Chapter 242: The Imperial Palace Is Deep and Stern, Close to the Son of Heaven

Zhang Zhang Juzheng's father is seventy-two this year, plagued by chronic ailments; his passing is no longer subject to intervention by classical medicine.

According to the natural span of life, it will be no more than three years away.

Therefore, Zhu Zhu Yijun must plan ahead—how should he handle Zhang Zhang Juzheng's resignation during mourning?

It certainly cannot be handled as simply as historically issuing an edict to override mourning.

What was the situation back then?

His disciples blocked the gates, cursing Zhang Zhang Juzheng for filial impiety.

Former subordinates he had recommended turned against him one after another.

Even ministers who had once been his allies fell silent, refusing to defend him, each submitting petitions to resign.

The realm erupted in chaos; students of the Imperial Academy mocked him in scholarly circles; storytellers and actors ridiculed him in streets and markets; even merchants joined in, spreading pamphlets.

Ma Ma Ziqiang, Shen Shen Sixiao, Ai Mu, Wu Wu Zhonghang, Zhang Han, Wang Wang Shizhen… too many to list—some even claimed in unofficial histories that the Grand Secretary wept in desperation, drawing his sword to threaten suicide before the moral crusaders.

In short, with those of ulterior motives as the core, rallying moral guardians, countless people trampled on Zhang Zhang Juzheng; the drama of teacher-student betrayal, embellished by unofficial histories, instantly became the trend, plunging Zhang Zhang Juzheng straight into the abyss of moral condemnation.

This was a hallmark of feudal dynasties: the simplest, most effective way to destroy a man was to ruin his moral standing.

Once a man's reputation was tainted, everything associated with him became tainted too—his new policies, his proposals, even those who wrote poems praising him—all were deemed corrupt.

Marked by the controversy over overriding mourning, Zhang Zhang Juzheng's prestige plummeted sharply; former allies either retired to their hometowns or became strangers.

Correspondingly, the cost of governing from the Grand Secretariat surged instantly and grew daily—how could a Grand Secretary with such moral decay still enact good policies?

Forget unity of purpose; even superficial harmony became unattainable.

Meanwhile, Zhang Zhang Juzheng's mindset and conduct underwent drastic change after this incident—since overriding mourning, Zhang Juzheng grew increasingly arbitrary and domineering.

Once both sides had reached extremes, how could state affairs possibly proceed orderly?

Mourning, mourning.

Even Zhu Zhu Yijun, as Emperor, found it excruciatingly difficult.

Didn't the Emperor Wanli Emperor historically support Zhang Zhang Juzheng in overriding mourning?

Didn't he say repeatedly, "Now you must think of me; restrain your grief and fulfill greater filial duty," and "My Grand Secretary, I rely on you deeply—how can you be away from me even a day? Filial rites must be observed, but loyalty to sovereign and father weighs heavier"?

It was useless.

How could an emperor outweigh ritual law? You have soldiers and the cane, but I have the clear record of history.

Didn't the dynasty have precedents? How many Grand Secretaries had been recalled after mourning?

In the sixth year of Yongle, Yang Rong observed mourning in June and was recalled in October; in the first year of Emperor Xuande, Jin Li Youzi observed mourning in January and was recalled immediately; in the fourth year of Jingtai, Wang Wen observed mourning in May and was recalled in September; in the second year of Chenghua, Li Prince Xian observed mourning in March and was recalled in May—there were countless such cases.

Still useless.

At this point, ancestral precedents no longer held sway; only the literalist interpretation of the Book of Rites mattered.

Therefore, Zhu Zhu Yijun must prepare in advance.

The groundwork must be laid subtly, silently, beginning with minor officials—the ancient maxim says, "In times of war, mourning is not to be observed; one must respond to summons and serve." A hundred days of mourning suffices before resuming duties.

As for what comes after? The Great Ming faces internal and external crises—is there any shortage of enemies?

The inertia of public sentiment holds boundless power; Zhu Zhu Yijun must skillfully harness it.

Once overriding mourning becomes routine over several years, everyone will grow accustomed to it; when Zhang Zhang Juzheng overrides mourning again, the moral guardians will have no voice left.

As for the rest with ulterior motives, if they cannot rally the feudal moral guardians, how much influence can they possibly wield?

Zhu Zhu Yijun smiled confidently.

But…

He had calculated everything, yet Zhang Zhang Juzheng shook his head: "Your Majesty says that a gentleman does not deprive others of their kin, nor should one deprive oneself of kin."

"My father endured hardship to raise me; I am already far from home, unable to be at his side—can I even calculate his funeral?"

Zhu Zhu Yijun stared at Zhang Zhang Juzheng in shock.

Huh?

What's going on?

This old man never acted this way historically.

Zhang Zhang Juzheng looked at the Emperor and smiled warmly: "As for the new policies… Your Majesty can carry them out yourself. If you still wish to recall me, I shall serve you with all my strength."

Zhu Zhu Yijun drew in a sharp breath.

Trouble.

It seems being too trusting isn't always wise.

He shook his head firmly.

"Sir, don't jest. In the Grand Secretariat, Master Gao is frail and ill, unable to bear heavy labor; Master Lu is weak-willed, incapable of standing alone; Wang Wang Chonggu excels in military affairs but is overly self-interested."

"Only with you present can the Grand Secretariat oversee the Six Ministries, Five Directorates, the Nine Borders, and Thirteen Provinces, and implement the Performance Evaluation System and land survey planning. It is not a matter of your ability alone—if you leave, the Six Ministries will be in chaos, internal factions may not be contained, and I will be powerless."

"Even one year is unthinkable without you."

"State affairs are the greatest filial duty!"

Zhu Zhu Yijun seized Zhang Zhang Juzheng's wrist and spoke rapidly.

Hearing the Emperor invoke the hidden tensions between the Grand Secretariat and the Ministries, Zhang Zhang Juzheng cast a sidelong glance—so you finally acknowledge the blurred boundaries between the Grand Secretariat and the Ministries? Why didn't you say a word before? Now it's become your excuse.

He shook his head: "Your Majesty, I do not mean to argue with you—please understand the bond between father and son."

Seeing Zhang Zhang Juzheng's sincerity, Zhu Zhu Yijun fell into thought.

Historically, the Grand Secretary said exactly this: "I will observe twenty-seven months of mourning for my father, then return to serve Your Majesty."

Even after overriding mourning, he immediately petitioned to bring his mother to the capital to care for her.

Clearly, his feelings were genuine.

If filial piety and loyalty could both be fulfilled, who would wish to leave their kin alone in death?

After a moment's deliberation, Zhu Zhu Yijun sincerely advised: "Sir, rather than weeping by the grave for three years, why not bring your parents to the capital now to care for them? Then, after escorting the coffin home, observe a hundred days of mourning—wouldn't that better fulfill your filial duty?"

Upon hearing this, Zhang Zhang Juzheng sighed bitterly: "Your Majesty speaks wisely, yet clearly does not understand rural folk."

"I have brought my parents to the capital several times; they either complained that no one fed the chickens and ducks at home, or grumbled that they knew no one in the city, bored to death—within less than half a month, they demanded to return."

"I cannot fulfill filial duty at all."

Climate and wealth were secondary; Zhang Zhang Juzheng's wealth could easily secure a comfortable estate—what mattered was that his elders simply could not stay.

Zhu Zhu Yijun scratched his head.

Zhang Zhang Juzheng's description felt strangely familiar.

Yet the underlying meaning was clearly softening.

If his parents could be brought to the capital, the mourning issue might be negotiable—the key was fulfilling filial duty for them, easing their inner turmoil; the form mattered less.

After a moment's thought, Zhu Zhu Yijun had an idea: "I hear you often take potent medicines, remaining vigorous and strong—why not have another child?"

"Say your duties have grown even busier, and you need them to come to the capital to help care for a grandchild…"

Zhang Zhang Juzheng's youngest son, Zhang Yunxiu, is only seven; another younger sibling would be perfectly normal.

Zhu Zhu Yijun met Zhang Zhang Juzheng's startled gaze with unwavering confidence: "Follow my plan—it will work. Then you may care for your parents in the capital and fulfill both loyalty and filial duty."

Whether it would work was uncertain.

Yet Zhang Zhang Juzheng, faced with the Emperor's persistent entreaties, felt a quiet warmth in his heart.

Thinking of this, Zhang Zhang Juzheng's resolve softened.

He hesitated: "I… I will try. I will try."

Zhu Zhu Yijun smiled approvingly: "This year, I shall first grant your parents a modest honorific title, summon them to the capital to receive the edict, and allow them to linger awhile."

Zhang Zhang Juzheng nodded helplessly.

The two then discussed in detail the matter of recalling officials during wartime.

They selected officials to be gradually recalled after a hundred days of mourning, to serve in Jizhou-Liaodong, the Ministry of War and its Bureau of Military Affairs, the Ministry of Revenue and its Bureau of Revenue Affairs, the Ministry of Rites' Foreign Affairs Office, and the Capital Garrison.

Changing customs always takes time.

…

The sun rose higher, reaching its zenith.

It brought a touch of warmth to the imperial gate in early spring.

Qi Qi Jiguang stood among the officials from outside the capital, basking in the sunlight, feeling his waist and legs—long burdened by battle wounds—grow more comfortable since winter's end.

Of course, it was still not as comfortable as kneeling with knee pads.

Unfortunately, the Emperor had granted special dispensation this time—no kneeling required; by protocol, Assistant Regional Commanders attending court were not required to kneel if stationed in the capital, but were required to kneel if stationed outside.

Qi Qi Jiguang had grown accustomed to kneeling every time he met the Emperor; suddenly being excused left him strangely uneasy.

This time, the central court summoned him alone, yet ignored Viceroy Liu Liu Yingjie, leaving Qi Qi Jiguang deeply uneasy.

He did not care for such extra honors or vanity.

Qi Qi Jiguang cared only whether this military campaign would succeed, whether it could deliver a decisive blow to the Jizhou-Liaodong frontier.

In December of Emperor Longqing 2, Dong Dong Huizi assembled thirty thousand troops and attacked Qingshan Pass and Tiemen Pass.

In Emperor Longqing 4, he again led ten thousand troops to attack Yumudian.

Last February, he led over a thousand cavalry to raid Naozigu.

In April, under the command of Tumahan, he attacked Jielingkou.

In June, he sent over a hundred cavalry to raid Kulongtai and other areas.

In September, he stationed troops at Dongjiakou, flaunting his strength.

Only when the weather turned cold did he retreat; now that the snow has melted, he will likely stir again.

Whether this internal threat can be eradicated at once matters far more than Qi Qi Jiguang's personal glory or disgrace.

If gaining trivial official favors undermines Liu Liu Yingjie's stance and ruins the campaign, that would be truly devastating.

To be enfeoffed as a marquis is not my wish; I only hope the sea's waves will be still.

In the southeast, facing the Japanese pirates, and in Jizhao, facing the Tartars, Qi Qi Jiguang held the same attitude.

The world called him youthful and impulsive, speaking offhand, yet they did not know this was the very essence of his Mind Learning.

While stationed in Jizhao, he remarked, "We must always strive to make our labor and achievements surpass our personal fame. Even if advancement comes late and setbacks abound, even if we gain no personal reward, our descendants will surely benefit. Praise others' merits; yield your own when others seek them."

This was both a sign of submission to Liu Liu Yingjie—and was it not also his true heart?

Sacrificing the greater picture for fleeting advantage is unwise.

He often taught his subordinates by word and deed: "Fame and merit are allotted; heaven and earth most abhor taking more than one's due." Is this not the very principle?

When the facts amount to ten parts, and fame reaches seven or eight, one may accept it with calmness, and still avoid much trouble.

This was Qi Qi Jiguang's way of governance—"A general may achieve merit without reward, or do good without being known."

Precisely because of this, he had once appealed to his old superior Tan Lun, repeatedly requesting to leave the glittering stepping stone of the capital garrison and go to the frontier.

Precisely because of this, whenever officials from the central court arrived—whether a visiting Vice Minister, a Hai Yushi, or a Military Bureau Emissary—he always treated them with deference.

He would flatter however needed; if they demanded kowtows, he would kneel immediately.

Master Wang spoke well: innate conscience is already complete; the sneers and slanders of outsiders are but passing clouds.

Hmm… Li Zhi's recent theories also speak well—he acts for the progress of the Great Ming's situation; minor details are unimportant.

In short, what Qi Qi Jiguang cared for most was border military affairs; all other grievances could be endured.

Too bad.

Some things cannot be easily refused, even if one wishes to.

The central court summoned him to Beijing; he could not beg the messenger to bring Liu Liu Yingjie along too.

Even yesterday, when he went to Zhang Zhang Juzheng's residence seeking an audience, he was turned away at the gate—and he immediately understood the implication: the summons was not routine, nor from the Grand Secretariat or the Ministry of War, but from the Emperor himself.

There was no room left for Qi Qi Jiguang to act on his own initiative.

The Emperor was still young; Qi Qi Jiguang did not know why the Emperor had revived the practice of receiving external officials, nor why he had chosen him, nor what the Emperor intended.

All he could do now was prepare: how to explain the Tartar situation clearly and simply before the Emperor; how to convince the Emperor that this battle would surely succeed; and how to attribute all merit and capability to Viceroy Liu Liu Yingjie, to ease and mend their strained relationship.

As he pondered this.

A canopy slowly appeared atop the Huangji Gate.

Officials from the left and right side gates, standing east and west, immediately straightened their postures, eyes forward.

Without bell or drum, eunuchs, Secretaries of the Imperial Secretariat, Hanlin Academicians, and other close attendants followed the canopy in orderly procession.

Beneath the canopy, a youthful figure in bright yellow, surrounded like the moon by stars.

Qi Qi Jiguang cast a glance and dared not look further, immediately lowering his head.

At this moment, the officers responsible for ceremonial order called out again: fix your gaze upon the Son of Heaven.

Qi Qi Jiguang, following the crowd, raised his head.

There stood the young Emperor, clad in the dragon robe, not seated, but leaning against the gate tower—as if to ensure the external officials could clearly see his face.

"During the reign of the Taizu Emperor, whenever external officials came to the capital to report, he would summon them, offer them meals, and inquire after the people's hardships."

"Even county assistants and clerks who were upright and beloved by the people were sometimes rewarded with imperial edicts or gifts of wine and gold."

"By the reigns of Emperor Xuande, Chenghua, and Hongzhi, this became established practice; summoning external officials to court fostered peace and prosperity."

"Since ascending the throne, I have looked to Emperor Shun's concern for the people's welfare, and emulated my ancestors' meticulous governance of officials…"

His voice was clear yet slightly hoarse.

Qi Qi Jiguang, seeing the Emperor's mature demeanor and gestures, had momentarily forgotten he was a youth—until hearing the voice still unrefined, and he remembered.

As a second-rank Left Grand Commander, he stood near the front and could clearly see the Emperor's figure and face.

Though young, the current Emperor's physique was notably balanced: his arms and shoulders full and healthy, utterly unlike the former Emperor's wasted frame from wine and lust.

He still remembered vividly how the former Emperor, forced by Gao Gong and Zhang Zhang Juzheng to inspect troops, had trembled as he clung to his horse.

This young Emperor, by contrast, had clearly not neglected his horsemanship and archery training.

Qi Qi Jiguang watched the Emperor's arms and shoulders, nodding repeatedly.

After speaking a few ceremonial words, the Emperor descended the tower.

Simultaneously, the usher led the external officials, in batches, toward the Huangji Hall to pay homage.

Qi Qi Jiguang was assigned to the last group, following unfamiliar faces behind the usher, step by step, toward the Huangji Hall.

The Huangji Hall, where grand court assemblies were held, stood on the Forbidden City's central axis, facing the Wumen Gate, majestic and imposing.

Qi Qi Jiguang had been here three times; he was not unfamiliar, yet still felt awed by its grandeur, walking carefully behind the usher, fearing any misstep.

Entering the hall.

The usher stepped forward first and bowed: "The palace is deep and solemn; we, your humble attendants, stand close to Your Majesty's divine presence, and behold only Your Majesty's radiant bearing and heavenly countenance—how could we fail to bow in reverence?"

Saying this, he bowed deeply to the ground.

Qi Qi Jiguang, as a Confucian general, understood these formalities somewhat.

Mostly because many external officials were low-ranking—county magistrates, registrars—who had never seen the Emperor, and needed an example to follow.

The officials accompanying them imitated the usher, bowing to the Emperor, mumbling his words incoherently.

Qi Qi Jiguang blended into the crowd, unremarkable.

The Secretaries of the Imperial Secretariat held the Records of Daily Life, standing beside the imperial dais, following the ancient tradition of the dragon-headed brush-bearer.

Zhu Zhu Yijun sat upon the throne, observing the entering officials, recognizing their faces.

He consulted the list from the Ministry of Personnel and the Ministry of War, calling each by name: "Where is Chang Chang Chunqiao, County Magistrate of Jiangyou, Sichuan?"

Immediately, a young official in his late twenties stepped forward, nervous: "Your Majesty, I… your servant is here!"

Zhu Zhu Yijun smiled: "Don't be nervous; you've done well this year."

Chang Chang Chunqiao wiped his sweat: "It was merely my duty."

Zhu Zhu Yijun opened his service record and said: "Your predecessor, Zhao Zuo, deducted four fen per shi from grain transport fees, embezzling a total of 2,244 taels; he imposed extra taxes, collecting only three-tenths of the official quota, leaving 31,450 taels unpaid."

"You recovered all of it in one year—what insights do you have?"

Zhu Zhu Yijun spoke gently, coaxing the county magistrate to speak.

It was common for predecessors to leave deficits—though Zhao Zuo had already been executed for embezzling border grain funds—but successors typically shrugged, rolled their eyes, and claimed, "Not my problem; it was the predecessor's legacy."

Chang, like this county magistrate, who actually recovered the debts for the court, was rare indeed.

Chang struggled to control his accent, still formulating his words—truly exhausting: "Your Majesty, Zhao Zuo's stolen silver was hidden in the family cellar—I opened it and saw it all."

"As for the unpaid taxes, there's nothing to say—they were owed by a few wealthy families, protected by Magistrate He. I settled his accounts for him; he left those families to me as scapegoats, and the taxes were collected."

Zhu Zhu Yijun's expression shifted; he shook his head: "Magistrate Chang, you're filing an imperial complaint."

He had thought this man was nervous—now he realized he was mentally preparing for an appeal.

Chang openly admitted: "The Hai Yushi of Sichuan, Sun Dai, refused to hear my case; I had no choice but to come to Your Majesty."

Zhu Zhu Yijun smiled: "I understand."

He gestured to Zheng Zheng Zongxue, signaling him to inform the Censorate.

He turned the page: "Where is Wang Wang Xianshou, Assistant Magistrate of Rui'an?"

Immediately, a middle-aged official in his forties stepped forward: "Your Majesty, your servant is here."

Outside the two capitals, assistant magistrates were all eighth-rank officials.

Zhu Zhu Yijun gave his usual gentle smile: "The Ministry of Personnel rates you as talented and virtuous, and proposes your promotion to County Magistrate—what do you think?"

Wang Wang Xianshou was caught off guard by the sudden good news.

He looked up at the Emperor and tentatively declined: "My merits are insignificant; I fear I am unworthy of such promotion."

Zhu Zhu Yijun never pressured honest men; he reassured him: "Whether your merits are great or not, the Ministry's records will show; your reputation among the people has been verified by censors and Embroidered Uniform Guard spies—you need not refuse."

"Yet Minister Wang Wang Xiyuan argues that clerks cannot serve as chief magistrates—what do you think of that?"

Wang Wang Xiyuan was a Tong Jinshi of Emperor Longqing 5, appointed last year as an Emissary of the Military Bureau.

The county magistrate was the chief official of the county, one of the "chief magistrates," commonly called the "number one."

Wang Wang Xiyuan's meaning was clear.

A mere clerk, without even a degree from the Imperial Academy, should not be selected for a chief position—no matter how outstanding his record, his ceiling must be firmly sealed.

Hearing this, Wang Wang Xianshou suddenly straightened his back: "Your Majesty, I believe I am doing this county magistrate's job well!"

Zhu Zhu Yijun smiled approvingly: "Then return and continue to strive."

He waved his hand, signaling him to leave with the court attendants.

Then Zhu Zhu Yijun called several others in turn, speaking briefly to each.

Some he encouraged, some comforted, some praised—some he criticized.

For example, Huang Xuehai, Prefect of Ganzhou, came to be rewarded, but after arriving in Beijing, was discovered by the Hai Yushi of Jiangxi, Yan Ruhuan, to have a shortfall of over 9,000 taels in the treasury, traced to the embezzlement of clerks Yang Yu Guang and others.

Zhu Zhu Yijun naturally balanced his merits and faults, dismissed him, and ordered him to return and assist the investigation.

Some received extraordinary promotions.

For instance, the County Magistrate of Fengcheng in Nanchang, honored as a tax collection model, was summoned to Beijing for reward—but the night of December 13, bandits breached the city walls and looted the treasury.

According to Governor Ling Zheng Yunying's report, the county initially reported a loss of 2,700 taels, later increasing to over 6,000 taels—eighty percent likely due to collusion with bandits.

Zhu Zhu Yijun immediately promoted the magistrate to Prefect on the spot, ordering him to return immediately and clean up the mess—do not fear retaliation; repay your enemies, continue collecting taxes well—I have faith in you, and so on.

Qi Qi Jiguang watched, deeply interested.

He wondered whether the Emperor had rehearsed—his speech, his responses, all followed clear principles.

Whether it matched popular rumors was irrelevant; in Qi Qi Jiguang's eyes, the Emperor was truly wise, insightful, a genius born of heaven.

Qi Qi Jiguang felt less surprise than anticipation.

Military affairs, after all, are a matter of national strength, tied to grain, administration, weapons, and institutions.

An emperor who is genuinely concerned for the state naturally possesses an incomparable advantage in military affairs.

In his youth, he was full of ambition; only recently had he come to realize—whether the seas would calm, whether the Tartars could be destroyed—depended not on the wishes of frontier generals like himself, but on whether the man upon the throne would act wisely.

Qi Qi Jiguang silently observed the emperor, his thoughts swirling.

The emperor spoke one by one, and without realizing it, Qi Qi Jiguang discovered he was the only one left in the hall.

Indeed, the emperor on the throne turned to the final page and asked into the hall: "Where is the Left Grand Marshal Qi Qi Jiguang, who oversees the training of troops in all four commands and garrisons Shanhai Pass?"

Qi Qi Jiguang stepped forward immediately, instinctively preparing to kneel.

Then he remembered the instructions from the usher and changed it to a deep bow: "Your servant, Qi Qi Jiguang, pays homage to Your Majesty."

After bowing, Qi Qi Jiguang caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye—the emperor rising from his throne and slowly descending the dais.

As he wondered what this meant, he suddenly felt both his hands seized in one firm grip.

Startled, Qi Qi Jiguang was helped up, and the emperor smiled at him: "General Qi, Tan Lun poured out his heart and blood when he entrusted you to me—I will not be formal with you."

"Come, I have two hundred thousand taels of silver—I will hand them to you personally as military pay."

(End of Chapter)