Chapter 23: Mournful Sovereign, Fierce Subjects

Zhu Yijun spoke these words with genuine sincerity: having ascended the throne, incompetence is itself a primordial sin.

Gao Yi hastily rose from his seat: “Your servant…”

Zhu Yijun interrupted Gao Yi: “Master, please sit. These are my heartfelt words.”

“Today’s lecture was on the ‘Zi Cai.’ I deeply agree with what the lecturers said.”

Zhu Yijun picked up a chopstick and, disregarding propriety, tapped the rim of his bowl.

Ding… ding…

He softly chanted: “Do not harm one another; do not oppress one another; show respect to the widowed, care for the widows, and embrace all with tolerance.”

“Let the king emulate the lords and officials: what is their mandate? To nurture and to tranquilize.”

After reciting these two lines, Zhu Yijun set down his chopsticks before Gao Yi could speak.

He continued: “The third-place Jinshi explained it best: ‘to nurture and to tranquilize’ means to allow the people to flourish and to live in peace.”

“As your father and sovereign, how could I fail to hold the people close to my heart?”

“Master, I refuse to be the Jin Huidi who asked, ‘Why don’t they eat meat porridge?’”

Gao Yi fell silent, his thoughts drifting, lost in reverie.

He stared blankly at the Crown Prince, and suddenly a verse flashed in his mind— I was born before you, you were born after I grew old.

In that moment, Gao Yi felt as if he had returned to age twenty, seeing the humble academy in Qiantang County, seeing himself then, bold and fiery, pointing to mountains and rivers.

Back then, he had vowed that if he ever became an official, he would surely do this and that.

Back then, he had believed that once he entered the halls of power, he would surely accomplish this and that.

A mere student, daily dissecting official memorials with his classmates, plotting the empire’s fate.

That most foolish, yet most passionate age—he too had once been full of vigor.

Now, looking back, he had already passed fifty, old and worn.

He had nearly forgotten when his passion had cooled, and why.

Oh… it was the corrupt bureaucracy, the cliques scheming for power; it was Emperor Shizong, who aided Yan Song in amassing wealth while ignoring the people; it was the late Emperor, forever hunched in the inner palace, swallowing potent drugs and demanding beauties.

Today, it all felt like a dream.

Now, as he gazed upon the Crown Prince, he saw himself as he once was—heart full of the world, youthful and fervent.

Gao Yi suddenly understood why his former teacher, who had resigned to return home and teach, had looked at them with that expression as they debated state affairs by the window.

He quietly watched Zhu Yijun, his heart churning, his nose growing sharp with sorrow.

Who, alas, are the parents? Who, for my people, bring such unbearable suffering with no one to turn to?

Gao Yi silently repeated the line again, and nearly wept with old tears.

What is a sovereign-father? What is a parent-official? Who are the children of the realm?

This question, once self-evident, had now become a castle in the air, a mirage upon the sea.

So much so that even the people were bewildered: where is the sovereign-father? Where is the parent-official? To whom can they turn for relief?

They say children speak without guile, that the innocent heart is pure—the Crown Prince’s candid outpouring was more benevolent and gentle than he had imagined, like an uncarved jade, its inner radiance shining bright.

To be sovereign and father, to hold the people in mind—had Gao Yi, after serving two reigns, finally seen a sage ruler?

Gao Yi could not suppress his choked voice as he bowed deeply: “Your Highness’s benevolence is truly the fortune of our dynasty.”

“I only pray Your Highness never forgets these words, and in the future, nurtures and rests the people.”

This speech, though sincere, broke protocol—how could one tell a sovereign, “Do not forget today’s words”?

But Gao Yi, who saw himself as a scholar, could not restrain this impulse.

This was not a minister advising his lord, nor a teacher instructing his pupil—it was a scholar, hearing words that echoed his own soul, encouraging a kindred spirit.

Zhu Yijun quickly reached out to gently hold Gao Yi up, deeply moved.

The crushing weight of ritual propriety was too strong for these rigid scholars.

Even the slightest display of competence as an emperor moved the old man profoundly.

A thousand years of cultural inertia, rooted deep in the heart, truly held unstoppable power.

Yet everything has two sides: now he wielded it skillfully, but when he later enacted new laws, ritual propriety would become a stubborn, foul obstacle.

Zhu Yijun shook his head, banishing idle thoughts from his mind.

He continued gently: “A sovereign’s word is sacred. I may not forget—later, I will surely nurture and tranquilize.”

“But now, I am young, lacking virtue and insight. In governing, in nurturing the people, I must rely heavily on you, Master.”

Gao Yi, facing the Crown Prince’s earnest hope, felt the weight of a thousand catties in his gaze: “Your servant’s learning is slight, my talent mediocre—I hold a high office only by unworthy means.”

“Your Highness is naturally wise, brilliant and discerning; given time, your ability will far surpass mine.”

Gao Yi spoke in humility, yet also in self-mockery.

He now sat in the Grand Secretariat, entered the inner circle, wielding great state affairs—above ten thousand men.

But what had he done?

Nothing.

He had neither fulfilled his youthful ideals nor upheld the scholar’s duty to benefit all under heaven.

His later life had truly been one of empty office, idle salary.

Zhu Yijun shook his head, with a trace of sorrow: “When my late father passed, he entrusted you three with the guardianship of my rule. Please, Master, do not humble yourself.”

“The Chief Grand Secretary was my father’s teacher; my father once held his hand, eyes wet, and said, ‘I burden you with the empire.’”

“Now, I am young and lacking virtue—my teacher, will you not bear this burden for me?”

Zhu Yijun held the people of the realm in his left hand, the late emperor’s final charge in his right, and with the posture of a sage ruler, steadily shook Gao Yi’s spirit.

Gao Yi’s lips trembled—he clearly could not bear it.

His expression was deeply moved, profoundly touched: “The emperor’s grace is boundless; I dare not betray it.”

Zhu Yijun finally smiled.

He sat down calmly: “Master, please sit. Your lunch is nearly cold—do not waste heaven’s gifts; every grain is hard-won.”

Gao Yi’s emotions were too raw to contain; he said nothing and sat down.

During the meal, Zhu Yijun casually asked a few scholarly questions, feigning eager learning.

Several times he struck just the right note, prompting Gao Yi to forget propriety and speak with flying spittle.

Seeing the moment was ripe, Zhu Yijun spoke casually: “Master, your interpretation of filial piety is excellent—I shall earnestly practice it.”

Then he sighed softly.

Gao Yi asked in confusion: “Why does Your Highness sigh?”

Zhu Yijun explained gently: “Master, you may not know: my late father instructed me to honor the two palaces, yet I often fail.”

“Lately, I’ve noticed my mother’s mood is restless—she must be troubled. But when I ask, she cites state affairs, fearing to disturb my studies, and refuses to let me know.”

“If my mother is troubled and I cannot ease her worries, Master—can I still call myself filial?”

At the Crown Prince’s mention, Gao Yi immediately understood what he meant.

Recently, the court had been divided over two issues: the Assessment System and the Imperial Treasury—both had caused friction with Imperial Consort Li, and tensions were mounting.

But now that the Crown Prince raised it, Gao Yi felt embarrassed.

One must shield the honored; this involved the dark intrigues of inner-outer power struggles—telling a child such things was simply improper.

Seeing Gao Yi hesitate, Zhu Yijun asked with innocent sincerity: “Master, what exactly in court has angered my mother? Could you, to fulfill my filial heart, tell me privately?”

Gao Yi had no answer.

Zhu Yijun quickly urged: “Master, my mother has been deeply misled by Feng Bao—perhaps she is deceived by those around her, causing friction with the ministers.”

“If you tell me, I might mediate—wouldn’t that be the best outcome?”

Gao Yi paused, sensing some truth in it: the Crown Prince’s filial intent aside, Li Shi, secluded in the inner palace, could only receive counsel through memorials—whereas this student, serving close at hand, if he truly wished, might indeed bridge inner and outer.

He thought it over and quickly convinced himself.

“Your Highness may not know: the inner and outer courts are now entangled over two matters…”

Gao Yi recounted everything in detail, assuming Zhu Yijun knew nothing.

Zhu Yijun frowned and pressed: “So the Chief Grand Secretary does not intend to transfer the hundred thousand taels into the Imperial Treasury?”

He asked knowingly.

Gao Yi hurried to explain: “Not at all. The Ministry of Rites needs funds for grand ceremonies, the Ministry of Works for imperial tomb repairs, the Yellow River’s summer floods—all have drawn urgent disbursements; the Ministry of Revenue is stretched thin.”

“The Grand Secretariat’s plan is to transfer the silver into the Imperial Treasury once the summer taxes are collected.”

Zhu Yijun murmured, “Ah.”

He was remarkably reasonable: “If there is cause, I can gently persuade my mother—now is the time to endure for the state, to overcome hardship together.”

Gao Yi was again deeply moved by the new sovereign’s benevolence.

But after speaking of this, Zhu Yijun hesitated: “The Assessment System, however, is troublesome… it seems, rather damaging to the sovereign’s virtue.”

“Damaging to the sovereign’s virtue” meant offending people.

Gao Yi’s eyes flickered with surprise—he marveled at his disciple’s sharp political instinct and insight into human nature.

He had heard only a brief summary and immediately sensed the resistance.

He hesitated, then gave up pretense and nodded helplessly: “Indeed, it is difficult.”

This was the drawback of the inner palace regency—lacking the resolve.

Laozi said: to bear the nation’s reproach is to be its true ruler; to bear the nation’s misfortune is to be its true king.

There is no ruler who does not offend someone.

Emperor Guangwu of Han offended no one, and the histories glorified him—precisely because he avoided what he should have offended for.

Zi Gong asked Confucius: what if all the villagers love a man—what then?

Confucius said: “Not yet. Better that good people praise him and bad people despise him.”

Everyone saying he is good is not as good as good people praising him and bad people condemning him.

Unfortunately, Imperial Consort Li did not understand this principle.

This is why the Examination System has never been implemented—unless someone could shoulder the blame for it—Gao Gong was preparing to step forward without hesitation.

Unfortunately, out of respect for the sovereign, Gao Yi could not speak these words to the Crown Prince.

Zhu Yijun paused thoughtfully, his pure and unblemished eyes fixed on Gao Yi: “Master, the Examination System is a sound statecraft strategy, is it not?”

Gao Yi nodded without hesitation: “Your Highness, the civil administration is now hollow, lax, and riddled with corruption—it must be reformed!”

He had carefully studied Zhang Juzheng’s Examination System; once implemented, it would surely purify the bureaucracy.

As for how effective it would be, it depends on whether all sides can work together in harmony.

Hearing Gao Yi’s words, Zhu Yijun nodded firmly: “If Master says so, it must be right. For the sake of the Great Ming, I will persuade my mother!”

He added with a shy smile: “But this Examination System is too radical. If the Grand Secretary and my mother could each make a concession, I would have greater confidence.”

Gao Yi was deeply moved, yet felt a flicker of shame for having unintentionally used the Crown Prince to influence the inner palace.

He drew a deep breath and said with confidence: “If Your Highness can learn the Imperial Consort’s thoughts, I am certain I can persuade the Grand Secretary.”

As a regent minister, his words carried undeniable weight.

No matter how stubborn Gao Gong or how resolute Zhang Juzheng might be, to resist would be to disregard the greater good—Gao Yi was not without resolve!

Zhu Yijun was overjoyed.

He said: “Then, after I finish lunch, I will go persuade my mother. Once I have results, I will send someone to inform Master.”

“I may need to make some adjustments to persuade her.”

“When the time comes, I ask Master to bear with the Grand Secretary and Grand Secretary Zhang.”

Gao Yi raised his head and nodded.

…

Even after finishing his daily duties, Gao Yi kept reliving his meal with the Crown Prince and their exchange of words.

As soon as he arrived home, he rushed to his study, sat at his desk, and picked up his brush to record the day’s events.

He recalled events, then refined his phrasing.

“To express sincere loyalty through great righteousness...”

He wrote furiously, as if inspired by divine force.

He completed it in one breath, then paused at the end, pondering how to conclude.

He could not think of a fitting closing.

Tap! Tap! Tap!

As Gao Yi was lost in thought, the knocking at the door startled him back to reality.

“Master, someone from the palace has come,” said the old servant outside.

Gao Yi rose immediately and went to greet him.

At the gate, he saw it was Zhang Hong, the Crown Prince’s chief eunuch, come in person.

Behind him stood a young eunuch holding something.

Gao Yi hurriedly said: “Eunuch Zhang, please come in.”

Zhang Hong took two steps inside, then stopped in the courtyard, smiling: “Greetings, Your Excellency.”

“Yunnan has just sent fresh lychees. This afternoon, the Crown Prince requested permission from the Imperial Consort to distribute them to all third-rank and above officials in the ministries.”

“I have other places to visit, so I won’t trouble Your Excellency further.”

With that, he gestured, and the young eunuch stepped forward with the tray.

Gao Yi bowed in thanks.

As he watched the old servant take it, he noticed ice beneath the tray, radiating cold.

Plump, round lychees rested in a golden goblet.

Gao Yi told the old servant to transfer them to another vessel.

Zhang Hong quickly stopped him: “Your Excellency, this goblet belongs to the Crown Prince. Yesterday, the Empress Dowager’s palace was cleaned, and the Crown Prince said it was too extravagant, so he intended to seal it away.”

“Today, he changed his mind, saying that hoarding wealth within the palace is wasteful.”

“The Crown Prince, in his benevolence, asked the Imperial Consort’s permission to bestow this item upon Your Excellency, to help with household expenses.”

Gao Yi was stunned, about to speak.

But Zhang Hong had already bowed and departed with the young eunuch.

Gao Yi watched Zhang Hong’s retreating figure, raised his hand, then let it fall without speaking.

Moments passed, and he still said nothing.

He seemed frozen in the courtyard.

The old servant dared not disturb him and was about to take the tray to the study.

Gao Yi finally spoke.

He lowered his hand and sighed: “Let me do it.”

The old servant knew this was how his master looked when lost in thought—he bowed and withdrew.

Gao Yi silently carried the tray into the room and placed it on the desk.

He gently felt the tray, then pulled out a short note hidden beneath the cloth.

It bore Imperial Consort Li’s words: “trial,” “performance,” and similar phrases.

But he did not read it closely—only glanced and set it aside.

Instead, his gaze burned fixedly on the golden goblet, sinking into long silence.

In a daze, he seemed to see the Crown Prince’s face.

His disciple, earnest and solemn, raising the cup to him in invitation.

“Master, let us drink from this golden cup,” the Crown Prince seemed to say.

Was the Crown Prince invoking the first half of Emperor Taizu’s saying to reveal his heart?

Could Gao Yi, in this life, truly achieve perfect harmony between sovereign and minister?

After a long pause, he turned to the unfinished note on his desk, still damp with ink.

As if struck by sudden insight, Gao Yi finally moved.

Slowly, he lifted his brush, staring at the end of his note.

Rolling up his sleeve, he wrote with deliberate care the final line: “...Thus, Heaven’s will only favors the sage; true ministers await a true sovereign.”