Chapter 338: Rain Pours, Clouds Gather; Seats All Filled

The first minister’s return to the capital was like a suddenly swirling vortex atop an already turbulent sea.

The storm and rain played their indispensable symphony, while turtles, crocodiles, and dragons rose and danced in chorus with the waves, while rotten fish and spoiled shrimp were flung into the air, exposing their decaying corpses.

Yet at the center of the vortex lay the calmest place of all.

After Zhang Juzheng arrived in the capital, he returned to his residence, tidied his household, resumed his duties at the Ministry of Personnel, and submitted his report to the Tongzheng Office—all with serene composure and complete silence.

After visiting the Zhenwu Temple to pray for the emperor’s unborn child, Zhang Juzheng returned home, shut his doors tightly, refused all visitors, and vanished entirely from public view.

For such was the established custom for the reinstatement of a Grand Secretary.

If one did not wait for the emperor’s summons but instead rushed about visiting relatives and friends, it would appear overly defiant and unrestrained.

That was why Lu Diaoyang could only go to the riverbank to meet him, rather than wait in the capital.

Of course, the chief minister must understand the rules—but the emperor need not follow them.

So.

“His Majesty ordered me to return to the Grand Secretariat first!?”

As dawn barely broke, an imperial envoy arrived at the door.

Zhang Juzheng respectfully received Wei Chao’s handwritten edict, frowning as he verified it again and again.

Wei Chao hurried forward, supporting the chief minister with both hands, explaining: “The precise date of your return to the capital could not be foreseen. His Majesty’s schedule these past days was already packed to capacity; today’s affairs simply cannot be postponed—he has no time to spare.”

“His Majesty repeatedly instructed me to convey to you: do not take it to heart.”

Custom was always meant to be broken—this truth was once again vividly demonstrated: Zhang Juzheng waited, but no summons from the emperor came.

Upon hearing this, Zhang Juzheng immediately assumed a solemn expression, bowed respectfully toward the Forbidden City, and said: “His Majesty’s exhaustion must harm his imperial health—might I be permitted to share some of the burden?”

This was nearly a direct question: what was the emperor doing, unable to spare even a moment to receive his chief minister?

Zhang Juzheng did not suspect he had lost favor during his months away.

He merely studied Wei Chao closely, his mind filled with suspicion: could the emperor be ill, and these eunuchs be concealing it!?

The more he thought, the more suspicious it became—his gaze upon Wei Chao grew colder.

Wei Chao felt Zhang Juzheng’s stare and inwardly sighed.

He consoled himself: if a eunuch were not suspected like this, it meant he was beneath notice.

With a light laugh, Wei Chao did not avoid mentioning the emperor’s schedule: “Today, His Majesty received foreign envoys, accompanied by several dukes and marquises, Princesses of the Imperial Household, Assistant Director of the Honglu Temple Yang Zongzhong, Assistant Director of the Siyi Pavilion and Temple of Heaven Chi Yude, various interpreters, and translation officers.”

Aside from relatives and meritorious nobles, the Honglu Temple handled simultaneous interpretation, while the Siyi Pavilion handled written translation—both were the official personnel for foreign affairs.

The implication was clear: professional matters were being handled by professional officials.

The subtext remained: His Majesty truly has no time today; foreign envoys’ audiences cannot be casually rescheduled—do not imagine conspiracies.

Hearing this, Zhang Juzheng suppressed the monstrous conspiracy he had been imagining.

He awkwardly asked: “Foreign tribute missions? Which ones?”

Wei Chao paused to recall, then replied: “Several embassies arrived: the Franks, the Castilians, the Red Hair Barbarians, Ryukyu, and Korea.”

“Beyond tribute, other matters are being discussed—especially maritime trade. In spring, ocean-going ships conducted coastal trials, but their voyages were inconsistent; now we must finalize the routes for overseas expeditions.”

Zhang Juzheng nodded in understanding.

The emperor had previously stated that oceanic voyages must not merely be displays of military might—that would exhaust the people and drain the treasury.

To foster robust maritime trade, a profitable “virtuous cycle” was essential.

Thus, one must know both oneself and the enemy: identify which regions favor our goods, which possess scarce local products, and above all, obtain their nautical charts.

It seemed, then, that the emperor’s heavy workload was not without cause.

This matter could have been entrusted to the Ministry of Rites.

But the emperor’s relatives and meritorious nobles had grown immensely wealthy from coastal trade these past years—how could they possibly refrain from inserting themselves into oceanic expeditions?

Thus, the emperor had no choice but to form his own circle outside the Ministry of Rites, bringing along his relatives and nobles.

He reluctantly accepted that the emperor was truly occupied today.

Zhang Juzheng turned his attention to the handwritten edict, turning it over in his hands: “Forgive me, Grand Eunuch Wei—what exactly does this edict mean?”

A handwritten edict was one issued without formal procedure, without the imperial seal or stamp.

Its form and wording often carried an extra measure of informality.

But this edict from the emperor was not merely an extra measure—it was utterly casual.

A simple scrap of white paper, torn from somewhere, listing items one through four, totaling barely a dozen words.

Wei Chao smiled, bowed toward the Forbidden City, and explained: “These are matters His Majesty has entrusted you to deliberate upon promptly after returning to the Grand Secretariat.”

“The relevant documents have already been prepared by the Secretariat officials on duty in the Grand Secretariat.”

So it was a directive.

Zhang Juzheng now began to discern the meaning behind the numbered items.

As he concentrated intently, Wei Chao spoke again: “His Majesty has an oral instruction on this matter.”

His tone turned solemn.

Zhang Juzheng immediately bowed deeply.

Wei Chao cleared his throat, mimicking the emperor’s voice: “Affairs have piled up; I hope you will handle them swiftly. Whether proper or not, explain them clearly to me in the audience two days hence!”

His voice ceased. Zhang Juzheng bowed again.

“Your servant receives the decree.”

Wei Chao lifted Zhang Juzheng a second time, smiling warmly: “Shall I escort you to the palace?”

As a subject, one must respond to the emperor’s urgency.

Preparing the palanquin would take time—by the time sedan bearers were assembled and everything ready, dawn would be fully upon them.

Better to squeeze into a carriage now and get the chief minister back to the Grand Secretariat to work.

Zhang Juzheng had no objection—he nodded: “I am grateful, Your Excellency.”

With that, amid Wei Chao’s courteous pleasantries, they left the Zhang residence together.

The two stepped into the palanquin together.

The palanquin swayed toward the Forbidden City.

…

Two flowers bloom, each branch told separately.

As Zhang Juzheng returned to the Grand Secretariat, court officials in the Wenhua Hall were gathering their strength for the upcoming court deliberation.

The officials clustered in small groups, whispering.

Wang Zongyi was discussing preparations for the emperor’s first child with He Luowen, while Yin Zhengmao stood nearby, occasionally interjecting.

Minister of Justice Pan Cheng and Left Vice Minister Xu Guo appeared to have a disagreement.

Minister of Revenue Wang Guoguang and Minister of Works Zhu Heng had been dispatched to audit the Ministry of Works’ Jieshen Treasury and various shipyards, and thus missed the deliberation.

They were represented by Left Vice Minister of Revenue Li Youzi and Left Vice Minister of Works Wan Gong.

Grand Secretary Shen Shixing had not yet arrived.

Grand Secretary Wang Xijue had pulled the Wenhua Hall Secretariat official Wang Yingxuan into a corner.

“Wang Junqing, I hear you’ve been traveling throughout Huguang, reporting to elderly ministers?”

Wang Xijue stood with his hands behind his back, his tone edged with accusation.

“Hui er bao zhi” was a term reserved for reporting to superiors—not mere casual conversation; it meant consolidating relevant affairs into a unified report, then presenting them with a specific stance and perspective.

You are a Secretariat official—you report only to the emperor and the Grand Secretariat. To independently visit the former chief minister in mourning and report on Grand Secretariat affairs—what does this mean?

Wang Yingxuan, cornered by this relative, felt speechless.

A bead of sweat formed on his brow: “Grand Secretary Wang, I was dispatched by imperial decree to perform sacrifices in Chengtian Prefecture. On my return, I paid respects to my teacher, and upon hearing him mention that Master Jiangling had suffered a recurrence of hemorrhoids, I naturally visited him.”

“The claim of ‘reporting’ is entirely groundless.”

As one of the Four Disciples of Yan, visiting the Vice Inspector of Education Yan Jing was simply a matter of teacher-student loyalty—no need to elaborate.

As for Zhang Juzheng, when he oversaw the revision of the Great Ming Code, he appointed Wang Yingxuan as a compiler—there was a favor owed. When the patron was unwell, how could one not visit?

In short, ordinary human courtesy.

Wang Xijue had no patience for his excuses—he merely snorted: “Mind your own conduct!”

Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

Others who heard the commotion cast glances—some direct, some subtle.

Seeing Wang Xijue in one of his moods, they all wore expressions of weary familiarity.

The old stubborn mule had always been like this—on court, they called him “Little Gao Gong,” scolding people every other day.

When he first entered the Grand Secretariat, he was the most sought-after figure; censors and remonstrators had rushed to join his faction, eager to fight for him against Shen Shixing.

But Wang Xijue showed no favor—he publicly rebuked Censor Li Zhi, Jiang Dongzhi, and Remonstrator Yang Keli, calling them petty opportunists “fawning and fickle, crooked and deceitful,” dragging him into disgrace.

How could this be tolerated?

After this incident, no censor, remonstrator, or ministry official would follow Wang Xijue.

Wang Xijue ignored these glances.

He knew his behavior made him an outsider—he had accepted this long ago, when he was demoted to Nan Zhili for offending Zhang Simei.

But he felt the court’s atmosphere was still decent—there was still room to get things done; why waste energy courting disciples?

Just as he had rebuked Wang Yingxuan—it was out of public duty, not fear of Zhang Juzheng; on the contrary, he feared these Secretariat officials!

The current emperor is no longer like the Jiajing or Longqing emperors.

Diligent and tireless, he handles countless affairs daily—meaning more power concentrates in his hands.

But when the moon is full, it wanes; when essence is full, it overflows—power inevitably spreads from the emperor to those around him.

Now, the Secretariat officials are showing signs of rising influence!

Especially during this past month, when the Emperor rarely left the Western Garden, these Secretariat clerks had effectively become known as a miniature cabinet!

That was tolerable enough, since they operated within the court and held no real authority in their duties.

But what did Wang Yingxuan hope to achieve by running around so actively?

Extending his authority? Conspiring to form a faction?

Wang Xijue grew sharply wary and immediately chose the most direct approach: confronting him face-to-face to rebuke him.

If he still refused to listen after repeated warnings, don’t blame him for striking hard!

This brief interlude quieted the murmurs within the Wenhua Hall.

As colleagues gradually entered the hall,

The court ministers who had been chatting spontaneously separated and took their assigned positions.

When Grand Secretary Shen Shixing and Director of the Office of Imperial Secretariat Zhang Hong arrived last, the ceremonial officers Xu Wenbi and Jiang Keqian entered from the side hall and took their places at the head of their respective ranks.

Representing the Emperor, the Office of Imperial Secretariat spoke first: “Begin.”

Zhang Hong bowed respectfully toward the empty throne.

The ministers bowed in turn.

Shen Shixing, without hesitation, stepped forward as leader and said: “Regarding last month’s proposal on currency law, His Majesty returned the memorials from the Ministry of Works and the Ministry of Revenue, instructing us to review the memorial submitted by Wan Xiangchun of the Board of Works’ Censorate and then submit a revised recommendation.”

Having presided over morning court for half a year, Grand Secretary Shen had grown increasingly composed and orderly in his conduct.

Wan Xiangchun’s memorial had already been circulated among colleagues in advance.

After land survey came tax reform; one great battle had not yet ended when another immediately followed.

The central government could not issue edicts on a whim—it required careful preparation. Currency law was the foundational preparation for tax reform, and the current debate centered on copper coin standards.

The current dynasty’s copper coin system was simply one word: chaotic.

From Hongwu to Xuande, though copper coins were cast to promote paper currency, their use by the common people was forbidden.

The credibility gap and market vacuum left by paper currency were glaringly obvious; this policy triggered massive private minting, even leading government offices to join in collusion.

From Zhengtong to Chenghua, paper currency collapsed entirely, and the central government, powerless, simply went mad.

It lifted the ban on private coins but stopped casting its own copper coins.

As for private minting? Sorry—still forbidden.

It was no surprise there was a coin shortage; as then Minister of Revenue Qiu Jun complained, it choked commerce and poisoned trade.

Only in February of the sixteenth year of Hongzhi did the central government realize the severity of the crisis and decide to resume casting coins: “Hongzhi Tongbao.”

But even if the top had decided, action below was needed—just as the Wanli land survey had taken seven years of bureaucratic preparation—yet during the Hongzhi reign, the chain of command had already broken down.

Years later, Emperor Xiaozong decided to check how well his currency policy was being implemented and received the reply: “Only one or two out of ten coins cast in each region.”

Helpless, the Emperor issued an edict to inspect all Hongwu, Yongle, and Xuande coins stored in the two capitals’ imperial treasuries and the thirteen provincial administrations.

It was clear coin production had failed; they could only buy back ancestral coins to ease the stagnation of commercial circulation.

Of course, it did no good.

Only when Emperor Shizong ascended the throne did he fly into a rage and begin settling old scores, ordering: “The Ministry of Revenue, in concert with the Ministry of Works, shall investigate all uncast coins from previous dynasties and complete their casting.”

In Jiajing sixth, eighteenth, twenty-third, and thirty-second years, copper coins were issued almost every few years; the currency system gained renewed vitality under Jiajing.

During the Longqing reign, chaos returned for several years, for Emperor Longqing had no real convictions.

When the Nanjing Ministry of Revenue claimed lack of copper funds, Longqing halted coin production.

Soon after, Tan Lun submitted a memorial arguing that coin casting was an excellent policy for accumulating wealth: not only should casting resume, but coinage must be standardized—not by reign title, but uniformly as “Da Ming Tongbao,” for easier public recognition and circulation. Emperor Longqing found this reasonable and ordered 1.2 million taels of copper to be allocated for casting.

Then Zhang Suiwei submitted a memorial: “Other emperors always cast coins with their reign titles; in our dynasty, we’ve lost this tradition—does this mean we disrespect Emperor Longqing?”

Longqing thought this made sense and rescinded his order.

Shanxi Provincial Governor Jin Xueyan thought this unacceptable: “Was the promise to cast coins to be abandoned?” He immediately submitted a memorial: “If you must refuse, call them ‘Longqing Tongbao’!”

Emperor Longqing considered it and approved.

By April of Longqing fourth year, Gao Gong could no longer bear it.

Though old Gao didn’t understand currency law, he knew unstable policy undermined market confidence; he submitted a memorial urging Emperor Longqing: “Do not allow further frivolous changes—confuse the people no more.”

Old Gao’s words carried weight; Emperor Longqing finally decided: order the Ministry of Revenue to cast two million wen of Longqing Tongbao coins. “From then on, the currency system became slightly functional again.”

Of course, it was only “slightly functional”—barely stabilizing market transactions.

Rampant private minting, erratic official pricing, inconsistent quality and shoddy workmanship—all remained serious problems.

In the Wanli reign, preparing for tax reform meant these issues had to be addressed; otherwise, the entire environment was rotten, and tax reform would instantly trigger nationwide chaos.

Li Youzi, Left Vice Minister of Revenue, looked embarrassed and stepped forward: “Grand Secretary Shen, why did His Majesty reject our ministry’s proposal?”

The currency proposal had been led by him within the Ministry of Revenue.

The ministry’s opinion was nearly unanimous: “Since private coins circulate, official coins are blocked; punish the ringleaders, encourage reporting and capture, and ban private trade.”—It wasn’t that the current currency law was bad, but that private coins had ruined it; decisive action and exemplary punishment were needed.

Shen Shixing turned to this newly appointed Minister of Revenue and explained politely: “His Majesty said that on fiscal matters in principle, fiscal tools should be used as much as possible.”

In other words, the Ministry of Revenue’s proposal was superficial—fit only as a supplement, a peripheral nudge to the main policy.

Li Youzi had no reply.

Wan Gong, Vice Minister of Works, followed immediately, stating his position: “Grand Secretary Shen, the Ministry of Works has reviewed Wan Xiangchun’s memorial.”

“Standardizing the design is simple: unify the three types—gold-backed, fire-sealed, and turned-edge—under the single name ‘Da Ming Tongbao,’ with the reign year stamped on the reverse.”

This was indeed simple: standardization would save labor and materials.

Had Emperor Longqing not thought this weakened the reign title, the Ministry of Works would have done this during Longqing.

“But eliminating impurities is utterly unreasonable. If we follow this, production costs will rise by at least seventy percent!”

“Our treasury’s copper reserves cannot possibly sustain this.”

In his view, Wan Xiangchun’s memorial was utterly detached from reality.

In short, this Wan Censor believed the main reason for the currency system’s failure was that official copper coins were too mixed and cheap; the people didn’t recognize them and refused to use them.

Not only must the design be standardized and finely engraved, but lead and sand must be removed, copper content increased—so the people would willingly use them, and official coins would circulate.

The former was easy; the latter, difficult. The treasury might not bear the cost.

“That is incorrect.”

A voice rang out; all turned.

It was Minister of War Yin Zhengmao stepping forward to refute.

Though Yin Zhengmao was a military genius, he was also an expert on currency—many joked that years of corruption had made him a master of finance.

Yin Zhengmao, oblivious, puffed out his belly and declared loudly: “Vice Minister Wan, don’t deceive us. Our dynasty’s coin casting doesn’t just yield seventy percent profit—it doubles even when costs double, and the court still profits.”

The court had always made enormous profits from coin casting.

During Jiajing, Yin Zhengmao had participated in a currency discussion and calculated personally: with a production cost of 390,000 taels of silver, they could produce 650 million wen of copper coins, worth over 930,000 taels of silver.

Profit was roughly two and a third times the cost.

Wan Gong, hearing this, grew angry—but Yin Zhengmao was indeed knowledgeable, and he was momentarily silenced.

At this moment, Left Vice Minister of Personnel Yao Hongmo suddenly spoke to defuse the tension: “Times change. In Jiajing forty-fifth year, coin casting in Yunnan was halted.”

“Only scattered copper smelting over the years has kept us barely afloat.”

“If His Majesty insists on large-scale new coin casting, we’ll have to resume mining copper in Yunnan—costs for labor, transport, and bandit raids by tribal chiefs must all be counted.”

Raw materials from inland versus frontier regions naturally cost far more.

The two sides exchanged several rounds of arguments, neither able to convince the other.

The debate seemed stuck.

“Wan Censor, you proposed this first—what do you say?”

Wang Xijue suddenly spoke, signaling Wan Xiangchun to state his view.

As soon as young Gao spoke, the verbal battle ceased; all eyes followed Wang’s gaze to Wan Xiangchun.

Wan Xiangchun was no more than thirty-five or thirty-six, with very little hair on his forehead.

Standing at the end of the ranks, suddenly the center of attention, he was startled.

Wan Xiangchun immediately composed himself, stepped forward, and replied: “Grand Secretary, esteemed colleagues, I dare to offer my humble opinion… I believe the court’s coin casting must not be driven by profit; we cannot skimp on materials.”

This sounded vaguely insulting: does considering cost make me a greedy man?

Wan Gong immediately frowned.

Fortunately, Wan Xiangchun did not notice.

He paused, then continued: “The court may profit greatly from coin casting, but it is a one-time transaction. If copper coins are rotten, half lead and sand, once they enter circulation, one official coin is worth only half a private coin.”

“When the people discard official coins like trash, they become mere raw material for private minters—that is the root of currency collapse!”

“Only when copper coins circulate freely across the land can commerce thrive; then wealth is stored among the people, who in turn feed back taxes—this is the true path, steady and enduring!”

He bowed deeply.

Wang Xijue nodded, giving others room to speak, and turned directly to Vice Minister of Revenue Li Youzi.

Li Youzi, under that stare, nearly lost control—his kidney deficiency was well known, but he certainly didn’t want “Li San Hu” to echo through the Wenhua Hall.

He quickly stepped forward: “I will return to the ministry immediately after court and convene a meeting.”

Wang Xijue gave a soft “hmm,” then looked at Wan Gong: “Join the review. Submit your full report to the Grand Secretariat.”

Rank overrules all; Wan Gong reluctantly bowed.

Shen Shixing, seeing the direction was clear, nodded slightly: “Next matter.”

He paused: “Still currency.”

“Minister Fu Zuozhou of the Board of Rites reported that Ministry of Works official Huang Jinyin and Secretary Lei Ruheng were corrupt and reckless, producing counterfeit coins that have clogged the currency system.”

Wan Gong’s eyelid twitched.

This had reached court deliberation—and he hadn’t known a thing!

Shen Shixing’s words naturally drew a response from those in the know.

Deputy Censor Chen Wude stepped forward: “Huang Jinyin of the Ministry of Public Works and Lei Ruheng of the Office of Ceremonial Affairs have been implicated in corruption; as per the law on embezzlement, they have been stripped of office, reduced to commoner status, and deprived of their official credentials.”

In other words, as Fu Zuozhou had reported, the two officials in the Ministry of Public Works had indeed embezzled heavily in the coin-casting affair.

Given that their conduct has corrupted the monetary system’s integrity, in addition to dismissal and demotion to commoner status, their official credentials must also be revoked.

This rapid procedure was clearly the result of an imperial private meeting.

Even Wan Gong, as the head of the department, dared not utter a word in defense of his subordinates.

Seeing no objections, Shen Shixing continued to the next item: “Next is the Ministry of Revenue’s memorial: ‘Reserve grain stores across provinces and direct jurisdictions fall far short of their quotas.’”

Local governments in this dynasty retain a substantial portion of tax revenues.

The Hongwu Emperor even established a system: building relief granaries in every prefecture and county to prepare for famine.

As for now, ‘falling far short’ is a euphemism—put plainly, they’ve been largely emptied out; inspect one and you’ll find it ablaze.

Before he had even returned to his place, Chen Wude interrupted: “There are countless famine-prevention granaries across the realm; do not send out more inspectors—even if we emptied the Censorate, we couldn’t possibly inspect them all.”

The Great Ming’s famine-prevention granaries are numerous: major prefectures store thirty thousand dan, medium prefectures twenty thousand dan, minor prefectures ten thousand dan, and counties are similarly graded into three tiers.

To inspect them all one by one would take more than a decade.

The hall fell silent.

After a long pause, Fan Yingqi, Right Vice Minister of Revenue and Director of the Granary System, sighed inwardly and stepped forward: “Let us raise the level.”

“Prefectures and counties have no real need to maintain grain reserves; consolidate them into provincial and prefectural granaries.”

“Even in times of disaster, grain is now drawn solely from provincial and prefectural stores—state and county granaries exist in name only.”

“Moreover, the Ministry of Revenue’s own experience shows that only granaries at the prefecture level or above, surrounded by oversight, ever show restraint.”

This was not a new idea—it had been proposed during the Jiajing era.

But since a million canal workers depend on these granaries for their livelihood, abolishing state and county reserves would anger many.

Even if criticized behind their backs, the proposal was never adopted.

The court still permits prefectures and counties to retain land taxes and shuffle grain in and out of their granaries.

That is why other ministers in the court remained silent, waiting for the Ministry of Revenue to speak—this was precisely their responsibility. Only Wang Guoguang, nearing retirement, had begun merely pointing out problems without offering solutions, forcing the burden onto the Wenhua Hall.

After a prolonged stalemate with Li Youzi, Fan Yingqi could no longer hold back and took credit for the proposal.

Shen Shixing glanced around and, seeing no response, feigned deliberation: “Since no one objects, the Grand Secretariat will draft the edict according to Vice Minister Fan’s suggestion.”

Fan Yingqi bowed and returned to his place.

The court truly has too many matters to handle.

A decade ago, court deliberations would conclude in half an hour; now, nearly two hours have passed and we’re still not at the end.

From dredging the Baigou River to facilitate shipping, to the reports on Sinicization sent from the southwest after Wen Chun’s appointment.

From the causes and consequences of the Shandong peasant unrest, to the near-completion of land surveying in Fujian as a pilot project.

There is order and chaos, joy and sorrow.

Only when the sun neared its zenith and the ice blocks placed in the corner of the Wenhua Hall had melted did the court finally conclude its final matter.

Shen Shixing looked up at the sky: “Today’s session—”

Before he could finish, Zhang Hong beside the throne suddenly interrupted: “The Imperial Kitchen will soon deliver lunch to the Wenhua Hall.”

The ministers were taken aback.

The meeting’s over—why would anyone want to stay and eat the bland fare from the Imperial Kitchen?

Yet every minister in the Wenhua Hall was a seasoned politician.

Shen Shixing paused, then asked Zhang Hong: “Does Eunuch Zhang mean His Majesty will soon arrive to deliberate?”

Zhang Hong said nothing, only glanced toward the side hall.

“His Majesty has entrusted several matters and ordered us to discuss them promptly.”

A familiar voice echoed through the Wenhua Hall.

The ministers stiffened and turned around.

There, emerging from the side hall behind Wei Chao, was a figure long unseen.

Zhang Juzheng lowered his hand from his beard and bowed courteously: “I was just reviewing documents in the side hall; my sudden appearance is unseemly—forgive me, colleagues.”

Suppressing their sudden shock, the ministers all bowed in greeting.

“Chief Minister!”

“Premier!”

“Master Zhang!”

Zhang Juzheng first turned to Shen Shixing and smiled: “Secretary Shen, leading this court session, has already shown considerable poise.”

Shen Shixing was flustered and stepped half a pace back from his position.

Only Wang Xijue spoke bluntly: “Premier, have you already been granted an audience with His Majesty?”

Weren’t the Secretariat clerks saying His Majesty had no time to receive Zhang Juzheng today?

For the Chief Minister to return from mourning and appear at court without first petitioning the throne—this, if taken seriously, is disrespect toward the sovereign.

Wei Chao, having guided him in, turned to leave and added: “This was His Majesty’s order.”

Zhang Juzheng smiled without replying; the ministers then nodded in understanding.

Time was late, and this was no occasion for pleasantries; Zhang Juzheng stepped into Shen Shixing’s former position and spoke plainly: “His Majesty’s handwritten edict raises several urgent matters—let us deliberate them together now.”

The ministers, hearing this, sensed trouble and lowered their heads in silence.

The court is burdened with many unresolved issues, each complex and difficult.

Clearly, today was the day of reckoning.

“Chief Minister, please proceed.”

Wang Zongyi of the Ministry of Rites, always careful to avoid entanglement, was the only one who dared to ask directly.

Zhang Juzheng scanned the ministers, his gaze lingering on Minister of Justice Pan Cheng, Left Vice Minister Xu Guo, and Deputy Censor Chen Wude: “First matter: His Majesty asks—has the Lotus Case been resolved?”

“Should Nanjing’s Minister of Justice Weng Dali and Commander Zhang Guowei of the Five City Military Command be executed?”

(End of Chapter)