Chapter 25: Harmonious Unity, Seeking Common Ground While Preserving Differences

Gao Yi was to attend the morning court today to discuss the Examination System, so he had taken leave from the daily lectures in advance, with Zhang Siwei temporarily leading the session.

Zhu Yijun did not slack off in his performance just because the main audience was absent.

It’s still the same: growth must not stop.

These daily lecture officials are the most promising young talents of the Great Ming; even if they’re merely token figures in this performance, one must still uphold the role.

Thus, Zhu Yijun continued meticulously reinforcing his persona, exactly as he had done in recent days.

In truth, Zhu Yijun’s progress in study had far outpaced the pace of the daily lectures.

For the past several evenings after dinner, he had scarcely put down his books, having already memorized the entirety of the Great Learning and the Book of Documents.

The introductory level of the daily lectures was far too simple for him—he was waiting to deliver a grand performance at the imperial lecture hall, to thoroughly reset the minds of the lecture officials.

This accelerated learning showed in the daily lectures, making this new emperor appear especially brilliant.

The several Shidu officials, slowly conditioned like frogs in warm water, had grown accustomed to it.

Today, he grasped the material after one reading, without the slightest hesitation; the lecture officials found nothing amiss.

After Zhu Yijun deliberately accelerated the pace, the Shidu officials had finished today’s lesson barely past mid-morning.

“Your Highness, we shall conclude for today,” Zhang Siwei stepped forward and said.

These lecture officials held official duties in their respective ministries and had to return to their posts after the lectures.

But Zhu Yijun, having deliberately freed up time, certainly did not intend to let them leave early.

He spoke slowly: “Gentlemen, please wait a moment.”

The lecture officials exchanged glances.

Zhang Siwei hesitated: “Your Highness has further instructions?”

Zhu Yijun smiled: “This is a daily lecture—you are the masters, I am the disciple. How could a disciple give orders to his masters?”

“It’s simply that today’s lesson ended early, leaving spare time; rather than waste it, I’d like to ask you gentlemen a few other questions.”

Zhang Siwei felt a pang of misfortune.

Among the lecture officials, his seniority and rank were second only to Gao Yi; with Gao Yi gone, he would inevitably lead the session.

If not for that, he wouldn’t be here playing house with a child.

His family was deeply entrenched; the daily lectures were merely a formality to build seniority—he had no real interest in teaching.

He rolled his eyes inwardly but bowed respectfully: “If Your Highness has questions, we shall do our best to answer.”

Zhu Yijun nodded casually: “You gentlemen have served as Shidu in the daily lectures for several months.”

“Yet I have not yet inquired about your backgrounds or scholarly attainments—I have been remiss.”

His gaze swept over Zhang Siwei and Ma Ziqiang: “I recall that Scholar Zhang and Scholar Ma were both jinshi of the same year?”

The two exchanged glances.

They replied in unison: “We both passed the imperial examination in Jiajing thirty-two.”

Ma Ziqiang added: “But Vice Minister Zhang was a second-rank jinshi, while I am a third-rank tong jinshi.”

In a single examination cohort, the first-rank had three, the second-rank eighty to ninety, and the third-rank over two hundred, ranked in order.

The tong jinshi status was slightly inferior.

Zhu Yijun nodded, indicating he understood.

He turned to Tao Dalin: “I recall Scholar Tao was originally a compiler in the Hanlin Academy—did you rank first-rank?”

Since the reign of Yingzong, it was customary to appoint first-rank jinshi as Hanlin compilers, while selecting young, brilliant second- and third-rank jinshi as shujishi, known as “selecting into the Hanlin.”

Both were traditionally called “future chancellors.”

Tao Dalin replied respectfully: “I passed the imperial examination in Jiajing thirty-five, second in the first-rank.”

Zhu Yijun had been about to call him “Tao the runner-up,” but found the term too awkward, so he simply continued calling him “Scholar”: “No wonder Scholar Tao has such profound learning.”

He then turned to Yu Youding: “I know Scholar Yu—you were third in the first-rank jinshi of Jiajing forty-one.”

Yu Youding blinked, bewildered why he had suddenly caught the emperor’s attention, and merely bowed.

Zhu Yijun passed him over and looked at Chen Dong: “Scholar Chen, were you also originally a Hanlin compiler?”

Among all the lecture officials, Chen Dong was strikingly visible yet strangely unremarkable.

He was striking because of his appearance—he was thin, unusually thin, not the lean, muscular kind, but the frail, undernourished kind.

He was unremarkable because during lectures he spoke sparingly, offering only definitions and never extra words; he was reserved and profound.

Chen Dong replied: “I passed the imperial examination in Jiajing forty-four, third in the first-rank.”

Before Zhu Yijun could ask each one individually, the remaining lecture officials volunteered their backgrounds.

Zhu Yijun listened with patience.

These men before him were the Great Ming’s “future chancellors,” or the leading figures of the young generation.

Now that he had the Embroidered Uniform Guard protecting him and Gao Yi’s approval, it was time to begin engaging these core civil officials.

As each lecture official reported his background, Zhu Yijun committed them all to memory.

He then turned to Ma Ziqiang and Tao Dalin, who had taken leave yesterday: “Scholar Ma and Scholar Tao took leave yesterday—I heard you went to the Ministry of Rites to deliberate on my late father’s posthumous title and temple name?”

The two exchanged glances and replied together: “Your Highness, that is correct.”

Posthumous titles and temple names were the final judgment on an emperor’s life.

Good or bad, there had to be some verdict.

Just as on the first day of the sixth month, the petition for accession had stated: “The state has flourished for over two hundred years; six or seven virtuous and sage rulers have arisen.”

The dynasty had endured twelve reigns over two centuries; perhaps six or seven emperors could be called good.

As for the rest? Their failings went unspoken.

Why six or seven?

Because the late emperor had not yet been judged—his virtue or vice remained uncertain.

Zhu Yijun paused, then said: “Since we’ve come to this…”

“I have studied the Great Learning and the Book of Documents under your guidance, and gradually come to know the stories of the ancient sage-kings.”

“From the perspective of the Four Books and Five Classics, how would you gentlemen evaluate my late father?”

From your Confucian classics, how would you judge the late emperor?

The two felt their scalps tingle—such matters, once decided by ministry and court deliberation, reflected the collective will of the civil officials; they could speak freely then.

But now the crown prince was asking them personally—how could they answer?

Who dared say your father neglected state affairs, indulged in women, and died from overusing yang-boosting drugs on a concubine’s lap?

What else could they say but praise?

Tao Dalin subtly stepped back.

Ma Ziqiang could only evade: “Your Highness, yesterday we were merely compiling the late emperor’s achievements and faults—we have not yet reached a consensus.”

Zhu Yijun waved his hand: “I’m not asking for a formal posthumous title—just a simple scholarly evaluation.”

“After my accession, I may choose the good to follow and reflect on the bad.”

Ma Ziqiang stood there, sweat gradually forming on his brow.

Zhu Yijun watched him patiently.

After long deliberation, Ma Ziqiang spoke: “The late emperor was undoubtedly a sage of virtue.”

All the lecture officials, regardless of their true thoughts, nodded in agreement.

Zhu Yijun pressed: “Where was his virtue?”

He did not intend to interfere with the late emperor’s posthumous title—he merely wished to understand the civil officials’ ecosystem.

More precisely, he wanted to learn from their evaluation of the late emperor what qualities these young, rising officials considered ideal in a ruler.

The Grand Secretaries and Six Ministries held power, but they were all elderly; they could not reflect the thinking of these young scholars.

After all, to perform well, one must first know what persona the audience prefers.

Ma Ziqiang evasively replied: “The late emperor was dignified and solemn, commanding respect without executions, calm and reserved—he was a benevolent ruler.”

Zhu Yijun froze for a moment, then nodded.

Ma Ziqiang was calling the late emperor a kind, quiet man who did not rely on killing to assert authority.

Of course, this was also a veiled criticism of the Jiajing emperor, who had used flogging to demonstrate power.

Good—criticizing a predecessor showed sincerity. It seemed Ma Ziqiang disliked autocratic, murderous emperors; perhaps he admired the Hongzhi emperor.

Zhu Yijun signaled Tao Dalin with his eyes.

Tao Dalin, seeing he could not escape, sighed inwardly and spoke: “The late emperor possessed wisdom beyond comprehension; even without issuing orders, his influence moved men swiftly; even without speaking, his voice echoed like thunder—he was a proactive ruler.”

Zhu Yijun tilted his head, barely suppressing a laugh.

He meant the late emperor’s wisdom was unfathomable—his commands didn’t need to be spoken, yet his subordinates acted instantly; his words didn’t need to be uttered, yet his impact was like thunder.

In plain terms, he was somewhat dim, hands-off, letting his officials do as they pleased.

These scholars knew how to speak—especially in the art of passive-aggressive criticism, they had reached perfection.

Thus, Tao Dalin clearly looked down on the late emperor, believing he had failed in his duties—perhaps he hoped the new emperor would be diligent and reform-minded?

Zhu Yijun pretended not to understand.

He turned to Zhang Siwei: “Scholar Zhang, what do you say?”

Zhang Siwei offered no concealment: “The late emperor excelled in honoring and trusting his ministers, relying on experienced elders, gathering all strengths and uniting all thoughts, preserving the ancestral laws without the bother of disruptive reforms—he truly embodied the ways of the ancient sage-kings, and was a sage ruler.”

“Honoring and trusting ministers” meant delegating authority to them; “preserving ancestral laws” was straightforward.

So this was the ideal emperor in the eyes of the Jin faction? No wonder Zhang Siwei’s uncle was named “Chonggu.”

Zhu Yijun’s face remained blank, but inwardly he sighed—praise from villains felt strangely unpleasant.

The ways of the ancient sage-kings? Ha—how many fools have been deceived by the myths of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors? Now they think they can deceive him too?

He was about to ask further.

Then Yu Youding took the initiative to continue: “Your Highness, I believe the late Emperor abolished all undesirable policies of the Shizong era and rectified wrongful convictions.”

“He swept away military decay, granted tribute to Altan Khan, and quelled border unrest.”

“He adapted to the times, did not cling to outdated customs, and lifted the maritime ban.”

“He corrected scholarly conduct, purged official corruption, reformed the civil service, and audited imperial and noble landholdings.”

“Such conduct deserves to be called a ruler who renews the old and establishes the new!”

Zhu Yijun glanced at Yu Youding in surprise—he had not expected the third-place imperial examination graduate to be a reformist.

The dead are used to speak for the living.

What kind of person the late Emperor was does not matter; what matters is what everyone needs him to have been.

Zhang Siwei said the late Emperor governed with minimal intervention, followed ancestral laws and established precedents, embodying a reverence for antiquity.

Yu Youding immediately opened his eyes and said the late Emperor renewed the old and established the new, harboring reformist intentions.

This is the struggle between new and old.

Zhu Yijun naturally would not expose this layer; he merely feigned deep thought.

Ma Ziqiang, however, timely reminded: “Observe propriety; do not speak lightly of the Shizong Emperor.”

Even if one is tactful toward the honored, one should not speak thus before the new sovereign—after all, they are grandfather and grandson; do not be too obvious.

Zhu Yijun waved his hand generously: “We’ve said this is an academic discussion; it’s no problem.”

“Regardless, I can still open the channels of free speech; you need not fear punishment for your words.”

From these men’s words, their inclinations were still very clear.

Whether reforming or preserving ancestral laws, one must at least treat the civil officials well, or they will not recognize the ruler.

How badly the Shizong Emperor was vilified for flogging court officials.

So, whether or not Zhu Yijun will suppress civil officials after taking power, he must now spread word of his openness to free speech and benevolent disposition.

The several lecture officials hurriedly bowed together: “Your Highness’s wisdom surpasses all.”

Beyond this…

Zhu Yijun put on an expression of sudden inspiration: “Lately, I’ve heard the Grand Secretariat is discussing the Examination System?”

The lecture officials were puzzled.

Zhang Siwei, as the senior official, could not avoid it and had to take up the thread: “Your Highness, it is indeed so.”

Zhu Yijun murmured, then smiled: “Does the late Emperor’s assessment of merit and fault not resemble the Examination System’s evaluation?”

The discussion of temple and posthumous names generally involves judging merit and fault.

After judging merit and fault, one decides whether to grant a good or bad posthumous name.

In that sense, there is indeed some similarity—except it happens only once in a lifetime.

But how could the lecture officials dare to reply?

Examination? Civil officials examining the Emperor? Even if they thought it, they would never admit it.

Ma Ziqiang quickly said: “Your Highness, the Book of Rites states: ‘Ritual begins with the cap ceremony, is rooted in marriage, and is weighted by funerals and sacrifices—these are the essentials of ritual.’”

“Posthumous and temple names belong to funeral and sacrifice; they are not examination, but the very foundation of great ritual.”

No wonder these lecture officials were so tense.

Posthumous naming began in the Zhou dynasty but was once abolished under Qin, because Qin Shi Huang believed it implied ‘sons judging fathers, ministers judging sovereigns’; it was only restored in the Western Han.

By the Ming dynasty, though there was often concealment of faults, it remained a weapon for civil officials to restrain the sovereign—few cared nothing for their posthumous reputation.

Now, the Crown Prince compares posthumous naming with the Examination System; no one knows his intent, and it truly frightened them.

If today’s discussion were to abolish the posthumous naming system, Ma Ziqiang feared he would face universal condemnation from civil officials.

Zhu Yijun smiled inwardly at Ma Ziqiang’s reaction.

He had no intention of abolishing the posthumous naming system; he was merely using it as a pretext—or rather, he had spoken so much precisely to lead to the Examination System.

Now that the Grand Secretariat was leading the charge, he could not lag behind.

Even in struggle, one must not neglect state affairs.

Zhu Yijun spoke: “Your words, Master Ma, I understand.”

“But hearing you gentlemen assess my late father’s merits and faults, I was suddenly moved—I shall rely on you, my trusted ministers, to supervise me closely in the future.”

“If I err and earn a bad posthumous name, it will be not only my regret, but your failure as well.”

“If I can attain even half my late father’s achievements, and earn a good posthumous name, I may then properly pay homage to him in the afterlife.”

The lecture officials, each with different thoughts, bowed deeply: “We are filled with dread.”

Zhu Yijun felt the moment was right and said: “Gentlemen, as the saying goes, ‘unity of knowledge and action.’ Since you agree with me, you must put it into practice.”

“How about this: let you gentlemen and the two palaces examine my progress in daily lessons!”

“What do you think?”

Zhu Yijun, feigning eagerness to demonstrate himself, portrayed himself as diligent in his studies.

In truth, he was openly endorsing the Examination System.

I, the Emperor who will ascend the throne tomorrow, humbly submit to examination—what excuse can officials who resist examination possibly have?

Are they more precious than the Emperor?

Once this spreads, resistance to the Examination System, whether from the Grand Secretariat or the imperial harem, will greatly diminish.

When those above lead by enduring hardship, implementation becomes incomparably more efficient.

As for failing? He had never failed an exam in two lifetimes.

The lecture officials exchanged glances.

Zhu Yijun was not in a hurry; he smiled: “Gentlemen, I am not joking.”

“The Analects say: ‘I examine myself three times daily.’ Since I am the people’s choice, how could I be lax? This is to spur myself on.”

“You may wait for Grand Secretary Gao’s return, discuss it with him, and jointly submit a memorial.”

“As for the two imperial mothers, I shall speak to them myself.”

They remained hesitant.

Chen Dong suddenly stepped forward: “I accept the imperial command!”

Zhu Yijun was startled—he rarely saw this man speak up voluntarily.

Regaining his composure, he smiled faintly and gently shook Chen Dong’s hand: “Then I rely on you, my loyal ministers.”

“Enough for today. Return to your offices.”

Saying this, he turned and entered the warm pavilion.

Only when his figure vanished completely did Chen Dong leave without greeting anyone.

The others then slowly followed, grouping in twos and threes, burdened with thought.

Yu Youding cast one last glance toward the direction the Crown Prince had departed, filled with profound emotion—compared to the late Emperor, this was truly the bearing of a sage ruler.