot, the palace will cover the performance rewards.”

Li Imperial Consort opened her mouth: “Ah?”

Zhu Yijun explained: “Mother, this ten thousand taels from the Ministry of Revenue—we’ll nominally record it as entering the Inner Treasury, but we won’t take the money. We’ll leave it with the Ministry, using the Inner Treasury’s name as the source of ‘performance rewards.’”

“Our empire has 28,963 registered officials; Shuntian Prefecture and the Needlework Bureau together number barely over eight hundred. Ten thousand taels for performance rewards and back pay for overdue salaries is more than sufficient.”

“Gao Gong refuses to release the funds? The palace’s expenditures he can rally ministers to block—but if this is framed as imperial benevolence, every official will stand with you. Even if Gao Gong is determined, he cannot stop it alone.”

“Better that we use it to grant grace than let Gao Gong use it to buy loyalty.”

No one can block the inner court from paying officials.

Yet he withheld part of the truth—the figure didn’t include clerks, or it would swell tenfold.

But as always: eat one bite at a time. He wasn’t a god—he couldn’t cover everything.

The Great Ming’s annual salary in silver exceeds 1.3 million taels; actual disbursements have never reached half. Is it because officials refuse to pay their own staff?

They have no money!

Without reforming taxation or land surveys, these are all superficial fixes!

Yet any tax reform or new policy requires cooperation from the entire bureaucracy—how can you implement new policies alongside vermin?

Reforming the bureaucracy requires money; acquiring money requires reforming the bureaucracy—it’s a paradox.

Zhu Yijun now seeks to crack open this paradox.

With low cost, slowly advance bureaucratic reform; then use its results to push new laws, creating a virtuous cycle.

Of course, he wouldn’t tell Li Imperial Consort this.

Seeing Li Imperial Consort silent, Zhu Yijun continued: “This way, we gain reputation—and you reclaim ground from Gao Gong.”

“If the Performance Evaluation Method fails, we simply stop next year. If it works, the Inner Treasury will save more than ten thousand taels annually.”

“Once the Performance Evaluation Method is effectively rolled out, not only will we save money, but new revenue streams will surely emerge—then we can negotiate with the Ministry of Revenue on expenditures.”

“We won’t lose either way.”

Even a tribute tea shipment hides over thirty thousand taels in corruption. Even if the Performance Evaluation Method achieves only thirty percent effectiveness, saving ten thousand taels—then add minor savings from gold flowers, grain, silk, tea, wax, pigments—how could it not exceed ten thousand taels?

What if it has less than thirty percent effect? If it’s this useless, why keep such a useless man alive?

No need to calculate political accounts with a palace woman—calculating economic accounts vaguely is the right medicine. Pushing the Performance Evaluation Method benefits everyone.

He looked up again at Li Imperial Consort—but she still gave no response.

Zhu Yijun didn’t realize Li Imperial Consort was truly speechless.

She hadn’t misunderstood, nor disagreed—she was stunned.

Her son… was born to be an emperor!

Strategic, resourceful, decisive—these words echoed endlessly in her mind.

A woman of humble origins, she understood none of these subtleties, yet she’d witnessed the late emperor’s governance.

Each time, he’d been wracked with worry, sighing endlessly.

She’d never seen such effortless, brilliant maneuvering—it left her awestruck.

She’d felt this only from Grand Secretaries—like Yan Song in his prime, then Xu Jie.

The rest—Li Chunfang, Gao Gong—weren’t even worth mentioning.

This talent and cunning, for a moment, evoked the style of the Shizong Emperor—could this be the bond between generations?

The difference is, Shizong applied his cunning to control his ministers, while my own son uses it to discuss state affairs with me.

From this moment on, she finally believed without doubt that what her son had said—that he had seen the late emperor in a vision—was truly real.

The late emperor has manifested! Our ancestors have manifested!

If this child is properly nurtured, he could become a wise ruler… and in future histories, my own deeds might gain a few more lines.

Unconsciously, her eyes grew slightly moist.

“Mother? Mother?”

Lady Li regained her composure.

Seeing Zhu Yijun calling her, she quickly turned her face away and pretended nothing was amiss: “We cannot decide this ourselves—we must leave it to the Grand Secretariat to deliberate.”

Let alone that her imperial consort’s edict had just been rejected.

Even if the Emperor issues an order, if it bypasses the Grand Secretariat’s draft, it is merely a mid-level decree—and procedurally, it is illegal.

Gao Gong acts fiercely; he might well ignore her entirely—Lady Li assumed the Examination System was Gao Gong’s proposal.

Zhu Yijun, however, was confident: “Mother, rest assured—I’ve already spoken to Grand Secretary Gao about this method. He offered many suggestions to fill its gaps. I’m certain he’ll persuade the Chief Grand Secretary. No edict from you is needed.”

“By the way, Mother, please don’t tell anyone this was my idea. I’m still young…”

Gao Yi was a perfect excuse—Zhu Yijun naturally invented him out of thin air.

But it wasn’t a lie to Lady Li—he merely planned to first persuade Gao Yi, then have Gao Yi speak on his behalf.

A moral gentleman like Gao Yi is easiest to convince by appealing to righteousness.

Lady Li looked at him, radiant with vigor, her eyes filled with satisfaction.

…

The seventh day of the sixth month, Longqing Sixth Year.

With only three days left until the enthronement ceremony, the Forbidden City buzzed with hurried figures.

But none of it affected Zhu Yijun.

He continued his orderly development: strengthening his body, caring for his teeth, pleasing Lady Li, and accumulating prestige.

In the morning, when Zhu Yijun arrived at the Wenhua Hall for his daily lecture, two lecturers were absent.

Ma Ziqiang and Tao Dalin, both Junior Director of the Hanlin Academy and Assistant Director of the Hanlin, had been assigned to the Ministry of Rites to prepare the enthronement rites and the late emperor’s posthumous title, and had requested leave from the daily lectures.

Zhu Yijun had little memory of these two and paid them no mind.

After exchanging formal greetings, Zhu Yijun walked confidently to Gao Yi’s side, took his hand, and led him inside.

“Come, have a seat, Master.” Then he turned to Gao Yi: “Master, which passage shall we study today?”

Gao Yi no longer resisted this routine.

He answered naturally: “Your Highness, today’s passages are the ‘Zicai’ and ‘Zhaogao’ chapters of the Book of Documents.”

Zhu Yijun nodded, helped him sit, then returned to his seat.

He deliberately displayed his intelligence, memorizing the Book of Documents at an astonishing pace.

In just six or seven days, he had completed the Shang section and was now studying the Zhou section.

Some lecturers even began openly praising him, boasting outside that the Crown Prince could read ten lines at a glance and never forget what he read.

In truth, this pace was only slightly fast—two or three passages of two hundred characters per day posed no difficulty for him; in his past life, at age seven, he had memorized seven or eight poems daily.

Gao Yi sat half on his low stool, inwardly quite pleased.

Who wouldn’t want a disciple who remembers everything at once and draws broad inferences?

Now, the Crown Prince, when reciting classics with his lecturers, mastered the phrasing and pauses within two readings.

When interpreting meaning, he grasped it fully, often discerning different insights from each lecturer’s explanations and applying them to his own conduct and governance.

A clever disciple, a respectful student, a benevolent and filial ruler—he embodied nearly every ideal Gao Yi held.

Gao Yi gazed at Zhu Yijun—reciting, pondering, or suddenly enlightened—and unconsciously stroked his beard, smiling.

This classroom was pure joy.

Only when a nearby lecturer whispered in his ear did he realize it was already noon—the lecture was over.

Gao Yi quickly rose and stepped forward: “Your Highness, today’s lecture ends here.”

The other lecturers rose together and bowed.

Gao Yi was about to leave.

Then the Crown Prince’s voice came from above: “Master, please stay.”

“I have gained some insights today. Won’t you join me for a meal? I’d welcome your guidance.”

Gao Yi froze.

Dining with the Emperor was a rare honor, granted only to the most esteemed ministers.

During the late emperor’s reign, only Gao Gong had ever received it.

Now it was his turn—he was momentarily flustered.

He hurriedly bowed, about to refuse, when he met the Crown Prince’s earnest, innocent gaze.

The refusal died on his lips, replaced by an unexpected reply: “Your Highness has a sincere desire to study—how could I dare refuse?”

And before he knew it, Zhu Yijun had taken his hand and led him to the dining chamber.

“Master, I am in mourning, so the meal is plain—please don’t take offense,” Zhu Yijun apologized.

Gao Yi paid it no mind—he had long passed the age of indulging in taste.

To dine with the Emperor—even if it were only grain and grass—he would find joy in it.

“Your Highness humbles me too much. The Emperor’s grace is boundless—I am ashamed.”

Still, he took it as mere courtesy—palace extravagance was boundless; even in mourning, how could it be truly meager?

But when the imperial meal was brought out, he was stunned.

The Crown Prince’s noon meal consisted of only eight dishes.

As a jinshi graduate, Gao Yi had read the Nanjing Guanglu Temple Records—Taizu, in his simplicity, had eaten twenty-four dishes at noon.

Even recently, the late emperor, while mourning Shizong, had eaten twenty-seven dishes at noon.

And now, this Crown Prince had reduced his meal to such simplicity?

Had he been deceived by the eunuchs!?

Zhu Yijun noticed Gao Yi’s doubt and gently explained: “Master, don’t worry. Reducing the imperial meals was my own decision.”

Honestly, he couldn’t finish so many dishes—why waste them?

After years in high office, he had long lost attachment to such pleasures; a canteen meal of six dishes and soup had satisfied him.

He continued: “My late father’s body is still warm—how can mere vegetarian meals express my grief?”

“Moreover, several of you have said that today, the people suffer, the common folk are in distress, many go hungry.”

“As their sovereign, how can I indulge in luxury while my subjects starve?”

“This way, I honor my father’s memory and show my solidarity with the people’s suffering.”

“I apologize for troubling you with this.”

Gao Yi listened as Zhu Yijun spoke, shy yet earnest, and felt a tightness in his chest.

He refused to consider whether the Crown Prince was performing.

As a rigid scholar, he watched a ruler achieve this level of restraint.

Whatever the motive, it was a stroke of divine fortune.

Far better than Shizong, who claimed to wear only eight sets of robes per year yet lived in luxury and treated the people like grass.

Gao Yi quickly lowered his head to hide his emotion: “The people’s suffering is the fault of the Grand Secretariat—it is my fault.”

Zhu Yijun waved his hand: “All blame lies with me.”

He had only yesterday accepted the petition to ascend the throne; a minor breach of protocol by referring to himself as "I" now was harmless.

He glanced at Zhang Hong’s adopted son, standing guard in the side hall, and Jiang Keqian, who stood nearby, and gave them a subtle signal.

Both understood and dismissed the attendants, stepping far away.

Zhu Yijun gestured for Gao Yi to sit, his tone sincere and earnest: “Master.”

“For twenty-nine years, the state has seen no real policy to care for the people. Heavy taxes and brutal levies have drained the people’s flesh and blood for border defense; land, salt, tea, and wine have been squeezed dry by whips and beatings.”

“All one sees are enemies; who, in their sorrow, sees a parent? Thus, our people suffer, helpless and abandoned.”

He paused, sighed: “Master… it is I who am guilty. It is the Zhu Ming imperial house that is guilty.”