Chapter 334: Mirage Towers, Frog Chorus as Strings

“Those outlaws under Ge Cheng—can they really be trusted? Zi Cheng’s words were vague, and my elder brother is truly uneasy.”

Inside a three-story elegant pavilion, a simple vegetarian banquet for two had been laid out.

The host of this banquet was none other than Yin Gao, son of the Director-General of Salt Administration, a graduate of the Imperial Academy by hereditary privilege, and Prefect of Jinan Prefecture.

Born into a distinguished family, Yin Gao never lacked proper etiquette; though exhausted after a full day of bureaucratic toil at the prefectural office, he still rose with the dignity of a prefect to personally pour wine for his guest.

Of course, lowering his posture slightly also stemmed from having something to ask of him.

Once a matter begins, its course can no longer be fully controlled.

Since the civilian unrest in Yanzhou Prefecture, Yin Gao had not closed his eyes for days.

The provincial governors and surveillance officials of Shandong were all fickle and hard to fathom.

Would Provincial Governor Yu Youding turn a blind eye, out of respect for his teacher, the Director-General of Salt Administration?

Several letters sent to Jining received no reply—what was his own father thinking?

Could Shen Li truly quell the unrest in Qufu with swift, thunderous action?

Even the spreading civilian unrest itself could not be remotely controlled.

Just now, news arrived from Yanzhou: that He Xinyin had exploited his popular reputation to meddle in the rebellion, attempting to incite the people and persuade Ge Cheng to surrender.

This man, a Confucian scholar who cursed the sages, born into a wealthy family yet betrayed his roots—utterly forgetful of his ancestry, using neighbors as a buffer!

Those core instigators of the unrest, greedy for wealth and fearful of death, would surely retreat without hesitation the moment real danger struck.

And as for those nominal leaders they put forward…

As Yin Gao thought of this, his peripheral vision flickered toward Zhang Yi’s reaction—the very “Zi Cheng” he had just mentioned was Zhang Yi’s courtesy name, one of the Three Zhangs of Taicang.

Shandong was still not far enough; most fugitives would not linger here—it was further south, where wealthy households bred death-soldiers, Japanese pirates, and household slaves, that such customs thrived.

Take Ge Cheng and his kind—they were men in the Zhang family’s employ. The Zhangs had long harbored great ambitions, generously aiding others everywhere, sheltering countless desperate outlaws, and whenever any prominent clan faced hardship, the Zhangs would personally visit to offer aid.

Yet, faced with Yin Gao’s question, Zhang Yi acted as if he heard nothing.

He gazed at Yin Gao with a smile, lightly steering the topic: “On this trip to the capital, I’ve heard quite a few interesting things.”

The Zhang family of Taicang was deeply entangled in the unrest, so they could not remain aloof.

Thus, Zhang Yi took advantage of his son Zhang Fu’s success in the metropolitan examination, using the pretext of purchasing property in the capital to travel widely, probing the central political landscape and preparing to respond to whatever came.

Zhang Yi was now merely returning to Zhejiang from the capital, passing through Shandong.

Seeing his question ignored, Yin Gao’s hand paused mid-pour.

Though they were discussing serious matters, this Zhang Yi always insisted on seizing the initiative in conversation—utterly arrogant.

Though displeased, he forced a smile, adjusted his sleeve, and sat back down: “What do you mean, Zi Cheng?”

Zhang Yi picked up his cup with one hand, did not clink it, merely drank slowly, then sighed: “The chaos brought by the land survey has now spread to the capital.”

“Gentry and students petitioning in the capital lie prostrate and wail outside the Nine Gates; the Six Censorates and Thirteen Inspectorates have stirred into action, competing to submit memorials; ministers in the Wenhua Hall debate fiercely, each holding firm views—truly a shock to court and realm!”

Hearing this, Yin Gao’s expression shifted.

Wasn’t the entire point of the unrest in Shandong to shake the court, to force the land survey officials to retreat?

Now that he heard it was working, Yin Gao could barely suppress the joy on his lips.

He forgot Zhang Yi’s rudeness and hurriedly asked: “What of His Majesty? Has he awakened and reconsidered the land survey?”

Zhang Yi shook his head: “The emperor is stubborn and self-willed—how could he easily change course?”

Then he shifted tone: “Yet, these past days, the emperor has secluded himself, speaking little—likely because he is uncertain.”

“During the palace examination, he used the essay topic to test the waters of court sentiment.”

“From this, it seems he is under heavy pressure.”

Hearing this, Yin Gao raised an eyebrow.

He sat back, refilled his cup, and asked: “Test the waters?”

He meant both: how did the emperor test them, and what was the result?

Zhang Yi smacked his lips, then turned and opened the book beside him, revealing a folded page tucked inside.

He pushed the book forward, gesturing: “This is the essay topic personally composed by His Majesty for this palace examination.”

Seeing this, Yin Gao reached out with interest.

He murmured aloud: “On the court, ministers and sovereign jointly govern all transformations, oversee the Nine Categories, establish the Supreme Ultimate with full preparation, and use the Three Virtues as scales—realizing the Supreme Ultimate to embody constancy and establish the foundation, applying the Three Virtues to adapt fully and respond to the times.”

Yin Gao looked up at Zhang Yi, wanting to ask for clarification, but saw the latter smiling silently; unwilling to appear ignorant, he swallowed the question.

Though only a graduate of the Imperial Academy, he understood the great classics and principles well enough—though with effort, he could grasp seven or eight tenths of it.

The Supreme Ultimate comes from the Book of Documents, Hong Fan—it is one of the Nine Categories of governance, and here it does not mean omniscience, but “the highest principle of statecraft.”

Zhu Xi once interpreted the Supreme Ultimate as “the sovereign’s path of impartiality,” meaning the ruler must uphold upright, impartial virtue as the moral standard and political core of the realm, thereby unifying the people and ensuring stability.

But since the second year of Wanli, scholars aligned with the emperor have reinterpreted the classics, defining it as the sole possession of the heavenly mandate, the very locus of the emperor’s Dao.

In plain terms: the meaning of the Supreme Ultimate—the highest principle of governance—has shifted from “the emperor must cultivate perfect virtue” to “the emperor must realize an ideal realm,” gradually reclaiming the discourse of future creation under the Fugu tide of restoring the Three Dynasties.

And now, in this palace examination question, the subject’s scope has changed again.

“On the court, ministers and sovereign jointly govern all transformations, oversee the Nine Categories”—it has expanded from the emperor to the leadership group centered on him.

As for the Three Virtues mentioned in the question, they too are one of the Nine Categories of governance—the three methods to achieve the Supreme Ultimate.

Thus, the idea is: take the Supreme Ultimate as the foundation, apply the Three Virtues as needed; which virtue to use depends on “adapting fully to respond to the times.”

Yin Gao frowned and continued reading.

“Since the Three Seasons, wise rulers have emerged: some cultivated stillness and silence, nearly eliminating punishment; some enforced strict governance and ruled with force; others combined both, governing with benevolence while wielding ruthless power. These Three Virtues, each timely and suited to their context, realize the Supreme Ultimate.”

At this line, Yin Gao, the Imperial Academy graduate, finally struggled to read further.

He swallowed hard, stiffly raised his head, and smiled bitterly at Zhang Yi: “Please, Zi Cheng, enlighten me.”

Zhang Yi was unsurprised by Yin Gao’s ignorance—he was, after all, a graduate of the Imperial Academy.

He had teased him enough; now he ceased his showmanship and guided gently: “What are the Three Virtues?”

Yin Gao paused, then blurted: “Uprightness, firmness, gentleness.”

Uprightness points to the “constant way”—establishing unified moral and ethical standards.

Firmness points to “great chaos”—requiring authoritative measures to swiftly stabilize the situation.

Gentleness points to “exhaustion”—requiring leniency, light taxes, and benevolent treatment of commoners and scholar-officials.

Zhang Yi nodded: “The emperor says that since the Three Dynasties, wise rulers have emerged: some practiced stillness and non-action, nearly eliminating punishment; some enforced harsh policies and ruled with strength; others combined both, governing with benevolence while wielding brutal force.”

“These are different applications of the Three Virtues, each suited to their time and contributing to the realization of an ideal realm.”

“Now, which virtue suits the realm today? That is what the jinshi candidates must propose and debate.”

Hearing this, Yin Gao began to understand.

Zhang Yi pointed to the line, his tone heavy: “The emperor has become far more cautious—he no longer directly declares which virtue should be applied now.”

Yin Gao nodded in sudden realization: “Indeed, that’s true.”

The emperor possessed an extraordinary obsession and ability to manipulate scholar-officials.

In the last palace examination, he had directly asked: why was the new policy the realization of the Supreme Ultimate?

There was no room to debate whether it was right—only to explain why.

Scholars across the south and north had been subtly indoctrinated by the emperor’s words.

This palace examination, however, was clearly more restrained.

The Three Virtues merely asked: how should the new policy be implemented—through firmness, gentleness, or moderation?

This mirrored the court’s current posture toward the backlash of civilian unrest.

In the past, the emperor would not have asked candidates which path to take—he would have asked how to better follow one path.

This sudden caution suggests that the divisions over the “Three Virtues” are far greater than those over the “implementation of the Supreme Ultimate” itself!

So great that even within the New Party, irreconcilable disputes have emerged!

So great that the emperor must now carefully weigh the situation!

Then, which of the Three Virtues currently holds sway in court?

Thinking of this, Yin Gao hurriedly asked: “Then what virtue did the top three scholars choose?”

As the saying goes: see the leopard’s spot to infer the whole beast.

In this context, the essays and rankings of the top three scholars must carry undeniable political meaning—this is precisely the emperor’s purpose in testing the waters.

Zhang Yi clapped his hands and laughed. Though this man was a graduate of the Imperial Academy, he was not entirely foolish.

He smiled and replied: “I hear His Majesty personally selected Zhang Juzheng’s eldest son, Si Xiu, as the top scholar; his essay’s central theme was: in times of great chaos, apply firmness.”

Yin Gao scoffed: “The state treasury is full, military might dazzling—what a glorious age! Yet instead of praising virtue, he speaks only of chaos—is he not no different from those who spread alarmist lies?”

“If the court adopts ‘firmness’ as its standard, the realm will truly be on the brink of great chaos!”

After venting, Yin Gao looked again at Zhang Yi.

Since Zhang Yi had said “originally,” Zhang Sixiu’s title as top scholar must have changed.

As expected.

Zhang Yi continued: “Thus, the Grand Secretariat, the Ministry of Rites, the Hanlin Academy, and the Six Censorates and Thirteen Inspectorates all jointly petitioned, arguing that since the son of a high official was personally examined by the emperor, he should not be elevated too highly.”

“After much debate, the emperor ultimately demoted him to second place in the top tier—making him the runner-up.”

Hearing this, Yin Gao’s face lit up.

Zhang Sixiu had failed the metropolitan examination last time for failing to avoid taboo; he had since devoted three years to study, his scholarship flawless, even favored by the emperor—yet still, he did not claim the top spot.

Clearly, after the unrest, the court’s temperature had cooled.

Then Yin Gao turned to Zhang Yi with eager anticipation: “Then the top scholar’s essay—did it choose ‘gentleness’?”

If it chose firmness, it would mean harsh repression; if it chose gentleness, the land survey would likely be halted soon.

Alas, Zhang Yi merely glanced at Yin Gao and shook his head: “The final top scholar, Wang Tingzhuan, used water and fire as metaphors for leniency and severity, yin and yang to correspond to punishment and virtue, and the qin and se to illustrate timing and rhythm.”

“The third-place laureate, Xiao Liangyou, wrote an essay that used the metaphor of sharp blades and axes to excise deep-rooted sores, and compared court medicine to curing minor ailments.”

“All of them wrote ‘upright’ essays.”

Yin Gao’s expectations were dashed, and he could not help but feel displeased.

He sneered: “Back when the Emperor sacrificed at the Southern Altar, he expelled every capable man. Now the court is filled only with paper-pasters.”

The essays of the third rank are today’s water temperature: the runner-up’s ‘forceful’ essay reflects the stubborn arrogance of the radical faction led by the Emperor; the third-place’s ‘upright’ essay reflects the court’s paper-pasters prioritizing the greater good.

And the final outcome was obvious: the top scholar’s ‘upright’ essay represented mutual compromise between court and countryside.

This was still far short of the complete cooling Yin Gao had anticipated.

Zhang Yi glanced at Yin Gao and shook his head: “It’s passable, at least the Emperor didn’t fly into a rage and mobilize troops to ‘forcefully subdue’ the provinces.”

Saying this, he reached into his sleeve and pulled out a manuscript.

“Before I left the capital, the Emperor personally wrote this manuscript—it hasn’t been published yet. Brother Yin, take a look.”

He extended the manuscript forward.

Yin Gao glanced at it and saw the characters were hastily copied, and the title bore the Emperor’s unmistakable style: “The Deep Waters of Reform: How Should We Unify Our Thoughts?”

Yin Gao took it, unable to suppress a cold laugh: “You treat our aristocratic families as enemies, shatter the tacit understanding between sovereign and minister, trample the universal consensus—and now, with the court in turmoil, you finally realize you need to ‘unify thoughts’?”

He skimmed it briefly, clenched his teeth, pressed both hands together, crushed the manuscript into a ball, and hurled it violently into the soup on the table!

“Pah!”

Zhang Yi watched this silently, offering no protest, only murmuring lightly: “Divisions between court and countryside are growing clearer. We proceed as planned. Whether the Emperor wishes to heal the rift between top and bottom is up to him.”

Saying this, he raised his wine cup and took a small sip, appearing utterly at ease.

Yin Gao pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the soup splashes from his sleeve.

He steered the conversation back to Shandong, speaking with a tone of sarcasm: “Proceed as planned? Easy to say. I fear this peasant unrest will fizzle out, and He Xinyin will quell it with a few words—causing the court to look down on it and revive its ambitions.”

Compared to Shen Li, that fool who constantly shouts for war, Yin Gao feared more that this peasant unrest would fizzle out.

Zhang Yi remained silent.

Seeing no reply, Yin Gao did not press him, but reached for his chopsticks and began eating.

Yin Gao’s intentions were transparent: though he pretended to question whether Ge Cheng and others were reliable, he ultimately sought to force the Zhang family to reveal their hand.

Whether Zhang Yi intervened directly or leaked some leverage, both sides needed to become entangled deeper—Yin Gao had run tirelessly in Shandong, resisting imperial policy, yet his heart was far from at ease.

For a moment, the room held only the intermittent sounds of chewing and pouring wine.

After a long while, Zhang Yi finally spoke slowly.

“Ge Cheng has committed murder of an official—he will never accept amnesty.”

Hearing this, Yin Gao was struck with shock.

Murdered an official!?

Not some lowly village clerk who gets beheaded every other day—Zhang Yi’s words “murdered an official” clearly meant a proper official who had passed the imperial examination!

The Zhang family had secretly employed such a desperado!?

Since he had spoken with sincerity, there was no point in hiding anything.

To reassure Yin Gao, Zhang Yi met his gaze and said seriously: “Three years ago, Ge Cheng acted on behalf of his master and killed the former Prefect Zhuang Yi. He then came to my house seeking protection. I took him in and erased all traces.”

Yin Gao, seated opposite, stared in stunned disbelief: “You mean the killer of Prefect Zhuang!?”

This was the sensational case of three years ago.

At the time, Zhuang Yi had retired as prefect and earned the praise “upright and benevolent, beloved by the people”—a triumphant return home.

Yet shortly after retiring, he was murdered, and his death was horrific.

The motive terrified the entire bureaucracy.

Because after retirement, Prefect Zhuang wanted to acquire some land, and set his sights on small farmers’ fields. He arrived with a police inspector to demand them—“The retired prefect, seeking to seize tidal salt fields, arrived with guards and inspectors.”

The result? He drew the attention of outlaw heroes.

Since the land was tidal salt fields, Zhuang Yi was lured to sea under the pretense of surveying—only to realize too late he had been tricked.

Then the killers revealed their inhuman cruelty: they stripped Zhuang Yi naked, cut his flesh slice by slice, chopped the meat into pieces before his eyes, and pickled it on the spot with salt from the tidal fields—torturing him to death.

The news was brought back by Zhuang Yi’s young servant boy.

The killers spared the two boys, forcing them to eat the pickled flesh, then released them with a message: “Killing an official? Satisfying.”

Such audacity and madness triggered a massive manhunt.

But such outlaws often colluded with local wealthy families—and the killer escaped, remaining at large for over three years.

Who would have thought he was recruited by the Zhang family!

The Zhang family of Tai Cang’s methods and open ambitions were truly terrifying!

Seeing the fear in Yin Gao’s eyes, Zhang Yi reassured him: “Ge Cheng despises the court and owes me his life. Though now embroiled in the peasant unrest, he will never accept amnesty.”

Without such a background, how could mere retainers of local magnates dare to appear publicly and lead peasant unrest?

Let alone slaughter tax officials without hesitation.

Zhang Yi glanced at Yin Gao.

This man looked at him as if he were a venomous serpent—utterly clueless about how different people serve different purposes. He would never rise with his family.

Yin Gao clearly harbored distrust toward Zhang Yi’s revelation and had lost interest in the conversation. He muttered weakly: “So that’s how it is. Then he won’t be easily bought by Shen Li and others.”

Saying this, he covered his face with his sleeve and drained his cup: “It’s getting late…”

He clearly meant to take his leave.

Zhang Yi found this tedious and cut him off bluntly: “Go ahead, Brother Yin.”

Seeing this, Yin Gao looked awkward but said nothing. He rose, bowed slightly, and left without another word.

After he left, Zhang Yi was about to call for the servant outside.

But before he could speak, the servant hurried in: “Second Master, the Canal Guild just came. Seeing you were in discussion with Lord Yin, they left a message and departed.”

Zhang Yi did not turn around, asking directly: “What was the message?”

The servant recalled briefly and repeated: “They said a ship from Southern Zhili docked in Jining this afternoon. The Grand Secretary Zhang Juzheng was aboard—heading to the capital.”

Zhang Yi froze.

He instinctively frowned and took a deep breath: “Zhang Juzheng? Isn’t he bedridden with hemorrhoids? Didn’t the Emperor grant him two months’ leave?”

At the end of March, Zhang Juzheng’s mourning period ended, and the court recalled him—but as the saying goes, when fortune turns, heaven and earth align. Due to prolonged sitting during mourning, his hemorrhoids flared up, and he became bedridden.

The Emperor then granted him sick leave, ordering him to return to court in June.

It was only May—how was he already in Shandong!?

The servant shook his head—he had no further information.

A flicker of worry crossed Zhang Yi’s brow.

Had the peasant unrest alarmed Zhang Juzheng, forcing him to return to the capital despite his illness?

No.

The Emperor, arrogant and domineering, would never allow Zhang Juzheng to return without his approval. Even if Zhang tried, the Emperor would send him back to recuperate mid-journey.

It must be that the Emperor changed his mind and urgently summoned Zhang Juzheng to the capital!

Why?

Was it because Shen Shixing had been too weak on land surveying and angered the Emperor, so Zhang Juzheng was recalled to retake the Grand Secretariat?

Or was it because the policy trial had failed, and the Emperor wanted to recall a strong Grand Secretary to suppress dissent?

Or was it at a critical juncture to reconcile court divisions, seeking to bolster the ‘forceful’ faction?

Zhang Yi rose and paced the room.

The Emperor had appeared so composed just moments ago—now he urgently summoned Zhang Juzheng. To claim this had nothing to do with the land survey would insult anyone’s political instincts.

Moreover, he had heard no whisper of it in the capital.

All these signs suggested the Emperor’s response had deviated from prior expectations.

Zhang Yi narrowed his eyes, pondering the Emperor’s motives.

After much thought, he turned to the servant, about to speak.

At that moment, hurried footsteps sounded outside.

The master and servant exchanged a glance, fell silent, and looked up.

Creak.

The door burst open—Yin Gao stood there, face dark, silent, walking straight to Zhang Yi.

Zhang Yi was startled.

He instinctively asked: “Brother Yin, why have you returned?”

He realized the answer immediately.

This man must have heard Zhang Juzheng was passing through Shandong, panicked, and rushed back for help.

Yin Gao gave the servant a cold glance and said nothing.

Zhang Yi understood and waved the servant away.

Once the servant closed the door, the room fell silent again.

Zhang Yi was about to soothe him.

But Yin Gao suddenly slammed a document onto the table, his face flushed with rage!

Yin Gao’s venomous gaze locked onto Zhang Yi: “Is this what Zi Cheng guaranteed was reliable!?”

Zhang Yi realized his earlier assumption was wrong.

He frowned and snatched the document from Yin Gao’s hand.

Yin Gao threw it at him, sneering: “A letter from Yanzhou Prefecture: half an hour ago, Ge Cheng and his men surrendered. Three thousand rebels scattered like birds. Markets reopened, fields returned to cultivation.”

"The civil unrest in Qufu was quelled overnight; before long, the entire Yanzhou Prefecture will be stabilized by the mere sight of severed heads!"

Zhang Yi glanced briefly at the memorial.

Having heard the words at his ear, he finished reading the document before him.

How could the situation have changed so drastically!?

He was momentarily speechless.

Yin Gao glared at him, ready to challenge.

Suddenly—

Zhang Yi smiled, letting out a self-deprecating chuckle.

"Ha! The heroes of the realm are indeed as numerous as carp crossing a river! We have underestimated them."

Yin Gao watched helplessly as the man slipped away, gritting his teeth and growling: "Is this how you intend to shake the court—ending with a whimper like this!?"

To his surprise, Zhang Yi gave no reply, rose, pushed open the door, and walked out straightaway.

"Zhang Juzheng passed through Jining today—he must have visited your father. Brother Yin, take care of yourself."

Yin Gao stared, dumbfounded, as Zhang Yi fled with effortless grace.

Zhang Yi didn’t turn back, waving his hand lightly: "Brother Yin, don’t rush. The north is too cold—my hands shake while playing go. I’ll return south first, then resume negotiations on the land survey."

With that, he took three steps as one, vanishing from the pavilion in the blink of an eye.

…

Wanli Eighth Year, the 23rd day of the fifth month, Yanzhou Prefecture.

In the grand hall of the prefectural yamen, An Jiuyu, who had rushed from Jinan, sat behind the official desk.

He studied the cut on the severed head before him, unable to conceal his astonishment: "You mean He Xinyin went alone with a single blade, faced three thousand rebels, charged in and out seven times, his martial qi bursting from his body, cleaving Ge Cheng’s head off—and then, terrified by He Xinyin’s valor, the entire mob turned, laid down arms, and in the chaos slaughtered over a dozen ringleaders?"

At the end, An Jiuyu helplessly pointed to himself: "Do they all think I’m a superstitious fool out here?"

When news of the Qufu unrest first reached the Provincial Governor’s yamen, it was truly an emergency of the highest order.

Thousands rioted, shut markets, marched, stormed the yamen, set fires, murdered tax officials—suspected of being incited by the Kong family and the Prince of Lu; the Embroidered Uniform Guard suppressed them, slaughtering wealthy families…

It seemed the rebels were moments away from raising the banner of revolt.

Yet such a terrifying tale collapsed like a paper tiger, pierced by a single thrust from He Xinyin—this story was hardly credible.

The garrison commanders, Vice Surveillance Commissioner, and Assistant Commissioner in the hall, hearing the Censor’s self-mockery, simply spread their hands: "The description above was merely hearsay from a low-ranking clerk—it’s not to be taken as truth."

"In truth, Qufu only sent the heads of Ge Cheng and a few ringleaders—no official memorial accompanied them."

"We don’t even know why they sent them here."

In short, aside from the fact that the Qufu unrest had been quelled, nothing else could be formally recorded in an official document.

At this moment, Prefect Li Deyou signaled an assistant to close the wooden box holding the heads, stepped forward, and spoke solemnly: "In my view, this is not an oversight by Governor Shen Li—it’s a deliberate act of taking blame and handing over credit!"

The officials in the hall froze.

Taking blame and handing over credit?

An Jiuyu frowned at this.

Factional divisions were not confined to the central court.

Disagreements between the highest leadership, between provincial authorities and the center, even among the people themselves, were perfectly normal.

Especially on matters as foundational as the redistribution of the empire’s wealth.

Whether it led to civil war between north and south, or troops clashing in the Western Garden, such events had been countless throughout history.

Shandong, this epicenter, was no different.

Shen Li was forceful in style and adamant about the land survey—no one in the Shandong bureaucracy could possibly welcome him.

With such a vast discrepancy in the land survey verification figures, could provincial governors and censors possibly leave a good impression on the Emperor?

Add to this the recent rebellion, and the blame was squarely placed on their posts.

Shen Li would simply walk away, leaving behind a mountain of resentment in Shandong—for the local officials to bear.

Almost the entire Shandong bureaucracy had a bone stuck in their throats.

Under such sentiment, they might not actively sabotage the land survey.

But the unspoken consensus remained: to raise the banner of provincial governors and censors, and keep Shen Li out of Yanzhou’s affairs—An Jiuyu’s voluntary offer to quell the Yanzhou unrest may well have been intended to pin Shen Li down in Qufu County, preventing him from meddling elsewhere.

According to Li Deyou’s interpretation, Shen Li clearly understood this—and out of these considerations, he deliberately handed the credit for quelling the unrest to the local authorities, while taking sole responsibility for provoking it.

In short, Shen Li was seeking local support, making a deliberate concession and gesture of goodwill!

The officials in the hall realized this connection, exchanging glances.

Could there really be officials who cared only for doing their duty, regardless of their careers?

An Jiuyu slapped his thigh: "Governor Shen Li is a man of lofty integrity!"

Others might be different—but Shen Li truly was this kind of man!

The surveillance officials nodded in agreement.

"True to the pure stream!"

"A man of great righteousness from Longjiang!"

Someone immediately hinted to An Jiuyu: "Cough, cough—Censor An, you took on this crisis under duress, fulfilling Governor Yu’s trust, leading us to quell the unrest…"

The moment he spoke, An Jiuyu shot him a cold glance; the man fell silent instantly.

An Jiuyu shook his head: "Once we’ve quelled the unrest in surrounding counties and completed the land survey verification, I will submit a memorial to court to recommend rewards for all of you."

Reciprocity was essential—credit could not be taken for free.

The officials below exchanged glances and quickly nodded in assent.

"With Qufu settled, the other counties will fall into line at the sight of severed heads!"

"Jining is under the command of Director Yin—no disturbances have arisen in nearby counties; we can ignore them."

"Pingyang and Dong’a counties, closest to the prefectural seat, calmed immediately after their garrison commanders issued warnings."

"Guyang, Dingtao, Juye, and Cao counties were quite turbulent, but Governor Yu went there personally—there should be no major issues."

"Only Tancheng and Yiyi counties remain unsettled—they were the first to respond to Ge Cheng and have yet to be pacified."

"Vice Commissioner Wu and Garrison Commander Zhang, please take Ge Cheng’s head to Tancheng and Yiyi counties, display them publicly on the city walls—disperse the rebels if you can, without resorting to force. I will go to Yizhou myself."

After giving these orders, An Jiuyu turned to Li Deyou.

He paused, then added: "The land survey verification still requires your close attention, Prefect Li—do not leave any further loopholes."

The current hurdle has not yet been cleared—if another mistake occurs, the consequences are unthinkable.

Li Deyou bowed and gave his political pledge: "After great chaos comes great order. Since this unrest, even the Prince of Lu and the Kong family have become more subdued—the land survey should proceed much more smoothly."

At this, everyone in the hall looked up at Li Deyou.

An Jiuyu also realized something, turning to this former subordinate of Shen Li: "Where is Governor Shen now?"

Li Deyou hesitated: "He says the unrest was linked to a collateral branch of the Kong family—he is now assisting the Duke Yansheng in the investigation."

An Jiuyu rubbed his forehead, speechless.

Investigation? More like a reckoning.

In the fourth year of Zhengtong, Duke Yansheng Kong Yanjin reported to court that nineteen thousand eight hundred mu of land had been granted over generations to support the temple, cultivated by six hundred twenty-four tenant households.

But two hundred years later, the Kong family alone held thirty-nine ten thousand mu in Shandong province alone—spread across six counties: Yuncheng, Juye, Caozhou, Dong’e, Ziyang, and Yutai.

And these were not the standard 360-bu per mu plots—they were at least 700 bu per mu or more.

In other regions—Beizhili, Nanzhili, Henan, and elsewhere—there were tens of thousands of mu scattered in smaller holdings; how much was seized illegally, how much hidden land remained—impossible to count.

If they were to settle accounts with the Kong family—

Either the Duke Yansheng’s golden image would be shattered, or Shen Li would become a pariah.

No wonder Shen Li willingly took the blame and handed out credit—he was trying to win support from the Shandong bureaucracy. What must come, will come.

An Jiuyu could not help but sigh.

Shen Li was simply too blunt.

The Emperor had instructed He Xinyin to write essays denouncing the Kong family, fully prepared to protect his subordinate’s reputation and proceed slowly.

Who knew Shen Li cared nothing for his own reputation.

Didn’t he know that excessive rigidity breaks easily? The bureaucratic tide is full of hardship ahead.

Suddenly, he seemed to remember something and turned: "Where is Master Fushan now?"

Li Deyou shook his head, bewildered.

A nearby garrison commander stepped forward: "They say Master Fushan intends to stay in Shandong and establish some kind of school."

An Jiuyu asked curiously: "Establish a school?"

The commander nodded: "He plans to build a charitable estate and till the land himself."

"But his specific doctrines or teachings are unclear."

An Jiuyu grew even more curious.

But duty called—he suppressed his curiosity and continued giving orders.

…

At this moment, He Xinyin was hoeing the fields—several days had passed since his lone blade quelled the unrest.

He Xinyin faced the earth, back to the sky, one hoe after another.

This plot of land was a “tainted field” he had acquired from Shen Li—auctioned by the government, bought by He Xinyin, and turned into a charitable estate.

Besides He Xinyin, three or five farmers labored alongside him.

He Xinyin focused entirely on turning the soil, until dusk fell and sweat soaked his clothes.

On the field’s edge, his disciples stood respectfully, holding meals.

He Xinyin looked up at the sky, saw the heavens ablaze with fire, then shouldered his hoe and climbed onto the field ridge.

“Teacher, first eat.”

He Xinyin washed the mud from his feet with water from the field, rubbed his face clean, then took the steamed bread, pickled vegetables, and wine, and sat calmly on the ridge to eat.

Nearby, the disciple effortlessly spread out paper and brush on a stone slab.

“Continue from yesterday’s notes,” He Xinyin instructed.

The setup clearly demonstrated years of tacit understanding.

Pausing between bites, He Xinyin spoke slowly: “I once pondered deeply: for decades I traveled the land, lecturing and teaching—where did I go wrong?”

“This encounter in Shandong finally made me understand.”

The disciples looked at him with curiosity.

He Xinyin took a sip of wine and continued: “Originally, promoting Confucianism among the common folk, aiming for everyone to become a dragon, the ideal approach was for the villagers to act, while we helped them raise their voices. At the very least, it should have been the common people who wished to act, and we led them.”

“But it was never like that. We acted, while they stood still—not only did they not move, they sneered at us precisely because we acted.”

“So for over a decade I shouted ‘everyone a dragon’ to no effect.”

Several disciples felt uneasy hearing He Xinyin so easily dismiss his decades of work.

He Xinyin seemed unaware, continuing: “The reason is that we never truly represented the common people’s demands. We assumed our actions benefited them, but they only heard pleasant words—nothing truly touched them.”

“This encounter with Ge Cheng brought me sudden clarity.”

“The reason is that we, by nature, are fundamentally at odds with the common people.”

“The common people suffer under oppressive taxes, yet we cannot immediately relieve their burden; they have no land, yet we cannot give them land.”

“The common people demand many things, all requiring root solutions—but at that time we had no practical means to solve these problems, only empty words, and thus could never grasp their true suffering.”

He Xinyin swallowed the steamed bread whole and concluded: “We must first act on the land issue, and find a viable path.”

The disciple recording paused silently.

He raised his head hesitantly: “Master, should we soften or obscure this somewhat?”

He Xinyin shook his head without a word.

The student, helpless, gritted his teeth and wrote it down.

At that moment, another student interjected: “Master, you mentioned Ge Cheng just now—may I ask if this event could be recorded as a separate essay, as an appendix?”

He Xinyin, Li Zhi, and others had always taken the sages as their ideal.

Especially He Xinyin—his words and deeds were almost standard material for students and disciples to record.

He Xinyin thought for a moment, then shook his head.

The student felt disappointed; it was a pity that the events of that day could not be recorded.

But then He Xinyin suddenly rose, took the brush from a disciple’s hand, and sat down alone on the stone slab.

He sighed and said: “I shall write Ge Cheng’s biography myself.”

Important matters often haunt the soul.

He Xinyin picked up the brush, turned to a fresh page, and began writing slowly: “In the eighth year of Wanli, the empire conducted a land survey… As for tax resistance, the people of Shandong abandoned farming and closed markets; Ge Cheng, a wanderer, raised his arm and rose up, holding a banana leaf fan—his cry summoned a thousand followers, they killed the officials, destroyed their homes, gathered their wealth, and burned it all…”

“When the governor and surveillance officials heard this, they were shocked and wished to suppress it with troops, yet they cherished the people’s lives, so they ordered their subordinates to ride together into the temple…”

As he wrote, He Xinyin felt as if he had returned to that moment—the towering man glaring at him, demanding: “After the land survey, will taxes rise?”

He seemed to see again Ge Cheng—the coarse hemp clothing, the massive frame, the streak of red earth across his brow.

Unconsciously, his thoughts drifted back to that day.