Chapter 367: Accumulated Mud Over Years: Promoting Benefit and Removing Harm

The saying “in the mountains, one loses track of time” is often an idealization of reclusive life cut off from the world.

But for the chief officials of Xuzhou’s various offices, confined to Yunlong Mountain and ordered to appear at designated times and places to account for designated matters, it meant nothing but its literal sense—bewildered, unsure how many days had passed, or how much longer this would last.

On one hand, the chief officials of each office knew full well why the Censorate had lured them up the mountain.

After all, the Wenhua Palace was now as fierce as wolves and tigers, each man intolerant of even a speck of dust; over the years, even those far from the center had heard whispers.

When the truth came out, punishment would be severe; imprisonment was a real, recurring torment.

On the other hand, they clung to hope, since the Censorate had not yet torn off the mask, and because the livelihoods of a million canal workers were at stake, forming a rigid bloc of interests.

Don’t preach lofty ideals of state policy— for the people of Xuzhou, their own families and livelihoods were the true priorities; with so many mouths to feed, even the upright officials of Xuzhou had to grit their teeth and compromise; could the court truly dare to cut them all down?

“Prioritize the greater good,” “settle lightly,” “no repeat offenses”—these phrases became the final self-consolation to preserve face.

It was precisely under this ambiguous mindset that the Xuzhou officials finally received a surprise.

The good news: Pan Jixun had finally arrived in Xuzhou and summoned everyone for a meeting—could it be that after the meeting, they’d all be allowed to return home?

The shock: the Emperor had returned— and was to preside over Pan Jixun’s meeting himself!?

What in heaven’s name was going on?

Unfortunately, the Censorate gave them no time to ponder; they were hurried, almost driven, to the outer courtyard of the Great Hero Hall.

As the crowd arrived outside the Great Hero Hall, they saw a bizarre sight.

Sun Dexiu and Ke Yong, the former Provincial Military Commanders who had once ruled with arrogance and impunity, now stood bare-chested on long benches, like dead pigs, as young eunuchs behind them gritted their teeth, raised heavy chestnut boards high, and brought them down with flushed faces.

Imperial bastinado? And it was real punishment? A warning to others? Or a means to settle accounts?

The Xuzhou officials, confined in the temple for days and cut off from information, were utterly lost as to the direction of events; they lowered their heads and shuffled past, the dull thuds of bastinado and the rising wails echoing in their ears, deepening their dread.

People kept arriving from all directions, converging outside the Great Hero Hall.

After days apart, the Xuzhou officials finally saw their colleagues again.

Li Minqing, Director of the Water Affairs Bureau, cast a furtive glance through the crowd; once he confirmed all familiar faces were intact, he exhaled a long, slow plume of white mist that lingered before fading.

“Younger brother, don’t turn around—it’s me, Wu Zhonghang.”

A faint whisper sounded, the voice familiar; Li Minqing instinctively turned his head, then suddenly realized dozens of eyes were watching him in secret—he wrenched his neck back.

He glanced furtively up the stone steps: Pan Jixun, the nominal head of the meeting, stood solemnly outside the hall, radiating an aura of “keep your distance.”

“Cough, the Censorate reviewed the Water Bureau’s records and questioned me—I said nothing. Luo Zun didn’t press too hard. I still don’t know their game. What’s your take, Governor Wu?”

Li Minqing, as if sensing behind him, covered his mouth and spoke briefly, passing urgent information to Wu Zhonghang behind him.

Time for exchange was precious; neither had time for pleasantries.

Wu Zhonghang kept his eyes straight ahead, using his collar to muffle his voice: “Chen Wude has investigated several clerks and assistants in the prefectural office. He asked my opinion—but didn’t mention whether he’s probing me.”

Li Minqing exhaled in relief and gave a slight nod.

He couldn’t help speculating: “Perhaps the Censorate dares not act boldly—only targeting the chief officials of Xuzhou’s offices.”

“A million canal workers depend on this livelihood—even Hai Rui would hesitate.”

He didn’t fully believe it himself—but he wanted to believe it.

In the fifth year of Hongzhi, river transport was obstructed by the Yellow River; river officials claimed they had a dual solution: to manage the Yellow River was to manage the canal.

But what did Emperor Xiaozong say? “Today’s river management must not only avoid harming the people, but also avoid disrupting transport, which would jeopardize state affairs—this is no trivial matter.”

He acted as if he feared river officials cared too much for the people and might delay transport.

In truth, river and canal transport concerned the throne; the Zhu emperors valued it more than the lives of a million people; what was a little stolen silver compared to that?

Wu Zhonghang naturally hoped so—but his face revealed nothing; he merely sighed: “The Emperor has truly returned to Xuzhou.”

As he spoke, he slightly turned his neck, his gaze seeming to pierce through the crowd outside the hall and the temple doors, as if he truly saw the Emperor himself.

At these words, Li Minqing fell silent for a long while.

The Emperor’s return could mean many things.

For instance, Chen Wude, ignoring the livelihoods of a million canal workers, had made some ancestral-transgressing decision and summoned the Emperor to approve it;

Or the Emperor, alarmed by corruption in river and canal affairs, had flown into a rage and returned to reprimand his ministers; or even—like Emperor Wuzong—he had never left Xuzhou at all, going undercover to lure out the guilty.

Almost all possibilities pointed toward the worst.

Yet even so, Li Minqing forced a faint smile and offered only good news: “Just now, I saw Li Shidi enter the hall first to meet His Majesty—and I even heard the Emperor laugh.”

Normally, in court assemblies or ceremonies, the Emperor arrives last, so everyone can gather and pay respects in one go.

Otherwise, they’d have to queue up one by one—too undignified.

But now, clearly, things were different: the Emperor had arrived before the meeting and was already receiving ministers—this was no mere formality.

Of course, Li Minqing wasn’t so optimistic as to believe Li Shidi’s words carried more weight than Chen Wude’s, or that Li Shidi had persuaded the Emperor to return and scold Chen Wude.

The key point was: the Censorate Inspector, though subordinate, was still the second-in-command of the Provincial Governor’s office; since Sun Piyang’s retirement, half of Nan Zhili fell under Li Shidi’s influence.

Even Chen Wude, as a senior Censorate official, must consult Li Shidi on matters concerning Xuzhou.

Li Shidi’s stance was obvious; their disagreement was, in truth, a division within the Censorate itself.

If so, then Li Shidi deploying the “million canal workers’ livelihoods” as his ultimate weapon—wouldn’t the Emperor, fearing the collapse of the state’s vital annual transport of four million shi, unwilling to sever north and south, and terrified of border troops starving and rebelling, return to mediate and soften the blow? Wouldn’t that add three more chances?

It was meant as reassurance—but after Li Minqing spoke, there was no reply.

After a long pause, Wu Zhonghang’s hollow voice came from behind: “If that were true, why are those two bastinadoed servants outside still screaming?”

Li Minqing froze, glancing at the two Provincial Military Commanders enduring the bastinado.

As Wu Zhonghang said, if the plan were truly to lift high and land lightly, stopping at chief officials, then the universally despised eunuchs should have borne all blame—rightfully given a vial of poison, silenced forever.

But now, public bastinado, no gagging their mouths—this was no sign of stopping short.

Li Minqing hesitated, struggling to salvage: “When we came, I heard the eunuchs beating them shout questions about bribes—once they extract the money, they’ll just beat them to death.”

Wu Zhonghang had clearly thought deeply these past days.

He nodded earnestly: “Yes—they’re still demanding the bribes.”

Li Minqing suddenly felt a chill on his neck—he realized Wu Zhonghang had drawn closer, his breath brushing his nape.

“Younger brother, after years of diligent service, I’ve amassed considerable wealth: forty-nine thousand nine hundred and eighty-seven taels of silver, one thousand and twenty-one properties, twenty-seven plots of land and mudflats, eight forest tracts, thirty-eight carriages and fine horses, eighteen commercial enterprises with silent shares, paintings, calligraphy, jewels—”

Wu Zhonghang recited his entire fortune to Li Minqing like a fevered mutter.

The latter was bewildered, his whole body tensing.

After listing everything, Wu Zhonghang finally revealed his intent to Li Minqing: “Of all these assets, except the properties and lands in the two capitals and Suzhou-Yangzhou, which I cannot control myself—everything else—”

“I am willing to donate it all to the Imperial Treasury!”

Wu Zhonghang’s words were shocking!

He stressed the word “donate”—the court’s turmoil in Xuzhou’s bureaucracy was no different from the salt monopoly: they wanted money.

Better to surrender it voluntarily than become a prisoner and be tortured; as long as he kept his official rank—even if demoted three grades—he could still earn it all back!

Would it work?

He didn’t believe the court was truly acting to cleanse the realm.

Li Minqing, without expression, stepped forward two paces, creating slight distance from Wu Zhonghang behind him.

He knew why Wu Zhonghang was confiding in him.

How much could a prefectural office really skim?

In contrast, the Water Affairs Bureau managed rivers, lakes, springs, floods, roads, bridges, boats, textiles, tools, and measurements—annual accounts always ran into millions of taels.

The Zhonghe Water Division, though only overseeing river transport, was no poor relative to the prefectural office.

Wu Zhonghang’s few paltry coins? The Inner Court might not even care—he was clearly trying to exploit Li Minqing’s wealth, to bundle it with his own and sell it to the Emperor at a premium.

This was outright bullying.

Li Minqing felt Wu Zhonghang press closer again; he feigned a cough and turned to soothe him: “Brother Wu, we’ve served the court faithfully, managing river transport for the people—no merit, but we’ve earned hardship.”

“Scholars and commoners defend us; local gentry and wealthy merchants speak for us; even Li Yushi has pleaded with the Emperor.”

“A million canal workers depend on this livelihood—let’s wait a little longer. Wait.”

Li Minqing repeated “a million canal workers” again, like a mantra.

The scale of river and canal transport dwarfed the salt monopoly—it was nearly issuing its own currency.

He truly didn’t believe the Emperor would go so far; even a cup of wine as punishment, with silver to retire in peace, would be acceptable.

Wu Zhonghang, seeing Li Minqing’s spineless attitude, stamped his foot in frustration.

He opened his mouth to urge him again.

At that moment, a voice interrupted their covert exchange.

“Today’s meeting is to prepare for a new public works project. Thanks to the joint efforts of Xuzhou’s officials and people, the River Administration summoned you all to Yunlong Mountain to deliberate together.”

Everyone looked up: Pan Jixun, standing on the steps, bowed toward the Great Hero Hall to open the meeting.

The Xuzhou officials wore varied expressions.

The “project preparation” excuse had been used to lure them up Yunlong Mountain—now they heard it again.

“Silence!”

Pan Jixun scolded, then continued: “However, after the Ministry of Works inspected the project, they found the personnel too numerous, the work too vast and costly, the terrain too treacherous—they dared not decide alone, and boldly petitioned His Majesty to return to Xuzhou to preside personally—”

As part of the agenda, Pan Jixun briefly outlined the project and explained why the Ministry of Works had delayed the expanded meeting and why the Emperor had returned.

Few among the Xuzhou officials paid attention to what Pan Jixun was saying.

They simply followed his mumbling, until two young eunuchs finally pushed open the hall doors, signaling everyone to enter, pay respects, and take their seats.

This wasn’t the first time—the Emperor had met the chief officials of each office upon his initial arrival in Xuzhou.

Following the same protocol as before, they followed silently behind Pan Jixun.

But once they crossed the threshold, they realized this time’s protocol differed: everyone had been given seats?

Inside and outside the hall, long tables and benches were neatly arranged, like a classroom.

Even each seat held a stack of documents.

The podium area was arranged with a desk and a high-backed chair, facing outward from the hall.

At this moment, the Emperor himself sat behind the desk, wearing spectacles and bending over to review some documents—candles and kerosene lamps simply weren’t bright enough; years of reviewing memorials at night had inevitably led to nearsightedness.

Behind the Emperor stood the golden statue of the Buddha, though its forehead was obscured by a horizontal banner inscribed with: “Special Meeting on Implementing the Two Major Projects of the Great Ming’s First Five-Year Plan (Xuzhou).”

So it really is about river engineering?

Some sighed in relief, some secretly lamented, some were skeptical, some dismissed it entirely.

“Your servants pay homage to Your Majesty; may we inquire after Your Majesty’s health?”

Before they could examine or reflect further, everyone followed Pan Jixun in kowtowing.

The customary phrases—“health and peace, rise”—did not come as expected.

“I just heard Premier Pan say outside the hall that the Ministry of Works, in implementing the new policies, originally planned an engineering project in Xuzhou, but delayed it for several days due to unforeseen circumstances.”

The Emperor’s voice drifted down, with no intention of ordering the ministers to rise.

The ministers could only continue bowing with their aged backs, awaiting His Majesty’s decree.

The Emperor didn’t lift his head: “Premier Pan is a kind man—he cannot speak harsh words. I shall explain for him.”

1

“The phrase ‘extremely costly and labor-intensive’ means that a huge sum of money must be allocated; the Ministry of Works, distrustful of the Xuzhou authorities, had earlier requested that the Imperial Inspection Commission remain temporarily in Xuzhou to root out corruption and restore discipline.”

“This is also why you were all kept lingering on Mount Yunlong.”

95

The Xuzhou officials finally understood the full sequence of events and began glancing at the group’s leader, Pan Jixun, and Chen Wude.

Chen Wude led the traveling officials; behind Pan Jixun stood the principal Xuzhou officials, one on the left, one on the right, eyes straight ahead.

Whatever His Majesty says, that is what it is.

The Emperor’s decree continued: “The phrase ‘due to circumstances’ refers to the personnel turmoil mentioned by Prime Minister Pan—in reality, after conducting an inspection in Xuzhou, the Imperial Inspection Commission submitted a report claiming that corruption had collapsed the entire Xuzhou bureaucracy and that local customs and moral standards were in utter ruin.”

“The purge of corruption and moral reform cannot be carried out at all, let alone the new policies—so the Ministry of Works must reconsider.”

“Premier Pan still stands by you, believing corrupt officials are few, and that the project should not be delayed—hence his disagreement with the Vice Censor-in-Chief.”

“Reluctantly, I have come back in person to investigate.”

The Emperor spoke so bluntly, as if deliberately choosing wolfish and tigerish words, leaving the hall so silent a pin could be heard dropping.

What is meant by “systemic corruption”?

What is meant by “morals and customs in utter chaos”?

How heartless!

Though they thought it, their demeanor could not falter—the Xuzhou officials behind Pan Jixun all knelt and begged for pardon: “Your servants have failed in our duties!”

No one knew how much of the Emperor’s words were true, nor could they guess his intentions.

Could they really wail and weep, sobbing that the Censorate’s accusations were right, that all our Xuzhou colleagues were corrupt?

All they could do before the situation was clear was utter a hollow “we have failed”—as ministers, to be unfilial, forcing His Majesty to travel back and forth.

Yet the Assistant Censor-in-Chief Luo Zun immediately seized the opportunity, stoking the fire: “Your Majesty, I dare not claim no one in Xuzhou is corrupt, but the term ‘den of thieves’ fits perfectly!”

“We merely detained a few clerks and assistant officials to inspect the river embankments, and it was as if we had stirred up a bird’s nest.”

“All manner of excuses—‘matters of great importance,’ ‘water too clear has no fish,’ ‘the lifeline of grain transport,’ ‘corruption is beneficial’—”

“From the Provincial Surveillance Commissioner and the Grain Commissioner down to local gentry and common folk, all pressed the Censorate under the banner of ‘alleviating the court’s burdens.’”

“Whenever we enforce strict penalties against corruption, it’s as if the Great Ming is on the verge of collapsing—losing Confucianism, losing the state!”

Luo Zun’s ability to summarize was still sharp—otherwise he could never have listed twelve grave crimes against Gao Gong to Emperor Muzong.

Now, merely listing these bizarre claims from Xuzhou, even the isolated Xuzhou officials immediately sensed the prevailing winds outside.

In a daze, they felt their courage and resolve inexplicably strengthened.

Indeed, Xuzhou lies at the critical juncture of the river and canal system—upstream, it affects Beijing’s receipt of tax revenues from Suzhou and Songjiang; midstream, it ties into the economies of Yangzhou, Huai’an, Xuzhou,

Xiaozhen, Zhangqiu, and other vital canal towns; downstream, it concerns merchants, traders, laborers, and the livelihoods of the poor.

From high officials to local gentry, from the literati to the common folk, none wished to stir up trouble and disturb the peace of Xuzhou’s three flood zones—how could our sovereign defy public opinion?

Trust in our father’s grand strategy—advantage lies with us!

Li Shidi, named explicitly, was one of those who upheld the greater good.

His face was grim; he forced himself forward: “Your servant, as Surveillance Commissioner over Fengyang’s prefectures, represents Heaven in governing the people; offering my humble views on local affairs is merely my duty.”

“Even common folk agree with me—right and wrong are clear.”

“I humbly beg Your Majesty to take note.”

Li Shidi did not speak too plainly.

But his stance was simple: bold advancement exists only in novels; purging corruption must also balance firmness and flexibility.

Moreover, the new policies proceed on the premise of not disturbing local order, advancing gradually—this was already written in black and white by the ministries and the Grand Secretariat. To urge caution for the greater good is merely to follow the central government’s governance philosophy.

Now even common folk oppose it—does this not prove the Censorate’s sweeping investigations have shaken the existing order, risking harm to the canal system?

Luo Zun opened his mouth to rebut.

The sound of the Emperor tapping the desk interrupted their argument.

The Emperor lifted his spectacles, rubbed his brow, looking weary.

“Since Wanli Year Two, the doctrine of Neo-Confucianism, rooted in the teachings of a hundred generations, has become the dominant school of thought.”

“Meanwhile, the decline of Mind School, Neo-Confucianism, and residual Buddhist and Daoist doctrines still takes time; before that, these heterodoxies continue to influence the people, especially the conduct of certain literati, and remain entangled with orthodox Confucianism, making distinction difficult.”

“As our dynasty’s new policies continue to be implemented, ideological contradictions and disputes will inevitably arise.”

“For example, Minister Li’s plea for the greater good, the literati’s ‘water too clear has no fish,’ and the people’s speculation over the Censorate’s internal feud with the River Administration.”

He paused, letting the silence linger.

Zhu Yijun did not confront Li Shidi, but turned directly to Chen Wude: “Yet whether the struggle between new and old doctrines within Confucian orthodoxy, or the internal divisions and differences arising from the implementation of the new policies under the overarching consensus of Neo-Confucianism—”

“are all internal conflicts among the people, manifesting ideologically: the people wish the court to purge corruption, yet fear disruption to their livelihoods—this is perfectly reasonable.”

“Luo Qing’s comparison of Xuzhou to a den of thieves, sweeping all into condemnation, is wrong.”

Luo Zun, on his path to becoming a fourth-rank Censor-in-Chief, had heard the Emperor’s repeated admonitions.

Now, facing these mild criticisms, he was accustomed—he immediately bowed: “Your servant humbly remembers Your Majesty’s teachings.”

Zhu Yijun nodded at Luo Zun, then withdrew his gaze.

He turned to Li Shidi, gazing long, then sighed: “Since the new policies began, many changes have occurred. Among the court’s ministers, some keep pace, some cannot.”

“I should have long ago ordered the Hanlin Academy to open classes, creating a path for serving junior scholars to be re-educated.”

“Otherwise, a single prefecture would be filled with such absurdities.”

The ministers in the Wenhua Hall certainly knew how the new policies should be implemented—but at the prefectural level, it was less certain.

Central directives sent to localities were often vague and ambiguous, for the Great Ming’s two capitals and thirteen provinces were complex and organic; to allow each prefecture, department, and bureau to adapt locally, only broad frameworks could be set, with political principles constraining details.

This is precisely what is meant by “grasping the essentials.”

Yet transformation of policy also occurs within this process.

Li Shidi, as Surveillance Commissioner, repeatedly invoked “great importance” and “greater good.” He was certainly not foolish, nor necessarily evil—but in the matter of purging corruption, he had violated the central government’s political principles.

Li Shidi had just felt a slight triumph for having silenced Luo Zun; now, these words placed him squarely in the “cannot keep pace” category—he was instantly flustered: “Your Majesty, your servant—”

Zhu Yijun gave him no chance to speak further.

He raised his hand to interrupt Li Shidi: “Since the River Administration has asked me to return and arbitrate, and the Censorate insists it cannot proceed—”

“Then I shall personally inquire into this matter, to see if I can reach a compromise, so the people need not fear disruption to grain transport.”

This situation made the Xuzhou officials even more tense.

A compromise?

Many keenly seized the wording, exhaling in relief—glad the Emperor still valued grain transport and would not make drastic moves.

Zhu Yijun surveyed the ministers: “Where is Qin Bangyan?!”

Where his gaze fell, a short old man staggered to his feet, then hastily knelt: “Your servant is here.”

Zhu Yijun studied him for a long moment: “Qin Bangyan, I remember you—Jiajing Forty-Third Year juren, appointed magistrate of Cizhou; promoted to Assistant Director of the Sichuan Revenue Bureau of the Ministry of Revenue for your success in water control.”

“Later, unable to handle the post, you requested transfer to Yizhou as Assistant Grain Commissioner. Two years ago, impeached by censor Hao Weiqiao for corruption, you were demoted three ranks.”

“I recall the Ministry of Personnel originally demoted you to Guangxi—how did you return so quickly?”

Qin Bangyan wiped sweat from his brow: “Your Majesty, your servant—your servant last year transported grain successfully and was recommended for promotion by the Grain Commissioner of Suzhou and Songjiang.”

Zhu Yijun made an “oh” sound, jesting to his attendants: “This Grain Commissioner of Suzhou and Songjiang must be a bodhisattva to the people—no wonder the Ministry of Personnel has tried to dismiss him three or four times and failed.”

“Where is Zhang Xing?”

No wonder when the Grain Commissioner of Suzhou and Songjiang was mentioned, Imperial Consort Li had said the political ecology of Nanzhili was vastly different—only now, on the ground, did one truly understand.

Her words proved true.

Surveillance Commissioner Li Shidi interjected: “Your Majesty, the Grain Commissioner’s nephew, Zhang Fu, is currently serving in the Nanjing Governor’s Office; the Commissioner, as per protocol, has declined all official documents to avoid suspicion.”

Zhu Yijun tapped his forehead—he had nearly forgotten about Zhang Fu.

Since Zhang Fu had already submitted his token of loyalty, he did not punish Zhang Xing from afar.

He turned his gaze back to Qin Bangyan: “Assistant Prefect Qin, when Hao Weiqiao impeached you for corruption, you amassed over 1,700 taels. Now that you’ve returned to power, have you changed your old ways?”

Qin Bangyan clearly had a weak constitution—his legs and teeth trembled uncontrollably, his speech muddled: “Your servant—your servant has long changed—”

“Reformed myself, served the state faithfully.”

Zhu Yijun made no comment, glanced through the documents beside him: “A fine reform—your annual salary is ninety taels.”

“Yet in these two years, you repeatedly traveled to Yangzhou, hiring over ten beautiful maidservants at 760 taels each?”

“The Censorate didn’t investigate further—I’m curious: where did you get the money, Minister Qin?”

Zhu Yijun pulled out several documents from the dossier—written as employment contracts but clearly deeds of indenture—and tossed them casually; they drifted gently to Qin Bangyan’s feet.

Forcing decent people into prostitution to supply officials was nothing unusual; such houses and islands existed everywhere, ancient and modern, East and West.

The Great Ming had perfected it too: the “mountain nuns of Taishan,” the “slender horses of Yangzhou,” the “boatwomen of West Lake”—all were indispensable indulgences among the literati; when pleased, they would buy them home, with prices ranging from two hundred to two thousand taels—this was the true market value.

Exhausted from overwork, how hard it is.

Qin Bangyan dared not pick up the indenture at his feet to verify it; he could only wear a mournful face: “Your servant has recently enjoyed good fortune and acquired a few antiques, which he resold for a windfall.”

“Your servant has squandered recklessly; I humbly beg Your Majesty’s punishment!”

Zhu Yijun gave a light laugh and ignored him.

He picked up another dossier: “Where is Yu Deye, Physician of the Waterway Warehouse Division under the Ministry of Revenue?”

Qin Bangyan thought he had passed the test; he patted his chest in relief and quietly returned to his place.

Yu Deye passed him by.

He was clearly much more optimistic, prostrating himself fully: “Your servant is here!”

Zhu Yijun set the dossier down again, as if no further reading was needed.

“This morning, after I disembarked, I met Vice Minister Fan Yingqi in the city.”

“Fan Qing is reviewing the accounts of the Guangyun and Yongfu Warehouses, and he rebuked me, saying my last inspection of these two warehouses was too superficial; rather than putting on a show, I should have handed them over to the ministries for proper audit.”

“I am no foolish ruler who cannot bear advice; after being scolded, I took a look myself.”

Here, Zhu Yijun paused: “Yu Qing, as Physician of the Ministry of Revenue’s Waterway Division, can you guess how much grain is actually stored in Guangyun Warehouse?”

The reason for the eunuch’s public beating outside was now found; court ministers could not help glancing toward the courtyard.

Yu Deye, hearing the wails of the two Provincial Military Commanders outside, felt an added measure of shared suffering.

He needed no speculation—he instantly understood whose fault this charge should be pinned on, and hurriedly replied: “Your Majesty, the eunuchs are corrupt and greedy; I cannot possibly know all!”

Zhu Yijun’s face showed no expression; he spoke plainly: “You cannot know all? Let me tell you: the Yongfu Warehouse’s reported reserves were 194,000 taels—none remain in storage; the granary was supposed to hold over 600,000 shi of grain, but only 96,000 shi remain.”

Each laborer’s monthly ration is three dou, or 3.6 shi annually; in other words, the grain missing from Yongfu Warehouse would feed over 100,000 heavy-labor laborers for a year.

At market price, beef costs thirteen wen per jin; the silver missing from Yongfu Warehouse would feed 100,000 laborers half a jin of beef per day for a year.

Now, all of it is gone.

This information was freshly obtained this morning from Fan Yingqi; the imperial court had clearly not yet received word.

Chen Wude, Pan Jixun, Wan Gong, and others exchanged startled glances, unable to hide their shock.

How distant the emperor truly is—Tianjin’s warehouses had lost merely three-tenths, yet Xuzhou’s had lost nine-tenths!?

The reaction among Xuzhou’s officials was even more extreme.

What! The eunuchs deserve death! Treacherous eunuchs, how dare they! Betraying the imperial grace—how outrageous!

Such outbursts of shock and outrage echoed endlessly.

Yu Deye kowtowed repeatedly in apology: “Your Majesty! The eunuchs are corrupt and greedy; I am guilty of negligence and dereliction of duty—I humbly request demotion by three ranks as per regulation!”

Two hundred thousand taels of silver, five hundred thousand shi of autumn grain—not even counting the embezzled funds from donations—such an astonishing sum was deemed worthy of only a three-rank demotion; Zhu Yijun found it absurd.

Yet, this was not absurd at all.

Yu Deye claimed “as per regulation,” but not as per the actual Great Ming Code, which would demand ten beheadings; regulation was different.

Under the feudal bureaucratic system, the ruling class of feudal officials often enjoyed legal privileges reducing their punishments.

The common folk joked that expelling a scholar from the civil service was a “small get-out-of-death-free card.”

Historically, warehouse shortages were exposed in the eighth year of Wanli, on the day Guihai of the twelfth month: previously, famine struck Yangzhou and elsewhere; the emperor ordered the release of treasury and granary reserves for relief; the treasury was reported to hold 88,000 taels—none remained; granaries were reported to hold 540,000 shi—only 36,000 shi remained.

The Censorate immediately sent censors to investigate—and what they found was shocking.

The granaries of the Two Huai and the River Transport systems, hundreds of thousands of shi across the land, had all been completely looted!

The Censorate halted its investigation in alarm.

In the end, the punishment for nearly a million taels and tens of thousands of shi in losses was merely a reprimand to Yangzhou Prefecture for failing to cover up the scandal.

At that time, the Prefect of Yangzhou was none other than Yu Deye before us—“The Provincial Governor reported it; further requests were made for alternative relief funds; the emperor approved, and demoted Prefect Yu Deye’s salary by three ranks.”

As for the warehouse shortages and corruption elsewhere—don’t mention it, don’t mention it.

His salary was reduced by three ranks—from 300 taels annually to 150 taels; his official position remained unchanged.

In other words, what appeared to be a massive scandal, under this corrupt climate, weighed no more than 150 taels per year.

Compared to history, Yu Deye not only held a different post but had even raised his level of self-awareness—he voluntarily requested a three-rank demotion, from a fifth-rank Zheng Physician to a sixth-rank Cong Physician; wasn’t this far harsher than a mere salary cut? It was practically the maximum penalty!

Zhu Yijun paid no heed to Yu Deye’s apology.

He quietly suppressed his emotions and resumed calling names: “Where is Wu Zhipeng, Prefect of Xuzhou, and Zhang Guoxi, Director of the River Transport Division?”

Yu Deye wiped sweat from his brow and hurried back to his place.

Zhang Junlü glanced disdainfully at the former, preparing to step forward and respond.

But Zhang Physician could not match Wu Zhipeng’s speed in prostrating himself: “Your Majesty! I falsely accused Zhang Physician! I accepted bribes! I embezzled! I oppressed the people! I am guilty!”

Before Zhang Junlü could speak, he froze in shock, momentarily speechless.

Fellow ministers and officials of the imperial entourage, except Li Minqing of the River Transport Division, all wore expressions of astonishment and disbelief.

Zhu Yijun studied Wu Zhipeng for a long while before finally understanding.

He asked curiously: “What do you mean by this, Prefect Wu?”

Wu Zhipeng, as if a switch had been flipped, began spouting like a volley of firelocks: “Your Majesty! I shamefully serve as Your Majesty’s student; after being appointed Prefect of Xuzhou, I was utterly defeated by the corruption of my colleagues and the exploitation by gentry!”

“Over the years, I accepted 100,000 taels in bribes, seized over ten properties of land and forests, and amassed more than eight hundred residences—”

“”

“I am ashamed before Your Majesty! Ashamed before the people! Ashamed before our ancestors!”

“This guilty servant begs to surrender all illicit gains to the imperial treasury, and only asks Your Majesty to grant me a chance to redeem myself and be reborn!”

His speech stunned everyone in the hall.

Pan Jixun’s eyes bulged; he could not believe a mere prefect had acquired over eight hundred residences—how could one man claim “a thousand mansions”?

Zhang Junlü, closest to Wu Zhipeng, was equally incredulous—had his longtime rival really confessed so easily?

Most furious was Li Minqing, who nearly ground his teeth—wasn’t the plan to stand together and sell as a package!?

Was he trying to flee first, or forcing me to reveal myself?

With no time to think further, Li Minqing exchanged glances with his colleagues and hurried forward to kneel: “Your Majesty! We are guilty! We willingly submit to punishment and surrender all illicit gains to the imperial treasury!”

Amid the stunned stares of Qin Bangyan, Yu Deye, and others who had previously resisted, more Xuzhou officials stepped forward to confess.

“Your servant submits to punishment!”

“I too have fallen; I willingly surrender all!”

In an instant, court ministers awoke to the truth; they flocked to kneel before the Buddha’s golden form, pledging to surrender their ill-gotten gains and redeem themselves.

Wu Zhipeng was indeed sharp—he had voluntarily confessed and accepted punishment; truly a talent.

But to seek redemption through money? Zhu Yijun inwardly sneered.

The instinct to pay off guilt with cash was not unusual; history was full of such cases.

Formerly, Zhao Wenhua’s assets were insufficient to repay his theft, so he begged the Jiajing Emperor to let his descendants continue repayment to avoid death; later, Wang Danwang concealed his embezzlement by claiming negligence, and voluntarily paid fifty thousand taels.

But in Xuzhou, a strategic transit hub, a single residence occupying five mu, with three stories and twenty-eight ground-floor rooms, cost only 106 taels (based on land deed prices, excluding fees).

Eight hundred such residences would total only eighty thousand taels; even with silver, jewels, and forests included, the total was barely over two hundred thousand taels.

To think such a sum could “redeem” him was far too easy.

Zhao Wenhua and Wang Danwang both threw out hundreds of thousands of taels—and still failed to buy their lives. Zhao Wenhua, though spared death, was recorded in the national history as having accidentally ruptured his own abdomen while massaging his belly, spilling his organs and dying instantly; such a lethal hand—how could that be called “spared”?

Facing the scattered ministers kneeling in confession, Zhu Yijun said nothing, then turned to Li Shidi: “No wonder the Censorate could not proceed—it truly involves too many, and the matter is too grave.”

“Li Qing, what do you suggest?”

Li Shidi hesitated, then replied earnestly: “Your Majesty, I believe these ministers’ voluntary confessions are themselves a form of rectifying the bureaucracy and purging corruption.”

“The Censorate need not investigate further; let the ministers return or surrender their illicit gains, whether through salary reduction, demotion by three ranks, or dismissal to idle retirement—to restore peace to the river transport system.”

“This humble minister’s crude suggestion rests entirely upon Your Majesty’s judgment.”

The kneeling ministers all flattered in agreement, chanting: “Your Majesty’s judgment is wise.”

Zhu Yijun scanned the court, absorbing every reaction.

“Leave it to my judgment?”

He shook his head gently, speaking seriously: “My opinion is: execute them.”