Chapter 353

In the eighth year of Wanli, the Great Ming faced severe challenges; the new policies stalled, governance and rectification remained incomplete, and debate raged over whether to employ sternness or gentleness.

Southern gentry, misled by the mistaken judgment of gentleness, obstructed land surveys and incited conflict between north and south, with extremely serious consequences.

The emperor’s demand to accelerate the pace of reform met resistance, and he lost patience with the sluggish progress.

To curb the southern gentry’s inclination toward gentleness and maintain influence over the realm, the emperor resolved to travel south and open a breakthrough for continuing the new policies.

This inevitably required provincial and prefectural authorities to respond proactively and actively seek support from central leaders—especially the three men explicitly named in the edict as regents: Wang Chonggu, head of the Five Military Directorates; Hai Rui, head of the Censorate; and Zhang Juzheng, head of the Grand Secretariat.

Thus, this audience before departure came into being.

The first to present his case was Wang Chonggu, who expressed full and unreserved support.

The second to enter the Chengguang Hall was Hai Rui, who gently voiced partial criticism.

“Your Majesty acts with upright brilliance—how could you emulate Zheng Bo’s defeat of Duan at Yan?”

Hai Rui had spent several years in Sichuan, where his hair inexplicably turned white several times, making his face appear even darker.

He seized the emperor’s hand and chattered on: “If guilt is proven, punishment according to law is naturally warranted.”

“If there is only suspicion, they should be urged to improve themselves and observed for future conduct.”

“Your Majesty, to sit idly while subjects break the law will inevitably invite public censure…”

Zhu Yijun tried to pull his hand back but found it stuck; suddenly he regretted his earlier eagerness to grasp it.

Helplessly, he turned to Hai Rui and blinked with innocent eyes: “Hai Qing, I have made my intentions clear many times—why do you persist in misinterpreting me?”

The emperor, who endured for the sake of the state, sometimes had to bind his own hands.

Zhu Yijun intended to launch a major case based on the heretical book incident, but procedurally he must pass through the Censorate.

Hai Rui, now in charge of the Censorate, clearly disapproved of such “luring out the snake” tactics.

Hai Rui held onto the emperor’s hand and refused to let go: “Your Majesty should never have lifted the press ban and allowed these people to speak freely!”

Volume Eighteen of the Great Ming Code, Criminal Law I: “Anyone who creates apocryphal texts, heretical books, or heretical speech, or spreads them to confuse the masses, shall be beheaded.”

These were capital offenses established by the Hongwu Emperor.

The court should guide people toward virtue—never have I heard of luring people into crime!

Once the press is opened and people are allowed to speak freely, won’t the number of scholars violating this law increase daily?

If you use this as pretext to launch massive prosecutions in the south, posterity will surely label you a second Zheng Bo!

Zhu Yijun could not wrench his hand free, and gave up.

The two stood stiffly in the center of the hall, continuing their audience.

Zhu Yijun thought again, then decided to speak plainly: “Hai Qing, I am determined to launch this major case based on heretical books, and I will never reinstate the press ban.”

Hai Rui’s expression changed slightly; his stubborn nature flared again, and he opened his mouth to speak.

Zhu Yijun struck first: “Hai Qing, look at these heretical scholars in the case—if I had not lifted the press ban, would they have published books and spread heretical speech?”

The “scholars” he referred to were not hermits living in mountains; accurately, they were marginal intellectuals who controlled public opinion.

These scholars had studied, yet either refused or were unable to enter officialdom.

The high-end scholars included figures like Wang Shizhen before his reinstatement, who controlled the lifelines of popular opinion.

They could mobilize censorial officials for political struggles above, and form literary societies to lead the scholar class below.

Mid-level scholars typically earned their living through petitioning, selling writings, running academies, or serving as secretaries.

Most wrote books and poetry, criticized current affairs, or sold their intellectual labor.

Low-end scholars could only resort to fortune-telling, storytelling, selling themselves, or advertising for merchants.

All of them printed small newspapers and posted pamphlets to attract attention; in terms of selling emotional value, they surpassed even “doorway courtesans” and “male lovers.”

Yet this group of scholars could not easily be offended.

Even ex-convicts, once admitted into the scholar circle, wielded power—any wealthy merchant or household refusing “mutual benefit” would be publicly denounced in print; could you endure that?

Hai Rui instinctively rebutted: “At least they wouldn’t be breaking the law en masse as they are now.”

Zhu Yijun bluntly corrected him: “That’s because since Hongzhi, public opinion has run rampant, growing ever more rampant until it reached its peak under my reign!”

These marginal intellectuals operate across all levels of society—a uniquely Ming phenomenon and cultural phenomenon.

They first emerged during the Hongzhi era, expanded under Jiajing, and now flourished fully.

Were there none during the Zhengde era?

The dramatized tale portraying the Wu Zong as the son of a palace maid sold over seventeen thousand copies in Nan Zhili.

Were there none during the Jiajing era?

Xu Wei, Tu Long, Wang Zhideng, Mei Dingzuo, Huang Shengzeng—all published nearly daily, monopolizing public opinion.

In Wanli, it went further still: dissent had reached the common people.

In alleys and streets, today people loudly criticize the court’s failures, tomorrow writers denounce its shortcomings, the day after, small newspapers publish emperor jokes—“Now, in bustling streets and markets, performers openly compose sets of songs and tales, clapping and speaking without restraint. All they speak of are the court’s many misgovernances, and many delight to listen.”

Even the “coercing of ministers” suffered by Wang Daoqun was not invented by newspapers, but a skill perfected by these scholars.

Historically, even the succession dispute could not escape the intervention of popular opinion—let alone other matters?

As Xie Zhaozhe described the public opinion environment: “One man raises it, ten thousand echo it; the entire nation rushes in frenzy, overturning heaven and earth, reversing black and white.”

Zhu Yijun met Hai Rui’s gaze and confessed: “In earlier years, the press ban was strict in name only; small newspapers circulated, pamphlets spread, and abuse surged—yet we handed public opinion over to others.”

“Now, by lifting the ban, I hold the news bureau in my own hands—words become law, and I control the looseness or strictness.”

Hai Qing, I am aligning myself with the great tide of the age.

In essence, the vibrancy of public opinion in the Ming was no accident—it had specific historical conditions and inevitability.

Material development created the economic foundation and communication environment for public opinion’s vitality.

There were 143 land and water routes nationwide: eleven long-distance routes from Nanjing to all regions, twelve from Jiangnan to neighboring areas, and fifteen waterways connecting Suzhou and Songjiang with towns and counties.

Accelerated social mobility naturally brought about information proliferation.

Meanwhile, the cost of writing materials and labor was low; for example, the advertisement by Mao’s press stated: “At the time, each tael of silver was worth less than seven hundred cash; three fen of silver could carve a hundred characters, meaning each hundred characters cost only twenty cash.” Combined with material costs—“ink two pieces, one qian; soot ink one jin, five qian”—a book sold at moderate profit would yield good returns.

For instance, Wang Shizhen’s “Ming Feng Ji,” sold only in the two capitals, earned over 60,000 taels.

Where there is profit, there is a market; where there is a market, there is commercialization.

Added to this was the ideological soil—the scholarly consensus favoring open discourse, creating a favorable political environment; although Xin Xue had passed its peak after Wanli 2, its century-long role in liberating social thought was undeniably real.

For example, Li Zaiting’s memorial noted that in Jianyang County alone, Fujian, there were over eighty publishing houses!

Even piracy had begun: “Whenever a well-printed book from another province is found with a high price, they immediately copy it.”

This was the great tide of the age.

Under this overwhelming tide, did Emperors Yingzong, Xianzong, and Xiaozong gain anything by endlessly reiterating the press ban and punishing heretical speech? Merely changing the broth, not the medicine.

The stricter the suppression, the more unchecked the underground.

Only by lifting the press ban could the state take the first step: commercializing it, making censorship transparent, regulating it through bureaucratic layers, and politicizing punishment—perhaps this is the true path for Ming public opinion.

These words left Hai Rui stunned; he frowned in deep thought.

Zhu Yijun seized the chance to withdraw his hand and gently pressed Hai Rui onto a low stool, urging the old man to sit and think.

Long moments passed.

Finally, Hai Rui sighed softly: “Your Majesty perceives the subtle and penetrates the profound—then why, when you first lifted the press ban, did you choose leniency instead of strictness? Why did your words not become law?”

The emperor’s momentary impulse was forgivable.

But if you foresaw so far ahead, why did you not issue accompanying decrees when lifting the ban?

Allowing it to grow wild, allying with gentry opposed to land surveys, until it reached the point of requiring a southern tour—was that truly unintentional?

Zhu Yijun smiled awkwardly: “At the time, I merely wished to discuss new learning and spread it widely; I unconsciously committed the error of sternness, taking too large a step.”

He had primarily feared gentleness, and in his haste, committed the error of sternness.

This was entirely understandable.

Hai Rui stared fixedly at the emperor: “You must not wait until after the heretical book case—right now, you must declare the crime of press violations!”

Zhu Yijun felt as if released from prison, nodding vigorously: “Indeed, indeed—I shall immediately issue an edict to the Three Judicial Offices, classify offenses by severity, then have the ministers deliberate and refine the news bureau, strengthening press censorship.”

Looking at Hai Rui’s stubborn, unyielding demeanor, he felt the embarrassment of being directly admonished by Wang Zongyi months ago was nothing.

Seeing the emperor turn from error to right, Hai Rui’s expression softened.

He bowed deeply to apologize for his earlier impropriety: “All under heaven know Your Majesty’s brilliant reforms and swift decisions—but the sages said: ‘Stiffness provokes resistance; resistance leads to excess; excess cannot last.’”

“Your Majesty, like the sun at noon, shall live ten thousand years—why resort to provocation and excess in governance? I dare to offend, and humbly beg Your Majesty to take heed!”

The saying “excessive stiffness breaks easily” does not mean the emperor risks harm from harshness, but that an overly tense mindset cannot be sustained.

This was the lesson of the Jiajing Emperor—his early vigor quickly vanished, dragged away by idle thoughts.

Hence Hai Rui said: the emperor still has ample time; setbacks in reform can be overcome gradually—there is no need to “ignore minor details.”

Zhu Yijun fell silent, muttering unconsciously: “Ten thousand years is too long.”

His eyes were filled with emotion.

Hai Rui looked up, suspicious.

Zhu Yijun snapped back, smiling: “Hai Qing is right—I’ve taken note. Now, let us speak of matters of state.”

When the emperor humbly accepts advice, what more can a minister say?

Hai Rui silently dropped the previous topic and listened attentively.

Zhu Yijun raised two fingers: “Two matters.”

“First, public opinion is tumultuous, turning black into white—but upon close inspection, even these censorial officials in court are not blameless.”

“The original Ming system of reporting hearsay was suitable for its time, but now it is outdated.”

Had I not sat on this throne, the system of reporting hearsay would long ago have become a tool for factional strife among ministers.

These scholars, combined with censorial officials’ hearsay reports, wielded unimaginable power—even high officials like Wang Xijue, Shen Li, and Lü Kun could not withstand them.

Yet these censors fabricate accusations freely, and no one dares to challenge them.

The Qingliu, the Qingliu, if all they have left is a mouth, then they are as pure as can be.

Zhu Yijun had barely managed to place Hai Rui in the position of Censor-in-Chief; how could he not leverage his prestige to chastise this group of powerful but irresponsible Ming officials?

As for the practice of submitting memorials based on hearsay—it was a tool left by the founding emperor to restrain his ministers. Zhu Yijun could only say he found it beneath his contempt.

“Your Majesty intends to revoke the Qingdao’s right to submit memorials based on hearsay!?”

Hai Rui’s face turned pale; he leapt to his feet!

How could one so lightly utter words that overturn ancestral law?

Seeing the old man terrified, Zhu Yijun smiled and waved his hand: “Of course not. You carry the hopes of the realm; your authority in the Censorate will only increase, not diminish.”

Hai Rui’s expression grew hesitant; he already sensed the emperor had no good intentions.

Zhu Yijun spoke calmly and steadily: “Hearsay memorials are ancestral law and must not be changed. But the censors have repeatedly fabricated incidents, diverting the central government’s attention, and it has become a true headache for me.”

“My intention is that from now on, any hearsay memorial submitted shall be returned to the Censorate after I have read it.”

“The Censorate must then verify and investigate it before resubmitting.”

Hai Rui stood frozen in place.

Verification and investigation… this was openly granting authority while secretly stripping it away!

His mind raced, but he remained silent.

The Censorate oversees surveillance, impeachment, and advice—it relies almost entirely on words, bearing no responsibility for truth or falsehood.

But under the emperor’s plan, the Censorate would now be held accountable for its investigations!

What would the Six Departments and Thirteen Censorial Divisions do if they were suddenly transformed from Qingliu into real-power officials?

Hai Rui pondered for a long while without responding.

After a long silence, he finally took a deep breath and bowed deeply: “Your Majesty, rather than this, let the Qingliu remain Qingliu. I shall recruit new personnel to handle actual work.”

The emperor always acted with inexplicable haste.

It was impossible to make the Qingliu roll up their sleeves and work.

With even my three-tenths of influence, I’d only see the Qingdao officials banging their heads against the Golden Throne.

It would be better to draw men from the Dalisi —even students of the Imperial Academy—than to let these men become a de facto obstacle.

Then we could divide the Censorate internally into Qingliu and diligent officials, inching forward bit by bit.

Zhu Yijun stroked his chin, pondered for a while, then slapped his thigh: “Hai Qing, a veteran of three reigns, you truly spot the gaps and plug the leaks. Then let us reorganize a new team.”

“Let it be called the Discipline Inspection Office!”

Hai Rui exhaled in relief and bowed to accept the decree: “Your Majesty, this matter will take years.”

“If the second matter also concerns the structure of governance, perhaps we should proceed slowly.”

Without pretense, Hai Rui knew he had few years left.

Even this one matter might not be completed within three or five years—how much less another?

Let the emperor’s orders remain unspoken!

Zhu Yijun waved his hand, his tone light: “The second matter is trivial, Hai Qing, a mere flick of the wrist.”

He held up his thumb and forefinger, pinching them together.

Hai Rui was half-skeptical.

Zhu Yijun smiled and explained: “It’s about my imperial relatives. Their lives have become too comfortable—they’ve grown outrageous.”

“It was Li Zaiting’s report: several shipyards abandoned construction due to difficulties, and the Maritime Trade Office allocated thirteen thousand taels to ease their plight.”

“But those shipyards owed money to the Princess Imperial, and as soon as the silver arrived in the treasury, she seized it all.”

The nobles are like this: squeeze their necks and they feign death; loosen your grip and they lose their bearings.

Only then did Hai Rui understand.

For the Princess Imperial to act this way was indeed outrageous.

Zhu Yijun sighed: “I shall soon embark on a southern tour.”

“If we continue to tolerate these imperial relatives, who knows when they’ll violate state law and end up under Hai Qing’s tiger-headed axe?”

This self-made interest group could not be crushed outright, yet needed some gentle warning—after much thought, the Censorate was still the most suitable instrument.

This time, Hai Rui felt no difficulty at all.

He straightened his back and accepted the task: “It is my duty; why must Your Majesty entrust me?”

Zhu Yijun smiled with satisfaction.

“And then there’s my maternal grandfather…”

In the empty Wenhua Hall, young Zhu listed his relatives’ offenses.

He recited them as if counting family treasures, endlessly.

Even after Hai Rui bowed and departed, the echoes in the hall seemed still to be speaking.

Zhu Yijun watched Hai Rui’s retreating figure, still unsatisfied.

Only when Zhang Hong spoke up did he stir: “Your Majesty, it’s nearly noon. Shall we take a meal before continuing the audience?”

Zhu Yijun waved his hand, about to call for the audience to continue—then suddenly remembered something.

He glanced at the sky outside and nodded: “Perfect. While having lunch, I shall pay respects to the Two Palaces.”

…

Chengguang Palace was not far from Ganguang Palace.

With the emperor striding forward, his entourage followed quickly.

Not long after.

The group arrived outside Empress Dowager Li’s sleeping quarters.

Confirming a family banquet was underway inside, Zhu Yijun signaled the eunuch on duty to be silent, then strode boldly into Ganguang Palace.

As he entered the main hall.

Zhu Yijun saw a large gathering seated around Empress Dowager Li.

His maternal grandfather, the Marquis of Wuqing Li Wei; his uncle Li Wenquan; his second aunt, Li Caiyun, married into the Pingjiang Marquis’s household; his cousin Li Chengming.

Also present was his own full-blooded sister, Princess Shouyang Zhu Yaoe, who had just turned sixteen. “Ahem.”

Zhu Yijun cleared his throat softly.

Everyone turned, startled; seeing the emperor’s arrival, they all rose to bow.

“Your Majesty.”

“Elder Brother, Your Imperial Majesty.”

Zhu Yijun waved his hand lightly, signaling them to resume their seats.

Then he stepped forward to Empress Dowager Li and bowed deeply: “Your son comes to pay his respects to Mother.”

Empress Dowager Li showed no particular reaction to her son’s arrival.

She even spoke with a touch of sarcasm: “Your Majesty, burdened with affairs of state, rarely finds time to visit Ganguang Palace.”

Even Zhu Yijun’s thick skin flushed at this.

He forced a stiff smile and offered a half-hearted explanation: “Mother, I shall soon depart on a southern tour, and all court and palace affairs have piled up—I’ve been truly busy lately…”

It was true: since morning he’d been attending ancestral rites and audiences, and now even paying respects had to be squeezed into lunchtime.

But as Zhu Yijun spoke, he sensed Empress Dowager Li’s expression shifting.

Her needlework suddenly stopped; she gripped a newly sewn collar, her knuckles whitening as tendons bulged.

Alarm bells rang in Zhu Yijun’s mind; he silently cut his words short.

Too late.

The southern tour had too many who merely gritted their teeth and accepted it, harboring hidden resentment that had steadily grown.

This resentment reached its peak on the twenty-eighth day of the eighth month!

Some could no longer contain themselves—they struck back at the Wanli Emperor!

“Southern tour! Southern tour! Go on your southern tour!”

Empress Dowager Li swung the collar in her hand, wildly striking the emperor!

“You’ve grown wings! You decided on the southern tour without telling me!”

“The whole court knows—yet no one told me! You only sent Zhang Hong to placate me when you wanted me to act as regent!”

“Southern tour! Why not return to the capital first before coming to see me!”

A chaotic gust swept through Ganguang Palace.

The emperor’s childhood muscle memory surged—he fled in disarray.

Ganguang Palace, once orderly, was instantly turned into chaos!

The imperial relatives stared, dumbfounded.

…

Ritual propriety was an art.

When family hierarchy was rigid and relations tense, even the emperor must kneel deeply before the Empress Dowager.

As Emperor Wuzong had done.

Each audience required him to remain kneeling—seated before her, rising to kowtow, kneeling to receive tea, never daring to sit.

When parting, he must kneel and beg her to stay—“The Emperor and the Empress still knelt, pleading for her to remain.”

But when the son proved worthy and family relations harmonious, such rituals became empty formalities, unnecessary.

Just as today.

Paying respects became a mother-son brawl of affection.

At the moment of parting, it was the elder cousin and imperial princess who brought up the rear, covering the emperor’s hasty escape—a scene of great commotion.

All these things surely prove the emperor’s skill in managing his household!

When Zhu Yijun stepped out of the Gangan Palace, he silently reclaimed his dignity in his mind while straightening his attire.

At this moment, his clothes were disheveled, his hairpin askew, and he looked thoroughly disheveled.

Though the old lady had a heart of tofu, when she struck her son, her hands were as sharp as knives.

But at least she had vented her anger and agreed to the regency.

“Your Majesty, these are winter garments, wind collars, and Buddhist protective talismans woven by the Empress Dowager Cisheng herself…”

Zhang Hong ran out from behind, holding a stack of clothing: “The Empress also said Your Majesty should travel carefully; if you suffer from water and soil sickness, return to the palace at once.”

Zhu Yijun glanced at Zhang Hong.

He allowed the eunuchs to arrange his attire, then picked up the talisman from the winter garment and tucked it into his bosom.

Zhu Yijun did not think the old lady’s outburst over fear of his “water and soil sickness” was overreacting.

The ancients did not know what fish oil was for brain development; they only knew drinking more fish soup made one smarter.

Empress Li did not know what microbial ecology was; she had merely heard that people fell ill when they changed places.

Though exchanges between north and south had gradually rendered the notions of water and soil sickness and miasma outdated, this concern remained heartfelt and sincere.

Zhu Yijun shook his head: “Let’s go—to Yuanxi Yannian Palace.”

He could not eat at Empress Li’s, so perhaps he could sneak a meal at Empress Chen’s lunch.

The emperor, with a growling stomach, had no choice but to divert to Yuanxi Yannian Palace.

Compared to the lively scene at Empress Li’s, where a whole room sat together, Empress Chen’s quarters remained quietly unchanged through all seasons.

An old cat wandered the hall carrying a kitten, while a fox followed behind, curiously peering.

Princess Yanqing had finished her lessons for the day and sat neatly on a chair, nibbling on pastries.

Empress Chen, dressed in a plain, cool-colored robe, sat calmly beside a table, one hand holding a bowl and blowing on hot porridge, the other holding a book, eyes lowered in deep absorption.

As the emperor entered Yuanxi Yannian Palace, Princess Yanqing was the first to react: “Brother!”

Empress Chen, hearing the noise, looked up belatedly.

Zhu Yijun patted Princess Yanqing’s head and led her to Empress Chen’s side, bowing formally: “Your servant humbly asks after Your Majesty’s health.”

Empress Chen closed her book and smiled gently at the emperor: “I am a wealthy idle woman—I naturally enjoy good health. Your Majesty, on your southern tour, must also keep well.”

Zhu Yijun had heard such words until his ears were calloused.

He said, nearly helplessly: “Your servant understands.”

Empress Chen smiled.

“Your Majesty has not yet eaten, has you?”

She brushed her hair behind her ear and turned to a lady-in-waiting: “Bring another set of bowls and chopsticks.”

Zhu Yijun had come expressly to beg a meal; hearing this, he made no pretense and sat down heavily.

He took the bowl and chopsticks, ladled porridge, and said to Empress Chen: “Mother, the day after tomorrow I shall depart on my southern tour. I beg you to oversee the imperial edict naming the prince.”

Empress Chen nodded gently.

The family meal was informal; Zhu Yijun paid no mind to ceremony, speaking continuously: “I shall be away for years. The Empress will likely feel lonely in the palace. If you have time, Mother, please spend more time with her.”

Empress Chen nodded gently.

“Your Majesty’s birthday is approaching. I already instructed Zhang Hong to draw funds from the inner treasury. Would you like to invite the Marquis of Gu’an for a family banquet?”

Empress Chen shook her head gently.

“Do the kittens sent by Grand Eunuch Zhang suit Your Majesty’s taste…?”

The emperor ate while speaking filial words, occasionally giving gentle instructions to Princess Yanqing.

Both Empress Chen and Princess Yanqing followed the rule: eat without speaking, sleep without talking—only nodding or shaking their heads.

That was it.

Simply and plainly, Zhu Yijun took leave of the two imperial mothers.

…

The thirtieth day of the eighth month, Wanli Eighth Year.

At dawn, the sky was still dark, dew condensing in the damp air.

Zhang Juzheng, Wang Chonggu, Hai Rui, Shen Shixing, Wang Xijue, and the heads of the Six Ministries—hundreds of officials in all—stood in two silent rows outside the Wumen Gate, even the paralyzed Gao Yi among them.

For today was the day the emperor set out on his southern tour!

Outside the Qianbu Corridor, officials in the Six Ministries opened doors and windows, craning their necks to watch.

Wealthy families who could not enter the Qianbu Corridor climbed to high places and secretly pulled out telescopes, aiming them at the corridor.

All gazed at the sky, waiting for the Great Ming emperor—the first in over forty years—to tour the realm.

Boom!

A drumbeat suddenly rang out.

It was the timing drum arranged by the Imperial Astronomical Bureau—the third quarter of the Yin hour had arrived!

As the drum sounded,

The heavy vermilion palace gates groaned open one by one.

No courtiers chanted, no commoners shouted; only the golden maces, halberds, and celestial lamps emerged with solemn, muffled dignity.

In an instant, the imperial guards lined the imperial road, surrounding the waiting officials.

A grand procession poured out of Wumen: the imperial carriage, the ceremonial carriage, the nine-dragon curved umbrella, banners, the Eight Golden Treasures, the Master of Ceremonies, the Ritual Master, the Night Guards, and all attendant officers filed out in order.

A newly made imperial banner, the dragon standard, stood at the center, flapping loudly in the wind.

Cloud canopies and cloud trays followed closely behind.

A figure, surrounded like the moon by stars, slowly stepped out of Wumen.

“Your servants bow before Your Majesty!”

Instantly, a sea of black-robed officials knelt, stretching beyond sight.

Zhu Yijun stood firm outside Wumen, surveying the crowd: “Rise, my lords.”

The southern tour dispensed with ceremony—all was simplified; even this procession had been hastily arranged by the Ministry of Rites.

The ministers, having received the order, rose one after another.

Zhu Yijun, sharp-eyed, noticed someone struggling to rise and hurried forward.

He pushed aside the eunuchs and personally helped Gao Yi to his feet, sighing: “Master, are you truly determined to accompany me to the south?”

Gao Yi, panting as he settled back into his wheelchair, looked at the emperor with gentle eyes: “The Chief Grand Secretary holds the center; your humble servant may as well accompany Your Majesty on the southern tour.”

Zhu Yijun fell silent.

Gao Yi, a Zhejiang native, a Grand Secretary, a master of Mind Learning—bearing these labels—his presence on the tour was clearly invaluable; coupled with his childless, unmarried status and his infamous reputation for “accepting seven eggs as bribes,” his prestige among scholars and commoners even surpassed Zhang Juzheng’s.

The problem was, Gao Yi could not possibly endure the fatigue of travel.

This display was clearly his final effort—to return to Qiantang County and die beneath its trees.

Seeing Master Gao’s serene acceptance of death, Zhu Yijun knew he could not dissuade him; he could only sigh silently.

He turned to Wei Chao and signaled him to care for Master Gao.

Then Zhu Yijun walked toward Zhang Juzheng.

He grasped the Chief Grand Secretary’s hand and pleaded: “I entrust the affairs of state to you.”

Zhang Juzheng scratched the emperor’s palm, frowning in confusion.

Zhu Yijun froze, pulling his hand back: “What are you doing, Master?”

Zhang Juzheng glanced around, lowering his voice to apologize: “Your Majesty departs on tour; Consort Wu has given birth, Consort Han is pregnant—I thought you had a secret edict to entrust!”

Only then did Zhu Yijun understand.

The old man was teasing him!

Zhu Yijun replied sternly: “Master, the south is the empire’s heartland—how can you make it sound like a demon’s den?”

“I do not engage in close combat, nor do I sail for pleasure.”

“Why would I need to leave a secret edict on succession?”

Zhang Juzheng’s face remained expressionless, neither confirming nor denying—clearly thinking, “Really? I don’t believe you.”

The two held hands, staring at each other in silence.

Outsiders saw only the emperor and minister whispering, speechless with emotion, and could only envy them deeply.

After a long while,

Zhang Juzheng broke the silence first, bowing respectfully: “Your Majesty, on the road, better to err on the side of caution.”

Zhu Yijun paused, then gently helped him up.

“My meals on the road will still be shipped from Beijing.”

“The personal guards are all sons of good families; Zhu Xizhong was once a palace guard for the Crown Prince—he knows fire prevention and theft protection better than anyone.”

“The four infantry battalions and one cavalry battalion replacing the Nanjing garrison will arrive in Nanjing even before I do…”

The emperor sounded increasingly wordy.

Zhang Juzheng listened silently, not interrupting.

Finally, Zhu Yijun suddenly smiled: “The new policies of the realm need not rest entirely on me. If anything happens, Master, you must assume regency and continue the work—you will surely stabilize the state and complete the great task.”

Zhang Juzheng stared at the emperor in shock.

He opened his mouth to speak, to dissuade him.

But the words died on his lips as he involuntarily knelt and bowed low, his voice solemn: “I shall devote my utmost strength, serve with unwavering loyalty, and die for it!”

Shen Shixing and Wang Xijue, the closest to him, exchanged a glance.

The emperor and minister’s exchange had just echoed the exact words of Emperor Liu Bei and Chancellor Zhuge Liang.

Could ruler and minister truly be so perfectly attuned?

Zhu Yijun watched silently as Zhang Juzheng bowed.

He made no move to help him up, only repeated his initial words: “I entrust the affairs of state to you, Master.”

Zhang Juzheng bowed deeply again, accepting the imperial decree in silence.

At that moment, the Music Bureau’s Zhonghe Shaoyue began to play; bells and drums sounded together, music and drums united.

The others turned to see Luo Sigong, commander of the Five Armies’ Guard, arriving from beyond Great Ming Gate, leading a horse: “Grand Marshal! The Guard has arrived at Great Ming Gate to provide escort!”

Zhu Yijun glanced toward Great Ming Gate.

Too far to see clearly—only vague shadows stirred.

Vice Minister of Revenue Fan Yingqi stepped forward: “I humbly beg Your Majesty to undertake a southern tour!”

The guards on either side rustled their armor, the sound sharp and crisp.

The assembled officials all bowed with hands clasped to their foreheads, chanting in unison: “We beg Your Majesty to undertake a southern tour!”

Zhu Yijun withdrew his gaze.

Looking at the scene before him, he made no further motion—only gripped the imperial sword at his waist and replied in a low, firm voice: “Set out for the southern tour!”

The emperor’s words rang clear and decisive—yet beyond Wumen, silence fell instantly.

The cries, the shouts, the music, the clatter of armor, the ringing of bells and drums—all vanished.

Zhu Yijun mounted the horse Luo Sigong had brought, without a word, and rode lightly toward Great Ming Gate.

The imperial banner and dragon flag followed behind.

Civil and military ministers, palace guards, attendants, and eunuchs moved in orderly procession, joining the imperial procession.

The Xumu of a great political event had begun.

Movement was silent. Action was silent.