Chapter 318: Restoring the Source, Revisiting Chi Nan

After the Emperor finished speaking, the ministers looked at each other in silence, unable to respond.

There was no way around it—today’s Wang Anshi had long been trampled into the mud by historians wielding their brushes, his popular standing so low he was virtually branded the greatest villainous chancellor in a thousand years.

Any minister of reputation had never offered a positive evaluation of this obstinate chancellor.

Luo Dajing ranked Wang Anshi alongside Qin Hui: “The unity of the state was shattered because of Wang Anshi’s fault; its irreparable division was due to Qin Hui’s crime.” Zhu Xi condemned him as “poisoning the four seas, bringing calamity to the extreme.” The Song History directly named Wang Anshi as the primary culprit behind the state’s decline. Even in popular tales like the “Three Words and Two Slaps,” the line used to feed livestock was: “Cluck, cluck, cluck—Wang Qigong, come eat.”

Of course, there were those who had spoken up for Wang Anshi.

Lu Jiuyuan protested the injustice of the judgment, while Yan Xizhai said Wang Anshi’s posthumous reputation was “rewarded with half erased merit and full-blown slander despite innocence.”

But this did not stir any momentum; instead, it only brought them trouble.

After Zhu Xi’s death and the Song History’s final verdict, the minority who defended Wang Anshi nearly vanished entirely.

By this dynasty, perhaps only Zhang Juzheng, who might have sympathized with him, dared harbor even a sliver of thought—but in his “Direct Explanation of the Zizhi Tongjian,” he could only express it obliquely, subtly praising while overtly criticizing, calling him “unaware of principles, ignorant of timing, talented yet lacking insight—how pitiful.”

Even Zhang Juzheng, a reformist himself, dared not speak openly—this reveals the depth of Wang Anshi’s reputation.

Thus, even with the Emperor’s imperial decree, the ministers were left momentarily speechless at the idea of rehabilitating Wang Anshi.

The hall fell briefly silent.

Seeing this, Zhu Yijun grew impatient and began questioning them one by one.

He was about to look toward Shen Shixing when he met Wang Xijue’s gaze.

The latter had no choice but to speak first: “Your Majesty, if your rehabilitation means turning this centuries-old villain into a virtuous minister, it is truly asking too much.”

“In my view, we should separate the Xining Reforms from Wang Anshi himself: the new laws were timely and justified, entrusted by Emperor Shenzong, a great ruler. Only Wang Anshi’s stubbornness and lack of tolerance corrupted the reforms and brought disaster upon the Song court.”

“This would align with public sentiment and avoid shocking the people.”

The Emperor wished to rehabilitate the Xining Reforms—but not necessarily Wang Anshi.

The distinction was not trivial; it was a matter of political flexibility.

But to his surprise, the Emperor shook his head directly: “Minister Wang, are you joking with me? The Xining Reforms and Wang Anshi rose and fell together—separating them is no easier than rehabilitation.”

“When has a person ever been separable from their deeds?”

Rehabilitation is governed by strict rules—it’s never about right or wrong, but about signaling attitude.

The person is the deed; the deed is the person.

Don’t waste time with the absurd notion of judging deeds, not people. Historically, when Zhang Juzheng was overthrown, every action he took was deemed wrong.

The new laws were evil; his appointments were wrong; his motives were utterly wicked.

Even a scoundrel like Liu Shiyan could be rehabilitated with the excuse: “A powerful minister framed him; stripping his title was a great pity”—and he was reinstated to serve again, even “resuming his post at the Nanjing Ministry of War”—preferring to let Liu Shiyan commit crimes for another twenty years until he died in disgrace rather than admit Zhang Juzheng was right to strip his title.

Separate the person from the deed?

No one dares split Emperor Taizong into two: “Though a great ruler, his seizure of power through military coup was illegitimate.”

Not even hinting at the Song Taizong’s conduct is considered a grave offense—how much less so for our own Zhu Di?

To separate person from deed is only possible on the opera stage—such childishness belongs nowhere else.

Wang Anshi and the Xining Reforms are tied together like locusts on the same string—if Wang Anshi was cruel and greedy, how could the reforms have been anything but vile?

Precisely because of this, Zhu Yijun must rehabilitate Wang Anshi to raise the banner of the new laws!

Who doesn’t know the Xining Reforms caused hardship and harmed the people? Who doesn’t know Wang Anshi’s flaws?

His centuries of vilification by court and populace were certainly not without cause.

But rehabilitation must be thorough—no half-measures, no compromise.

Wang Xijue, long stationed in the provinces, was left speechless by the Emperor’s words—just as in history, this man judged matters in isolation: opposing Zhang Juzheng when others supported him, supporting him when others opposed, pleasing no one.

At this moment, Fujian Provincial Governor Li Zaiting suddenly spoke: “Your Majesty, I have a personal view.”

Zhu Yijun turned to look.

This man, unseen for years, now appeared even more capable—but the moment he spoke, Zhu Yijun sensed he was about to flatter.

He waved his hand, signaling Li Zaiting to continue.

Li Zaiting solemnly said: “Your Majesty, I have thoroughly read the Song History and find its prose excessively verbose, its narratives riddled with errors, omissions, and contradictions.”

“Merely skimming it reveals over ten instances of confused narration, faulty checks, factual errors, omissions, and inconsistencies—and over a hundred cases of biased protection, forced interpretations, and moral misjudgments. This is why Ke Weiqi rose to compile the ‘New Compilation of Song History’ to correct these errors—thus revealing the Song History’s true value.”

“Among these numerous errors, Wang Jinggong’s case is included—and for centuries, no one has dared to correct them.”

“If we wish to restore truth to history, let us rewrite Wang Anshi’s biography.”

At these words, the ministers’ expressions varied, and they sank into thought.

Li Zaiting’s words were cleverly phrased.

That the Song History was poorly written was universally acknowledged.

Because the “Song Veritable Records” had once been called “a tool of factional politics,” “filled with false accusations,” and “the most bitterly contested,” and the Song History, compiled from these records, was notoriously biased, unable to distinguish truth from falsehood, and deliberately careless.

Every scholar of talent despised the Song History.

Take Ke Weiqi, mentioned by Li Zaiting—he was a Jiajing-era jinshi, one of the foremost historians of his age, who, disgusted by the Song History, compiled the “New Compilation of Song History” by drawing from the Song, Liao, and Jin histories, eliminating falsehoods and correcting errors.

Under these circumstances, rewriting Wang Anshi’s biography—deeply excavating its errors to restore truth—was entirely reasonable.

Of course, if the biography is rewritten, it will naturally be based on new sources and yield a new final judgment.

This was a practical, actionable proposal.

Zhu Yijun pondered for a moment and nodded—this approach was perfectly suited.

He turned to Wang Shizhen, standing nearby: “Minister Wang, as head of the Lan Tai, you are responsible for recording history and rendering final judgment—this matter demands your stance. What do you say?”

Even the astute Wang Shizhen now showed rare hesitation.

After long deliberation, he spoke slowly: “Your Majesty, the Song History and the Song Veritable Records are indeed full of errors—but reviewing the Xining Reforms, the Green Sprout Law, the Market Exchange Law, the Horse Protection Law—all were cruel, exploitative, and brought disaster to the realm.”

“The historical record is clear on the broad strokes.”

“Only Wang Anshi’s original intentions retain a sliver of room for interpretation.”

Wang Shizhen’s position was clear:

Whitewash, yes—but only within the bounds of historical evidence.

Rewriting is not fabrication; revision is not arbitrary.

The new laws’ harm to the people was undeniable; as chancellor, Wang Anshi must bear responsibility.

The only possible whitewashing lies in questioning his motives.

No one needed the Emperor to call on them by name.

After Wang Shizhen spoke, Shen Shixing paused briefly, then stated calmly: “Your Majesty, Wang Anshi lacked insight but possessed ambition—how pitiful.”

Shen Shixing’s stance was the Cabinet’s stance.

It often reflected Zhang Juzheng’s, even while he was in mourning.

This phrase borrowed directly from Zhang Juzheng’s “Direct Explanation of the Zizhi Tongjian”—“talented yet lacking insight”—but reordered and rephrased to affirm Wang Anshi’s ambition.

Cruel exploitation? Harm to the realm?

Then Minister Shen said: Wang Anshi merely “lacked insight”—his insight could only carry him so far.

But still, he was a man of ambition, far superior to Sima Guang and others who stood idle, watching the Song dynasty decline into ruin?

In short, Wang Anshi must bear responsibility for the failure of the Xining Reforms—but this was a limitation of man and era, not a sign of malice.

Wang Shizhen glanced at Shen Shixing, as if weighing his words.

After a moment, he slowly nodded.

Indeed, nothing here contradicted fact: Wang Anshi was a moral gentleman; his motives and intentions had never been questioned—not even by Sima Guang. Now, they were merely preparing to revive this narrative.

With consensus between Lan Tai and the Cabinet, half the matter was settled.

Zhu Yijun turned last to Minister of Rites Wang Zongyi: “Minister Wang, what is your view?”

All turned to look—Wang Zongyi was staring upward, lost in thought at the ceiling.

Beside him, Yin Zhengmao was about to nudge him.

“Your Majesty, all affairs under heaven, over time, inevitably develop flaws; when flaws arise, change is necessary—it is the Way of Heaven.”

Wang Zongyi snapped back to attention and spoke calmly.

His first sentence quoted Zhang Juzheng’s original words on Wang Anshi.

His expression was filled with emotion as he continued: “By the time of Emperor Shenzong, the Song’s strength had waned, collapsing rapidly, on the brink of imminent ruin.”

“When flaws arise, change is necessary—unchanged, the state dies; changed, it may die.”

“Just as today—regardless of success or failure, change is unavoidable!”

The allusion to the present was too heavy—everyone present understood, and all were moved.

Were they not gathered here in the Huangji Hall precisely because of this?

Zhu Yijun fell silent for a moment, then struck his palm in praise: “When flaws arise, change is necessary—truly so. We must not only praise reform after success.”

“Wang Anshi sought to save the state—though he failed, he is glorious!”

With no further objections, Zhu Yijun made his final ruling—Wang Anshi’s single-minded devotion to his country proves he was no less than a gentleman.

Wang Shizhen silently noted this down.

When he had once offered sacrifices at the Southern Altar and compared Zhang Juzheng to Wang Anshi, Zhao Jin had bitterly denounced the new laws—now, if he knew the court intended to rewrite Wang Anshi’s biography, what would he think?

Wang Shizhen thought of this, and could not help stealing another glance at the Emperor.

Unlike Emperor Shenzong, who wavered, this Emperor had never once hesitated on reform.

But then again, while Emperor Shenzong retained a good reputation even after Wang Anshi’s downfall, if today’s reforms fail, this Emperor’s reputation may be no better than Wang Anshi’s over the past centuries. “Though he failed, he is glorious…” May this Emperor never await a future rehabilitation.

What Wang Shizhen felt inside, no one else could know.

With the Emperor’s declaration, the rehabilitation of Wang Anshi was settled.

It returned to the Emperor’s original proposal.

Zhu Heng, ever blunt, spoke directly: “Your Majesty, you mentioned a slogan for the new policies—will it be like Wang Anshi’s ‘Three Insufficiencies,’ or the poem ‘Xining Slogan’ by Kong Pingzhong?”

Zhu Yijun shook his head: “None of those are good enough. It must be simple and direct, instantly understandable.”

Like the slogan ‘Three Insufficiencies,’ it may sound thunderous, but it’s too vague—common people would only be left baffled.

Poetry and such are even more refined, too lofty for the masses, unsuitable for propaganda.

At this moment, Chen Sanmo, Chief Censor of the Ministry of Personnel, suddenly spoke: “Your Majesty, I believe Li Siye’s doctrine is highly fitting and can be adopted as-is.”

Zhu Yijun turned his head, curiously pressing: “Which of Li’s doctrines, Minister Chen?”

Chen Sanmo was also a jinshi of the Jiajing forty-fourth year, same cohort as Shen Li and Wen Chun.

Not a single error in word, phrase, or content—perfect!

But compared to the latter two, his intellectual pedigree is far weaker.

Shen Li had previously offended Gao Gong and Zhang Juzheng; Chen Sanmo did the opposite—he first claimed himself a disciple of Gao Gong, then, after Gao’s departure from court, declared Zhang Juzheng his party leader; after the Emperor assumed personal rule, he warned Zhang Juzheng that imperial students serving in office should address each other by official title.

In short, he was a man of poor reputation, whose motives even Zhu Yijun couldn’t fathom.

Facing the Emperor’s inquiry, Chen Sanmo blurted out: “Naturally, one of Zhuwu’s two terms: ‘Distribution!’”

His expression was slightly feverish—he clearly believed in this whole system from the bottom of his heart.

Li Zhi’s standing among scholars had now reached a point where he rivaled Zhang Zai; the so-called “Zhuwu Two Terms” were directly modeled after Zhang Zai’s “Four Sentences of Hengqu,” widely recited.

Several years ago, during a doctrinal debate, Li Zhi explicitly proposed the term “distribution”—one of the foundational pillars of the state’s existence is the equitable allocation of the empire’s wealth.

By “foundation,” he meant that if this cannot be done, the state has no legitimate basis for existence.

A few more heretical statements won’t hurt.

But for Chen Sanmo to openly utter this in the Hall of Supreme Harmony was enough to make his colleagues exchange alarmed glances.

Zhang Han of the Ministry of Justice frowned tightly: “The banners of new policies must stem from state law—why invoke Li Zhi’s heretical doctrines?”

Hearing that the Guozijian’s intellectual theories were to be put on the table for use, Zhang Han looked as if he were about to collapse from shame.

“I think it’s appropriate.”

Li Zaiting spoke up without hesitation in support.

“Sima Guang once said the empire’s wealth is fixed in amount—I believe ‘fixed’ is a poor word, since the empire’s wealth naturally accumulates over time. But ‘total amount’ fits perfectly.”

“Once the total is set, if it’s not here, it’s there. The treasury is now strained, the common people impoverished—where the money is, the whole realm knows full well.”

“Whether salt monopoly, imperial clans, or land surveying—all are merely ‘distribution.’”

“A distribution that squeezes officials, gentry, and powerful families to fill the treasury and aid the poor—who is friend and who is foe? The people will know at a glance. Isn’t this the most fitting slogan?”

Zhang Han was visibly displeased: “Minister Li, your words are mistaken—if this heresy falls into the hands of displaced peasants…”

It was clear a full-blown debate was about to erupt.

Seeing this, Zhu Yijun swiftly intervened: “The Way of Heaven diminishes what is excessive and supplements what is lacking.”

“The state acts as Heaven’s agent—that is an eternal principle. Li Zhi merely repeats the words of the sages. Minister Zhang, you need not be so sensitive.”

If you find heretical doctrines intolerable, there’s always some sage’s saying that fits your taste.

Zhu Yijun waved his hand, dismissing the matter lightly: “Follow Minister Chen’s proposal. Make ‘Distribution’ the slogan’s core. Have the Hanlin Academy draft several catchy phrases.”

Zhang Han opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, helpless.

Zhu Yijun feared further entanglement in this topic and immediately turned to Wang Guoguang: “Minister Wang, speak on taxation—how did this year’s distribution fare?”

This was the signal to enter the annual agenda.

The ministers sat upright, alert.

Wang Guoguang, having had no chance to speak on the prior topic, had been distracted by other thoughts; now summoned, he returned to himself.

“Your Majesty,” Wang Guoguang paused to gather his thoughts, “in the seventh year of Wanli, after reserving summer and autumn grain taxes for each province, the total amounted to 13,203,144 shi, plus a fraction.”

“All tax categories, consolidated into central and local treasuries, totaled 21,320,000 taels of silver, of which the Tai Cang Treasury held 5,984,600 taels, plus a fraction.”

Since the Wanli fourth year, whether provincial or central, all retained or transferred revenues had to be registered with the Ministry of Revenue.

Now, all central treasuries—Tai Cang, Taipu Temple, Jieshen Treasury, even the Inner Treasury—though still operating independently, were now subject to unified accounting by the Ministry of Revenue.

That was why, in previous years, Wang Guoguang could only report Tai Cang’s annual income; now he could consolidate all into one report.

Moreover, when recording the treasury’s annual accounts, two ledgers must be kept—one for actual receipts, one converted into silver value.

Though seemingly a minor standardization, this change in accounting methods greatly expanded the Ministry of Revenue’s authority and workload.

Since then, the Five Ministries and the Inner Treasury had frequently clashed with the Ministry of Revenue.

Had it not been for expanding the Ministry’s staff, Old Wang would have demanded retirement—though even the expansion sparked debate: the Guozijian complained annually that the Ministry of Revenue recruited too many monitor students, significantly lowering the promotion rate of Taixue graduates. Of course, the Guozijian’s complaints carried little weight.

Wang Guoguang continued: “...Mineral taxes, customs duties, and salt taxes remained level with last year. Land tax accounted for 82%, down two percentage points from last year. Commercial tax rose two percentage points, adding 400,000 taels of silver, due to the rise of coastal shipping, the establishment of trade with the Duoyan Three Tribes, and increased profits from Huguang imperial clan contributions.”

Setting aside how the Ministry of Revenue’s terminology had gradually adopted the Emperor’s phrasing, Shen Shixing immediately asked: “What of non-tax revenues this year?”

Since the Emperor’s ascension eight years ago, not a single year had passed without confiscations; indeed, confiscations had become one of the financial pillars of the new policies.

Even a man as upright as Shen Shixing had grown addicted.

Wang Guoguang clicked his tongue: “Minister Shen, the estates confiscated by Shi Mao and Liu Shiyan’s faction have yet to be recorded. Excluding depreciated paper money, the current silver equivalent stands at 1,100,000 taels.”

Liquid cash was scarce; most were paintings, calligraphy, and jewels.

Shen Shixing clicked his tongue too, silently calculating how much Shi Mao, Liu Shiyan, and others might yield after their next round of confiscations.

At this moment, Wen Chun, who had spoken little until now, suddenly addressed the Emperor: “Your Majesty, non-tax revenues are not a sustainable solution. If judicial organs pursue profit, they will corrupt the moral climate.”

Too many confiscations, and officials will have no means to live.

Shi Mao and others might be driven to desperation—not without reason in the Emperor’s excessive severity.

Zhu Yijun readily agreed: “Naturally.”

He gave a perfunctory reply, then turned again to Wang Guoguang: “What of expenditures?”

Wang Guoguang answered effortlessly: “Your Majesty, in the seventh year of Wanli, provincial reserves were used locally; central expenditures totaled 18,900,000 taels of silver.”

“Border garrison silver accounted for 47%, up five percentage points from last year; garrison and guard officer salaries and rations still accounted for 14%…”

The Ming dynasty’s military expenditures had long hovered stubbornly above the 60% threshold.

“The Emperor’s personal household still accounted for 10%; imperial clan stipends accounted for 19%, down one percentage point from last year, ten points from Wanli first year; civil official salaries accounted for 6%…”

Civil official salaries were the lowest expenditure, yet compared to Wanli first year, they had tripled.

This was also because local officials’ performance bonuses were retained directly by provincial and prefectural treasuries.

“Of these, 41.9% of revenue and 49.4% of expenditure were in silver, concentrated in Nan Zhili, Zhejiang, Huguang, and other wealthy southern regions.”

Silverization was an unavoidable path—impossible to leap directly to credit currency.

Before that, adjusting the software was an unavoidable task.

Listening to Wang Guoguang’s clear, substantive report, Zhu Yijun felt deeply satisfied.

Since the new policies began, this Minister of Revenue and Minister of Works Zhu Heng had both been unobtrusive, low-profile, yet their competence and loyalty were beyond reproach. Though lacking the statesman’s skill to harmonize yin and yang, they had truly mastered independent governance.

Especially the Ministry of Revenue’s reforms—smooth as flowing water, without a single delay.

The silverization data was proposed last year; this year it was already implemented. Wasn’t this the very bedrock of the new policies—these steadfast supporters?

“Furthermore, in accordance with Your Majesty’s edict, I have consulted my colleagues and compiled the Wanli Financial Records. This year’s edition is complete and respectfully presented to Your Majesty.”

Wang Guoguang lifted the four bound volumes before him with both hands.

Zhang Hong, familiar with the procedure, took them and presented them to the Emperor.

Zhu Yijun reached out and accepted them.

He had seen the blueprints two years ago—this volume was, in effect, the current tax code’s master outline.

It covered treasuries, Guanglu Temple, imperial clans, official salaries, stipends, grain transport, granaries, garrison rations, military colonies, salt, tea, paper money, and miscellaneous levies—truly comprehensive.

After flipping through a few pages, Zhu Yijun signaled to Wang Shizhen beside him: “Director Wang, retain the original volumes in the History Bureau for archival purposes. As for publication… we’ll need another revised edition.”

Wang Guoguang, beside him, blinked in surprise: “Your Majesty speaks of another volume—did I overlook something?”

Zhu Yijun shook his head: “Not your oversight, Minister Wang. It’s something I’ve just decided this year that must be incorporated here.”

Saying this, he gestured to the side.

Immediately, Wei Chao, Li Jin, Sun Long, and others carried stacks of scrolls and piled them before Wang Guoguang.

In Wang Guoguang’s puzzled gaze, Zhu Yijun gestured and explained: “These are the Inner Court’s accounts since Wanli first year—properties acquired, annual income and expenditures, all recorded here.”

“I made a public promise—I cannot renege. Minister Wang, compile these into a volume and integrate them into the Wanli Financial Records.”

As he spoke, Zhu Yijun turned to Chen Sanmo, Chief Censor of the Ministry of Personnel, and said slowly: “From now on, each year, the Six Censors shall audit the Inner Court’s accounts and publish them throughout the realm.”

(End of Chapter)