Chapter 368

“What? The Emperor plans a massive slaughter!?”

“Absolutely not! Absolutely not!”

“Did Pan Jixun lure people up the mountain just to spill blood in a Buddhist temple?”

The cold front from the north, having arrived with winter, showed no sign of abating—icy, lifeless, devoid of any human warmth.

This chill seemed to accompany the Emperor’s single word—“kill”—sweeping through the entire Xinghua Chan Temple, including the gentry and local notables who had failed to flee down the mountain and were now trapped at the temple gate, forced to attend the expanded meeting.

Upon hearing their magistrate was ensnared by the law, they were truly frantic, as if mourning the death of their own parents.

Xiao Liangyou walked ahead to guide the gentry, correcting them: “You misunderstand—today’s meeting is solely for discussion.”

“After the discussion, the judicial offices may continue their investigations; colleagues who wish to surrender must wait until they descend the mountain and complete their handovers. Whether families are immediately exterminated or executions delayed until autumn depends entirely on the case.”

This isn’t a political conspiracy—just a criminal case. It must be done with legitimate grounds, openly and properly.

Wang followed half a step behind Xiao Liangyou, head bowed, clutching his sable fur collar tightly, dazed: “Either execution or clan extermination—does the Emperor truly disregard public sentiment?”

The word “kill,” as relayed by Xiao Liangyou, echoed endlessly in his mind, absurd beyond belief.

Kill?

For stealing a few taels of silver, they face capital punishment!?

This is a new dynasty of peace and prosperity—not the blood-soaked era of Hongwu!

Even common folk know: “To transform the people, governance and education matter—not punishment.” Has the Emperor’s sacred learning been read by dogs?

All officials in Xuzhou have agreed to return their ill-gotten gains—clear proof of their repentance, worthy of re-education, not abandonment.

They ignore the ancestral principle of “punish with a cup of wine, not death.”

Does His Majesty even understand that governing a great state is like cooking a small fish—requiring compromise at every turn?

Emperor Xiaozong, where are you now!?

Xiao Liangyou rolled his eyes, a flicker of disdain crossing his face, then turned back to Wang with a mild tone: “Your Excellency does not know—this is merely the Emperor’s temporary hearing, not a final decree.”

“During the meeting, Censor Li, bold and forthright, argued passionately for public sentiment, clashing fiercely with Censor Luo.”

“The Emperor, keenly attentive to public opinion, sought to reconcile differing views—hence he sent me to invite you, esteemed local scholars, for consultation.”

When the Emperor first voiced his ruthless opinion, the hall erupted in wailing.

Dozens of officials knelt, begging for mercy—citing their service to the river and canal, their blood shed for the people, their crimes not deserving death, imploring the Emperor’s grace. Wu Zhipeng even banged his head on the floor, screaming he would die to prove his loyalty.

Yet the moment the Emperor declared them guilty, their voices were stripped away—no matter how they pleaded, today’s decision could not be undone.

But some were merely foolish and cowardly, not corrupt.

One must clarify right from wrong.

To kill, one must first break the spirit.

Wang followed Xiao Liangyou step by step, gazing up at the looming Mahavira Hall, his face filled with disappointment: “At the Wenhua Hall, the Emperor and the ministers once agreed: in this age of peace, governance must balance firmness and gentleness to uphold the righteous path.”

“Beware! Beware!”

Xiao Liangyou halted, frowning as he studied Wang’s face, heavy with patriotic sorrow.

This old fool, clinging to his age, now dares to rebuke the Son of Heaven!

One of the Nine Principles of Statecraft—Three Virtues—is now the foremost methodology of governance.

Uprightness points to the “Constant Way”—establishing unified moral and ethical standards; Firmness points to “Great Chaos”—requiring swift authority to stabilize; Gentleness points to “Exhaustion”—requiring leniency, light taxes, and mercy toward the people and scholar-officials.

At the Wenhua Hall, civil and military ministers jointly agreed: this is an age of peace—follow the upright path.

When Xiao Liangyou took the imperial exams, he wrote the same upright essays.

This is the foremost principle of governance today.

But what is the second half of Wang’s “beware, beware,” from the Mencius, Book of Liang Huiwang?

“Those who act thus shall have it done to them in return!”

Who is acting thus? This is an outright accusation that the Emperor, in his harsh measures, abandons uprightness and commits a grave error of firmness!

Xiao Liangyou drew a deep breath, suppressing his revulsion, and retorted: “Your Excellency must understand: if one violates state law, our dynasty has the Great Ming Code.”

“The Great Ming Code, Volume Eighteen, Criminal Law I: Robbery and Theft—any official entrusted with custody who steals from state granaries or treasuries, regardless of role or complicity, shall be punished according to the amount stolen; if it reaches forty strings of cash, beheading.”

“The Great Ming Code, Volume Twenty-Four, Criminal Law VII: Bribery—any official accepting bribes shall be punished according to the amount; if perverting justice, if it reaches eighty strings of cash, strangulation.”

“Additionally, the Great Ming Code, Volume Twenty-Two, Criminal Law V: Litigation—anyone intercepting sealed petitions submitted to the Emperor shall be strangled; the Great Ming Code, Volume Twenty-Seven, Engineering Law II: Construction—any official who embezzles funds or materials for public works, or falsely reports expenditures, shall be punished as if embezzling from state custody—beheading; the Great Ming Code, Volume Eight, Household Law V: Granaries—any official who withholds rations from laborers shall be punished as if embezzling from state custody—beheading.”

“These men, since the first year of Wanli, have continued their misconduct without restraint. Does the Emperor’s punishment under the law not follow the upright path?”

With Hai Rui as a shining example, the younger generation naturally learned well, reciting the Great Ming Code backward.

According to the rule that eighty strings of cash merits strangulation, every senior official in Xuzhou deserves to be strangled thousands of times over!

Governing by law is the broad, impartial Way—how could this be called firmness?

Yet Wang was unmoved.

He shook his head at the surrounding gentry: “You’ve been in court only a few years—do you not know that our dynasty has precedents beyond the law?”

“In the eleventh year of Hongzhi, Li Guang committed suicide; ten thousand taels of gold and a ledger of bribes from officials were found. The Censorate demanded prosecution based on the ledger—how did Emperor Xiaozong respond?”

“The Emperor said: ‘Li Guang has disgraced the ministers—let it be shelved.’ He ordered the Censorate to seal and burn the ledger within the palace.”

Who keeps a ledger of colleagues’ corruption? It must be base slander—burn it and be done.

When speaking of Emperor Xiaozong’s conduct, Wang bowed reverently, his face filled with profound reverence.

Then he sighed, deeply disappointed: “Now, we ignore precedent and enforce only the law—this harsh governance, this mass slaughter—isn’t this firmness?”

Wang didn’t even bother listening to the litany of the Great Ming Code.

That’s a tool to control the people—how could it be applied to our own?

Not even for stealing a few taels.

Back then, the eunuch Yang Peng, stationed in Zhejiang, quarreled with the magistrate of Ninghai County; Yang even forged an imperial edict to arrest and torture him.

Didn’t Emperor Xiaozong still let it pass—ordering Yang recalled to a ceremonial post, forbidden from any duties?

As Li Dongyang said: “The Emperor’s benevolence is immeasurable—ruler and ministers, like family, bound by tender affection.”

Governing a state is like caring for a family—that is the true path of broad, benevolent uprightness!

Xiao Liangyou listened, stunned, mouth agape.

No wonder he invented the “corruption efficiency” theory—this is what Wang believes governance should look like.

Xiao Liangyou suddenly felt his inner frustration vanish completely.

If Wang truly believes this, why bother arguing with him?

Thinking this, Xiao Liangyou relaxed his expression, ceased his resistance, and spread his hands with a grin: “I see nothing wrong—it’s nearly the New Year. A little bloodshed makes things lively.”

Thinking of this, Xiao Liangyou relaxed his expression, no longer holding a grudge; instead, he spread his hands out with a grin and said to Wang, “I don’t see anything wrong—New Year’s coming, a little bloodshed makes things lively.”

Such a thug’s remark left him speechless, his arguments choking him into internal injury.

Behind them, the gentry and local notables stared, utterly bewildered.

Behind them, the local gentry and elders stared, dumbfounded and silent.

Is this execution or slaughtering chickens?

“You—”

Wang opened his mouth to argue further.

But Xiao Liangyou had no patience to waste on this fool—he stepped aside at the stone steps before the Mahavira Hall, gesturing: “His Majesty awaits within. Esteemed scholars, please follow Grand Eunuch Wei Chao inside.”

Wang looked up—sure enough, Grand Eunuch Wei Chao stood waiting on the steps.

Too preoccupied with persuading the Emperor to turn back, Wang cursed under his breath: “Worthless wood, beyond carving,” and swept his sleeve upward, ascending the steps.

Behind him, the gentry nervously glanced at the grim Imperial Guard, then lowered their heads and followed.

Grand Eunuch Wei showed no interest in small talk—he called out names formally and led them inside.

All bowed their heads as they crossed the towering threshold of the Mahavira Hall, glancing around—faces filled with surprise.

The expected scene of imperial fury, blood splattered five paces—was absent.

Inside, sandalwood incense curled gently, mingling with the warmth of charcoal stoves.

On the imperial desk, tea steamed softly; a figure in dragon robes sat on the high dais, fingers lightly tapping the table—tap, tap, crisp and clear.

Only Vice Censor Luo Zun and Censor Li Shidi knelt before the throne, heads bowed, as if just concluding a heated debate.

The rest—whether officials of the imperial court or river and canal administrators—all sat in orderly rows of long tables and benches, granted seats.

The rest—whether officials of the traveling court or river and canal supervisors—all found their seats among the neatly arranged long tables and benches, clearly granted the honor of sitting.

In the front row sat only Pan Jixun, granted the honorary title of Grand Tutor to the Crown Prince.

Behind him, Right Censor-in-Chief Chen Wude sat in the second row; Vice Minister of Works Wan Gong and former Director of River Management Fu Xizhi could only sit in the third.

These trusted court officials sat upright, heads bent over case files, radiating the dignity of senior ministers.

The river and canal administrators looked less dignified.

Qin Bangyan and several clerks sat in the sixth row; though pretending to read files, their bodies were stiff, trembling intermittently.

Li Minqing and Wu Zhipeng sat in the fifth row; despite the winter cold, sweat poured from their foreheads, pooling at their chins, dripping onto their robes, leaving dark, spreading stains.

Even Chang Sansheng, a high-ranking Military Commissioner in crimson robes, seated in the fourth row, looked no more at ease—he stared fixedly at the empty desk before him, breathing rapidly and unevenly.

The gentry, seeing their familiar officials reduced to such terror, felt the same dread: the rabbit dies, the fox grieves.

Better to be thrown straight into prison—why force them to attend this meeting after sentencing? Isn’t this worse than lingchi?

This is worse than being thrown straight into prison; after sentencing, you still have to attend meetings—what’s the difference from slow slicing?

The Emperor had regained composure, drawing his tapping fingers back into his sleeve, his gaze settling on the assembled local scholars.

Sensing that gaze, the gentry and local notables felt as if a mountain hung above them—frozen, helpless, uncertain how to move.

Wang, having once held high office, still retained his composure.

Wang, despite holding high office in the ministries, had not lost his composure.

He stepped forward before the throne and bowed first: “Your humble servant pays homage to Your Majesty.”

At his reminder, the elderly men in their seventies all raised their hands in salute, while those behind them under seventy knelt to perform the full kowtow.

“Your humble servant pays homage to Your Majesty.”

“Your humble subject kowtows before Your Majesty!”

The “old” in Wang’s speech was a self-deprecating term used by retired officials in accordance with ritual, implying age and uselessness—but when the Emperor heard it, it was as if a hidden mechanism had been triggered.

Zhu Yijun immediately rose and sidestepped, exclaiming in surprise: “So it is Your Old Servant before me!”

Wang, seeing the Emperor suddenly avoid his bow, froze mid-gesture, utterly bewildered.

Zhu Yijun paid no mind to Wang’s confusion; instead, he adopted a posture of utmost reverence and declared solemnly: “I ascended the throne in the sixth year of Longqing; I’ve eaten less salt than Grand Secretary Wang has rice.”

“It should be I who bows to Old Master Wang!”

“Grand Secretary” was an elegant title for the Director of the Ministry of Revenue’s Clearing Office, used to honor senior officials. In the past, Wang had loved this flattery—but now, hearing it, he felt his soul nearly flee his body.

The Emperor was actually about to raise his hands in a bow.

Wang finally snapped to, frantically flinging his cane aside and prostrating himself fully, screaming: “Your Majesty, you humiliate your servant!”

He dared not call himself “old servant” again.

Most of the ministers in the hall had not been paying attention to the documents the Emperor had distributed; now they all turned to stare.

Even Chen Wude, who had earlier been bullied by Wang’s seniority, could not help rising to urge: “Your Majesty, there is a strict boundary between ruler and minister.”

“Boundary” meant limit—if the Emperor truly bowed, Wang had no choice but to dash his head against the hall’s pillars.

Zhu Yijun ultimately did not bow.

But he clearly had no intention of letting it pass; instead, he sighed to Chen Wude: “What boundary between ruler and minister? On my southern tour, I’ve heard countless times: ‘We know only our local Grand Coordinator, not the Emperor in Beijing.’”

“I’m not belittling Old Master Wang—I truly respect and fear him.”

“In Xuzhou, the local gentry merely expressed dissent with restraint, yet I was forced to suspend deliberations and humbly seek their counsel.”

“What if he were to roam the streets, meet old colleagues everywhere, stir up the canal troops, and openly pressure Beijing?”

Zhu Yijun quietly removed his black-rimmed soul-glasses, expressionless: “Then wouldn’t I, a mere occupant of office, deserve to be replaced without changing my thinking?”

Wang’s mind went utterly blank.

The ministers in the hall, hearing these words, all turned pale and rose from their seats in alarm.

“Your Majesty!”

“Your Majesty, watch your words!”

Even Pan Jixun, who was not sharp in civil affairs, hastily rose and kowtowed, urgently pleading: “Your Majesty, please withdraw these jests!”

As chaotic pleas erupted, the hall descended into uproar.

Logically, with such sharp words and relentless pressure, any loyal, filial minister would have dashed his head against the hall’s pillars by now.

But seniority, as befits its name, could withstand anything.

Wang had already steadied his nerves, quietly halting his fainting prelude.

He raised his head, eyes brimming with tears, straightened his body, and bowed deeply: “As Your Majesty rebukes, I indeed dissent on the matters in Xuzhou!”

“The Book of Rites says: ‘Distinguish sameness from difference, clarify right from wrong.’ Difference means divergence. The officials and people of Xuzhou differ in path and opinion from the Censorate—yet who is right or wrong remains unknown.”

The Book of Documents also says: “When words contradict your inner self, seek the Dao; when words please your desires, seek what is not the Dao.”

“Now, the officials and people of Xuzhou oppose Your Sacred Heart—how can Your Majesty prejudge, regard me as an enemy, and seek what is not the Dao!?”

With Wang leading, the accompanying gentry immediately understood and followed suit, kneeling to plead their case.

“I also dissent—for the sake of loyalty, Your Majesty, take heed!”

“Your humble subject dissents! May Your Majesty lower your head to hear the people’s voice, lest you be deceived by villains!”

The ministers watched coldly, and seeing this, secretly praised.

No wonder the Grand Secretary who devised the “Corruption Efficiency Theory” could withstand such unorthodox tactics—Wang had just blocked the Emperor’s move.

Wang did not deny: he indeed dissented from the Censorate’s purge.

But it wasn’t just him—he wasn’t inciting public opinion; he was conveying it. His loyalty was beyond question.

Likewise, dissent was relative—why couldn’t it be the Censorate that had drifted from the people, dissenting from the officials and populace of Xuzhou?

If so, dissent was not a crime. Right and wrong remain undetermined—how could the Emperor, based on personal preference, “seek what is not the Dao” against Minister Wang?

The gentry had cited the Book of Changes: “For the sake of loyalty, we have no selfish motives.”

Rather, the Emperor ought to reflect—truthful words are bitter to hear!

At this moment,

the Emperor, struck by this counterattack, showed no sign of anger or shame—only fixed his gaze steadily on Wang and the others.

He stared until the gentry felt their scalps prickle.

After a long silence, the Emperor suddenly smiled, turning to Chen Wude and Pan Jixun: “I told you—though demoted, Minister Wang’s heart remains unchanged. He would never flatter me with false words or feigned obedience. Isn’t that so?”

It was all a jest.

Chen Wude and Pan Jixun were honest men; they looked around, bewildered.

Fortunately, Luo Zun and Xu Fuyuan reacted quickly, applauding and exclaiming: “Indeed!” “Exactly!”

Seeing this, the gentry, reeling from the emotional rollercoaster, forced weak smiles, offering hollow agreement to ease the tension.

“Minister Wang, rise. I merely tested you—please forgive my small provocation.”

Zhu Yijun feigned a light cough, letting Wang off the hook, then resumed his solemn tone: “Minister Wang, since you know why I’ve summoned you, I need not elaborate.”

“Gentlemen who speak of the people of Xuzhou and their will—please, do not withhold your counsel.”

Before the senior official, Zhu Yijun’s blunt, unreasonable opening was precisely to better make his point.

As expected, after being given a warning, Wang was like a man released from prison—much more subdued.

Now facing the Emperor’s inquiry, he for once did not flaunt his seniority, but replied humbly: “I dare not speak of offering counsel—I venture to plead before my sovereign.”

“I hear Your Majesty intends for the Censorate to investigate thoroughly and unleash a bloody purge. I am filled with dread—if this happens, the people of Xuzhou will rise in fury, and public trust will be utterly lost!”

Zhu Yijun knew Wang’s stance well; he found nothing surprising.

He leaned forward curiously: “Oh? ‘Public trust utterly lost’—is that your view, or the people of Xuzhou’s?”

With the process now at the stage of invoking popular sentiment, the senior official no longer needed to fight alone.

The gentry and local worthies all spoke up.

“Your Majesty, not just Lord Wang—my family and over a hundred others in our village are terrified by the turmoil. We only wish for the matter to be settled quietly, and for production to resume soon!”

“Your Imperial Father, the merchants of Xuzhou, fearing the same fate, have fled in panic with their families.”

“I carry petitions from over a hundred students of private academies and county schools—all pleading that Your Majesty emulate the filial Emperor’s benevolent rule. We humbly submit them for Your Majesty’s perusal.”

One after another, they stepped forward to plead, and the grand hall erupted once more.

Zhu Yijun pressed his hand to his forehead and sighed: “Truly, this is the will of the people.”

Seeing the Emperor seem swayed, they pressed their advantage.

An old Confucian, his face speckled with age spots, trembled forward: “Your Majesty, though the law is harsh, and some officials of Xuzhou may have committed offenses, law must never ignore human sentiment. These magistrates have spent years among the people—sharing their joys, composing poetry, enjoying operas, spreading culture—”

In short: though corrupt, they were kind—giving flowers, baking pastries, feeding stray animals—well-liked by all. They were good men; mercy must be shown.

“Indeed! Though their deeds border on self-interest and are called corruption, their roles are implicitly defined, resources fully utilized, and benefits fully unlocked—for the good of the state and people!”

Clearly, the merchant representatives had mastered Wang’s “corruption efficiency theory” to perfection.

“Collusion between officials and merchants” sounded too vile—it was called “buying power with money.”

Without corruption, everyone followed rigid rules and got strangled by the bureaucracy. But with bribes, resources could shift from the inflexible court to agile merchant firms. Though the form was corrupt, the result was more efficient resource use.

Corruption has merit—how can we execute our meritorious servants?

Zhu Yijun listened quietly, thinking: truly, absurd theories abound.

It was no surprise—since the first year of Wanli, the New Policies had maintained constant high pressure on the court, and countless people resented it.

These “absurd theories” were merely concrete expressions of that resentment.

Only when the gentry and worthies had finished speaking did Zhu Yijun raise his hand slightly.

As silence fell, his gaze swept the hall and settled on an old man: “Are you Master Sun Keshou? If I recall correctly, when I ascended the throne for the military and civilian ceremony, you sat in the third row?”

Sun Keshou was over seventy; his great-grandfather, Sun Heng, had served as Censor, Prefect, and Left Assistant Commissioner, and was enshrined among the local worthies. Sun Keshou was a true scion of a distinguished family, long respected for virtue.

He had never imagined the Emperor would remember him after just one meeting.

He was overwhelmed with honor and immediately kowtowed: “Your Majesty’s memory is divine—you are truly a celestial being.”

Zhu Yijun nodded slightly: “The petitions from private academies, county schools, merchant guilds, and gentry—all have been recounted to me by the Junior Censor.”

“Yet, gentlemen, you are unaware: my advance agents have also submitted reports on public sentiment—and they starkly contradict yours!”

“I am at a loss!”

Here, Zhu Yijun paused. Amid the gentry’s startled glances, he turned to Sun Keshou: “Master Sun, you read these aloud to the gentlemen.”

Sun Keshou, confused, accepted the scroll from the eunuch, utterly bewildered.

He instinctively glanced at Wang Ji and the other local allies.

Their expressions were grim, but their mixed, chaotic glances gave Sun no clear directive.

He opened the scroll blindly, obediently following the Emperor’s order, and began reading: “The people of Xiao County petition against the Zhang family’s nephews and in-laws, who abuse their official power to oppress the people.”

“No crime against the people is worse than that of high officials; no place worse than Xiao County. The Zhang family colludes with the county magistrate, tormenting the people; their clan exploits power, darkening the land; their servants, emboldened by influence, fill the heavens with grievance—”

Halfway through, Sun Keshou finally realized.

He looked up in shock, scanning the Zhang family patriarch and the trembling county magistrate seated in the seventh row.

Zhu Yijun seized the moment: “Skip the flowery prose—read the attached list.”

The opening clearly came from a scribe—eloquent but lacking sincerity. Better to read the actual list appended at the end.

Sun Keshou, trapped between shame and obedience, turned to the appended page and read: “Listed below are the offenses.”

Zhang He sheng raped the wet nurse Zou Shi, who resisted; he stripped her naked and mutilated her genitals. Jin Shi witnessed this. The wronged woman Zou Shi may be tried.

Zhang He sheng forcibly raped the virtuous maiden Lu Shi; Mi Deyan intervened and was immediately beaten to death. The wronged commoner Zhu the Monk may be tried.

Zhang Zhenyu defrauded Liu Zihua of Jining, openly exploiting his status as an outsider, driving him out bodily, seizing his family’s assets of over three hundred taels, leaving the entire household—old and young—to sleep outdoors amid the cries of cuckoos; the youngest son froze to death. The wronged commoner Liu Zihua may be tried.

Zhang Zhenyu framed constable Wang Ji for theft, falsely accusing the innocent commoner Sun Tai as a bandit, seizing his family’s assets of over a thousand taels; Sun Tai died unjustly in prison. The wronged commoner Sun Tai’s wife Tang Shi may be tried.

Zhang Xiuzhi murdered Wu Jianzhou’s wife Jin Shi and her six-year-old orphan, schemed to seize two thousand mu of land, and amassed ten thousand taels in blood money. Jin Shi’s brother Jin Tianshen was poisoned while defending his nephew; he was instantly seized, bound in the marketplace, and brutally murdered. The wronged commoners Jin Tianshen and Jin Shi may be tried.

Inside the hall, apart from Sun Keshou’s hoarse recitation, there was not a sound.

The head of the Zhang family, admitting his failure to discipline his household, fell motionless to the ground after the Emperor shushed him.

The magistrate of Xi County, seated in the seventh row, had already tilted his head back, as if unconscious.

Sun Keshou had recited twenty-six charges; he finally turned the page: “The scholar Ji Guoting of Xuzhou submits a petition accusing Qin Huan’s servants, Qin Rui and others, of murder and land seizure.”

He glanced at Qin Bangyan, the vice-prefect of Xuzhou.

But the latter, utterly unmoved, wore a blank expression, as if resigned to his fate.

Sun Keshou, powerless to stop, continued reading: “On the tenth day of the eighth month, at midnight, Master Qin the Fourth drove twenty armed vehicles, leading his band of one hundred villains—high-ranking servants Gao Yi and Xu Yin among them—and ordered his men to scale the rooftops.

“They smashed the front doors, wielding forks and axes, stormed into the inner hall, hurled bricks and tiles, overturned chests and trunks, worse than a military massacre or bandit raid; the wife and children fled in terror, not a chicken or dog left alive. Neighbors such as Mi Zhong dared not intervene or testify.”

“Moreover.”

“Qin Huan’s servants, Qin Rui and others, embezzled the widow Ji’s wealth, seduced her in secret, murdered her two nephews, then coerced the disgraced scholar Huang Shizuo and the censor Li Wenhuan to bribe her brother Ji Gui and her kin Huang Zichang, Huang Wenzhong, and others; they commanded laborers to supervise the burning of the male corpses, reducing them to ash to erase all traces.”

“Moreover.”

“On the fifteenth day of the seventh month, Qin Rui led a gang of five ruffians—Xu Qi, Xu Er, Xu Menghua, Xu Menggao, and Xu Zhou—and falsely accused Wang Zi of stealing peaches from the garden. Enraged that Wang Zi refused to confess, they surrounded and beat him, smashing stones against his chest and lower abdomen; he died at the hour of Chen on the sixteenth of the same month.”

Sun Keshou had grown numb from recitation, reading now almost by rote instinct.

“The prefectural student Hua Yuanchun accuses the Sun family of colluding with the prefectural yamen to seize land and force death—”

As he finished the sentence, Sun Keshou suddenly realized the wording felt familiar; he stopped abruptly.

The Sun family?

Sun Keshou stared closely and immediately recognized the names of Wu Zhipeng and his own nephews within the petition.

He cautiously raised his head toward the Emperor, lips parting but words unspoken.

As a benevolent ruler, Zhu Yijun did not press the old man; he waved his hand: “Enough. Sun Lao, tell me—what do such petitions truly seek?”

Sun Keshou felt as if granted a pardon.

He bowed deeply to the ground and summarized for the Emperor: “Your Majesty, the people’s grievances are full to bursting; all they demand is to pursue justice to the death—to tear flesh, sleep on skins, and the like.”

At these words, the faces of the gentry turned ashen.

Hadn’t everyone said the people of Great Ming were the most enduring, accustomed to oppression? Why now were they turning against it, calling for blood and slaughter?

There are evil men among the commoners!

As the crowd seethed inwardly, the Emperor’s voice sounded again.

“For nearly a decade, I still do not understand what the people’s will truly is.”

Zhu Yijun gazed around the hall and sighed softly: “What do you, my lords, advise me?”