Chapter 365

Xinghua Temple was originally built in the Wei Dynasty; after several renovations, its architectural complex alone occupied dozens of mu of land, with over a hundred halls and pavilions.

The Mahavira Hall, as the main hall, was exceptionally grand and the place with the strongest Buddhist aura on Mount Yunlong.

Its eaves soared upward, bracket sets arched outward, corners lifted into the air, adorned with gold and colorful paintings; upon the high platform inside stood the Three World Buddhas: Bhaisajyaguru on the left, Amitabha on the right, and Sakyamuni Buddha at the center, solemn and reverent, compassionate and serene, with the Avalokiteshvara of the Sea Island sculpted behind them and the Eighteen Arhats arranged in a circle, Buddhist light radiating everywhere, as if one had stepped into the Western Heaven’s Mount Lingshan.

Of course, such a dense Buddhist aura was not only due to the sculptures, but also because of the incarnations of true Buddhas descending here.

As Chen Wude and Luo Zun stepped into the hall, a group of gentry and local worthies surged forward, bowing and paying homage.

“Chen Sixian, Luo Qianxian, our Xu Prefecture’s chief official was invited up the mountain to discuss river affairs with Director Pan—why then has the Censorate detained him and refused to let him go?”

“Indeed, days have passed already; without a central figure, affairs in Xu Prefecture have descended into utter chaos!”

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“Some bandit troops have appeared in Xu Prefecture, specifically targeting gentry families, virtuous officials, and capable administrators, robbing and murdering them—yet our prefect and deputy commander of military preparedness are both detained on Mount Yunlong; what are we to do?”

“Is this truly a meeting of the Grand Coordinator’s office to deliberate on engineering, or is the Censorate using it as an excuse to make arrests? Chen Sixian, please give us a clear answer!”

The representatives of the local worthies surrounded Chen Wude completely.

Some questioned, some pleaded; mixed with the eunuchs’ curses and pounding on the temple gates outside, a jumble of noises pressed into Chen Wude and Luo Zun’s ears.

The two had already reached a tacit understanding before arriving.

Luo Zun stepped forward half a pace and responded to their concerns: “Gentlemen, please remain calm. The Censorate has always investigated cases with transparency and fairness—how could it detain people on false pretenses?”

“Director Pan merely became overly meticulous in inspecting river conditions for this meeting, and inadvertently delayed matters for a few days.”

“Coincidentally, the Censorate has recently been investigating river and grain transport corruption; since Xu Prefecture’s officials were all on the mountain, it was natural to consult them on the case.”

“As for these bandits crossing the region, poisoning gentry and officials—”

At this point, Chen Wude’s expression grew awkward.

Fortunately, Luo Zun had a thick skin and continued: “That was merely misinformation spread during the investigation—some corrupt officials resisted arrest and were accidentally injured or killed; there’s no need for alarm.”

As he spoke, he immediately spotted the former senior classmate, now the group’s leader: former Director of the Ministry of Revenue’s Granary Bureau, Wang.

Luo Zun parted the crowd with his gaze and bowed respectfully to Wang: “Wang Lao, it’s been many years—we find you still in fine form.”

As a Jinshi of Jiajing 35, Wang was older than Zhang Juzheng; he passed the imperial exam at age forty-nine, reached the rank of Physician but had no further advancement, retired three years ago, and was now seventy-four.

Yet age had its advantages.

Wang stood beside them, leaning on his cane, swaying slightly, clutching a handkerchief to cover his mouth during violent coughs; with his skin clinging tightly to his bones, he looked like a man with little time left—who would dare speak harshly to him?

Fortunately, all were seasoned officials; Wang did not presume superiority, but bowed shakily again: “I am already half in the grave—what poise or dignity could I possibly have?”

In the eighth month of Hongwu 12, the founding emperor decreed: officials who retired and returned home need not return formal greetings to commoners without office; commoners must pay court to them with official rites; when meeting former court officials, rank takes precedence, and if ranks are equal, age does.

Luo Zun honored him with “age precedence,” addressing him as Wang Lao; Wang reciprocated with “rank precedence,” calling himself “your humble servant.”

The harmony felt especially warm.

Unfortunately, when two factions met under such circumstances, they could hardly limit themselves to reminiscing.

After completing his bow, Wang picked up where Luo Zun had left off: “When I served in the Ministry of Revenue, I was separated from you two by only a wall; your reputations and public esteem were long known to me. I naturally believe you when you say the Censorate has not detained anyone—but—”

“But outsiders, especially common folk, do not understand court regulations and love to spread sensational rumors.”

“These past days, rumors have spread wildly through the streets: they claim Xu Prefecture’s bureaucracy is in turmoil, its chief officials entirely eliminated, all subordinate officers deserving execution—as if Xu Prefecture had suddenly become a den of bandits!”

As Wang spoke, his emotions grew increasingly agitated.

With a rattling wheeze in his chest, he gasped for breath several times before finally revealing his purpose: “If the Censorate has not detained them, could you not release them first to quell the rumors? When Director Pan arrives, they can simply come up again—what do you two think?”

Seeing the old man on the verge of collapsing, Luo Zun immediately urged everyone to sit and discuss, then took his seat opposite the gentry and worthies with Chen Wude.

For matters requiring a decision, Luo Zun did not respond.

All eyes turned to Chen Wude.

Chen Wude remained unmoved, sitting upright in his armchair, replying calmly: “The affairs of the yamen are governed by court regulations.”

“Whether it concerns the Grand Coordinator’s engineering project or the Censorate’s case, the cooperation of Xu Prefecture’s colleagues is indispensable; we must consult thoroughly before planning any itinerary.”

Upon hearing this, the backs of the gentry and elders, who had just leaned back, instantly straightened again.

This Chen Wude was truly unable to conceal his words—Luo Zun at least tried to obscure things, but this man bluntly uttered the word “case”!

Judging by this, he clearly intends to investigate to the very end!

Someone immediately spoke up to caution him.

“Chen Sixian, dozens of Xu Prefecture’s vice-prefects, assistant prefects, battalion commanders, and registrars have already been dealt with by the Censorate—is that not sufficient?”

“The year-end is approaching, and every office is busy—but now, with this chaos, major inspections, grain transport, land taxes, and criminal cases all lack leadership; if Chen Sixian insists on thorough investigation, next year’s administration may have to be suspended.”

“Indeed, if you go on like this, the people of Xu Prefecture will truly suffer unbearable hardship.”

The crowd spoke all at once, like demonic chants filling their ears.

Luo Zun couldn’t help rubbing his ears, yet Chen Wude, expressionless, sat still and listened.

After everyone finished speaking, Chen Wude gave a slight nod and remarked: “The officials and people of Xu Prefecture truly are one family.”

He lifted his teacup, lowered his eyelids, blew gently at the floating foam, and asked calmly: “So, Wang Lao and you all have come here at someone’s request, to plead on their behalf?”

This was a reasonable assumption.

Local officials and gentry have always been two sides of the same coin in systemic corruption.

Cough! Cough!

A violent cough erupted; everyone instinctively turned toward the sound and saw Wang, handkerchief pressed to his mouth, coughing uncontrollably.

After a long while, Wang pressed his hand to his chest, as if finally finding some relief.

He took several deep breaths and asked weakly: “I am old—I’ve forgotten which year’s imperial examination you two passed?”

His voice sounded feeble; no one could tell if he was making small talk or asking seriously.

Chen Wude refused to answer such a strange question and remained silent.

Luo Zun, however, was patient and replied frankly: “I and Vice-Censor Chen are fellow Jinshi of the Jiajing 44 Yi-Chou examination.”

Wang nodded upon hearing this.

No one knew what the old man was thinking, but he sighed: “I passed the exam in Jiajing 35, served faithfully for over twenty years; I may not be an old horse that knows the way, but I’ve spent more years in officialdom than you two.”

“What is purging corruption? How should it be done? I have more authority to speak on this than you two.”

Luo Zun inwardly winced—such senior officials were always the most annoying: they never addressed issues directly, only insisted on their seniority.

It was tolerable when they were still in office; now that they were retired, who could they possibly silence?

Wang remained oblivious to his own annoyance and continued: “The Book of Rites says: water too clear has no fish; a man too scrutinizing has no followers; Emperor Shizong also said: correcting corruption requires balance; punishing evil must avoid excessive haste.”

“Your enforcement of law in Xu Prefecture is too harsh, overcorrecting to the point that all officials tremble in fear, merchants hold their breath as if on thin ice, petty clerks cower terrified of stepping into boiling cauldrons, and gentry panic, fearing the blade.”

“If this continues, I fear our ministers will dread planning and new policies will stagnate; our colleagues will avoid criticism and noble proposals will vanish—”

Wang droned on, endlessly.

Chen Wude and Luo Zun exchanged glances, utterly speechless.

The old man was still reciting the distorted doctrines of the Shizong era: that anti-corruption must not be too forceful, or it would cause everyone to live in fear, dampen the initiative and creativity of scholar-officials, and hinder new policies.

This rhetoric might have held weight ten or more years ago.

But times have changed; the Wenhua Palace now regards it as worthless.

Wang seemed to sense their contempt and fell silent, his face wrinkling deeper.

He sighed deeply: “Chen Sixian asks if we came at someone’s behest to plead—surely you assume we are all involved in wrongdoing, colluding with merchants, and thus forced to emerge from behind the scenes?”

Chen Wude remained unmoved; Luo Zun wore an expression of “what else?”

A systemic case always involves one implicating another.

Just as Fan Yingqi’s exposure of the Guangyun and Yongfu granaries stirred up a hornet’s nest, could the Huai’an, Yangzhou, and Nanjing Ministry granaries not feel the same fear?

And if Xu Prefecture’s water conservancy officials caused problems in river and grain transport, wouldn’t their earlier water projects along the Northern and Southern Rivers also be investigated?

Former Director of Grain Transport Wang Zongmu claimed he focused on maritime transport—could all the censors, vice-prefects, secretaries, and assistant prefects in the Grain Transport Office really be unaware?

Xu Prefecture’s military preparedness commissioner openly guarded gentry smuggling—could the grain transport troops possibly lack this business?

The Regional Commander of Grain Transport, Marquis of Pingjiang, Chen Wangmo, now sits on the list submitted to His Majesty—he is not only a noble but also Empress Li’s brother-in-law and the Emperor’s maternal uncle.

With a million grain transport workers depending on their livelihood, any monster could emerge—it’s no surprise!

Yet.

Wang unexpectedly shook his head and recounted an old story: “At the end of Longqing 6, Hai Rui was ordered to investigate the salt tax case in Nan Zhili.”

“At the time, everyone applauded—clarifying tax sources, cleansing the moral climate—as if it brought nothing but benefits; but who cared for the salt peddlers of the Two Huai?”

“For half a year, the Two Huai region was in chaos; salt merchants preferred smuggling from Korea rather than dealing with the Two Huai Salt Tax Bureau, fearing entanglement.”

“Countless wealthy merchants suffered, families ruined; even local commoners complained bitterly, forced to eat salt at double the price for half a year.”

“Chen Sixian, Luo Qianxian, when the bureaucracy trembles, how can commerce and food supplies remain untouched?”

“They say salt merchants are wealthy, grain transport workers are poor. The Two Huai salt system can yield taxes and withstand upheaval—but Xu Prefecture’s grain transport is different; it truly lacks such resources!”

Wang paused, then pulled a thick petition scroll from his sleeve.

Under Chen Wude and Luo Zun’s startled gazes,

Wang rose, stepped forward, and respectfully presented it to them: “If you insist, I did come at someone’s request—but not as you imagine, as some shadowy mastermind.”

“I come on behalf of thirty-one gentry families, one hundred seventy-six merchant households, and hundreds of sons from guard, garrison, farming, and artisan families, to convey Xu Prefecture’s public sentiment to the authorities.”

“Over these past years of new policies, successive audits, land surveys, and anti-corruption campaigns have come in waves—no one can rest easy, whether in officialdom, business, or farming; the people of Xu Prefecture have long suffered!”

“Xu Prefecture cannot remain poor any longer.”

“Though I dare to speak boldly against your will, this is the sincere heart of Xu Prefecture’s people—I beg you, Sixian, to understand!”

Saying this, he knelt publicly, holding the petition above his head, weeping uncontrollably.

Leaving aside how Chen Wude and Luo Zun felt inwardly and how they responded outwardly, those listening from the side hall—Xu Fu, and others—were utterly stunned.

This posture of humble pleading, emotional appeal—how could it make them feel like the villains!?

Investigating corruption is a matter of course—why, instead of presenting banners of gratitude, do the local people jointly petition the Censorate to release the officials?

Compromise and Inertia, Many Voices in Dispute

The older generation of jinshi had barely served at the grassroots level and had no psychological preparation for the myriad strange reactions from localities.

Hearing these bizarre theories and encountering these unforeseen events, the shock was not insignificant.

“What absurd nonsense is this old donkey spouting? Cracking down on corruption is delaying national affairs and people’s livelihood?”

Wan Xiangchun muttered under his breath, then glanced again at Xu Fuyuan, seeking confirmation with little confidence: “Is it really true, as this old donkey claims? Didn’t the salt administration case once throw the streets into chaos, with the people crying out in grievance?”

Xu Fuyuan had, after all, been directly involved in the salt administration case and knew the details well.

But he did not answer immediately.

Xu Fuyuan glanced at the several Yulin soldiers waiting outside the hall, stood up, and gave his colleagues a signal to take the conversation outside.

Chen Xingjian and Wan Xiangchun exchanged a look, then surveyed the atmosphere inside the hall; confirming no “swordsmen lay in wait,” they called for the Secretary of the Central Secretariat and rose together to follow him out.

Once the outsiders were gone, Xu Fuyuan vividly reenacted the scene for them: “Chaos? That’s putting it mildly!”

“That current Viceroy of the Three Frontiers, Chen Dong, was utterly unrestrained back then—just a Deputy Director of the Two Huai Transport Bureau, he went straight from white blade in to red blade out, terrifying all Two Huai officials into Buganyangshi .”

“Afterward, he simply shouted, ‘Bring in the salt merchants!’—dozens of the richest merchants and wealthiest tycoons were all beheaded and their families confiscated; even today, Two Huai salt merchants tremble at the mere mention.”

“For the first half-month, salt prices surged and plunged like tides, each wave higher than the last.”

“And after Hai Rui arrived, things spiraled completely out of control; the operation and trade of Two Huai salt taxes remained sluggish for at least one or two years.”

“At the time, some said that although Two Huai salt taxes had long been corrupt, commerce had thrived—but after the case was investigated, merchants went bankrupt and livelihoods withered.”

“For this reason, the Nanjing Ministry of Revenue specially submitted a memorial arguing that while official corruption must not be permitted, bureaucratic inertia inevitably follows; corruption, in fact, boosts official initiative, lubricates commerce, and promotes new policies.”

“Some of Xu’s colleagues at the Ministry—those aligned with Wang—actually developed a doctrine called ‘Efficiency Through Corruption,’ as if Wang’s retirement had been caused by this very issue.”

Wan Xiangchun, watching Xu Fuyuan’s animated expression, was utterly speechless, his words forgotten.

Beside him, Chen Xingjian remained deeply troubled, muttering to himself: “So we’ve become the ones the Emperor accuses of destroying the business environment.”

At these words, Xu Fuyuan fell silent.

Secretary Xiao Liangyou, hearing this, opened his mouth but held back.

Unfortunately, he had only been interning at the Hanlin Academy for a few months and dared not casually interrupt the elders’ conversation.

But this small gesture caught Chen Xingjian’s attention.

He seemed to recall something and turned to Xiao Liangyou for confirmation: “Didn’t the third-place scholar recently attend a literary gathering? What’s the current sentiment among the literati and common folk?”

The Emperor had washed his hands of the matter, leaving no explicit edict, merely entrusting the case to us.

In other words, if we accidentally damage Xuzhou’s business environment and provoke public outcry, it’s not just whether we defy His Majesty’s will—our colleagues in the ministries would gladly make room for a few more positions, possibly slapping us with the label of ‘overzealous and rigid.’

We must be cautious!

Xiao Liangyou offered no concealment; after careful thought, he chose his words cautiously: “The sentiment among the literati and common folk—well, it’s mixed.”

Upon hearing this, Chen Xingjian and Wan Xiangchun immediately frowned.

The latter, half-skeptical, pressed: “How exactly is it criticized?”

He didn’t care about the praise—he was only puzzled by the criticism.

Xiao Liangyou blurted out: “It’s nearly identical to Wang’s ‘water too clear has no fish’ argument.”

“Some merchants say our mass arrests of officials make policies unstable and harm their legitimate business.”

“Some commoners worry that these officials may be corrupt, but at least they’re satisfied; if we replace them with a new batch of ravenous, corrupt officials, the people will suffer all the same.”

“As for the literati, their opinions are even more varied.”

“Some claim corruption is a millennia-old malady, that laws cannot punish everyone, so it’s better to let it run its course; others say the court’s harsh actions cannot last;”

“Still others argue that human life has its span—decades pass, and things return to how they were; why bother stirring the pot?”

“Human life has its span,” of course, referred to the Emperor—this generation of Wenhua Hall leaders grew ever stronger, and when they aged and weakened, the backlash would inevitably be fiercer.

Xiao Liangyou shook his head, tone weary: “At the literary gathering the other day, a scholar publicly denounced the court, claiming there had never been any anti-corruption campaign—merely factional infighting, no different from any other.”

Hearing the third-place scholar’s account, their faces darkened further.

Xu Fuyuan even pressed his hand to his forehead: “This will ruin careers!”

His voice brimmed with helplessness.

Others might endure it, but Xu Fuyuan feared most being drawn into such cases: in Jiajing 45, when the Emperor grew old and the Zhe-Jin factional struggle erupted, he was forced to resign from his post as Director of Personnel; in Longqing 6, he tearfully exposed the salt administration case, and even after serving as a scapegoat, he still faced demotion to avoid the storm.

Though he was later reinstated each time, every upward momentum was shattered like this—who could bear it?

Xu Fuyuan’s career had been a rollercoaster, wasted away; a jinshi of Jiajing 41, he had served nearly twenty years, yet even Chen Wude, a jinshi of 44, now wore crimson robes—while he remained a Director.

This Xuzhou river transport case was supposed to be a public welcome, an easy achievement—but now it’s turned into this tangled mess of conflicting opinions and moral ambiguity.

Xiao Liangyou, watching the three elders in such distress, finally could no longer hold back his long-prepared words: “In my view, these bizarre theories actually confirm the Emperor’s point: the Xuzhou conspiracy is the result of both internal and external influences on the official ecosystem.”

All three turned to look at the newly crowned third-place scholar.

Now that Xiao Liangyou had spoken, he no longer cared whether he seemed showy; he straightened his neck and continued: “The Emperor often uses strange phrasing, hard for ordinary people to grasp—but the strangeness lies in this: whenever we find ourselves in such situations, everything suddenly becomes clear.”

“On the tenth day of the ninth month of Wanli 5, the Emperor wrote: the behavioral patterns of social members determine their thought patterns, and conversely, their thought patterns also shape their behavior.”

“Isn’t this precisely the current state of the Xuzhou conspiracy?”

“The flaws in the river transport bureaucracy and oversight are certainly internal causes; but the customs and social mores revealed by Wang’s and the literati’s bizarre theories—aren’t they the external causes?”

“These two forces interpenetrate, creating the Xuzhou conspiracy—a fortress impervious to needles or water.”

“So it’s not we who destroyed Xuzhou’s business environment—it’s Xuzhou, from top to bottom, from officials to merchants, from existence to perception, that has rotted to the core, and must be broken down before it can be rebuilt!”

The people’s worries, of course, are not entirely groundless.

Merchants fear that once the unwritten rules are shattered, legitimate rules may not function properly; commoners, relying on simple experience, believe all officials are the same—replace one, you get another; the literati, with more learning, view this from the heights of human nature and history, and are even more pessimistic.

These are all reasonable disappointments.

Yet simultaneously, these negative ideas and beliefs exert a reverse effect on the political ecosystem, acting as inducements and accelerators for the spread of corruption.

The Emperor often speaks of these principles; Xiao Liangyou may not fully grasp them, and his expression is unclear—but even so, the elders sense something, gain some insight.

Yet understanding does not erase Chen Xingjian’s instinctive resistance to the younger generation’s showiness.

With unacknowledged irritation, he lightly joked: “I’m old—I can’t even keep up with the third-place scholar’s mastery of Confucian classics.”

“We can only handle mundane affairs; these murky customs and social mores must be left to clever, outstanding young men like Scholar Xiao.”

Strictly speaking, Confucian classics study refers to the scholarly pursuit of Confucian texts; broadly, the Emperor’s teachings—as one of the contemporary Confucian authorities—are the most orthodox Confucian scholarship.

But scholarship, when merely recited outwardly, means nothing; if one wishes to act upon it, Chen Xingjian dismissed it entirely.

Xiao Liangyou, not the lead investigator and thus unburdened by consequences, can speak freely—no matter how well he phrases it, can he truly ignore consequences?

Can the gentry and elders pleading in the hall, or the literati and commoners gossiping in the streets, all be executed with white blades in and red blades out?

Xiao Liangyou knew he had spoken out of turn and provoked Chen Xingjian’s displeasure, but as a young newcomer, he showed no fear.

He replied calmly: “These are newly added subjects at the Imperial Academy; I grew up under the new policies, studied in the new learning, and merely babble behind the elders.”

“As for mundane affairs and social mores, they are two sides of the same coin—Director Chen must not divide them.”

“As His Majesty once said, since the Wanli reign must enact new policies, bureaucratic and tax reforms are not enough; when the time is ripe, a cultural reform must follow.”

“Not confined to the Imperial Academy—we must preach in prefectural schools, county schools, private academies, even in teahouses and taverns!”

“Show the world what is right, speak the truth to the world, and restore a clear, bright realm where everyone denounces corruption!”

“In my view, Xuzhou today needs precisely this medicine.”

Xu Fuyuan and Wan Xiangchun exchanged glances, each seeing surprise and astonishment in the other’s eyes.

The brief exchange moments ago was ordinary official banter, hardly a conflict.

But this generation of juniors—was their sharpness truly too pronounced?

Not just Third-Place Scholar Xiao Liangyou; the Top Scholar Wang Tingzhuan, whom they had previously encountered, was the same—facing even high-ranking ministers, he argued fiercely.

Grown under the new policies, educated in the new learning—could this truly produce an entirely new demeanor?

Xu Fuyuan cleared his throat, diffusing the tension: “We’ve gone too far, gone too far.”

“Mundane affairs, social mores—Xuzhou’s people remain ignorant and unenlightened, rejecting the court’s gift of a clear realm; a few essays cannot convince them.”

“We must proceed with caution.”

Master Xu was a great scholar of the Guan School, gentle and amiable; Chen Xingjian naturally yielded face—he smiled and let the junior’s remarks pass.

But Xiao Liangyou, afflicted with the typical ailments of the young reformers, turned his Maotou on Xu Fuyuan: “It is precisely because of your thinking, Master Xu, that the people have nothing right to hear.”

“The Emperor once said: benefiting the people is the court’s duty. If we follow your view, a clear realm becomes the court’s favor—then is it optional? How can it be a duty?”

“I’ve heard this argument from you many times—it’s identical to Wang’s ‘Efficiency Through Corruption’ doctrine, and will certainly be refuted when we later reform social mores.”

Even Xu Fuyuan, battle-hardened, now felt utterly bewildered.

He didn’t understand how his attempt to smooth things over had brought fire upon himself.

Beside him, Chen Xingjian smiled silently, watching the scene with glee.

Wan Xiangchun, the most level-headed, patted Xiao Liangyou on the shoulder and cleared his throat: “Scholar Xiao’s scholarship is profound—Master Xu has been rendered speechless.”

“But the Emperor often says: scholarship must be tested by practice.”

He pointed toward the temple’s outer gate; as the clanging and pounding of fists against the door reached their ears, he continued: “The Vice Surveillance Commissioner is entangled by local gentry, unable to face the overbearing eunuch.”

“Since Scholar Xiao has proven eloquent and upright, why not take the lead and handle this matter for us?”

Chen Xingjian nodded vigorously beside him, secretly giving Wan Xiangchun a thumbs-up.

With such fiery young scholars, it’s better not to argue directly—even if you win, you lose face as a superior.

Better to flatter them, then send them off to handle the difficult task.

Xu Fuyuan felt uneasy, fearing Xiao Liangyou’s temperament would cause trouble; he opened his mouth to speak.

But before he could utter a word, Xiao Liangyou stepped forward: “That is precisely what I wish for—I dare not even ask!”

Saying this, he straightened his posture, turned, and strode toward the temple gate—and beyond it, the shadowy, menacing eunuch.