Chapter 312: One Sound Across the Four Seas, Drawing from Antiquity to Govern the Present

The sky was just beginning to lighten.

He Xinyin, left to languish in the Shuntian Prefecture prison, finally emerged from the long winter night, following a eunuch out of the prison and into the daylight.

He Xinyin tilted his head, greedily feeling the dim light fall upon his skin.

It was not only the relief of briefly escaping the prison, but also the lifting of a heavy burden from his heart—the Emperor had finally summoned him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Shuntian Prefect Wang Zhiyuan deliberately avoiding him, as if unwilling to meet his gaze.

“Let Master Fushan know,” said Sun Long beside him softly, “the case against you has not yet been concluded; after your audience with His Majesty, I shall still have to return you to prison.”

Sun Long had been thoroughly sinicized, and spoke to folk leaders like He Xinyin with considerable respect.

Of course, that respect extended only to words—it did not prevent him from returning He Xinyin to prison afterward.

After all, He Xinyin had no shortage of charges against him.

The case of resisting taxes and killing officials had already been settled, but the crime of escaping conscription after being sentenced to military exile must still be pursued.

Moreover, the old case from Jiajing 40, when he conspired with the alchemist Lan Daohang to manipulate omens and deceive the Emperor, would inevitably be revisited.

And the case from Wanli 3, second month, when he gathered disciples to lecture and openly accused the Chief Grand Secretary of monopolizing court affairs—Wang Zhiyuan clearly had no intention of letting it go.

Even the case from Wanli 6, fifth month, involving Jin Yunfeng, Zeng Guang, and others fabricating the heretical text “The Great Gan’s Record of Auspicious Destiny,” and the rebellion plots of the three native chieftains of Yongshun, Baojing, and Youyang—all of which implicated Liang Ruyuan and Luo Xun—were recorded in the files submitted by Huguang to the Ministry of Justice.

Add to that this latest case of denouncing the imperial carriage and mocking court politics.

Taken together, a mountain of charges, compounded by the fact that after Shuntian’s verdict, the case must still be transferred to the Ministry of Justice and the Court of Judicial Review, He Xinyin would likely spend this New Year behind bars.

He Xinyin followed Sun Long and merely nodded calmly: “This humble prisoner has troubled Your Eunuchness with such an escort.”

When he chose not to flee but to surrender himself, he had already prepared for his fate.

His own outcome no longer mattered—he only wished to see the Emperor once.

Sun Long smiled politely, took two buns without leek from the ones he had bought along the way, and handed them to He Xinyin.

“Your case has not yet been concluded—how can you call yourself a criminal? Many officials inside and outside the court have petitioned on your behalf these past days.”

“Yesterday, Censor Zhao Chongshan mentioned that three great injustices remain unredressed; two have been settled, but one still lingers.”

The second injustice need not be named—clearly, the first was He Xinyin.

“Thank you, Your Eunuchness,” said He Xinyin. Seeing the buns still steaming, he accepted them without hesitation, biting into one as they walked. “No wonder His Majesty summoned me today—someone must have pleaded for me.”

Since voluntarily surrendering, he had been ignored by the Emperor until now—he had assumed he’d be quietly dismissed.

Sun Long, walking ahead, immediately corrected him: “No, His Majesty had already planned to summon you.”

“But after returning from his tour, His Majesty was occupied first by the Empress Dowager’s birthday, then by the successive assassinations by rebels Shi Mao and Liu Shiyan, and has been busy ever since.”

He Xinyin froze mid-bite, looking up in shock: “Assassinations?!”

He had been imprisoned so long that while Wang Zhiyuan had not tormented him, isolation had been unavoidable.

Hearing now of such a monumental event—the Emperor’s attempted assassinations—he could not help but be startled.

And worse, it was successive attempts!

Even if His Majesty was no better than his predecessors, how could men keep rushing to kill him like this?!

Sun Long, having served in the inner palace for years, knew when to stop—he gave He Xinyin only a brief summary of recent events.

He concluded: “...This morning, His Majesty did not attend morning court, but instead began receiving provincial officials for their year-end reports. Midway, he recalled your earlier petition for an audience, and ordered me to fetch you.”

He Xinyin listened in silence, devouring the bun in his hand like a whirlwind.

After a moment, he sighed: “This country bumpkin has always seen the Emperor as the radiant sun—never imagining he walks amid such deadly peril. Merely hearing of it makes my hair stand on end and my heart tremble with dread.”

“Thank heaven no great disaster occurred.”

Sun Long reached into his sleeve, pulled out a clove, and handed it to He Xinyin. “As His Majesty said, Master Fushan does not lose his way in matters of consequence.”

This was precisely why Sun Long maintained his respect for He Xinyin.

Denouncing the imperial carriage and mocking court politics was indeed a crime, but the motive could still be debated.

Tan Yao, demoted to teach the Confucian hierarchy at the Imperial Academy, had recently been paraded through the streets after students reported him for privately praising Shi Mao.

Yet He Xinyin, equally despised by the court, genuinely cared for the Emperor’s safety.

The contrast between the two was stark.

He Xinyin, just taking the clove, paused at these words.

He placed it in his mouth and retorted irritably: “I have never been foolish in small matters!”

Sun Long shook his head and chuckled: “His Majesty was not mocking you for being foolish in small matters.”

He bowed toward the Forbidden City and mimicked: “His Majesty said, since He Xinyin chose to surrender to Shuntian and petitioned for an audience, it proves he merely strayed from the path—his fundamental conscience remains sound.”

He Xinyin’s expression grew increasingly strange.

He rarely cared for the judgments of the powerful.

But the Emperor was the Emperor—his verdict, issued from the apex of the Three Bonds and Five Constants, stirred something unusual even in a man as heretical as He Xinyin.

“Cough. Cough.”

He Xinyin cleared his throat lightly, masking his unease, and fell silent.

Sun Long, sensing this, wisely ended the topic and led the way in silence.

Winter days were short, nights long.

Since dawn had already broken, the hour was not early.

The streets were lined with vendors setting up their stalls.

Along the way, they occasionally passed officials drowsy from oversleeping, sprinting desperately to reach court.

When Sun Long led He Xinyin through the Wu Gate, the sky was fully bright.

Then came the endless searches by palace guards.

At every palace gate, another search—every flake of grime accumulated from He Xinyin’s ten-day neglect was rubbed off by the guards.

He Xinyin began to suspect they were deliberately tormenting him.

“Has palace security become this strict now?”

He Xinyin glanced back at the guards at the gate.

He had entered the palace before—in Jiajing’s time, he had paid ten taels to a eunuch and toured the inner palace freely.

This level of sternness was truly strange.

Sun Long politely explained: “After the last attempt by a foreign monk to assassinate His Majesty, the Commander of the Feathered Forest Guards, Xia Kai, committed suicide out of shame. The imperial troops are no longer so lax.”

But he wondered how long it would last—and shook his head at the thought.

The two walked in silence, hastening along the imperial avenue until they reached the Western Garden and halted before the Chengguang Hall.

Sun Long naturally entered to announce their arrival.

He Xinyin stood with hands clasped outside the corridor, idly glancing around.

He saw that Chengguang Hall faced the Wengcheng to the east, bordered the Taiye Pool to the west, and stood flanked by twin stone pillars to the north and south—Jicui and Duixue—while the golden hall rose in a dome overhead, radiating imperial majesty.

He Xinyin stroked his beard and faintly sneered—everything was built on the people’s blood and sweat.

He turned his head and saw several officials already waiting outside the hall—some meditating, others curiously glancing his way.

Faint voices drifted from within, indistinct.

Clearly, as Sun Long had said, the Emperor was receiving provincial officials.

Soon, Sun Long hurried out of the hall and approached He Xinyin, gesturing inward: “Master Fushan, follow me inside to meet His Majesty. Be mindful of propriety.”

He Xinyin nodded and followed obediently behind Sun Long.

Once inside, he could not help but glance around with the corner of his eye.

The hall was even more splendid than the outside—its ceilings curved and spiraled like rings, vermilion railings and azure windows displayed every luxury.

He Xinyin shook his head repeatedly, silently composing his speech for the audience ahead.

As he stepped forward, the voices within grew clearer.

Looking toward the sound, he saw the Emperor seated behind his desk at the hall’s center, conversing with an official bowing below the dais.

“Your Majesty, He Xinyin has been brought.”

Sun Long stepped forward to report.

He Xinyin was about to kneel, when the Emperor’s voice came: “Wait and listen first.”

He straightened his bent waist silently and stepped aside with Sun Long, studying the Emperor.

“Xiong Qing, continue.”

Zhu Yijun glanced at He Xinyin once, then turned his gaze away, signaling Xiong Dunpu to proceed.

Xiong Dunpu cleared his throat and continued: “But implementing the ‘Concise Rhyme Guide’ in the south faces immense resistance.”

“Not only do local officials pay lip service while secretly resisting, but the common people also strongly oppose it.”

“Reasons are numerous: among officials, it is widely rumored this is a northern scheme to impose customs and suppress the south; among the people, many claim that promoting a common tongue erases local identity and rewrites the culture and soul of the people.”

“The two currents have merged into intense emotion.”

“Now, from Zhejiang’s bureaucracy to its literati, anyone mentioning the ‘Concise Rhyme Guide’ immediately invokes the ‘Hongwu Correct Rhymes,’ treating it as the true legacy of the founding Emperor.”

“Under these conditions, I dare not enforce it by force.”

Xiong Dunpu withdrew a memorial from his sleeve and handed it to a court eunuch.

Zhu Yijun took the memorial and scanned it swiftly.

The more he read, the tighter his frown became.

The ‘Concise Rhyme Guide’ mentioned by Xiong Dunpu was the current standard of central phonology, directly descended from the elegant speech of the Spring and Autumn period, the common tongue of the early Han, the correct pronunciation of the Wei-Jin and Sui-Tang eras.

That is, northern Mandarin—its sounds are standardized and mutually intelligible, known as the Central Elegant Pronunciation, roughly seventy to eighty percent similar to modern Putonghua.

The so-called ‘Hongwu Correct Rhymes,’ by contrast, was a bureaucratic dialect built on southern speech.

Besides these two, there were also Tianjin Mandarin, Fuzhou Mandarin, Southeastern Mandarin, and others.

All are standard languages used throughout the realm.

True, they are standard—but the realm does not need so many official dialects; when it is time to step back, one should no longer parade about—did not Xiong Dunpu’s earlier exclamation “Damn it!” serve as a recent warning? To achieve the goal of “unifying the world,” “one language for all four seas” is an indispensable means.

Vigorously promoting the northern official dialect is self-evidently a necessary part of this mission.

Hence, Xiong Dunpu and others were assigned this task, and now they are reporting to the throne.

But it is obvious that “one language for all four seas” is no undertaking to be accomplished in a day—it is a heavy burden with a long road ahead.

After a moment’s hesitation, Xiong Dunpu spoke: “Your Majesty, permit me to speak plainly: unless the central authority intervenes directly, this matter will remain utterly stalled.”

“Only if the central authority formally designates the refined speech of the Central Plains as the national language can we achieve twice the result with half the effort.”

Zhu Yijun slowly closed the memorial and sighed helplessly: “Didn’t I ask you to stir up public opinion first, just to test the water?”

“Clearly, the time is not yet right.”

If the policy lacks support from local officials and the common people, forcing it through will only produce empty paper—and become a laughingstock.

Hearing this, Xiong Dunpu sensed the emperor’s unspoken frustration.

He involuntarily muttered: “The poison of the previous Yuan dynasty cannot be overstated!”

In one look /p>

This matter naturally must be blamed on the previous dynasty.

The concept of the Central Plains has continuously expanded—from its original core around the Zhou and Qin royal domains, the Luoyang region of Henan—gradually extending to later areas such as Hebei, Shanxi, and Shandong; the refined speech of the Central Plains, i.e., the northern official dialect, likewise gradually began to “prevail throughout the four directions.”

But during the Yuan dynasty, Mongolian was declared the national language, and the Phags-pa script the national script; for the first time, the refined speech lost its status as the national tongue—At that time, Xu Heng’s son, Xu Jingren, fluent in Mongolian, took pride in his family’s mastery, even using Mongolian to scold others.

As the refined speech of the Central Plains lost its national status and ceased to be universally understood, local official dialects naturally and quietly reemerged.

A century-long historical reversal—now to move forward again, one must exert far greater effort.

Zhu Yijun shook his head, refusing to join in the lamentation.

“Let’s first lay a solid foundation.”

“Order vassal states such as Ryukyu and Korea to send students to the Four Barbarians Academy to study, and revise texts such as ‘Learning the Official Dialect’ and ‘Conversational Guide to the Official Dialect,’ ensuring they are standardized to the refined speech of the Central Plains.”

“You, Minister Xiong, are now a full-fledged Imperial Censor. Be more assertive—keep watch over local government offices, private academies, colleges, temples, newspapers, storytellers…”

Good practices must be borrowed, especially respecting the objective laws of language development.

Zhu Yijun still intends to base his efforts on schools, lead with local yamens, use newspapers and storytellers as models, and open windows through Buddhist and Daoist public service institutions, expanding gradually and laying a steady foundation.

Xiong Dunpu, having suffered setbacks himself, fully agreed and nodded repeatedly.

“As for the phonetic dictionary—after this, go to the Tongzheng Office and find Ni Guangjian; jointly petition the Ministry of Rites to discuss how to improve and promote it.”

Zhu Yijun added another instruction.

Xiong Dunpu memorized it and softly replied, “Yes.”

Moments later, seeing the emperor had no further instructions, he bowed and quietly withdrew.

Zhu Yijun rubbed his neck: “Who’s next?”

Zhang Hong immediately stepped forward: “Your Majesty, it is Mei Yousong, newly appointed as Right Deputy Counselor of the Five Armies Command Council, who wishes to personally submit his resignation.”

Zhu Yijun clicked his tongue.

The Five Armies Command Council is now a hot potato—this man hasn’t even taken up his post, and he’s already thinking of retiring.

Of course, this is not Mei Yousong’s fault.

He performed excellently in the provinces: “proficient in administration, perceptive in human nature, rooting out corruption and clearing injustices, strategic and resolute—soldiers and civilians alike revered him.”

But as soon as news of his appointment to the Five Armies Command Council spread, rumors arose that this Sichuan-born official favored male companionship—his very name, given by his parents with foresight, was meant to mask the truth.

Zhu Yijun, thinking of this, couldn’t help smiling.

He was already accustomed to such tactics—from himself, to Grand Secretary Zhang Juzheng, to upstarts like Li Zaiting, to even today’s Wang Zhiyuan—who among those who have served under the new policies hasn’t been smeared with such scandalous gossip?

Mei Yousong clearly lacks sufficient composure.

Zhu Yijun waved his hand: “Let him wait a while—I’ll take someone else first.”

Unlike Xiong Dunpu, who rushed back to Zhejiang after his report, Mei Yousong’s arrival in the capital means he won’t be leaving soon—delaying his audience won’t matter.

Zhang Hong glanced at the interloper He Xinyin and understood: “Your servant will go at once.”

…

After Zhang Hong departed, Sun Long tugged He Xinyin forward: “Your Majesty.”

He Xinyin paused, then stepped forward and bowed deeply: “Your humble subject He Xinyin pays homage to Your Majesty.”

Hearing this, Sun Long’s eyelid twitched.

But he had no place to speak here; he cast He Xinyin a glance of concern and withdrew silently.

Zhu Yijun rose from his throne and stretched: “Humble subject? Then why, humble subject, do you not kneel before me?”

He studied He Xinyin—sixty years old, withered and frail; the legends of his martial prowess, slaying soldiers like grass, were clearly exaggerated.

Yet his complexion was quite ruddy, showing no signs of imminent death—historically, He Xinyin died in Wang Zhiyuan’s prison in the seventh year of Wanli.

This confirmed it: historically, Wang Zhiyuan had indeed struck the fatal blow.

Zhu Yijun’s mind wandered aimlessly.

He Xinyin bowed his head, neither humble nor defiant: “Your Majesty, I was the top candidate in the Jiangxi provincial examination of Jiajing twenty-five, holding the juren degree—I do not kneel except at grand ceremonies.”

Since his scholarly status had not been revoked, his juren rank remained valid.

Zhu Yijun chuckled: “Didn’t you just call yourself a humble subject?”

He Xinyin fell silent for a moment: “I dare not consider myself Your Majesty’s student.”

Zhu Yijun stepped down from behind the desk and walked down the imperial steps.

He Xinyin’s “dare not” was merely unwillingness.

For one who believed the Five Relationships were all “friendships” and the emperor merely a “profession,” recognizing the emperor as a teacher would be harder than death.

Likewise, his radical “New Theory of the Four Classes”—that “all people on the street are sages,” “roles differ, but all are equal”—could never accept kneeling.

Hence, He Xinyin called himself a humble subject while invoking his juren status to avoid kneeling—a most awkward posture.

Truly… excellent!

Zhu Yijun felt a surge of admiration.

Such forward-thinking ideas—how many years ahead of their time!

No wonder he traveled the land lecturing, drawing crowds wherever he went; even Li Zhi and Wang Shizhen regarded him as an idol, and court officials called him a marvel, holding him in high esteem.

In fact, today, he is the very first person in the realm whose spirit resonates with mine!

The emperor’s smile grew brighter.

He would not pressure He Xinyin; instead, he ordered a tea table brought in and asked bluntly: “Why, Master Liang Zhugan, do you insist on seeing me? Is your denunciatory posters not enough—do you wish to point at my nose and scold me again?”

Saying this, he sat down gracefully and gestured for He Xinyin to be seated.

Seeing the emperor’s magnanimity, He Xinyin inwardly praised him.

He bowed and sat down openly: “Your Majesty, I harbor no disrespect toward you.”

“The posters were merely an attempt to advise you—to correct others, first correct yourself. I resorted to this desperate measure because I saw no other path to heaven.”

“If my words were inappropriate, I willingly accept punishment.”

Zhu Yijun said nothing, listening quietly as He Xinyin spoke, pouring himself tea and moistening his dry throat.

“As for why I sought an audience with Your Majesty…”

He Xinyin raised his head, fixing the emperor with a serious gaze: “I dare to ask: what is your true intention behind the royal property disclosure?”

To speak frankly.

He had hoped, at most, that the emperor would not impose strict standards on others while indulging himself—perhaps, under public pressure, the imperial estates might modestly rein in their excesses during the land survey.

He never expected the emperor to act so boldly—to disclose his own property outright.

It was utterly unexpected.

And now the burning question arose: what motive could possibly drive the emperor to say such a thing?

Zhu Yijun sipped his tea, then set it down calmly.

He raised his head, gazing at He Xinyin with an odd expression, his eyes dark: “Master Liang Zhugan, do you suppose only you and your kind are sages who care for the realm?”

“While I, the emperor, and all the ministers are merely bone-suckers who treat the people as grass?”

His tone carried a faint chill.

Faced with the emperor’s blunt pressure, He Xinyin did not answer immediately.

After a moment, he met the emperor’s gaze, serious and sincere: “Your Majesty, permit me to speak plainly… is it not so?”

The hall fell silent.

Their breathing was clearly audible.

Their locked gazes clashed, neither yielding an inch.

The atmosphere grew tense.

After what seemed an eternity, He Xinyin appeared weary, lowering his eyes slightly.

He sniffed, drew a deep breath, and spoke: “I have lived through three reigns—I saw the Jiajing Emperor build grand palaces; I saw the Longqing Emperor indulge in pleasure and entertain guests; I saw court ministers stand idle as they aided tyranny, while the people grew poorer, crying out in despair.”

“Even in these eight years of Your Majesty’s reign—your civil and military achievements have elevated your name across the land—how much better have the lives of the common people truly become?”

“How can I know you are not using the people as a pretext to seize power?”

“Was not Emperor Xuanzong of Tang not also a wise ruler at first?”

At the end, He Xinyin sighed.

When Emperor Xuanzong ascended the throne, he restored order, worked tirelessly, and ushered in the golden age of the Tang—could anyone deny he was a wise ruler?

But what happened after he amassed power?

Not to mention Duke Huan of Qi, Emperor Wu of Liang, or our own Jiajing Emperor—there are too many such examples.

How many emperors truly carry the people in their hearts? Most are merely shouting slogans at the top of their lungs.

He Xinyin fundamentally did not trust emperors as a species.

Precisely because of this, he reacted so strongly when the emperor proposed publicizing property, insisting on meeting the emperor face to face.

He Xinyin stared intently into the emperor’s eyes, sincere and heartfelt, as if weeping: “It is precisely because of Your Majesty’s action that your humble subject glimpsed a glimmer of hope unlike anything mundane—this is why I dared to surrender myself and beg an audience with Your Majesty.”

“I dare to ask only to see the true shape of Your Majesty’s conscience.”

“I humbly beg Your Majesty to grant this wish.”

Saying this, he rose from his seat, bowed deeply before the emperor with utmost reverence.

(End of Chapter)