Chapter 343: Rewarding the Same, Punishing the Different, Customizing According to the Times

At dawn the next day, in Yongshou Palace.

“What time is it?”

After years as emperor, the habit of reaching under the pillow for his phone upon waking had long been replaced by human timekeeping.

“Your Majesty awakes so early today?” Liu Empress, grooming herself nearby, turned her head. “It’s nearly Mao hour.”

Nearly Mao hour was hardly early—the court assembly began at Mao hour.

But the emperor had not held a court assembly in a month; accustomed to late nights and late rises, he often didn’t open his eyes until close to Chen hour.

Zhu Yijun rubbed his eyes and lay back.

He yawned repeatedly: “Today’s morning court—I’ve been half-asleep, half-awake all night, thinking of matters.”

The emperor makes his own decisions, and the Chief Grand Secretary makes his own; Zhang Juzheng, still terrified by the precedent of Emperor Wuzong, had once again thrown up his hands and refused to be a stepping stone for the emperor’s grand cosmic ambitions.

Reluctantly, the emperor himself must go to Wenhua Hall and put on a show.

“Why didn’t you say anything last night?”

Liu Empress murmured reproachfully—if she’d known there was a morning court, she’d have made the emperor retire earlier.

Perhaps recalling something, her cheeks flushed faintly; she turned away and pulled the bell beside her dressing table.

At the sound, eunuchs and palace maids filed in one after another.

Zhu Yijun rubbed his face, threw back the thin quilt, and set his feet on the floor: “I thought last night—your birthday on the ninth day of the first month, let’s make a modest celebration. The deep palace forgets the years; if we skip your birthday entirely, it truly wastes your youth.”

As he spoke, he accepted the warm towel offered by attendants on either side.

Liu Empress didn’t turn her head: “It’s still half a year away—why speak of it so far ahead?”

The emperor had already arranged everything for this year, and now he was planning for next year.

This remark received no reply from the emperor.

Perhaps he was too lazy to answer.

Or perhaps, while brushing his teeth, he was too meticulously focused to grunt out idle words.

“Besides, you yourself are planning to skip your own birthday in August—how could you not follow your husband’s example?”

Liu Empress, ever proper, viewed matters with simple sincerity.

After washing and grooming, Zhu Yijun rose and walked to the dressing table, urging: “Frequent banquets in the palace aren’t good. The silver I save can be used for your birthday celebration, no?”

He paused, resting his chin on her shoulder, whispering softly: “This year, Consort Wu gave birth and was promoted. If I now cancel your birthday banquet, people will gossip behind your back.”

Having spoken, Zhu Yijun straightened as if nothing had happened, rubbing her shoulders twice.

Gossip, of course, comes from many directions.

Perhaps criticizing the emperor for indulging in beauty, favoring Consort Wu alone; perhaps accusing him of failing to govern his household, causing rivalry among the concubines. But given Zhu Yijun’s current power, the greater concern was that courtiers and commoners alike would whisper against the empress.

Only then did the empress realize the emperor’s thoughtfulness; warmth spread through her heart.

Court ladies often relayed tales claiming the emperor was cruel, capricious, unpredictable—as if her own intimate experience of his tenderness were merely a dream.

Thinking of this, she paused her movements and placed her hand over his on her shoulder.

Zhu Yijun smiled, clasping her hand in return: “I’ll send a verbal order to Wang Shizhen later—have him prepare your birthday ode in advance.”

Don’t ask why so rushed—by then, the Grand Alliance Leader may already be out of the capital.

At the mention of Wang Shizhen, Liu Empress’s gentle expression instantly cooled by a third: “Your Majesty should choose someone else to write the ode—I dislike Wang Shizhen.”

Zhu Yijun froze, astonished, circling her twice with his gaze.

He cupped her cheeks, exaggerating his tone: “Oh my, how could Grand Alliance Leader Wang have so grievously offended our gentle, water-like Sister Liu?”

Even Imperial Consort Li had never drawn such a direct rebuke from Liu Empress—not even in the outer court.

Zhu Yijun couldn’t help but be stunned.

The empress shot him a withering glance, sneering: “Last time I saw him on your desk—I saw his copy of The Plum in the Golden Vase. One page was folded down.”

“He wrote of Ximen Qing and his wives and concubines enjoying themselves—when aroused, he’d blurt out words like ‘courtesan arts’ and ‘lewd woman.’ The wives didn’t even get angry—they took it as jest…”

She pinched his thigh, irritable: “This man writes nothing but filth—and he’s corrupted Your Majesty’s purity. Don’t say I merely dislike him—he deserves to be drowned in a pig cage!”

Zhu Yijun winced, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

He quickly pulled away, laughing nervously: “Time’s getting late—I’ll go to the main hall for breakfast before morning court.”

Before he could even give Zhang Hong a glance, he fled in disarray from the warm pavilion.

Zhang Hong, clutching the emperor’s daily robes, hurried after him to the main hall.

The empress turned her head and saw the emperor’s figure retreating like a man fleeing a ghost—she covered her face and laughed.

…

After breakfast, meticulously dressed.

Dressed to perfection, Zhu Yijun emerged from Yongshou Palace, radiant and dignified, escorted by a retinue toward loyal Wenhua Hall.

“Your Majesty, Zhang Fu yesterday listed twenty-seven names.”

Li Jin walked beside the emperor, pulling a paper covered in names from his sleeve.

Zhu Yijun turned his head and took it casually.

Kong Chenghou, Meng Yanpu, Yan Sishen… no wonder these thousand-year clans never lag behind.

Zhu Yijun muttered inwardly, continuing to scan.

Zou Yuanbiao, Zhao Nanxing, Luo Yuren… he knew it—those who sought death, even after being pardoned and sent back from the southern suburbs, would find another way back to the imperial prison.

Zhu Yijun shook his head, about to continue, when he spotted an unexpected name.

Yin Gao?

Zhu Yijun frowned.

Good old Yin Shidan—truly knows how to make things difficult.

While the emperor read, Li Jin spoke again: “Zhang Fu requests Your Majesty pardon his uncles, cousins, and a few close relatives.”

Zhu Yijun turned, puzzled: “They die for their crimes—but when did I say he gets to pick who?”

Twenty-seven names still aren’t enough to fill a tooth gap, Zhang Fu! Let me see your limit!

Li Jin froze, barely catching on.

Zhu Yijun tucked the Zhang Fu list away, waving his hand carelessly: “Don’t send them back to the Hanlin Academy—put them under Xu Jie’s watch. Give them time to think. Bring them all along later.”

The Hanlin Academy is too crowded, too many eyes; Xu Jie’s residence is quieter, and it avoids the risk of them cracking under pressure and slashing their roommates’ throats.

Li Jin bowed obediently: “Your Majesty is truly a benevolent ruler who favors scholars.”

Of course, he said it to his face—whether he believed it inside is another matter.

From Li Jin’s decades-long perspective as head of the Eastern Depot, the emperor didn’t kill many—barely the number Emperor Shizong executed in a single day. What truly terrified people was the emperor’s endless variety of methods!

Not just picking a son to kill, or choosing his own kin to live—pretending to spare them, only to let them realize mid-exile they won’t survive, then dying under the rods while shouting “Long live the Emperor!”—who wouldn’t shudder at that?

Zhu Yijun, however, felt perfectly content, brushing past the topic without notice: “Tonight, should I go to Renshou Palace?”

Consorts and noble ladies without their own palaces were usually summoned to Wanshou Palace for night service.

Only the Empress in Yongshou Palace and Imperial Consort Li in Renshou Palace required the emperor to visit in person.

Zhang Hong stepped forward: “Your Majesty has a good memory—it’s the Imperial Consort’s turn.”

The emperor currently had only six court ladies with titles; excluding Consort Wu, that left five.

No need for lotteries—except during menstruation, they rotated in order.

Zhu Yijun paused, then corrected: “For the next few days, summon Han Yifei.”

Zhang Hong was puzzled.

Among the titled consorts, the Empress and Imperial Consort Li were most favored; Consort Wu and Consort Wang received the most visits. Han Yifei and Zhang Shunfei hovered in the middle—least noticeable.

Why had His Majesty suddenly taken a fancy to Consort Han?

Though breaking the rotation was abrupt, Zhang Hong never meddled in such matters: “I’ll inform Consort Han immediately.”

Zhu Yijun nodded: “No need to prepare intestinal casings.”

Zhang Hong turned and met Li Jin’s gaze—both faces lit up with unmistakable joy!

His Majesty has finally understood!

Zhang Hong nodded eagerly: “Yes, yes.”

He could barely form coherent words.

Zhu Yijun didn’t care what these eunuchs were fantasizing about—pregnancy followed basic principles: one child per year, high-quality results, perfectly silencing the outer court’s petitions for new concubines.

And incidentally, curing the outer court’s lingering trauma from Emperor Wuzong.

…

Wenhua Hall.

Today, the court ministers arrived in unusually full numbers—old and young, wise and foolish, all lined up, crimson robes stretching from the hall’s interior to its entrance.

Wang Guoguang, Minister of Revenue, and Zhu Heng, Minister of Public Works, both returned from their exile beyond the three realms.

Wang Chonggu, who had spent days immersed in the Five Military Commissions, finally remembered he was a civil official.

Wang Sanxi, Chief Justice of the Dalisi , and Xu Yizhong, Vice Censor-in-Chief, who had submitted petitions resigning due to incompetence, were summoned to Wenhua Hall.

Even Zhu Xixiao, the Duke of Cheng, long dormant since inheriting his title through adoption, had risen again, dressed as the ceremonial officer.

The long-absent three cleansing whips cracked again within Wenhua Hall.

Zhang Juzheng and Shen Shixing led the left and right divisions, bowing first; the crimson-robed ministers followed in sequence.

“We inquire after Your Majesty’s health.”

Amid the ministers’ chorus, the emperor stepped slowly from the side hall and sat calmly upon the throne: “I am well.”

Having not sat in Wenhua Hall for so long, Zhu Yijun shifted for a long while, unable to find a comfortable posture.

As he fumbled for the familiar fit, he looked toward Zhu Xixiao and asked gently: “Duke of Cheng, has your illness fully healed?”

Originally, Zhu Xizhong slaughtered a prince, and though he handled the matter well, it was still somewhat taboo.

Zhu Yijun then, under the guise of punishment, transferred the Marquisate of Chengguo to Zhu Xixiao’s branch.

Even so, Zhu Yijun still feared this family might be resented, so he stripped Zhu Xixiao of his Embroidered Uniform Guard post and ordered him to rest at home.

Now, circumstances have changed; it is time for him to resume duties.

Zhu Xixiao hurriedly kowtowed: “Your Majesty, this humble servant’s illness has entirely healed since the summer of this year.”

If the Emperor does not call one to duty, the illness is incurable; if the Emperor calls one to duty, one becomes as vigorous as a dragon.

Zhu Yijun smiled faintly.

His gaze shifted to Viceroy of the Granary Department, Fan Yingqi: “Fan Qing, how is your household?”

Fan Yingqi pursed his lips and bowed deeply: “Your servant has failed to discipline his household; how dare I trouble Your Majesty’s concern? My home has merely produced some sordid matters, nothing serious. A recent letter states they are currently facing trial before the Surveillance Commission, the news press, and rabble-rousing literati.”

Zhu Yijun nodded in satisfaction.

It was an accidental success—quelling a popular unrest at its very inception.

The Emperor could not personally attend to every minister; after exchanging pleasantries, it was time to begin official business.

Zhu Yijun turned to Zhang Juzheng: “Yuanfu, what is the outcome of the Lotus Case from the recent court inquiry?”

Countless eyes turned to Wang Sanxi, Minister of Justice, and Xu Yizhong, Assistant Censor-in-Chief.

Both lowered their heads, silent.

Times are no longer as before; when the Emperor intervenes, there is no room for argument.

Zhang Juzheng stepped forward, holding his ceremonial tablet: “Your Majesty, after reviewing the legal archives, this case was fabricated by former Vice Minister of Justice Weng Dali and Captain Zhang Guowei of the Five Cities Military Command.”

“At the time, Wang Sanxi and Xu Yizhong of the Ministry of Justice flattered their superiors, ignored right and wrong, while only Pan Zhiyi of the Ministry clearly understood the case and refused to affix his seal.”

Zhu Yijun listened quietly.

He had long known the outcome; this was merely a formality.

When Zhang Juzheng finished, Zhu Yijun murmured, “I wondered why Wang Tingwei kept insisting on making this case ironclad—now I see.”

Wang Sanxi, Minister of Justice, kept his head bowed, showing no reaction to the Emperor’s question.

Xu Yizhong, Assistant Censor-in-Chief, had already kowtowed and begged for mercy: “I am guilty! I beg to be dismissed!”

Zhu Yijun sighed: “Xu Qing, you flattered Weng Dali to advance your career, and now you beg me to dismiss you—why so foolish?”

He spoke only in reflection, not expecting an answer.

Seeing Xu Yizhong kowtowing repeatedly, tears streaming down his face, Zhu Yijun waved his hand: “Enough. Go.”

The thud of his boots hitting the floor nearly caused Xu Yizhong to collapse on the Wenhua Hall floor after days of torment.

Nearby, Jiang Keqian, quick to read the mood, signaled the Gold Guard to escort him out.

Having dealt with Xu Yizhong, Zhu Yijun pressed on: “Weng Dali, Minister of Justice in Nanjing, and Zhang Guowei, Captain of the Five Cities Military Command, fabricated a wrongful case—sentenced to death.”

“Wang Sanxi, Minister of Justice, aided the wicked, resisted investigation, and deceived the Emperor—his crime is aggravated. Demoted to commoner, stripped of all official titles and records since his appointment, never to be reinstated.”

The moment he finished speaking,

Wang Sanxi, moments ago a distinguished court minister, was instantly seized by two Gold Guards, stripped of his ornate official robes in seconds.

Wang Sanxi said not a word throughout, teeth clenched, dragged out of the Wenhua Hall.

“Hmph, he didn’t disgrace himself.”

Zhu Yijun watched, unable to resist a jest—he had expected Wang Sanxi to panic, shout, “I came here for a meeting! What are you doing?” But he showed unexpected dignity.

Of course, it ended at jesting; he couldn’t punish him further just for stubbornly refusing to admit guilt.

The ministers had long anticipated this outcome; nearly all kept their eyes straight ahead.

Perhaps awed by the Emperor’s authority, the Wenhua Hall fell into profound silence.

But clearly, this was not the end—the case was merely the entry point; leveling the mountain peaks was the real goal.

“Pan Qing, Xu Qing, what do you say about this case?”

Pressure fell on the Ministry of Justice; Pan Cheng and Xu Gu exchanged glances, and the latter stepped forward eagerly.

Xu Gu knelt and pleaded guilty: “Your Majesty, the Ministry of Justice treated wrongful cases as family shame, resisted reopening them, and concealed them repeatedly—this is a grave crime!”

Zhu Yijun said nothing.

Hiding away in a small tower to avoid scrutiny was common among ministries; it wasn’t inherently criminal—it depended on how it was reformed. Xu Gu declared firmly: “From now on, all case records concluded by the Ministry of Justice shall be copied and archived in the National History Bureau, subject to scrutiny by scholars and history. Any error or omission shall be corrected immediately!”

All were startled, staring in disbelief at the two from the Ministry of Justice—give case records to scholars!?

How dare they hand over such ammunition!

If any wrongful case surfaces, students won’t care about protocol; once they fix on right and wrong, they’ll unite in fury—even storming the palace to cry injustice is possible.

Zhu Yijun was also surprised: “Archived entirely in the National History Bureau? Won’t that be too cumbersome?”

He had no real concept of the Ministry of Justice’s workload.

Xu Gu replied smoothly: “Your Majesty, the Ministry of Justice only handles major cases—only two or three per year. In our dynasty, altogether…”

He suddenly realized he was getting carried away and cut himself off: “It’s merely two extra clerks.”

As Xu Vice Minister spoke, he glanced at the silent Pan Cheng, his thoughts swirling.

What historical scrutiny? First, grab the credit. If this momentum continues, in a few more years, I might leave the Ministry of Justice. For now, I’ll just oversee everything closely myself.

Later? Let whoever holds office when a wrongful case emerges suffer. Perhaps it’ll even serve as a contrast to highlight my achievements.

Zhu Yijun, utterly unaware of Xu Gu’s thoughts, thought this man was a bold, capable pillar of state!

He slowly nodded, letting the Ministry of Justice off the hook, and gently encouraged Xu Gu.

Xu Gu’s boldness lifted Zhu Yijun’s mood after his early rising.

Even the dragon throne felt more comfortable.

Zhu Yijun shifted his position, his gaze landing on Minister of Rites, Wang Zongyi.

Seeing the old man’s face, he suddenly remembered he still owed the Ministry of Rites one matter.

He cleared his throat, solemnly asking: “Wang Qing, has the Ministry of Rites reached a conclusion on Ma Qing’s posthumous title?”

Though he couldn’t immediately recall Ma Qing’s merits, he was the right man at the right time; one must not skimp on honoring him—even if it’s just to buy the bones of a horse.

Wang Zongyi took half a step forward and stepped out to reply: “The Ministry of Rites has proposed two posthumous titles for the late Grand Tutor Ma Ziqiang: Wen Su and Wen Yi. We humbly beg Your Majesty to decide.”

Having spoken, the old scholar said no more—not even an explanation.

Wen Su… Wen Yi… Zhu Yijun pondered the two titles.

As the leading Confucian of his age, Zhu Yijun naturally understood the system.

All civil ministers begin with “Wen”—no issue there.

The second character matters: ordered as Zheng, Zhen, Cheng, Zhong, Duan, Ding, Jian, Yi, Su, Yi, Xian, Zhuang, Jing, Yu, Jie.

Grand Secretaries usually fall between Zhong and Zhuang; second-rank ministry heads are slightly lower.

If one lacks even second-rank status, one must go further down—like the late Imperial Tutor Tao Dalin, whom Zhu Yijun could only assign a Wen Bi title.

Historically, Zhang Juzheng received the highest title: Wen Zhong.

Shen Yiguan and Wang Xijue followed, respectively Wen Ding and Wen Su.

Ma Ziqiang, who served only seven months as Grand Secretary of the Wenyuan Pavilion, received the lower “Wen Zhuang”—the lowest of the lot.

Now, Zhu Yijun intended to use Ma Ziqiang as a platform for the Weixin Pavilion—he must not be too low, but also not too high, lest his loyal students lose sight of hierarchy.

The two titles proposed by the Ministry of Rites already elevated him three ranks; Wen Yi was too generous.

Thinking this, Zhu Yijun nodded slightly: “I favor Wen Su. What do you all think?”

What?

Of course, they bowed their heads immediately!

“Your Majesty is wise!”

Zhu Yijun chuckled: “Then proceed with the rites and burial. I shall personally escort Ma Wen Su to the Weixin Pavilion tomorrow.”

Personally!?

The moment he spoke, the atmosphere in the hall grew tense.

Wang Xijue glanced at Zhang Juzheng’s back, his eyes filled with envy—could he truly reach the threshold of Wen Zhenggong?

Shen Yiguan calculated inwardly: could he secure Wen Zhong for his teacher, Lu Diaoyang?

Xu Gu lifted his head, lost in thought: the Ministry of Justice cannot be kept long; Wen Chun had already claimed the southwestern achievements—where else could he dig?

Zhu Yijun felt the ministers’ burning gazes and was satisfied.

Being Emperor was already delightful; these ministers surely didn’t get such positive feedback—he neither allowed them to seize power nor permitted corruption, yet demanded their utmost effort while keeping them perpetually anxious.

A donkey must always have a carrot dangling before it.

Fortunately, Zhu Yijun didn’t offer an ordinary carrot—he offered the heroic epic of a true man!

A land of wailing, cities stained with blood—all for one thought: saving the people. These men died a hundred deaths without regret, achieving a dynasty’s revival—who could hear this and not feel their blood boil?

“Your Majesty, I have an memorial…”

With this positive start, disagreements on other matters diminished; several items were swiftly passed.

Minister of Revenue Wang Guoguang reported: three pilot sites for land surveying—Beizhili, Nanzhili, and Fujian Administration Commission. One capital and one province have been completed; Nanzhili has dragged on for eight years without full completion. Proposal: issue an imperial edict to reprimand and enforce action—approved.

Record achievements at Hongtucheng and Yongdian in Liaodong: Li Chengliang granted hereditary title of Marquis; Liang Menglong granted one son admission to the Imperial Academy.

Guangdong Administration Commission petitioned to waive arrears of 185,600 taels from before Longqing Sixth Year. The proposal was rejected; they were ordered to submit a detailed explanation for reconsideration.

Each matter was settled almost instantly.

Time passed slowly; dawn’s pale light entered the Wenhua Hall, extinguishing the lanterns.

“...Your Majesty, cease coin minting.”

Wan Xiangchun, a censor of the Ministry of Works, stepped forward and kowtowed, requesting the Emperor’s decision on coinage.

Zhu Yijun scrutinized Wan Xiangchun, confirmed he wasn’t truly mocking him, then continued: “If we reopen the mints, how many coins could we cast now?”

This matter was naturally beyond Wan Xiangchun’s knowledge.

Minister of Works Zhu Heng stepped forward and said: “Your Majesty, according to the cost calculations by Censor Wan, the treasury’s funds can only cast 125 million wen.”

Hearing this, Zhu Yijun frowned.

One hundred twenty-five million wen sounded like a lot, but in reality, it amounted to only about two million taels of silver.

Zhu Yijun did not know the full scale of the Great Ming’s market, but silver must total several tens of millions of taels.

Releasing so little money would surely be snatched up overnight by private minters and stashed in their cellars.

Thinking of this, he turned to Wang Guoguang: “Wang Qing, what does the Ministry of Revenue say?”

Professional matters must be asked of professionals.

Wang Guoguang did not refuse; he stepped forward, bowed, and reported: “Your Majesty, I believe this matter should not be rushed.”

He paused, then continued: “Let us first resume the policy of mining copper in Yunnan, accumulate funds, and only cast Wanli Tongbao once the imperial treasury is fully stocked.”

“All official copper coins from past dynasties, mixed copper, and private coins should be repurchased where necessary and seized where required.”

“The Ministry of Works should then melt down all historical copper coins, along with treasury funds, unify their form and size, and cast them in large quantities…”

Court deliberations have their advantages.

The Ministry of Revenue’s faction had previously tolerated no interference from Censor Wan Xiangchun in copper coin casting—Yin Zhengmao knew coinage was profitable; could the Ministry of Revenue not know as well?

Only after dismissing officials like Huang Jin and following Zhang Juzheng’s return to court, which brought a sweeping purge of entrenched factions, could this matter finally be discussed on a factual basis.

The issue of coinage could now finally be discussed within a framework of realism.

Wang Guoguang spoke calmly and methodically; every minister pondered each point he raised.

Wan Xiangchun, Vice Minister of Works Wan Gong, and Minister of War Yin Zhengmao all vied to ask questions.

Wang Guoguang answered each in turn: “...Therefore, I believe the copper system should be prepared over one or two years, then implemented together with the silver system, paper money system, and whip system!”

Zhu Yijun made no declaration, but turned to Wan Xiangchun, Wan Gong, and others.

After a moment’s hesitation, they all bowed together: “Your Majesty, we may proceed gradually; if problems arise, adjustments can be made.”

Seeing they had reached consensus, Zhu Yijun readily agreed: “Then let it be enacted as proposed!”

Copper mining in Yunnan… would it provoke the neighboring Toungoo Dynasty?

Speaking of this, several major wars of our dynasty—against Burma and the Tatars—do not align with historical timelines.

It is unclear what influences have altered them, or when they will unfold as expected.

“Your Majesty, after the Ministry’s deliberation on the land-tax reform, I have submitted a separate memorial.”

Zhu Yijun, lost in thought on his throne, looked down and realized Wang Guoguang had not returned to his place.

He blinked, then came back to himself.

He glanced questioningly at Zhang Juzheng—hadn’t they settled this yesterday? What other memorial was there?

Zhang Juzheng’s expression was unreadable; he gave no response to the emperor’s gaze.

Wang Guoguang spoke again: “Your Majesty, I find the general outline acceptable, but details still require refinement.”

It was certainly sound, but needed slight adjustment.

Otherwise, how could Minister Wang be called a professional?

Zhu Yijun shifted his position to sit more comfortably: “Wang Qing, proceed.”

He did not take it too seriously—this policy was inherited from predecessors; little could be changed.

Wang Guoguang bowed again: “Your Majesty, why is it called ‘allocating poll tax into land tax’?”

Zhu Yijun replied instinctively: “I intend to merge the poll tax into land tax, hence the name.”

Hearing this, Wang Guoguang frowned, clearly disapproving.

Zhu Yijun was baffled.

Wang Guoguang fell silent for a moment, then spoke slowly: “Your Majesty, why not simply call it ‘abolish the poll tax’ when explaining it to the people?!”

Zhu Yijun froze.

He was about to explain, then fell silent.

Of course—why call it ‘allocating poll tax into land tax’? Because he had foreseen the outcome of Wanli’s first move: poll tax merged into land tax.

The reason? Preconceived notions.

In truth, whether the poll tax was directly abolished or absorbed into land tax, how would the common people know?

Whether ‘allocating poll tax into land tax’ was more palatable or ‘abolish the poll tax’ more beloved by the masses—this required no thought.

Seeing the emperor silent, Wang Guoguang continued: “Now that land surveys are complete and landholdings have changed, we should consolidate miscellaneous taxes and establish a unified land tax.”

“Wouldn’t calling it ‘abolish the poll tax’ better offset public resentment over this reform?”

Hearing this, ministers wished to agree but feared offending the emperor, the original proposer.

Wang Guoguang’s reasoning was sound—state policy’s success varied greatly depending on its name.

Zhu Yijun felt a deep sense of realization.

Indeed, empiricism must be abandoned.

He silently warned himself, then praised: “Wang Qing, your insight has illuminated my path.”

Wang Guoguang showed no pride: “Beyond this, there is another matter Your Majesty must investigate.”

“Abolishing the poll tax will inevitably cause peasants to abandon their land; displaced people will surely be numerous—we must prepare in advance.”

Of course, farming provides food—but not everyone wishes to labor; abandoning land may be a personal choice, yet collectively, it creates displaced populations.

Of course, this is not an unsolvable problem—the Great Ming can slowly absorb a certain number of displaced people.

But Minister Wang’s thinking clearly differed from the emperor’s.

Zhu Yijun waved his hand: “I have already decided—begin in Jiangnan and the southeast, then proceed gradually.”

He could guess Wang Guoguang’s thought: bind people to the land.

But Zhu Yijun did the opposite—he intended to drive surplus peasants off the land!

Peasants will abandon land because farming depends on harvests; in lean years, after taxes, they may still lose money.

Abandoning land is easier—afterward, one only needs to feed oneself.

Yes, they still need to fill their stomachs—so Zhu Yijun must give these peasants, who refuse to depend on the weather, somewhere to go.

Why Jiangnan?

Because Jiangnan has advanced handicraft industries, numerous workshops, a strong industrial base, and major shipyards spread throughout the region.

It is an ideal destination for displaced peasants to find factory work.

Why the southeast?

Because the southeast has many ports; coastal trade is burgeoning, and overseas voyages are underway.

It is an ideal destination for displaced peasants seeking adventure.

These are two hidden currents: internal circulation and external circulation.

Zhu Yijun saw further ahead, so his stance was firm, leaving no room for Wang Guoguang to negotiate.

Seeing the emperor’s resolve, Wang Guoguang—having served with him for years—understood the emperor had deeper considerations; he bowed silently and returned to his place.

As the Ministry of Revenue resumed its place, officials from the Censorate spoke on the Taiyuan earthquake and relief measures.

Then Grand Secretary Zhang Juzheng submitted a memorial: based on provincial land survey progress, he recommended promotions and demotions—removing Sun Piyang, fining Deng Yizan three months’ salary, and transferring Wang Daoqun to the Nanjing Six Ministries; the emperor approved all.

Also, former Shaanxi Surveillance Commissioner Liang Wenmeng was appointed Provincial Governor of Sichuan; Li Sancai, Sichuan’s Assistant Commissioner, was promoted to Prefect of Nanjing.

Former Scholar-Apprentice Zhang Fu was appointed Compiler of the Hanlin Academy and concurrently Secretary of the Secretariat, assigned to the Qiu Shi Academy, serving directly under the Academy’s Head.

After all matters were settled, the hour was late.

“Are there any other matters to report?” Zhu Yijun surveyed the court, confirming again.

The ministers lowered their eyes, as if they had finished speaking.

Yet after a long silence, the next words were not “Court is dismissed.”

“Then only two matters remain for me to discuss.”

The ministers stared at the emperor in surprise.

“One is the civil unrest in Huizhou Prefecture.”

“It is said that within the prefecture, the people of six counties, because of unequal taxation, have come to regard each other as enemies and nearly raised armies to attack.”

“The other concerns southern newspaper offices.”

“Recently, many newspapers have argued that the land survey proves the Great Ming has always been rich in the south and poor in the north—that the survey is merely northern provinces feeding off southern wealth.”

Zhu Yijun sighed softly, scanning the court: “Ministers, regional discrimination must not be tolerated.”

(End of Chapter)