Chapter 320

“To rehabilitate Wang Zhi?”

“What injustice could possibly be righted for Wang Zhi!?”

Before the emperor could speak, a chorus of questions rose up around him.

Zhu Yijun sat as if uninvolved, reaching up to scratch his ear, watching Li Zaiting with keen interest—since someone else was taking the front line, he had no need to rush his stance.

Each generation has its own injustices to right.

Wang Zhi was a pirate of the Jiajing era, “commanding a force of one hundred thousand, commanding over a thousand ships large and small, dominating ten thousand li of sea, brazen and unafraid.”

Of course, this was the typical exaggeration of literati, but regardless, since the founding of the Ming, no pirate chief could rival Wang Zhi.

He gathered followers under the code of piracy, assembled pirates to occupy islands, upheld trust, and established private markets.

Most crucially, Wang Zhi was unlike other pirates—he was solely focused on trade, never looting or plundering, and even cooperated with officials to eliminate pirates who disrupted commerce—“At the time, Lu Qi and Shen Jiu lured Japanese pirates to raid, suddenly attacking Qiantang; the Deputy Maritime Commissioner of Zhejiang, Ding Zhan, and others issued orders to Wang Zhi and others to capture the pirates and surrender them, temporarily permitting mutual trade; Wang Zhi coerced the Japanese to capture Lu Qi and others and deliver them.”

He protected oceanic trade routes, welcomed foreign merchants, pacified the people, safeguarded maritime commerce, cooperated with officials to suppress lawlessness—so much so that pirates trusted him, the people loved him, and even foreign rulers admired and submitted to him.

Around the thirtieth year of Jiajing.

Backed by Deputy Maritime Commissioner Ding Zhan, Wang Zhi recruited outlaws and fully controlled the sea route for Portuguese and other foreign envoys, frequently trading with Japan—the Portuguese matchlock musket was copied by Japan through Wang Zhi as the hub.

Wang Zhi even established outposts in Suzhou and Hangzhou, managing mutual trade—“Foreign ships came and went without obstruction at checkpoints, and traders swarmed Suzhou and Hangzhou, openly without fear.”

Of course, with Wang Zhi’s power reaching such heights, the rank of Deputy Maritime Commissioner of Zhejiang was no longer sufficient.

A fat sheep is bound to be struck with a heavy fist.

In the thirty-second year of Jiajing, Yu Dayou ambushed Ligang; Wang Zhi suffered a crushing defeat and fled to Japan.

With no tigers in the mountains, Wang Zhi’s fortunes soared to another peak upon entering Japan: “He settled in Matsura Bay in Satsuma, assumed the title of ‘Capital,’ called himself ‘Prince Hui,’ appointed officials with formal titles, controlled strategic points, and commanded all thirty-six islands.”

He had become a pirate king.

It was not until the thirty-sixth year of Jiajing that Hu Zongxian, Viceroy of Zhejiang and Zhili, promised to “open mutual trade” and pardon Wang Zhi; the latter, obsessed with commerce, willingly returned home.

Of course, Hu Zongxian, merely a Viceroy, had no authority to decide whether a rebel who had declared himself king could be pardoned.

The more the Jiajing Emperor aged, the more he feared rebels.

Thus, in the thirty-eighth year of Jiajing, after more than a year in prison, Wang Zhi was publicly executed in Zhejiang.

Even until his death, Wang Zhi pleaded from prison, asserting he had never committed evil in his life: “Born for mutual trade, dying for mutual trade—I beg the court to forgive me, allowing me to serve as a loyal dog or horse, striving to pacify the seas for the court.”

This happened merely twenty years ago; memories were still sharp, and the ministers knew Wang Zhi’s case all too well.

Precisely because of this, Zhang Han, who had just been preparing to retire, now reacted most fiercely: “Wang Zhi assumed the title ‘Song,’ called himself Prince Hui—was he truly unjustly executed for declaring himself king and establishing a court?”

Whether Wang Zhi deserved to die—Zhang Han had the most authority to speak on this matter; during the imperial court deliberation of the Jiajing thirty-seventh year, Zhang Han, then Vice Minister of War, had indeed spoken.

Li Zaiting met the Minister of Justice’s displeasure with calm composure.

Zhang Han’s attitude was entirely expected.

Unlike Wang Anshi, whose affairs belonged to the bygone Song dynasty—people could afford to speak impartially from afar.

Wang Zhi was different: Zhang Han had clearly annotated in the Ministry of War’s records that he was “a threat to state policy and a poison to the people.”

To rehabilitate Wang Zhi would make Minister Zhang’s face lose all dignity.

In response to these accusations, Li Zaiting solemnly nodded: “An injustice is a wrong. The court originally promised Wang Zhi he would not be killed; yet after he was lured back, he was beheaded—is this not a wrong?”

This argument had glaring flaws, immediately seized upon by Minister of Rites Wang Zongyi: “Minister Li, do not obfuscate. It was Hu Zongxian who tricked him with a promise of life—how can you make it sound as if the central court had made such a pledge?”

At this moment, Wang Shizhen, who had never commented on state affairs, suddenly interjected: “A Viceroy is one who oversees and supervises. Hu Zongxian governed all major affairs in Nan Zhili, Zhejiang, Fujian—could he not represent the court before pirates?”

The scene had clearly split in two; Zhu Yijun could not help but murmur in wonder.

Wang Zongyi, the old scholar, held a simple aversion to men like Wang Zhi who fled abroad and usurped royal titles—his reaction was unsurprising.

Wang Shizhen, who had spent over a decade campaigning for his father’s rehabilitation, had no qualms about rehabilitation.

Moreover, Wang Shizhen had already written a sharp critique of this matter in his “Records of the Japanese.”

Of course, he dared not accuse the court of injustice; he placed the blame squarely on Hu Zongxian, resenting him for failing to fully explain the situation to the center—“Zongxian submitted a detailed report to the throne, yet dared not reveal the full truth.”

He also subtly implied that Wang Zhi’s unjust death had caused “the realm to tremble, and the southeast’s marrow and fat to be drained.”

When history is too recent, it is hard to judge—everyone has their own ledger, their own stance, and thus no one can speak truly impartially.

Zhu Yijun caught a glimpse of Zhang Han’s face, dark with suppressed anger, poised to strike.

Seeing this, he immediately fulfilled his duty to control the scene, clearing his throat: “State affairs—whether just or unjust—should not be debated here. Minister Li, speak plainly: what is the connection between Wang Zhi’s case and maritime transport?”

Matters of state: save the moral high ground for later; the real issue is weighing benefits and harms.

Zhang Han’s words were stifled; Wang Shizhen fell silent.

Li Zaiting smoothly took up the thread: “Your Majesty, this matter is long and complex.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully to condense the tale: “I have been ordered to establish the Fujian Maritime Trade Office; now the office, port, shipping routes, foreign states, and maritime merchants are all fully prepared.”

“Following ancestral precedent, vessels sailing from coastal regions must obtain permits and documents from the Maritime Trade Office to be permitted to sail overseas.”

“Following the precedent of the twelfth year of Zhengde, maritime merchant ships, foreign tribute vessels, and cargo ships are taxed at a rate of two-tenths.”

The Ming had enforced maritime prohibitions for two centuries, with varying purposes and categories—any ancestral precedent could be found.

In the early Ming, under Emperor Taizu, maritime prohibitions were primarily to guard against Japanese pirates.

They were temporary measures such as: “Ban fishermen from going to sea to prevent Japanese pirates,” and “All foreign incense and goods are forbidden to be traded; those already possessed must be sold within three months.”

After the Japanese pirate threat receded, the official decree merely forbade “building ships with three or more masts in violation of regulations, carrying prohibited goods to sea to trade with foreign lands.”

The list of prohibited goods in the Ming Code included only “horses, cattle, military supplies, iron, copper coins, silk brocade, satin, and silk.”

Clearly, this was still based on national security concerns—at least ships with fewer than three masts and non-prohibited goods were permitted to trade.

The general attitude was: I don’t know what maritime trade is, but I must guard against Japanese pirates.

By the Yongle era, the court began issuing “permits”—that is, registering and granting licenses—to allow ships to sail for trade.

For example, Fujian separated tribute missions from merchant voyages: “The Fujian Maritime Trade Office was solely under Fuzhou; only Ryukyu tribute missions were handled by it, while all merchant vessels sailed from Zhangzhou and Quanzhou, requiring only a permit issued by the provincial and prefectural authorities.”

Small merchants and civilians without permits could not own ocean-going vessels at all—they were forced to use flat-headed ships incapable of long voyages.

At this point, the state was effectively suppressing private maritime merchants, clearly aiming to make way for state monopolies.

The general attitude was: I know maritime trade is profitable, so only I may conduct it.

Precisely because of this, Zheng He’s expeditions flourished during the same period, and state ships sailed frequently.

But after Zheng He, the tide of maritime trade turned sharply downward.

Some claimed it invited Japanese pirates and threatened border defenses; others argued it was a losing trade, draining the people’s wealth; still others claimed it destabilized tax revenues by shifting them from physical goods.

Thus, beginning with Emperor Xuande, the court truly believed these arguments.

Even state-sponsored maritime trade was abandoned; the court could only wait helplessly for foreign tribute missions and licensed trade.

By the Chenghua era, when Emperor Xianzong attempted to revive maritime trade for revenue, he was met with a storm of opposition.

Minister of War Liu Daxia bluntly claimed Zheng He’s voyages had killed tens of thousands: “Zheng He’s expeditions to the Western Seas cost tens of millions in funds and killed tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians—even if treasures were brought back, what benefit to the state?”

At this point, the court’s attitude had become: maritime trade is terrible—no one should engage in it.

Of course, it was precisely then that smuggling by nobles and officials flourished.

Liu Jing, Regional Commander of Guangdong, packaged and sold military supplies of sulfur and saltpeter to Vietnam.

The Wei Duke Prefecture of Nan Zhili colluded with the Zhejiang Maritime Surveillance Commissioner to divert “surplus official salt revenue” to exchange with the Franks for spices.

This situation—where the center claimed it was unprofitable, yet officials privately rushed to participate—continued until the reign of Emperor Wuzong.

In the third year of Zhengde, maritime trade saw a turning point: a prolonged and heated debate over “prohibition versus openness” naturally began.

First, the eunuch Xiong Xuan of the Maritime Trade Office, abandoning the old model of “waiting passively like a farmer by a tree,” actively welcomed foreign ships outside tribute years and petitioned to allow them to land after taxation.

The Ministry of Rites struck back immediately, rebuking him: “You have usurped authority; return to Nanjing to manage your duties.”

But as one fell, another rose: his successor, the eunuch Bi Zhen, again petitioned for authority: “The old precedent placed all ocean-going vessels under the exclusive jurisdiction of the Maritime Trade Office; recently, regional governors and provincial officials have been allowed to share control—please restore the old system.”

Of course, this motive of the inner court to seize revenue was immediately countered by the Censorate: “Ban all unauthorized trade; foreign ships arriving outside tribute years shall be driven far away.”

Once the fire was lit, it could not be stopped.

Once this precedent was opened, local officials, central and regional authorities, and coastal elites of the southeast all entered the fray, fighting bloody battles.

Wu Tingju, Right Administrator of Guangdong, petitioned to permit shipping and impose a two-tenths tax on vessels; his subordinate, Right Assistant Administrator Chen Boxian, immediately impeached him, claiming this would allow “thousands of rogue merchants to build giant ships, privately arm themselves, and ravage the seas, becoming a scourge to the region.”

The Ministry of Rites endorsed the latter’s position: “Order local governors and censors to restrain foreign ships”; but Guangdong’s Provincial Governor Lin Tingxuan and others ignored the order: “Continued as before.”

The wealthy family of He Zhao, former Junior Tutor to the Crown Prince, sent his second son, Censor He Ao, to raise the alarm over foreign threats: “Last year, foreign ships sailed boldly into Guangping Province, their cannon fire shaking the city walls”; while Chen Jin, then Governor of Guangdong, retorted: “Opening maritime trade generates revenue to fund military pay; we can even replicate cannons.”

This struggle lasted over a decade.

From the third year of Zhengde, the two factions clashed continuously, and policy swung unpredictably.

Until the sixteenth year of Zhengde, when Emperor Wuzong died in the Leopard Pavilion.

The day after the emperor’s death, Grand Secretary Yang Tinghe ordered the expulsion of all foreign envoys in the capital: “All tribute envoys from Hami, Turfan, and

Guangdong finally ended its indecision, launching a crackdown on the Franks, even sparking the famous Guangdong Tumenshan Naval Battle, which loudly marked the end of the Zhengde Sea Dispute.

Of course, even if the Zhengde opening of the seas failed, it left behind some historical records.

These are precisely what Li Zaiting calls the ancestral statutes.

“A tax of two tenths!?”

This tax rate is alarmingly high.

Wang Guoguang immediately turned his head, fixing his gaze tightly on Li Zaiting.

Shen Shixing also showed surprise—how had Li Zaiting maneuvered so skillfully in Fujian to secure a tax of two tenths!?

Ancestral statutes are one thing, but they cannot be applied outright; the Song Dynasty once routinely collected over a million taels annually from sea trade.

Times are not what they once were.

Consider that under Gao Gong’s Longqing opening of the seas, resistance was immense—only Quanzhou’s Yuegang was opened, taxes were left with local authorities as military pay, and annual revenue never exceeded “more than ten thousand taels,” barely enough to appease beggars.

After two years, the number of foreign tribute ships increased slightly, and customs revenue rose a bit.

Fujian authorities immediately submitted a memorial stating, “Revenue suddenly surged to twenty-nine thousand taels, truly draining the pond to catch all the fish,” and since then, it has remained fixed at thirty thousand taels.

Compared to this, a tax of two tenths is truly a massive sum.

At the founding of the state, the Taizu levied only six percent on maritime trade, yet maritime taxes never fell below 170,000 taels.

Li Zaiting nodded calmly: “Foreign tributaries and maritime merchants—I mean private merchants—beg daily for open trade, and even a twenty percent share would draw them like moths to flame.”

“As for taxation, I have already reached consensus with the Fujian merchant guilds and tributary states.”

He added a brief explanation, then continued: “Now, their only concern is the court’s stance.”

“They fear the court will waver—initiating then rescinding, thereby provoking the very threat it seeks to contain.”

“Added to this, agitators have spread the folk song in Fujian’s streets: ‘Better trust smugglers than the Maritime Customs.’ It’s nearly become a chorus.”

“Even if I personally vouch for them, they still fear I am a second Hu Zongxian. Ultimately, this matter requires support from the central authorities…”

At this point, the meaning was perfectly clear.

He who sets the precedent shall have no descendants.

Wang Zhi was born for open trade, died for open trade; even his dying words pleaded: “Open the ports, pay taxes, and make the coast prosperous.”

Since his execution twenty years ago, foreign pirates have raged in indignation; Fujian and Zhejiang merchants all deem him wronged; the people of the southeast demand his rehabilitation.

One could say Wang Zhi has become the spiritual symbol of coastal open trade.

Though luring Wang Zhi to his death brought momentary satisfaction, the cost was the credibility of frontier officials, the prestige of the central court, and the legitimacy of establishing open trade.

Why is the story of “moving the log to establish trust” still celebrated? Once the business environment is destroyed, mere empty words cannot lure merchants back.

Now, Li Zaiting has done everything a frontier official can do.

What remains is for the court to declare its position.

Not a single word, not a single syllable, not a single detail is wrong!

Zhang Han frowned: “How can the court lower itself for such people?”

Wang Shizhen lowered his eyes: “Then stop dreaming of taxing them—focus instead on catching smugglers.”

After Wang Zhi’s death, Japanese pirates resumed their raids; the number of soldiers, officials, and civilians killed or captured exceeded several hundred thousand.

In Wang Shizhen’s histories, this blame was long ago subtly laid at the feet of the Shizong Emperor and the court ministers of that era.

Even Wang, the alliance leader, now showed a rare scowl.

Wang Guoguang stepped forward to mediate: “Maritime trade is a vital source of revenue. For years, you have all endured hardships for the sake of the state—do not undermine harmony.”

It was clear the Grand Minister of Revenue truly wanted to levy taxes.

He hesitated, glancing at Li Zaiting: “Minister Li, if coastal trade opens, roughly how much maritime tax might we expect?”

Don’t ask what the central authorities can do for you—first tell us how much tax revenue you can bring them.

Whether Wang Zhi is rehabilitated or not hinges not on whether he was wronged, but on how much the court is willing to pay to admit fault on behalf of the Shizong Emperor.

Shen Shixing and Wang Xijue both leaned forward instinctively, fixing their gaze on Li Zaiting.

Li Zaiting paused, then said: “If I governed Fujian, within two years, annual revenue would be no less than one million taels.”

He did not say what would happen after he left Fujian.

Just as during the Zhengde-era maritime ban debate, when Governor Lin Tingxuan ignored the Ministry of Rites’ prohibition, if local and central policies diverge again, maritime taxes could easily revert to thirty thousand taels a year.

Outsiders naturally ignore these nuances, hearing only the figure: one million taels annually…

Wang Zongyi’s eyelid twitched; he cast a questioning glance at this former Governor-General of Guangdong and Guangxi.

Yin Zhengmao hesitated, then whispered: “It’s roughly accurate. In the twenty-sixth year of Jiajing, after our troops crushed the pirates and captured Shuangyu Island, in May and June of that same year, over twelve hundred vessels—large and small—still sailed to smuggle, unaware of the crackdown.”

Wang Zongyi nodded thoughtfully.

This estimate was vague, for it surely included fishermen in bare sampans.

Yet even so, at a twenty percent tax rate, one million taels annually was no exaggeration.

He cast a sidelong glance at Zhang Han: One million taels in revenue might yet be bent to some compromise…

Though Yin Zhengmao spoke softly, every man in the hall heard him.

After confirming Li Zaiting had not exaggerated, the ministers formed their own judgments.

Wang Xijue spoke bluntly: “Your Majesty’s benevolence shines bright. I propose we mildly pardon Wang Zhi, to soothe the hearts of maritime merchants.”

Shen Shixing did not look at Zhang Han, but turned to the Emperor: “Your Majesty, Hu Zongxian betrayed Wang Zhi, deceived the throne, and caused him to suffer injustice for twenty years. Now the truth is clear—the court must correct this wrong.”

Grand Secretary Shen was far more mature—he knew to give the Shizong Emperor a face-saving exit.

It would prevent the Emperor from sacrificing the substance of maritime taxation to preserve his grandfather’s honor.

Blaming Hu Zongxian was an open secret; Wang Shizhen had long done so, even claiming Hu did it deliberately to earn the title “Grand Tutor to the Crown Prince.”

Then Wang Zongyi, Yin Zhengmao, Wen Chun, and others voiced their support in quick succession, fearing the Emperor might refuse.

Zhu Yijun watched Zhang Han’s shifting expression and secretly sympathized, offering him a reassuring glance.

The Emperor had said nothing—could everything require his direct pressure to proceed?

Encouraging the initiative of the Grand Secretariat and Six Ministries was a vital matter.

Seeing the ministers reach consensus, Zhu Yijun finally spoke: “At that time, the maritime ban was state policy. He declared himself king, established a regime, sought to force the court to lift the ban, interfered with state policy, and violated the law—by statute, he deserved execution.”

After all, Wang Zhi had declared himself emperor of Song; his execution was entirely justified.

Zhang Han’s expression eased slightly.

Shen Shixing opened his mouth to speak.

Zhu Yijun continued: “Now, my late father has slightly lifted the maritime ban, and I have further expanded it. Times have changed. The people of the southeast hope I will show leniency now—it is their collective wish.”

Within the context of feudal rule, Wang Zhi deserved death—but if we are preparing for the sprouts of capitalism, we may objectively reassess him, stepping outside the historical context of Jiajing.

It was a bit of a compromise, but both sides in the hall fell silent: “Your Majesty is wise!”

Li Zaiting, having achieved his goal, was satisfied: “Your Majesty is wise!”

Zhu Yijun continued: “The Duke of An once told me that Japanese pirates arose because the strict maritime ban destroyed the livelihoods of coastal people.”

This was the foundational consensus behind Gao Gong’s promotion of the Longqing maritime opening: pirate raids were caused by the maritime ban; as long as the ban remained, the pirate threat would never end.

All ministers had served under Longqing; they accepted this without dispute.

The Emperor had effectively rehabilitated Wang Zhi—he was a good man, driven by circumstances; his violation of law was pitiable.

“I have heard that when Hu Zongxian asked Wang Zhi’s son to write to him in Japan, Wang Zhi replied: ‘How foolish you are! While I live, I enrich you; if I return, your whole household dies.’”

“Yet even so, once the promise of open trade was made, Wang Zhi immediately laid down arms and surrendered in proper form.”

“Even in prison, he continued to advise my ancestor: if the Emperor shows mercy, let me serve as a loyal dog or horse—open the ports of Zhejiang’s Daishan, Changtu, and others, as in Guangdong, levy taxes, and ensure tribute missions are not delayed.”

Wang Zhi spent his entire life striving to realize his ideal of open trade.

If viewed outside that historical context, Wang Zhi represented advanced productive forces—the pioneer of capitalism’s attempt to develop in the Jiajing era.

Of course, he thought it, but Zhu Yijun would never say so.

He paused, then delivered his verdict: “He died as he lived. For his efforts to urge the state to open ports and levy taxes, I hereby posthumously bestow upon Wang Zhi the title ‘Five-Ship Lord.’”

As soon as he spoke, Zhang Han let out a muffled groan, as if he had suffered an internal injury.

Li Zaiting kindly asked: “Your Majesty, shall the title be inherited by his son?”

Zhu Yijun paused, then waved his hand: “Let his descendants live in peace.”

To make a symbolic gesture, there was no need to elevate his heirs.

Otherwise, Hu Zongxian also had descendants—how many times could we reverse verdicts?

Zhu Yijun turned to Zhu Heng: “Minister Zhu, you have seen—Fujian is about to open its ports. Next, we must follow Zheng He’s example. When will the Ministry of Works deliver the great ships?”

There was no reason for state-run shipping to stand idle after private trade opened.

Imperial merchants must join this non-competitive market too!

Zhu Heng immediately perked up: “Your Majesty, after spring, we will conduct several coastal trials—empty, half-loaded, fully loaded. If all goes well, delivery can be expected by late spring or early summer.”

Zhu Yijun still trusted Zhu Heng: “Where will they be launched?”

Zhu Heng nodded: “The treasure ships are fifteen zhang long, two zhang six chi wide, and one zhang three chi deep. They cannot pass through the canals—must be assembled at the seaport yard before launching.”

“We’ve settled on Huai’an Port—it allows northward to Tianjin and southward to Fujian. After one round-trip test, they may sail overseas.”

Zhu Yijun listened, secretly disappointed.

If the treasure ships had launched from Tianjin, he could have defied opposition and gone to cut the ribbon himself. Huai’an was too far.

He waved his hand, dismissing the matter: “Tell me the crew selections and routes as well.”

Yin Zhengmao seized the opening: “Your Majesty, when I served as Governor-General of Guangdong and Guangxi, I recruited several battalions with deep knowledge of sea conditions—they can…”

Wang Zongyi cut him off without mercy: “Grand Marshal, you have long been famed for your integrity. Do not recommend men for trade missions.”

Yin Zhengmao froze.

He was notorious for corruption in the streets; to be told this outright was deeply humiliating.

He wanted to defend himself but dared not speak, muttering instead: “How else to pay troops if you don’t seize wealth? Standing and talking doesn’t hurt your waist.”

“Cough. Cough.”

Zhu Yijun cleared his throat: “Enough. Let Sun Long of the Directorate of Ceremonial lead this mission, with Marquis Jinghai Zhu Shitai as escort.”

As soon as he spoke, Sun Long’s face lit up with ecstatic joy; even in winter, steam rose from his nostrils.

Shen Shixing glanced over—these eunuchs had dreamed since childhood of emulating Zheng He; now this chance was a fortune earned over eight lifetimes.

He shook his head, dismissing idle thoughts: “Your Majesty, the route was preliminarily agreed upon in the last court deliberation: from Tianjin Port to Korea, then Japan, to the farthest isles, then back via the Ten-Thousand Stone Shoals to Fujian.”

The Ten-Thousand Stone Shoals were the South China Sea.

Ocean voyages carried missions; profit on the first trip was secondary—showing off military might was essential; they must pass through.

Zhu Yijun had no objection—as long as they went to Japan.

As for the mission, he would leave secret orders for Sun Long and Zhu Shitai—he didn’t quite remember where Japan’s silver mines were; they’d need to survey.

In any case, after land surveying comes tax reform.

Tax reform requires capital—Japan’s silver mines must be developed as soon as possible.

“Then let it be so.”

Zhu Yijun waved his hand, reiterated to Zhu Heng about filing the documents, and ended the topic.

While the ministers deliberated, the sun gradually rose higher.

By the time they finished discussing maritime transport, the sun hung firmly in the zenith.

As the ministers’ stomachs growled, it was natural to balance work and rest, lest the elders wear themselves out.

A simple imperial meal arrived as scheduled.

The annual collective lunch had become a modest tradition; the ministers did not refuse, chatting idly as they ate.

Without wasting much time, they quickly finished their meal, then returned to their posts to resume deliberating state affairs.

“What do you all say about the policy of replacing hereditary chieftains with imperial officials in Guizhou, Guangdong, and Guangxi?” Zhu Yijun drained his tea after the meal, clearing his stomach.

“Tu” refers to hereditary chieftains; “liu” refers to appointed imperial officials.

“Replacing hereditary chieftains with imperial officials” means abolishing hereditary rule and establishing prefectures and counties with appointed officials.

Of course, surveying households, measuring land, and verifying tax obligations were also inherent parts of the policy.

At this, Wen Chun suddenly rose: “Your Majesty, the Tian and Yang of Sizhou and Bozhou, the Cen and Huang of Guangdong and Guangxi—they have held hereditary power for centuries and have grown too powerful to control.”

“Now that the state treasury is steadily filling, replacing hereditary chieftains with imperial officials is imperative!”

(End of Chapter)