Chapter 324: Snow Clears, Wind Warms; Frost Melts, Sun Grows Warm

Red flags raised at the platform, three salvoes fired into the sky.

The Grand Coordinator of Military Affairs, Commandants, Assistant Commandants, and Mobile Corps Commanders each returned to their respective units.

Soon, the clanking of armor echoed as infantry from each camp responded to the cannon fire with three drills, advancing to the front of the encampment.

Cavalry clad in heavy armor rolled over the ground, leaving behind swirling clouds of dust and flying stones.

Amid the clashing of metal and iron, mounted and foot troops merged seamlessly, forming ranks in the blink of an eye—whether past, present, or future centuries, military parades have always displayed different troop types in ordered formations, one after another.

“Drill formation!”

Unlike modern parades that simply march by, mounted and infantry units must be trained on-site, guided by flag signals and drumbeats, arranged in echelons and horn formations, shifting between patrols and encirclements.

The drumbeats grew rapid; the battle standard was raised.

Infantry in each camp held halberds, standing like iron walls, advancing and retreating as if with the tide.

Elite cavalry surged forth, sweeping around both flanks, galloping in circles, coordinating precisely with the infantry as if guided by one’s own limbs.

Sometimes they encircled; sometimes they split into squads.

Five men formed a wu, ten a shi, fifty a team, two hundred fifty a si; ten battalions combined, over ten thousand troops—all strong, young, physically imposing, and thoroughly trained in martial discipline.

At the front, rattan shields; on the flanks, swords and spears; cavalry wielded saber-halberds; light cavalry carried long lances—combined drills included wolf-brush thrusts, forked-pick defenses, and sickle-scythe sweeps, spreading across multiple formations.

The sight of mercury spilling across the earth and black clouds pressing upon the city seized the gaze; the clashing of metal and thunderous shouts filled the ears.

Tens of thousands of infantry poured like ink across the grounds outside the Parade Gate, dark and heavy.

Only a wave of martial aura struck the face.

…

“Excellent troop bearing! The Crescent Five-Flower Formation and the Four-Sided Pacification Formation just demonstrated—perfectly balanced, advancing and retreating like tides, already showing the ferocity of tigers and wolves!”

“Is this really the Capital Garrison? Unbelievable!”

“It’s an imperial drill, so naturally it looks good. I heard Qi Jiguang selected southern troops as the core, assigned them as instructors to every camp, and trained them for months just to make the surface presentable—whether they can actually fight is another matter, still needs to be tested on the battlefield.”

Drill instructors were established by the Grand Review regulations.

Usually selected from the three major camps to teach drum and gong rhythms, advance-retreat discipline, and archery techniques.

After Qi Jiguang became Grand Coordinator of the Capital Garrison, many of his personal guards were chosen as instructors to train the various camps.

“Even so, one can glimpse the whole leopard—every grand review, whether under Xianzong or Shizong’s southern sacrifice, was meticulously prepared. Beforehand, they couldn’t even pass the surface test: soldiers drunk, officers absent, nothing but showpieces could be dragged out.”

Like a surprise inspection, the Grand Review measures how well the troops perform under extreme pressure.

If, despite all preparation, they still collapse, it clearly means total loss of combat capability.

In the ninth year of Chenghua, during the Xiyuan review, hundreds of carefully selected soldiers were “listless and weak, stumbling in maneuvers,” even “unable to draw bows or shoot arrows,” “dropping their bows to the ground.”

In the seventh year of Jiajing, Emperor Shizong held a grand southern sacrifice to “test the competence of officers,” ordering Capital Garrison commanders to accompany him—yet “many of the escorting troops failed to appear.”

The Capital Garrison had been weak for years, which is why, during the Gengxu Incident, Mongols reached the city gates, and soldiers and troops huddled there, weeping in despair.

With the Capital Garrison’s discipline in shambles and soldiers arrogant and lazy, merely passing the surface test of the Grand Review deserves praise as a complete renewal.

“Commander Qi governs his troops with great skill! Formerly, Censor Zhang Lu submitted a memorial stating the state’s military laws were strict and solemn, yet prolonged peace led commanders to indulge their men, seeking reputations for leniency—this pattern persisted, breeding arrogance and laziness. Now, with Commander Qi in charge, military law has been restored, sweeping away indulgence—truly invigorating!”

“I know this well—Qi Jiguang always invoked military law during training: any soldier showing arrogance or sloth was bound and beaten until skin split and flesh bled; those who defied instructors had their ears pierced or cut off; those who disobeyed orders were executed as examples—only then did the Capital Garrison begin to understand that military orders were as unyielding as mountains.”

As he spoke, a cold snort rang out.

“Southern country bumpkin, aren’t you? The review in Longqing’s third year already showed the Capital Garrison taking shape—years of steady progress led to this discipline; it’s only natural. To credit it all to Qi Jiguang? Did Marquis Zhenyuan’s eight years of reorganization count for less than a few months by a southern man?”

Given Qi Jiguang’s popular reputation, many immediately turned pale, ready to argue.

Where crowds gather, debate is inevitable.

As the viewing platform threatened to erupt, the guarding imperial guards exchanged glances—wanting to rebuke them, yet fearing the resentment of military-civilian delegates, newly qualified jinshi, and officials in crimson robes—caught between hesitation.

Fortunately, several elder gentlemen on the platform stepped forward to mediate.

“Steady progress means one phase follows another. Since Longqing, Zhang Juzheng, Ding’an Bo, Tan Xiangmin, Zhenyuan Marquis, Commander Qi—all reformed military readiness, devoted to martial affairs. How could any of them be denied credit for the Capital Garrison’s revival in just over a decade?”

“Moreover, credit belongs to the sage monarch on the throne, guiding from above, safeguarding the realm—who dares claim the heavens’ favor?”

The old scholars’ knack for pacifying disputes was always effective.

These words instantly silenced the argument—once the emperor was invoked, the imperial guards would no longer tolerate further insolence.

A brief silence.

Someone suddenly sighed.

“Steady progress sounds easy… but this is no longer the dynasty’s founding era. Two hundred years since establishment—still maintaining steady progress is like reversing the flow of rivers!”

The Great Ming had stood for two hundred years; even counting from the Jingnan War, over a hundred and seventy years had passed.

A court this old was naturally in decline.

Tax collection faltered, regions grew disloyal, the sovereign was targeted by assassins, vassals rebelled—these should be everyday occurrences.

Yet now, steady progress continues, daily renewal prevails—even the long-neglected Capital Garrison shows new vigor—how rare is this?

This heartfelt observation moved all listeners to silent awe.

Outside the Parade Gate, the Grand Review was in full swing.

War chariots, thunder-fire carts, all-victory carts, concealed-lance assault carts, torch-lit siege carts… each chariot unit followed closely behind the mounted and foot formations, roaring as they passed before the Parade Gate, fierce and menacing.

Those leaning on the balustrades gazed afar, their minds drifting far away.

…

Where one stands determines what one sees.

“Ah, when the late emperor held his review, it was precisely because the northern threat deepened and the northern frontier knew no peace—he invoked heavenly authority to rally morale and deter barbarians.”

“Now, since the Duoyan Guard submitted, the three frontiers are tranquil, not a speck of dust disturbs them—border folk lay down arms and take up hoes; frontier cities extinguish beacon fires and sleep in peace. Such a splendid situation—why waste people’s labor and wealth on mere displays of power, provoking enemies unnecessarily?”

“If benevolence and righteousness are neglected, and martial glory alone pursued, lasting governance will be impossible!”

After his impassioned outburst, Yan Sishen casually glanced at Yin Hao.

Seeing the latter’s expressionless face, unmoved by his sarcasm toward the court, he secretly sneered.

Yin Hao, son of Yin Shidan, was the epitome of a fortune-chaser.

After his father was demoted and exiled during Longqing, Yin Hao constantly slandered the court before his friends; but when Yin Shidan was reinstated as Grand Coordinator of Salt Administration in Wanli’s second year, Yin Hao immediately donned a solemn face and spoke only official platitudes.

One reversal wasn’t enough.

Since last year, the court began land surveys; upon hearing this, Yin Hao immediately approached Provincial Governor Yu Youding, begging him to turn a blind eye to his teacher’s estate—after all, the dozens of mu of the Jiaotong Leyuan (today’s Wanzhuyuan) mansion and the thousand mu of surrounding land were meant for Yin Hao, the legitimate heir.

But Yu Youding kept saying, “The court’s orders are strict,” “Your teacher’s reputation,” “Heaven and earth’s conscience,” “The people’s concerns”—all while keeping his distance, leaving Yin Hao speechless and furious as he stormed off.

Since then, this second-generation Yin had once again turned bitterly against the court: accusing corrupt eunuchs of misleading His Majesty, condemning the Grand Secretariat for self-interest and ignoring public will, even accusing local officials of pursuing performance metrics at the cost of state policy—to Yu Youding’s face.

Thus, he had once again found common ground with his former friends.

Meanwhile, Cao Yue, watching the parade’s artillery drills below, quickly covered his ears and sighed: “When Emperor Xuande abolished the treasure ships, withdrew troops from Jiaozhi, halted warfare on the northern frontier, reduced heavy taxes, and waived arrears, he brought the Ren-Xuan golden age. Now His Majesty does the opposite of every Xuande policy…”

BOOM!

BOOM!

Outside the Parade Gate, cannon fire erupted continuously, drowning out Cao Yue’s muttered words.

After the Southern Zhili salt administration affair, Cao Bangfu landed safely and retired in peace, living comfortably; even after his death four years ago, commoners remembered him fondly, local gentry erected steles, leaving him a fine reputation.

But the second generation fared far less well.

Cao Yue, like Yin Hao, was a second-generation beneficiary granted rank in Longqing’s third year due to the crown prince’s establishment.

Yin Shidan still dominates the court; Yin Hao can secure a prefect’s post. Cao Bangfu retired in Wanli’s first year; Cao Yue is now merely a wealthy landowner.

With land surveys and household inspections looming, even being a wealthy landowner is no longer safe.

Cao Yue’s resentment toward the court has grown daily.

Meng Yanpu snorted: “Reform and renewal are justified—they even call it ‘planning grand strategies for internal consolidation and external defense, crafting long-term policies for good governance.’”

“Imposing heavy taxes to glorify martial power? Only Qin Shi Huang did that.”

All were from Shandong.

Either sons of high officials or descendants of Confucian sages—their words carried perfect unspoken understanding.

At this moment, Yin Hao finally reacted.

He glared disdainfully at the emperor’s military tent and said coldly: “A ruler who preserves the legacy follows ancestral law, avoids excess, and ensures posterity’s stability. Those who later act cleverly and disrupt old orders inevitably bring ruin beyond repair—this is a warning.”

If one followed Emperor Xuande’s methods, practiced benevolence, and let the people rest, one could still be a worthy preserver of the realm.

But if someone, in arrogance, disregards established norms and disrupts the old order, the realm will collapse at once.

Of course, this was not aimed at anyone—merely recalling Emperor Xuande’s teachings.

Yan Sishen lowered his head and sighed softly: “After all, he’s from a collateral branch—raised without proper discipline, prone to deviation; his entire family, three generations, never learned restraint in martial affairs or benevolent governance.”

Following Yin Hao’s gaze, all nodded silently in unison.

…

Zhu Yijun rested his cheek on his hand, gazing thoughtfully up at the viewing platforms on either side.

Though the curtains allowed one-way visibility, the view remained indistinct.

But he knew many were looking this way.

The military and civilian delegates present were, in effect, representatives of every social class’s interests.

Second-generation bureaucrats and capitalists, scholar-officials of the feudal hierarchy, landed gentry, emerging merchant elites, and petty bourgeois society wanderers…

Among them, how many hated him, the emperor, with such venom they wished to see him slain within the imperial military tent?

Look. Look all you want.

The saying goes: first courtesy, then force. The emperor sits in the military tent, selects twelve thousand troops, radiating lethal energy, ready to devour—wasn’t this all meant for you?

“...My sovereign revives the ancient ways, the realm at peace, yet still maintains disciplined ranks.”

The curtains concealed the outside view but not the flattery.

Zhu Yijun turned his head to glance.

Hmm, military reviews are also meant for foreign vassals and barbarian states to see.

The Korean envoy Li Zeng continued chattering, beaming before the imperial canopy: “Your Majesty, having ascended the throne for eight years, you have swept away the old and established the new, honing military and administrative affairs—truly a monarch of revival!”

Li Zeng’s words came straight from the heart, brimming with fervor, as if he were about to dance with joy.

He might as well be a Han Chinese, proudly holding his head high!

Even ministers who were bowed to by foreign vassals, though standing tall, could not help but wear a faintly odd expression.

Zhu Yijun had no interest in dealing with this fellow.

Revival?

The Korean filial sons and virtuous grandsons may flatter, but as the one steering the ship, I must know the true state of my own domain.

The southern Dongyi Kingdom is growing ever bolder; the Ming-Myanmar war will erupt within two or three years, dragging in countless men and resources across a quagmire of armies numbering thirty thousand and lasting two decades.

In the north, the Tumeng Khan has consolidated tens of thousands of elite cavalry, dreaming of restoring the Yuan dynasty’s glory, ready at any moment to march south—historically, he launched a massive invasion of Liaodong in October of Wanli Seventh Year with forty thousand iron cavalry, and by October of Wanli Ninth Year, had gathered over a hundred thousand men to ignite full-scale war.

Though he has not yet arrived, the scent of smoke already lingers over the northern lands.

Add to this Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s imminent unification of Japan, his long-planned invasion of the Central Plains via Korea; the hidden currents of native chieftains lurking in the Bozhou rebellion; the looming threat of the Du Man revealed by the She-An rebellion; the inevitable resurgence of the Jurchens; the treacherous collusion of Ningxia’s military commanders…

It is said the Han fell solely through strength; the Ming’s southern campaigns and northern expeditions are no less desperate.

How can one dare call it revival unless all four seas and eight directions are fully subdued?

Just as he thought this, the horn sounded again, and yellow banners fluttered.

Through the canopy, he saw the cavalry, chariots, and infantry units respond in unison, retreating to their camps like a hundred rivers flowing into the sea, like a tide receding.

“Your servant, Minister of War Zheng Mao, respectfully petitions Your Majesty to observe archery!”

Aside from troop maneuvers, imperial archery is an indispensable part of the grand review.

As Yin Zhengmao stepped forward to kneel and petition, Zhang Hong and other eunuchs carried armor and weapons, bowing deeply as they entered the canopy from the side.

Inside the canopy, a rustling sound arose.

Civil officials of the various ministries, the Six Censorates, the seal-holders of the Thirteen Censorial Divisions, the Ritual Censorate, the Military Censorate, the Ritual Ministry’s Protocol Office, the Ministry of War, the Four Departments’ officers, the censors overseeing ceremony and archery, the Honglu Temple’s attendants, military officers, the Embroidered Uniform Guard’s senior officers, and the Nan Zhenfu’s seal-holding assistant officers—all dressed in bright red civilian robes—lined up in two rows beneath the reviewing stand, their faces expressionless.

After a moment, the rustling from the military tent ceased.

The Senior Eunuchs Zhang Hong and Li Jin, one on each side, drew back the canopy.

The Emperor’s voice rang out immediately.

“All officers below the rank of Baozong, along with retainers and soldiers, shall compete in archery and musket shooting in the East and West Halls.”

“All officers under Commander Qi Jiguang—including deputy commanders, assistant commanders, mobile corps commanders, camp supervisors, and battalion commanders—shall demonstrate mounted archery on the field.”

“Dukes, marquises, imperial sons-in-law, earls, and Embroidered Uniform Guard officers shall compete on the reviewing stand.”

“Each mounted archer shall fire three arrows; each foot archer six. Those who hit the target shall sound the drum to report, and the message shall be transmitted to the Reviewing Gate!”

The foreign vassal envoys turned their gaze, eyes fixed on the military tent.

A figure emerged: the Son of Heaven, clad in armor, bow slung and sword at his side, stepped calmly forth from the canopy.

What a commanding presence!

San Niangzi, seeing him, silently praised within.

The Han Chinese always possess varied grace: the man who guided her earlier, Cai Kexian, was ethereal and elegant, pale as a god; the sixty-year-old Wang Chonggu was steady and refined, with noble bearing; the Emperor, supreme in rank, now stood resplendent in armor, handsome and imposing, radiating a distinct allure.

As the foreign envoys privately appraised the Emperor, he turned his head toward them: “Bring forth! Each of my accompanying envoys shall be granted one arrow—to share in this grand occasion!”

No sooner had he spoken than San Niangzi’s heart leapt; the Mongol barbarian staggered backward in shock.

Only when eunuchs approached with arrows in hand did the foreign envoys realize: “each granted one arrow” meant literally that.

The Korean envoy, who had just been staring wide-eyed, now looked awkwardly embarrassed.

He stammered in protest: “Your… Your Majesty, I am a civil official—I am unskilled in archery and horsemanship.”

Li Zeng was the Director of Rituals of Korea, equivalent to a Ming Ministry Minister, a second-rank civil official.

Zhu Yijun chuckled lightly: “If Director Li hits even one target, I shall open a seaport in Laizhou, Shandong, for trade with you. What do you say?”

Li Zeng looked up in shock, utterly bewildered. Zhu Yijun asked “what do you say,” yet did not wait for a reply—he simply finished speaking and walked away.

A crowd of court ministers and attendants surged after him.

Li Zeng remained dazed.

A seaport in Laizhou… how could watching a military review bring a gift from heaven!?

Though Korea had played the dutiful vassal for two hundred years, its trade was severely restricted.

Aside from tribute and official purchases, what was called “mutual trade” often meant mixed official-private exchanges.

Official mutual trade differed from border smuggling; by regulation, Korea and other dutiful vassals like Ryukyu could open markets at any time—“any time” meaning “as arranged.”

Geographically, Korea was permitted to conduct “market opening” only at the Huitong Pavilion in Beijing and the Huaiyuan Pavilion in Liaodong.

Temporally, markets were typically held for three to five days after the Korean envoy received imperial gifts, always at the Huitong Pavilion.

Even whether to open them at all was uncertain.

The Ministry of Rites decided whether to permit market opening based on Korea’s conduct.

!

These conditions meant mutual trade was often just the Korean mission smuggling private goods into Beijing—Liaodong peasants annually complained that Korean missions carried too much cargo, overburdening transport.

For instance, during this New Year’s tribute, Li Zeng smuggled over a hundred bolts of cloth to exchange for medicine.

But strictly speaking, this was illegal.

According to Korean law, envoys were forbidden to carry anything except tribute goods, travel expenses, and clothing; violators faced confiscation of property. According to the Ming Ministry of Rites’ trade regulations, the amount of cloth carried could not exceed baggage limits.

Yet everyone did it. Korean merchants flocked to secure positions as attendants to envoys, fighting tooth and nail for the chance.

Under these circumstances, the Emperor says he will open a mutual trade port in Laizhou!?

What’s the difference from gold falling from the sky?

Don’t say sea travel is inconvenient—before the Ming court moved its capital, Korea sent tribute by sea, departing from the Licheng River port in Kaeseong, crossing the Black Water Ocean and Yellow Water Ocean to reach Taicang Port on the southern bank of the Yangtze.

Even afterward, for a long time, they traveled via Lüshun and Dengzhou.

Korea had no maritime ban.

In other words, if the Ming court approved mutual trade, Li Zeng could immediately organize a fleet, bringing ramie cloth, silk, cattle, and horses, making ten or more round trips annually to Laizhou Port!

Li Zeng looked up at the Emperor descending the reviewing stand.

He clenched his teeth, seized the arrow in his hand, and hurried after him, stumbling awkwardly.

…

“Commander Xu Wenbi, Duke Dingguo, hit three out of six arrows on foot!”

“Imperial Son-in-Law Xu Congcheng, hit five out of six arrows on foot!”

“Mobile Corps Commander Pang Chengyu of the Five Armies Camp, hit all three arrows mounted!”

Two censors and two Ministry of War officials watched diligently.

Two Ministry of Rites officials and two eunuchs announced the results openly.

Zhu Yijun paused to observe, occasionally nodding in approval, occasionally offering commentary.

“Pang Chengyu rose from the post of Garrison Commander in Wanan, Jiangxi, promoted by battlefield merit to Deputy Deputy Commander of the Central Capital Garrison. Last year, during the reforms, before Director Gu retired, he recommended Pang as Mobile Corps Commander of the Five Armies Camp—I personally examined him; his archery and martial skills are excellent.”

“Hu Shouren, Deputy Commander of the Divine Engine Camp, was appointed by me personally; among all the Divine Engine Camp units, theirs is the most diligent in training.”

“Xiao Ruxun is the son of Regional Commander Xiao Wenkui; his father sent him to the Imperial Military Academy in Wanli First Year, where he trained under me for many years. A few years ago, he distinguished himself in the campaign against the Duoyan Guard, and Commander Qi promoted him beyond rank to Camp Supervisor—he has not disgraced his family name.”

“Jiao Ze… Deputy Commander of the Marquis of Zhenyuan; he has fought alongside his commander through life and death for years—you all know him well. In my view, with a few more years of refinement, he will surely become a great general guarding a region.”

The ministers followed beside the Emperor.

Hearing him recite the names and merits of the capital garrison officers like a familiar list, their hearts stirred uneasily.

Power is cultivated; control over appointments is absolute control.

The eight years of quiet, subtle influence have finally borne this formidable presence.

The Emperor now knows the capital garrisons so intimately—the only difference between him and a warrior-emperor is perhaps a few victories!

Even Emperor Wu Zong’s impromptu battlefield inspections may not have matched this Emperor’s command.

Had Emperor Yingzong possessed such presence, how could he have been captured and dragged into the northern frontier for years by the Tumeng?

“Ah.”

The Emperor paused, hands clasped behind his back, sighing.

Shen Shixing stepped forward tactfully: “Your Majesty, from your command, every camp has been renewed in appearance—why sigh?”

Zhu Yijun shook his head, silent for a moment, then said with feeling: “I am merely moved by a passing thought.”

“Our dynasty has never lacked great generals: Qi Jiguang, Yu Dayou, Li Chengliang… countless of them.”

He raised his hand, pointing to Yu Dayou, who was now mounted and shooting.

Then he turned to Pang Chengyu and others: “Our dynasty also has no shortage of officers who are diligent, courageous, and strategic—these men here are merely those I happened upon.”

“As for the soldiers, after only a few months of training, they already display such discipline—I cannot fault them.”

Zhu Yijun looked around at the civil and military ministers beside him: “Tell me, why, over these years, has military discipline disintegrated into a pile of mud? When the Shunyi Khan reached the capital, they were still weeping and wailing!”

The court ministers wore varied expressions: some blushed and smiled, some lowered their heads in shame and anger, some fell into deep thought.

Some even glanced covertly at San Niangzi.

She remained expressionless, unembarrassed; instead, her gaze grew heavier. The Emperor’s calmness was terrifying—it reminded her of one saying: “Knowing shame leads to courage.”

“Duke Dingguo, you speak.”

The Emperor began calling names. Xu Wenbi, who had just finished shooting and returned to his line, was unlucky enough to be chosen.

The Duke, who had hit only three out of six arrows, sighed inwardly at the peril of serving a sovereign, then bowed earnestly: “Your servant is guilty—it is all due to our lax training!”

Zhu Yijun shook his head, too indifferent even to mock.

He turned to Qi Jiguang: “Qi Qing, in Longqing First Year, you were ordered back to the capital to assist in military affairs—why did you run away?”

Qi Jiguang paused at the words, his thick eyebrows and large eyes filled with helplessness.

After a long moment, he came to his senses and replied weakly: “Your Majesty, I lack talent—I possess only the ability of a general, not that of a Regional Commander. Though I understand border affairs, I am inadequate in central military administration. The late emperor knew men well and appointed them wisely…”

He stopped mid-sentence.

Zhu Yijun interrupted him publicly: “I know—you’ve privately complained to Tan Lun that the Beijing garrison is filled with noble sons, bound hand and foot, unable to act freely.”

Qi Jiguang’s forehead glistened with sweat.

Gu Huan and the other nobles turned pale with fear.

Zhu Yijun no longer pressed anyone further; as he paced, he continued on his own: “I’ve been concerned about the Beijing garrison for some time now, and recently I’ve frequently donned armor and visited each camp myself.”

“As for noble sons—I know them well. My aunt’s son, Li Chengen, is one.”

“His family runs a trading house; even as a Captain, he never forgets he’s a shopkeeper. He privately conscripts soldiers to deliver goods for his business, assign them to labor and plastering, and even leaves projects unfinished for two or three years.”

“He withholds their pay, giving them only one tael and one or two mace per month. The grain rations are sold off and unfit to eat. When soldiers are driven to desperation, they simply desert, leaving behind only the old and weak, and empty names on the rolls collecting pay.”

“Others wish to rein him in, but fear offending his cousin—me.”

“Reluctantly, I had to intervene personally and remove him from office.”

When these unwritten rules were spoken aloud, many court ministers grew visibly displeased.

The emperor spoke of Li Chengen—but he meant more than just Li Chengen.

It was all too common for high officials and nobles to conscript soldiers for business: “Troops in the capital are fit only for labor; on the frontier, they serve their commanders privately, merely delivering supplies and gifts.”

Escorting caravans, manual labor, workshops, chopping wood, gathering herbs, grain transport, convoy escort—it had become a vast mercenary center.

“As Ma Wensheng once reported, dukes, marquises, commanders, and generals know only how to manage their households, hoard gold and silk, ride fat horses in soft furs—and know nothing of military strategy or statecraft.”

Zhu Yijun walked to the target, gazing ahead: “During this grand review, I have personally removed all these ‘noble businessmen’ and sent them back to their homes—only now can the ‘mercenaries’ catch their breath and resume daily drills.”

“But I have many duties—I cannot constantly watch over the Beijing garrison and ensure everyone’s dignity.”

To refuse to apologize now would be impolitic.

The ministers bowed en masse: “We are guilty!”

The foreign ministers, awkward and embarrassed, followed the crowd and bowed as well.

Zhu Yijun shook his head, drew his bow, nocked an arrow, and fixed his gaze: “Now I declare this plainly: return to your homes and tell your noble sons…”

“The soldiers of the Beijing garrison are to serve only military affairs—no trading!”

“Any further private conscription will be treated as unauthorized command of the imperial guards!”

The arrow left the string and pierced the bullseye.

The courtyard fell silent; only the hum of the bowstring lingered in the air.

Prohibitions often remain on paper—but given the emperor’s current control over the Beijing garrison, no one doubted he would enforce his words.

What of the frontier armies?

The emperor wisely did not mention them; the ministers likewise silently avoided pressing the matter.

Zhu Yijun hit the target and did not dwell further on the topic. He turned and handed the bow to Zhang Hong: “Eunuch, take the attending ministers to try their hands.”

Foreign princes shooting arrows must keep their distance from the emperor—otherwise, a simple scratch would make the imperial guards suspect treachery and cut them down on the spot. That would be no fine thing.

Li Zeng lagged behind, showering the emperor with flattery before following the eunuch away.

After Li Zeng departed, Zhu Yijun lowered his voice to Zhang Hong: “If that Korean fellow tries to bribe the eunuch, let him take it.”

Zhang Hong understood at once, exchanged a glance with the emperor, and bowed to withdraw.

“Lady Zhongshun, perhaps you’ll first accompany me to the East and West Audience Halls.”

Zhu Yijun called out to San Nüzi, who was about to follow closely behind.

She understood the emperor wished to speak with her of serious matters, and halted silently.

Zhu Yijun waved for the attendants to fall back, then led several second-rank ministers and San Nüzi toward the wengcheng inside Yuewu Gate.

Along the way, pleasantries were unavoidable.

“…Speaking of this, who in those days did not know ‘the success of the tribute agreement came from San Nüzi’s initiative’?”

“Lady, your devotion to Han culture far surpasses Xin’ai Huang Taiji, Chilike, and others—I’ve seen it all.”

“Pity you’re a woman—I cannot make you a prince!”

San Nüzi, a steppe nomad at heart, could tolerate a little riddle now and then—but this empty flattery was unbearable.

Accustomed to being above all, she scowled inwardly—and unconsciously glared back at the emperor.

Instantly realizing her mistake, she hastily forced a fawning smile.

Zhu Yijun had no interest in exotic charm—he felt only awkwardly embarrassed.

But after so many years as emperor, his face was as thick as a city wall.

He walked ahead, stepped through Yuewu Gate, and cleared his throat lightly to San Nüzi: “Let’s speak plainly.”

“When will Altan Khan die?”

San Nüzi froze at the question, plainly startled by the emperor’s bluntness.

But she quickly recovered, feigning interest in the structure of Yuewu Gate as she carefully chose her words: “If he survives this winter, he won’t die yet.”

“If Your Majesty can help me subdue Qita Ji, Xin’ai Huang Taiji, Chilike, and their clans, it won’t matter when Shunyi Wang dies.”

She had been forcibly married at nine—any deep affection would be absurd.

She still needed Altan Khan’s title to command the clans, so she spared no effort in his care.

Once he was useless, the medicine would stop—and Altan Khan would simply kick the bucket.

Zhu Yijun nodded slowly: “After Altan Khan’s death, Lady Zhongshun, you must hold firm control of the right wing. Even if you cannot command absolute obedience, at least restrain your people from disturbing the border markets.”

“I will also see to it that the Xuan-Da commanders are attentive.”

The Xuan-Da border market differed from that of the Duoyan Guard.

The Duoyan Guard was subdued by force—simple situation, and the market lies beneath the watch of the Ji Garrison. Since the Kuanhe market opened in the third year of Wanli, it has operated year-round.

Xuan-Da is different: various clans live mixed with Han, and Datong Garrison has always been unstable—it rebelled twice during the Jiajing reign. The situation is complex, so the market opens only a few random days each year, with troops on full alert.

Even so, tribes still sneak in as bandits, robbing merchants and even attacking the market itself—no stable trading environment.

And this is only because Altan Khan has strictly restrained them.

From now on, this duty falls to San Nüzi.

Upon hearing this, San Nüzi almost instantly agreed in her heart.

Altan Khan’s tribute agreement was her proposal; she has maintained the trade for years; when Xin’ai Huang Taiji tried to overthrow the tribute system, she alone opposed it—“The Son of Heaven treats us generously: annual tribute and trade, enjoying full profits without future worries. What is the point of risking arrows and stones, facing certain death, and hoping for uncertain plunder?”

What the emperor proposed was the very foundation of their cooperation—hardly even a condition.

She also heard the implied support in his words.

Ming court support carried immense weight—otherwise, Datong’s border officials would not have said she had “grown ever more powerful, shining with the emperor’s favor over all the clans.”

Her only concern was: what price would the emperor demand?

After a moment’s thought, she asked directly: “Your Majesty’s virtue and heavenly grace—what service can your humble servant render?”

Zhu Yijun did not answer at once; instead, he turned slightly, his expression hesitant, toward the assembled ministers.

Wang Chonggu nodded silently.

Minister of Rites Wang Zongyi gave her an encouraging look.

Zhu Yijun turned back, fixing his gaze on San Nüzi, whose brow was furrowed in thought.

He took a deep breath and spoke slowly: “Lady Zhongshun—become my adopted daughter.”

(End of Chapter)