Chapter 323: Spears and Halberds Reach the Clouds, Banners Glitter the Sun

The emperor’s sudden display of pretense clearly fell outside the established military review protocol, for having an outsider lead his horse carried a tinge of humiliation.

Though the sovereign is unquestionably the master, should high-ranking court officials be granted the honor of leading the emperor’s horse, they would consider it a rare favor—but outsiders remain outsiders; just over a decade ago, the two sides were bitter mortal enemies, so to claim heartfelt reverence would be self-deception.

Upon hearing this, San Niangzi first stared in shock, then fell silent; her attendants’ faces darkened with suppressed anger.

The atmosphere before Anding Gate grew strangely tense.

The Oirats smirked with delight, the Da Man watched coldly, the Tusi furrowed his brow, while the Koreans eagerly stepped forward; civil and military officials exchanged glances, lips moving but words unspoken.

Zhu Yijun smiled at San Niangzi, appearing remarkably patient.

Altan Khan is near death.

Though his exact condition remains uncertain, at seventy-three, a nomad of the steppe who has endured countless battles, once gravely ill, he will rarely rise again—even if kept alive, he has little more than two years left.

In other words, Zhu Yijun is bullying a thirty-year-old prospective widow.

It is not that the emperor looks down on San Niangzi.

Even before Altan Khan’s illness was confirmed, the western Mongol tribes had begun stirring: his legitimate grandson, Chilike Taiji—“Taiji” being a transliteration of “crown prince,” misused by the Mongols to flatter their Golden Clan—assumed the position of Grand Administrator handed to him by Tuman Khan; his adopted son, Qatai Taiji, conspired with Dacheng Bijie, entangled with the White Lotus sect, seeking to monopolize Bansheng; now Shi Mao’s appearance in Bansheng was almost certainly tacitly approved by Altan Khan’s eldest son, Xina Huang Taiji… a chaos of demons dancing.

Tuman Khan, now in his prime, dominates the left wing, watching with predatory intent; if the right wing fractures into scattered dust after Altan Khan’s death, matters will grow dire.

At this moment, only San Niangzi holds the stature to shoulder the banner of the right wing.

Historically, this Lady of Loyalty and Obedience, before Altan Khan’s death and while the tribes remained unprepared, decisively launched the “Battle of Bansheng,” swiftly surrounding and brutally assaulting Qatai Taiji and Dacheng Bijie with her elite forces.

Upon hearing this, the various Taijis rushed to mediate, but San Niangzi pressed on, disregarding even Altan Khan’s mourning period, gathering troops and fighting for six months until she slew her adversary, Qatai Taiji.

After victory, San Niangzi showed no attachment, immediately surrendering Bansheng—and with it, Altan Khan’s granddaughter-in-law, Dacheng Bijie—to Altan’s eldest grandson, Chilike, securing his support.

At this point, San Niangzi commanded tens of thousands of horsemen and held absolute dominance over the western Mongol tribes; only then did she calmly accept the Ming court’s proposal and marry Altan’s eldest son, Xina Huang Taiji, reclaiming the moral high ground.

From this perspective, it was not San Niangzi who became a family heirloom—but rather, whoever she married became the Prince of Shunyi. In the thirty-fifth year of Wanli, Altan Khan’s great-grandson Busitu and San Niangzi’s grandson Sunang Taiji competed for succession by both proposing marriage to San Niangzi, hoping to receive her “transfer of the princely seal.”

Thus, quite the opposite: Zhu Yijun holds San Niangzi in the highest regard!

Precisely because of this, the Ming court began pressuring San Niangzi the moment she entered Beijing: first ignoring her, then inviting her to observe the military review, now openly humiliating her—preparing the ground is, after all, the privilege of the home side.

All this effort was aimed at bringing her to the negotiating table to discuss the grand strategy of the north.

What if the humiliation was too great, provoking rebellion?

Since Altan Khan fell ill, San Niangzi has not been idle: she has maintained the border markets, restrained her people, “cultivated close ties with frontier officials to foster harmony,” while repeatedly petitioning, declaring, “My descendants and tribe shall forever guard the frontier for His Majesty,” and “We deeply revere Han culture, grateful for Heaven’s grace.”

A shrewd politician who understands power dynamics like this knows how to avoid harm and seize advantage—when there is still room for negotiation, why would she rebel?

Their gazes met.

Around them, distant whispers and the faint chime of metal from beyond Anding Gate echoed.

The emperor’s expression was gentle; the outsider remained in a kneeling posture.

Long silence.

The gold-threaded turquoise pendants on San Niangzi’s ears swayed slightly; at last, she reacted.

“Your Imperial Majesty, according to steppe custom, only the warrior who has tamed the Hai Dong Qing has the right to hold the Khan’s bow and lead his reins.”

San Niangzi learned Chinese from Zhao Quan since childhood; after her enfeoffment, she studied the Four Books and Five Classics alongside Altan Khan under Chongwen Guang; since then, she has frequently debated and refined her skills with Han frontier officials.

Now, engaging in riddles with the emperor, she sounded nothing like a barbarian of the frontier.

Zhu Yijun uttered an “oh,” and asked casually: “Am I less than the steppe Khan?”

Since you’ve been in frequent contact with frontier officials and even petitioned for support, don’t speak of distance or impossibility.

After decades of border trade, the court’s influence over the western wing may well rival the Khan’s.

Using that as leverage is unconvincing.

San Niangzi, hand resting on her crimson skirt, replied without a crack: “Emperors who rule the Central Plains—Tang, Yuan, or our own dynasty—are all Tiankehan, the Khan of Khans.”

As she spoke, she brushed her hair behind her ear, glancing subtly at the emperor’s reaction.

Zhu Yijun’s face remained expressionless, offering no response.

Seeing nothing in his expression, San Niangzi continued, voice trembling with plaintive sincerity: “But this outsider dares not call herself a warrior, let alone a warrior among warriors—perhaps… I lack the merit to tame Tuman Khan, this wild steed, for the Tiankehan.”

Hearing this, Zhu Yijun could not help but laugh.

The unspoken object in their dialogue was understood by both.

Zhu Yijun smiled and shook his head: “Lady of Loyalty and Obedience commands troops and leads ten thousand horsemen—not merely your own strength, but the combined might of ten thousand. The reins of this wild steed, Tuman Khan, are yours to hold.”

He paused, then laid down his terms: “Just keep the wild steed quiet—I shall ride it myself.”

Upon hearing this, San Niangzi’s furrowed brows finally relaxed.

She had feared the emperor’s greed, that he might use the western wing as cannon fodder, driving wolves to devour tigers.

This response, at last, fell within her expectations.

Thinking of this, San Niangzi drew a deep breath, lowered her skirt, and bowed respectfully: “This outsider dares to lead the emperor’s horse.”

With that, San Niangzi stepped forward calmly amid the varied stares of the crowd.

The wild steed had been snorting loudly, but as a slender arm reached out, one hand seized the bridle, the other stroked the mane down to the ears.

The snorting ceased instantly.

Zhu Yijun looked down, watching silently.

He turned to survey the officials of the Ministry of War and the Honglu Temple, then gave a slight nod: “Let us proceed.”

No sooner had he spoken than, from unknown origin, cheers erupted from the raised platforms and pavilions along the street—a faint but rising clamor.

Instantly, gongs and drums sounded again, drowning out the noise.

The gates of Anding Gate swung wide; the imperial procession surged forward once more.

“Our Emperor has completed his martial review, disciplined his troops, and strengthened the imperial capital.”

“Dragon banners gleam over tiger and leopard camps; six armies march in clouds, armor bright.”

“…”

As Anding Gate opened, music from both sides of the imperial road swelled, and the “Song of Martial Accomplishment” began to play.

The Military Review Ground was a wengcheng; beyond Anding Gate, it lay just ahead, connected by the imperial road.

Qi Jiguang led the officers and subordinate commanders, who lined both sides of the imperial road in military attire, kneeling in welcome.

As the music sounded, the imperial procession slowly appeared.

The Embroidered Uniform Guard, who had earlier cleared the ground and road, surged forward, dividing into sixteen squads of cavalry, archers, and equipment, escorting the procession in formation; each group split again into eight squads, leading and trailing the procession, fifty men per squad.

As flags waved and commands rang out, formations shifted, each unit fulfilling its role.

“Your Majesty, please ascend the general’s platform to personally inspect the troops!”

Qi Jiguang led, followed by all officers and subordinates, their thunderous cries instantly drowning the entire imperial road.

The imperial guards on both sides knelt in unison.

Drums pounded on the review ground, welcoming the emperor to the general’s platform.

Civilians on the city wall leaned forward to peer down.

“What an imperial majesty!”

“The Emperor strides with dragon-like grace, truly heroic and awe-inspiring!”

“…The Emperor is on horseback.”

“As His Majesty rides, he truly looks down upon all things, swallowing mountains and rivers!”

“…”

“Who is leading the horse?”

The curious craned their necks, eager to leap down and catch the emperor’s eye.

But whether on the viewing platforms or the walls, once in position, movement was forbidden—this was the ritual of the military review.

During the Longqing era’s review, the Grand Coordinator of Military Affairs and the Censorate officers had led the troops to clear the grounds; four officers commanded two thousand cavalry to patrol the imperial road; only those bearing “imperial token badges” were permitted near.

This time, the emperor’s rare mercy allowed us this sight; if anyone dared move now, the imperial guards might strike without warning—so we could only twist our necks to see better.

“Judging by attire, is she a Tartar?”

“She’s a woman—her features, age, status, and favor—must be San Niangzi.”

“I thought only the Koreans would scramble for such duties—how did the Tartars grow so eager?”

“The court is resolute in martial affairs—its might spreads far, shocking the barbarians, who bow in praise of peace~” This was from the “Song of Martial Accomplishment,” though sung rather poorly.

“Alas, though this gentleman’s voice is plain, I, an old man, cannot help but be moved—back when Altan Khan’s forces stood before Beijing, our imperial guards wept and dared not advance; now, in this grand review, it is Altan’s wife who leads our emperor’s horse…”

“To display martial glory, to inspire the people!”

Not only the soldiers and civilians on the walls and platforms, but even the ministers flanking the general’s platform could not help but stare.

Under the gaze of ten thousand eyes, San Niangzi’s expression remained unchanged; Zhu Yijun gazed calmly left and right, nodding slightly, silently adding to himself: “My loyal ministers, you have worked hard.”

Unlike the Longqing-era review, the emperor did not enter the inner palace but instead set up a general’s platform outside the city to inspect the troops.

Naturally, the distance was short.

Zhu Yijun kept his gaze straight ahead, speaking casually: “By the way, Lady of Loyalty and Obedience, when you built Hancheng and asked me to name it, I was overjoyed.”

After humiliation comes negotiation—distribution of duties.

But the occasion is not right; first, let us speak of sentiment, of bonds.

!

San Niangzi, slender and graceful, walked ahead; after a moment’s thought, she replied: “It was Prince Shunyi, moved by the late emperor’s grace in opening the border markets, who led the people in construction—I dare not claim credit.”

Her reply was distracted; she kept her head down, her feet repeatedly twisting and pressing against the imperial road, the several gold rings at her waist jingling with each step.

Seeing this, Zhu Yijun silently praised her sharp perception.

He nodded slightly to the officers on either side, then whispered to San Niangzi: “Lady of Loyalty and Obedience, do you find this imperial road unusual?”

San Niangzi frowned slightly, nodding without hesitation: “What earth is this? So hard!”

Hard to miss—the streets within Beijing’s inner city are almost universally paved with blue bricks.

Such imperial roads were typically bonded with glutinous rice mortar—luxurious to the point of absurdity—yes, my palace in Guihua City was built the same way.

Yet this imperial road before her was neither paved with blue bricks nor made of the ternary soil commonly used in Ming official roads; instead, it was unnaturally hard underfoot, intriguing her.

Zhu Yijun feigned casualness and replied offhandedly: “This imperial road has a base of one-foot-thick ternary soil, a padding of eight-inch-thick crushed stone concrete, and a surface of two-inch-thick cement mortar—naturally, it is extremely solid.”

San Niangzi froze, utterly bewildered: “Crushed stone concrete? Cement mortar?”

She had overseen the construction of an entire city, yet she had never heard of such things before.

Zhu Yijun gave a brief explanation: “A new type of mortar, fired from volcanic ash—extremely durable, waterproof, and highly practical.”

He said no more than that, offering no further explanation to San Niangzi.

During the reorganization of the Huguang imperial clans, to smelt iron, they exercised initiative, improved their furnaces, and last year the imperial kilns adopted the innovation, leveraging the momentum to upgrade their kilns.

Once the furnace temperature rose, Zhu Yijun immediately thought of firing cement.

Of course, don’t expect to magically recall an encyclopedia and write down the exact process and formula on the spot—he’d never handled lime and knew nothing about it.

Fortunately, he retained some basic knowledge: volcanic ash could be fired into cement.

Though the technological tree must be climbed slowly, it didn’t stop a visible hand from giving a slight push, offering a hint.

Thus came this low-end version of the cement imperial road—still far inferior to the cement in Zhu Yijun’s memory, not only weaker in hardness but also far less water-resistant, and he didn’t know where the bottleneck lay.

Still, it was more than enough to astonish the barbarians beyond the frontier.

Zhu Yijun glanced at San Niangzi and saw the look of longing on her face—exactly as expected.

If San Niangzi hadn’t yearned for Central Plains life, why would she have built Guihua City and erected grand palaces?

Her fervent admiration for Han culture was no mere lip service.

Zhu Yijun cleared his throat and deliberately dragged it out: “Lady Zhongshun, you desire it? Volcanic ash is scarce, cement output is minimal—currently, only the imperial kilns produce it, and it is not sold externally.”

It was true: volcanic ash within the empire was too rare. Places like Tengchong in Yunnan were remote, plagued by tribal raids, and transport costs were enormous—only thanks to the maritime routes opened two years ago could they obtain volcanic ash from Qiongshan and Lingao in Hainan.

Hearing this, San Niangzi’s expression turned sour—clearly, the Emperor was holding out for a high price.

In the third year of Wanli, she ended her nomadic tent life and moved into Guihua City, modeled after Han Chinese cities; only then did she feel she had not wasted her twenties.

Yet caravans came and went incessantly, horses trampled frequently, and roads were naturally hard to maintain.

In just a few years, rammed earth and crushed stone roads had become pitted and uneven; even ternary soil sections had been repaired multiple times.

To say she wasn’t tempted by this flat, solid, waterproof imperial road would be a lie.

But fearing the Emperor would demand an exorbitant price, San Niangzi clenched her teeth: “Your Majesty, the ground is too hard—it damages horses’ hooves. This foreign minister has no use for it.”

Yet she couldn’t help stealing several more glances.

It was true: too-hard ground damaged hooves and shortened their lifespan.

But this argument was somewhat shortsighted—ask the caravans of Guihua City: wouldn’t they gladly let their oxen and horses endure a little extra wear for smoother trade routes and faster delivery times?

Zhu Yijun chuckled softly. Now was not the time for haggling—he cut straight to the point: “Still, on the other hand...”

“Earlier this year, I requested a batch from envoys of Ryukyu and Luzon; after the New Year, it will arrive with tribute missions, and production should increase.” Zhu Yijun smiled. “At that time, I may gift you a portion, so you may mobilize laborers to build a trade road from Guihua City to Datong.”

“If there is surplus, expanding Guihua City and laying more roads is also possible.”

Full-scale cement smelting was unnecessary, but increasing output was essential—only when production rose could the technology evolve.

No sooner had he finished speaking than San Niangzi, disregarding propriety, whirled around.

Gifted?!

The cost of mining and transporting volcanic ash alone was likely a thousand taels per jin, not to mention auxiliary materials, firing, and labor—it was certainly not cheap.

Guihua City to Datong is over four hundred li—minimum cost: two hundred thousand taels!

To call it a gift would be an outrageous price!

Zhu Yijun smiled without speaking, and without waiting for her reply, ended this appetizer: “We shall discuss further after the inspection.”

He wasn’t in a hurry—so long as San Niangzi considered Guihua City’s commercial environment, she could not possibly refuse.

It was expensive, yes—but the cheapest thing is the one given for free. The various tribes of Guihua City gained a refined city, the first cement imperial road between Ming and Mongol lands; what they lost was the desire to migrate.

Whether the cement road damaged horses’ hooves, he didn’t know—but the seven cavalry cart battalions of the Imperial Guard would certainly not mind minor wear as they rolled straight to Guihua City’s gates.

Two hundred thousand taels? Fine—let it be given.

The gifts of fate are always marked with a hidden price.

Of course, San Niangzi might see it—but she might not care. A young woman living in a palace would hardly care about migration. The spirit of the Han people yearned only for Han life.

Interrupted by the Emperor, San Niangzi’s mind grew increasingly restless.

Yet the reviewing platform lay right before her—she knew this was no place for negotiation, so she restrained herself and fell silent.

Soon, the party traveled two li, and the Emperor’s procession halted steadily before the reviewing platform.

Yin Zhengmao stepped forward from the ranks on either side of the platform and bowed deeply: “Minister of War Yin Zhengmao, respectfully requesting His Majesty ascend the platform for the grand inspection!”

Zhu Yijun dismounted without looking back.

“Grand Secretariat, Six Ministries, Ministry of War, and second-rank vassal officials—proceed to the outer pavilion.”

Saying this, he climbed the steps and ascended the reviewing platform.

Shen Shixing, Wang Chonggu, Yin Zhengmao, and others followed closely behind.

San Niangzi stood uncertainly, holding her horse, when Ministry of Rites Squire Cai Kexian leaned in and dryly reminded her: “Lady Zhongshun is a second-rank foreign minister.”

Only then did she snap to attention and join the other high officials.

Upon the platform, ministers stood respectfully on either side.

“Minister of War Yin Zhengmao and Regional Commander Ji Guang respectfully request His Majesty order each unit to prepare their troops!”

The eunuch drew back the curtain and bowed to invite the Emperor inside.

Zhu Yijun faced away from the curtain, surveying the northern suburbs.

He drew a deep breath, raised his right arm high, and addressed the soldiers and civilians of the northern suburbs.

Before the gaze of ten thousand, he called out loudly: “All units, prepare your troops! Perform for me!”

His words fell.

Instantly, the horn blew—solemn and deep; yellow banners fluttered; orders were obeyed without delay.

Officers and soldiers below the platform returned to their units, converging like a hundred rivers into the sea, forming orderly ranks.

Boom!

Boom!

Boom!

The central army fired three cannon volleys!

All troops shouted “Ten thousand years!”; the watching soldiers and civilians echoed in unison.

Within and around the Inspection Gate, cheers erupted like thunder: “Ten thousand years! Ten thousand years! Ten thousand years!”

(End of Chapter)