Chapter 369

How dare you teach me?

This is a classic rhetorical question—not asking how to handle such a situation, but saying: everything’s already like this, and you still dare to instruct His Majesty?

Of course, this rhetorical challenge targets not merely the gentry and elders of Xuzhou.

It is a direct and forthright response to the long-standing discontent within the Confucian scholarly circles under years of high-pressure rule.

Every meeting inherently carries political signaling; Secretary Sun Jigao bent over his brush, scribbling furiously, determined that every word spoken today would be printed and disseminated across the realm afterward.

True, the sages’ maxims fill baskets—water can carry a boat, yet also capsize it; the people are the foundation of the state, the altars of soil and grain secondary.

Yet in feudal dynasties, the guiding principle for distribution and the bureaucratic elite’s governing creed has always been the bare minimum: keep the commoners from rebelling.

As for terms like public opinion, the masses, the realm—words that sound authoritative—they are largely represented by scholar-officials.

Before the New Learning, the suffering of the common folk could at best serve as individual officials’ moral pity or as a pawn in factional struggles—never once had they dined at the table of state policy.

Even after the rise of Rationalist Doctrine, it remained confined to theory and broad policy directions, powerless to influence the daily operations of the bureaucracy; since the high-pressure anti-corruption campaign of Wanli’s first year, countless bizarre theories have swirled within the scholarly circles, yet no one has ever looked at how the lowly live, nor asked what they truly think.

At this moment, the Emperor’s actions are deeply questionable—he boldly questions the long-standing representatives of public opinion: who now truly speaks for the people?

This is the second time since Emperor Taizu that the imperial power has attempted to merge with public opinion—Xuzhou, as a directly governed prefecture, is neither too large nor too small, making it the perfect place to build an argument upon.

Sun Jigao clearly could not answer the Emperor’s treacherous question; alongside the gentry, he lowered his head, mute and trembling.

In this matter, local officials are best positioned to share their daily experiences and claim part of the interpretive authority.

Yet now, they are the knife and chopping block—even they themselves have become stepping stones for others’ arguments; beneath such humiliation, they can only turn the truth over in their minds, unable to voice it.

Some did not wish to speak; others could not speak; the hall fell silent.

At this moment.

Cough! Cough!

A violent cough erupted; Wang covered his mouth and nose, struggling forward half a step.

“Your Majesty, I dare to lay bare right and wrong.”

All eyes in the hall turned toward Wang, expressions varied.

Seeing the Emperor nod in approval, Secretary Sun Jigao perked up, brush poised to write.

Gasping with the rattle in his lungs, Wang bowed deeply: “Confucius said: When the realm follows the Dao, the commoners do not speak.”

“Shang Yang also said: The people may rejoice in success, but cannot be consulted in its inception.”

“This is the great debate between Dao and technique.”

“The ignorant folk of thatched huts see no further than their alleyways, hear no music beyond the village; their rage and caprice ignore the precariousness of the times, let alone strategic wisdom.”

“What they now demand is like a thirsty man seeking poison, a freezing man asking for hemp—though their cries are desperate, they contradict reality; when they stumble, they blame the North Star for shifting its course.”

“Why?”

“Emotion clouds wisdom; desire burns reason.”

“When they denounce corrupt officials, they rise en masse to tear them apart; yet when upright officials are falsely accused, the commoners clap their thighs in delight, their cheers filling the streets.”

“These rat-eyed commoners, whose views are not of the Dao—how can they be said to represent public opinion?!”

Gentry, gentry—only those with scholarly degrees are called “shi”; this is fundamentally different from the lowly.

Compared to the far-sighted gentry, the lowly are ignorant, oblivious to objective conditions, driven only by instinct to vent emotions—yet their demands are not necessarily reasonable.

They cry out for violence against officials at the slightest setback—what difference is this from blaming the position of a comet for personal misfortune?

Utterly foolish.

They never consider that if the Xuzhou bureaucracy is shaken, the economy will suffer, and even more people will face hardship.

Today they scream for the execution of corrupt officials; tomorrow, they eat blood-soaked buns when upright officials are beheaded—ultimately, they merely seek emotional release.

What meaning do these thoughts, grievances, and demands of the lowly hold?

In contrast, we gentry and elders—born from the lowly, yet transcending them; rooted in instinctive demands, yet rising above their prejudices.

Between these two, who is right, who is wrong, who truly represents public opinion—need we even ask?

Wang has internalized the sages’ texts to his very bones; faced with the Emperor’s question of public opinion, he immediately produced a grand, righteous argument.

Wu Zhipeng, Li Minqing, and others still sweating from their earlier clash nearly leapt to their feet, applauding in admiration.

Listen—that is the very speech our representatives of public opinion ought to deliver!

Not only the Xuzhou officials—even Chen Xingjian, the Imperial Household Secretary and trusted aide of the court, could not suppress his astonishment, staring intently at the frail, dying Wang.

Who knew the Ministry of Revenue had such a man? What a pity we met so late—if only we could deploy him to debate a crowd of scholars when demanding funds from the treasury, how much money we might save!

Of course, the Emperor need not personally refute Wang’s sophistry.

Luo Zun, who had just finished a round of quarreling with Li Shidi, perhaps had rested enough.

He stepped past Li Shidi, stepped forward, and sneered at Wang: “Wang Lao speaks of the people as if they cannot tell right from wrong—outsiders might think you’re describing beasts.”

Wang’s expression did not change: “Minister Luo, let us speak strictly of the matter at hand.”

“It’s admirable that Wang Lao still knows to speak strictly of the matter,” Luo Zun retorted. “Very well—let us speak strictly of the matter.”

“Since Wang Lao claims the ignorant masses cannot distinguish good from bad officials, I must ask: do you know Zhang Zhan?”

At this familiar name, Xuzhou officials turned their attention.

Li Minqing and Wu Zhipeng exchanged glances, both looking toward Chang Sansheng.

Never mind how uncomfortable Assistant Regional Commander Chang Sansheng looked.

Wang, unafraid of ghosts knocking at his door, nodded calmly: “Former Prefect Zhang Zhan was renowned; this old man naturally knows him.”

“Alas, he passed away last month. By the time I sent someone to pay respects, his coffin had already been returned to his hometown in Henan.”

Luo Zun laughed bitterly.

He turned, stepped two paces toward Sun Jigao, and snatched the dossier from his hands.

“Let Wang Lao know: while the gentry missed the chance, the people of Xuzhou traveled hundreds of miles to arrive—they have flocked to Henan to erect steles for Zhang Physician.”

“This is a handwritten copy of the advance inspector’s report on the people’s sentiments in Henan—I shall read it to Wang Lao.”

Luo Zun opened the dossier to the page detailing the advance inspector’s visit to Peixian, and read without emotion: “The name of former Prefect Zhang Zhan is deeply engraved in my heart, never to be forgotten.”

“—My father died tragically.”

“On the fifth-seven day of mourning, my younger sister was born; now all five daughters rely solely on our mother. I am still in swaddling clothes.”

“My little sister was born weak and ill; our home is utterly destitute—we have no food for tomorrow, no money for medicine, no clothes for warmth. When my sister lay near death, our mother fell gravely ill.”

“My uncle brought a basket to the bedside, preparing to carry my sister out to bury her.”

“At that moment, the former Prefect pushed open our door. He lifted the pot—empty. He saw the two sick ones: my sister on the brink of death, my mother burning with fever, unconscious.”

“Tears filled his eyes. He took copper coins from his sleeve, bought us cloth and cotton for warmth, and took my sister and mother to the People’s Relief Clinic for treatment.”

“Both my sister and mother survived. We constantly remember the former Prefect Zhang Zhan, never forgetting his life-saving grace in our hour of need.”

Luo Zun spoke fluent court Mandarin, his voice clear and elegant; as he read, listeners felt as if they stood in the scene.

Alas, Wang, having lived to this age, had long since hardened his heart, unmoved.

But Pan Jixun’s face was filled with emotion.

After Zhang Zhan was dismissed by Li Shidi’s impeachment, Pan Jixun had heard praise of him from his advisors and local allies; he followed the good advice and recommended his reinstatement, intending to inspect river defenses before deciding whether to bring him close for major duties—never imagining the man was already dead, leaving the people along the river and canal with nothing but regret.

Luo Zun’s face remained expressionless as he stepped closer to Wang: “There are dozens of these stele inscriptions here—including from your own tenants. Let me read you another.”

“Former Prefect, you may not remember me.”

“Since your death, I have felt as if knives cut my heart daily, cursing heaven for not letting me die in your place.”

“I still remember: years ago, you came to our village. My neighbors and I rushed to see you. In our greetings, you learned my husband had been wrongfully imprisoned, my five children were young, and my infant daughter’s ear was infested with maggots, with no money for treatment—you came to our home to visit.”

“You took out a few coins and said: ‘I am no longer Prefect—I’ve made a mistake. But I’ll write you a note. Go to the market, buy a little sesame oil, drip it into her ear—it will heal. I have little money myself; give it all to you. If the shopkeeper refuses payment, use this to buy food for the child.’”

“Even now, when my daughter and I speak of this, we weep uncontrollably.”

Luo Zun stepped before Wang, pulled out the several pages of the dossier, and held them before him.

His knife-like, cruel gaze carved sharply into the wrinkles of Wang’s face as he spoke low and heavy: “These are the thatched-hut peasants you called ignorant, whose wisdom is clouded and reason burned!”

Whether a group is foolish or not has long been a matter of ambiguity.

Even the ministers of the Wenhua Hall were viewed ambivalently; to suffering commoners, they were the meat-eaters who despised the people; to those who received their grace, they were wise, far-sighted, and insightful.

Even among the ministers of the Hall of Literary Glory, opinions were divided; to the common folk who suffered firsthand, they were merely greedy elites; to those who received their benefits, they were surely masterful and far-sighted.

When bearing costs, they are expected to be wise enough to find their own way; when voicing dissent, they are deemed foolish, unworthy of consultation.

Fortunately, court ministers have finally learned to analyze each issue individually—no investigation, no right to speak.

On the question of whether the people of Xuzhou can discern truth from falsehood and thus represent public opinion, Luo Zun, armed with the advance inspector’s findings, clearly holds far greater persuasive power than Wang’s empty words.

The gentry have already lost the people, yet refuse to lose the argument; after exchanging glances, they turned once more to Wang.

Fortunately, Wang did not disappoint; though his face showed difficulty, he still commanded deep respect and pressed on: “This proves the commoners are short-sighted, easily deceived by petty kindnesses—”

The moment this twisted falsehood left his lips, Luo Zun’s fury surged.

His forehead darkened with veins; against all reason, he pressed the pages of the dossier directly against Wang’s chest!

His forehead bristled with black lines, and against all reason, he pressed the sticky note meant for Wang onto the latter’s chest!

Wang, already suffering from lung disease, was suddenly struck; his words cut off, replaced by violent coughing.

The ministers in the hall turned their heads in unison.

Jiang Keqian stepped forward silently, ready to separate what had become a common sight: a brawl before the throne.

Zhu Yijun, seeing this, sighed and pressed his hand to his forehead, signaling Jiang Keqian to drag Luo Zun back to his seat.

The latter understood, and quickly escorted the seething Luo Zun away.

As Luo Zun stepped down and Wang could no longer speak, Li Shidi, standing motionless beside him, could no longer contain himself and seized the moment: “Your Majesty just spoke of seeking a middle ground among opinions.”

“Now that public opinion in Xuzhou is divided—could this not be the perfect moment?”

After all, he was a Censor-in-Inspection, and understood the Emperor well.

After all, he was a Censor-in-Inspection, and had some understanding of the Emperor.

This anger against corrupt officials must be vented; if so, isn’t it reasonable to respect the gentry’s opinion and limit the scope and intensity of the crackdown, besides seeking justice for the people?

Even if you cry for blood, couldn’t you at least kill fewer, or kill without shaking the official order?

It seems diligence finally bears fruit.

After hearing this prudent advice, the Emperor finally ceased his rebuttal and nodded deeply in agreement: “Very well. Very well.”

“Li Qing had me make a decision just moments ago, then immediately criticized me for ignoring public sentiment. Now, when I consult public opinion, everyone still contradicts each other, impossible to tell right from wrong.”

“Continuing this quarrel is pointless. We truly must find a middle ground among these views.”

At this point, Zhu Yijun paused, scanning the hall.

The Xu Prefecture officials, hearing this, seemed to hear celestial music; they snapped back to awareness and gazed at him with desperate hope.

Wu Zhipeng and Li Minqing exchanged a glance, silently clutching their sleeves.

Wang also exhaled deeply; the surrounding gentry were overjoyed, already murmuring words of praise.

Only Li Shidi, a graduate of the Hanlin Academy, knew the Emperor’s opening moves too well.

Hearing that tone, he instantly sensed disaster and was about to kneel and plead for mercy!

But it was too late.

“Chen Qing, since all these gentlemen speak only of public sentiment, the Censorate must no longer work in isolation.”

Zhu Yijun turned to Chen Wude, solemnly instructing: “After this meeting, you shall take over the prefectural yamen hall, remove the threshold, post notices, and say—”

“A conspiracy has emerged in the Xu Prefecture bureaucracy, involving many officials, each holding opposing views, with truth and falsehood impossible to determine.”

“The Censorate, to discern reason, weigh severity, and consider public sentiment, hereby invites soldiers, civilians, and commoners—”

“To publicly try this case in full view!”

At these words, the ministers in the hall were struck as if by a thunderclap, stunned into silence.

“Huh?”

“P-public trial?”

Everyone gaped, mouths agape, unable to comprehend.

Zhu Yijun assumed they simply didn’t understand, so he gestured vaguely in the air, kindly explaining: “Put on a tall hat, write the name and alleged crime, and put the accused on trial before the people.”

“Whether law shows no mercy, leading to mass executions, or shows human compassion, stopping short—depends on whether the people cheer or spit.”

“Isn’t this precisely a middle ground among opinions?”

As the ministers watched the Emperor casually gesture the shape of a tall hat, they felt as if Mount Tai hung above their heads, crushing them into silence.

How could the officials’ own affairs be subject to the pointing fingers of commoners!?

Who among local officials could resist harming a few commoners?

Given the nature of these rabble to incite each other, they’d likely stone themselves to death!

Even death would be preferable—suffering humiliation myself is one thing, but if word spreads, even my wife and children will be spat upon and scorned in the streets!

Li Shidi stared blankly at the Emperor, his eyes filled with disappointment.

I devoted myself entirely to the state, seeking to preserve local vitality and nurture its spirit—why does the Emperor keep walking further down this harsh path?

And yet he speaks of “finding a middle ground,” yet treats officials with such cruelty—what difference is there from the Hongwu Emperor?

Unsurprisingly, Li Shidi was not alone in this thought.

“Your Majesty, how can you utter such absurd words—have you forgotten the events of the Hongwu era!?”

A hoarse, furious voice rang out, a direct rebuke that startled everyone into shock.

They turned to look.

There, Wang had picked up his cane, trembling as he pointed it at the Emperor, his whole body shaking with emotion.

Li Shidi, closest to him, was terrified; he rushed forward to grab Wang’s disrespectful cane, placing himself between Wang and the Emperor: “Quick, someone! Wang Lao’s lung illness has struck his heart—he’s lost his senses!”

Wang ignored Li Shidi’s kindness entirely, raising his cane several inches higher, pointing toward heaven.

“In the eighteenth year of Hongwu, the peasant Chen Shouliu of Changshu, unable to endure the oppression of the county clerk Gu Ying, conspired with his brother and nephew to seize the clerk and carry the Great Gao to the capital to petition the throne.”

“Instead of punishing these commoners for their audacity, the Hongwu Emperor actually imprisoned and punished the clerk.”

“Then he rewarded the peasant with twenty taels of silver and issued an edict proclaiming that mobilizing the people to monitor corruption was the righteous path—everywhere, the realm followed suit.”

“The commoners cheered, yet how unaware they were of the terror gripping the court officials! How the scholar-officials grew disloyal!”

Wang wept bitterly: “Ancestors of our dynasty, is Your Majesty truly going to follow Hongwu’s example and drive the scholar-officials into disloyalty?”

Such audacious words were rare in our dynasty, yet many officials deeply agreed.

There was no “middle ground”—only choosing one side. Should the Emperor side with the gentry or the commoners? Shouldn’t he consider who he shares the empire with!?

The Hongwu Emperor once favored commoners and oppressed officials—two centuries later, have the Zhu descendants still not understood?

Thinking of this, the Xu Prefecture officials grew even more moved, their hearts heavy with sorrow.

Li Shidi could not help but turn away, sighing mournfully.

From the petition read earlier by Sun Ge shou, which mentioned no Wang family, it was clear Wang himself, in conduct and household, was nearly flawless in private virtue.

Unlike Wu Zhipeng and his kind, he truly believed what he spoke.

Precisely because of this, his words now carried genuine grief—Li Shidi felt it as if it were his own.

Was Hongwu’s lesson not enough!?

The founding of the Great Ming was arduous; after victory, it feared repeating past mistakes.

At its founding, out of concern for the state’s future and the commoner’s innate simplicity, the Hongwu Emperor did not rejoice at “expelling the barbarians and restoring China” and falsely believe the Ming would be spotless.

Instead, after peace arrived, he immediately recognized that even a new dynasty could be mourned by future generations, and promptly restructured and adjusted the system.

He established the grain-charge system to let the people monitor officials, perfected the petition system allowing commoners to accuse officials, and forbade local offices from sending men into villages to harass the people.

He even employed extreme punishments—skinning alive, confiscating property, exterminating families—to intimidate officials, aiming to create a balanced, harsh anti-corruption system to preserve the purity of Confucianism, so hard-won.

But carrying out extraordinary measures had an obvious result—this “unfavorable treatment of scholar-officials” could not last.

The extreme punishments born of Hongwu’s personal fury were immediately reversed after his death.

The grain-charge system, the petition system, mass executions, brutal laws—all were abandoned.

As for judgment, the Yongle Emperor, due to his restoration of order, had to avoid directly criticizing Hongwu’s actions, speaking vaguely—but the civil officials had long held their resentment and would not tolerate it.

Official and unofficial histories alike recorded it plainly.

They called Hongwu’s extraordinary measures effective in suppressing corruption to a low level for a time.

But this achievement came at the cost of countless officials suffering unjust treatment, repeatedly subjected to arbitrary mass purges; even those who survived lived in constant terror, unable to manage daily affairs.

Allowing commoners to humiliate superiors and fabricate major cases at will—this chaotic system deprived the Ming of long-needed recovery time and brought grave disaster to the state’s stability, a warning for future generations.

Has the Emperor forgotten these lessons?

After Hongwu, even if ignorant commoners still blindly supported the extreme measures—commoner prejudice cannot be called public sentiment—

The powerful elite had long raised banners of righteousness, order, ritual, and emotion to advise successive emperors: beware extreme punishments, oppose cruel laws, and firmly established a new policy of benevolence, restraint, emphasizing lawful punishment and preserving the dignity of corrupt officials.

Otherwise, it would violate righteousness, defy emotion, disrupt order, transgress ritual—it would be mistreating scholar-officials, it would be an unjust court.

Thus, gradually, step by step—

Unless involving major power struggles or national security, if merely financial corruption cases, the tyrannical act of “kill them all” had long been swept into the gutter.

By the time of the Xiao Zong Emperor, it had already become customary to effectively abolish the unreasonable practice of calling for the execution of corrupt officials—merely a light reprimand, never repeated.

The entire court operated under this unspoken agreement.

Even Yan Song, such a colossal corruptor, was spared his life by the Jiajing Emperor.

Yet now, in this new era of refined governance, the current Emperor intends to revive Hongwu’s methods—again crying for blood, again summoning the people for public trials, intending to make court officials suffer twice over.

To reverse the Ming’s progress like this—how long before the state collapses!?

Li Shidi sank deeper into thought, forgetting to stop Wang.

Zhu Yijun did not interrupt; he signaled his attendants not to interfere, then crossed his arms, propped his chin, patiently waiting for Wang to calm down while quietly observing the ministers’ reactions.

For a moment, only Wang’s murmured words—“Xiao Zong Emperor, where are you?”—echoed through the hall.

Zhu Yijun remained unmoved; his glance flicked to Li Shidi, watching the two men in shared empathy, and internally shook his head.

Clearly, new doctrines cannot save old stubborn minds.

Wang need not be elaborated upon—historically, Li Shidi was promoted to Deputy Commissioner of Jinqu in Zhejiang, donning the fourth-rank crimson robe, yet immediately impeached and dismissed by the touring censor, the reason two words only: “weak” (lit. “flaccid”).

Now given another chance, he still cannot become a political strongman—full of heresies, truly hateful and pitiful.

Thinking of this, Zhu Yijun’s playful expression vanished, replaced by a look of lofty scrutiny.

His gaze swept the hall—fear, resentment, shame, confusion—all visible, finally settling on the grief-stricken Wang and Li Shidi.

When Wang finally fell silent,

Zhu Yijun spoke slowly, veering off-topic: “When our ancestors rose, they shouted ‘Expel the barbarians, restore China,’ going door to door to restore the people’s Han clothing.”

“But you and I know the commoners did not willingly embrace this—once the imperial troops left, they immediately dug out their hidden garments, and the barbarian braids and left-lapel styles revived at once.”

“The imperial troops returned, the people put on Confucian robes again—back and forth, pulling and tugging.”

“What was the solution?”

At this, the ministers in the hall involuntarily shuddered.

Seeing this, Zhu Yijun shook his head and smiled: “We identified the progressive among the people, enlightened them, then let these progressive men teach Confucianism to others.”

“These progressive men, in their struggle, restored their own small China, consolidated their gains, taught their ignorant neighbors, and thus restored the great China.”

“Once, we used the people to govern affairs; now, I merely let them observe affairs, discern right from wrong—this is already extreme gentleness.”

The ministers fell silent.

The Emperor’s words wandered far—everyone present was sharp; the subtext was unmistakable.

Wang opened his mouth to speak, but the ceremonial officer, citing impropriety, seized his cane and pushed him aside with a glare.

Zhu Yijun ignored the ministers’ exchanged glances and continued: “As the saying goes, thrice is the limit. In the Xu case, I have spoken my imperial will once more—no further objections allowed.”

"Whether a man lives or dies is not up to me—it is decided by the Great Ming Code."

"This public trial is not up to you either—I have decreed it must be held, and it will be held!"

"Moreover, since Wang Hanqing has invoked my ancestors, I shall not hesitate to offer a few words in defense."

Zhu Yijun turned to the Secretary of the Records of Daily Life and reminded him: "Sun Qing, record this: I shall now make the following statement."

Sun Jigao had already dipped his brush in ink, ready and waiting.

"The actions of the Hongwu Emperor were judged by our national histories—I have never disputed them."

"But the gains and losses of my High Emperor are not for you, Wang Hanqing, to pick and choose—and certainly not for you to invoke Emperor Xiaozong to favor one over the other."

Zhu Yijun rose slowly from his throne and stood beneath the Buddha statue, gazing at Wang behind the ceremonial officer: "Since the founding of our Ming, the Hongwu Emperor constantly reflected on dynastic change, and our later ancestors took this as ancestral instruction."

"At that time, the Hongwu Emperor, seeking to restore China, offered the first answer."

"Regrettably, it was far from satisfactory—and you have long resented it deeply."

As later scholars have cited: the Hongwu Emperor not only launched a "people's movement" to punish corrupt officials, but also launched a "people's movement" to purge rural tyrants and ruffians.

But this attempt ended in regrettable failure.

That is, corrupt officials turned around and brandished the Hongwu Emperor’s Great Proclamation, routinely slandering commoners as tyrants and powerful clans, threatening to bind upright families and send them to the capital to extort money—and even to retaliate against them. (All historical facts; wording borrowed from the paper.)

"But since my High Emperor took the first step, my Zhu descendants will never cease our exploration."

"The Hongwu Emperor erred in rigidity; the Chengzu Emperor learned from him; the Xiaozong Emperor erred in softness; the Wudi Emperor learned from him; the Shizong Emperor erred in failing to distinguish the Yangtze from the Yellow River—I shall learn from them."

"You, Wang Hanqing, speak of recent precedents? How utterly ridiculous!"

"I have seen with my own eyes all that my ancestors did! I have memorized it in my heart! I swear to forge a new path along the road they walked!"

"My state has striven through twelve generations, over two hundred years—I, on behalf of my ancestors, give the realm a second answer."

"New Policy! My New Policy! Unceasing New Policy! Continuing the New Policy with the Hongwu Emperor’s first answer!"

The Wanli Emperor stood with his back to the massive golden Buddha statue, hands clasped behind him in the center of the hall: "Wang Hanqing, do not use your petty, scheming morality to judge the Hongwu Emperor’s intentions—nor measure my actions with your narrow-minded gaze."

"What talk of alienating the people? I dare say now: I would offend a thousand, but never betray ten million!"

"I have said all I have to say—what more do you gentlemen have to say?"

Wang’s emotions surged and collapsed; he had been savagely rebuked by the Emperor and now clutched his chest, breathing heavily, unable to speak.

Seeing the outcome now certain, Chang Sansheng, clad in crimson robes, rose with desperate resolve: "Your Majesty, Wang Lao’s argument on the inefficiency of corruption is not entirely without merit."

Zhu Yijun’s expression remained calm as he replied: "Chang Qing, you studied the Zuo Zhuan—did you forget your memorial five years ago, which stated: 'A state’s downfall stems from official corruption'?"

Chang Sansheng fell silent.

Seeing the fourth-rank official unable to utter a coherent sentence, Wu Zhonghang had no choice but to step forward: "Your Majesty, I am guilty indeed, but I fear this will shake the people’s livelihood."

Zhu Yijun sneered: "Then we must remove the rot, heal the flesh, and scrape the bone to cure the poison!"

Wu Zhonghang sat down in despair.

Li Shidi spoke with the most heartfelt sincerity: "Your Majesty, anti-corruption will destroy the state—"

Zhu Yijun waved his hand: "I say: govern yourself, and the realm will be governed!"

Li Shidi retreated helplessly.

At this moment, Wang’s breathing finally steadied, and he stepped forward again.

He was no longer agitated; instead, he spoke with a quiet sorrow: "Your Majesty, you have great humanistic ambition—but what of the Way of Heaven?"

This was the Confucian expression of putting the greater good first.

No matter how lofty your ambition, will you not fear a single mishap in the Grand Canal?

The debate had suddenly shifted from theory to practical threat.

Logically, the Emperor should have glared in fury, enraged by such words.

But the Emperor remained unexpectedly calm, his eyes even carrying a faint, unsurprised disappointment.

Wang met that gaze and suddenly felt uneasy; the sensation of labored breathing returned to his chest.

Zhu Yijun ignored Wang’s political blackmail and turned instead to former Director of River Management Fu Xizhi, his tone weary: "Fu Qing, the pre-meeting debates are over—now report on today’s engineering matters."

Pan Jixun and Wan Gong glanced at Fu Xizhi and both grimaced.

Fu Xizhi was still officially suspended, commonly known as dismissed but awaiting reappointment.

As an official summoned to discuss the project, he had remained neutral during the pre-meeting quarrels; now called upon, he slowly rose: "Your servant dares to speak."

"Since the JingTai era, the Yellow River has diverted into the canal, seizing its course; as the riverbed has widened and silt has accumulated yearly, we have been forced to rely on the Yellow River for transport—thus, the canal from Xuzhou to Pizhou is now the Yellow River itself."

"I have observed that in Xuzhou and Pizhou, the riverbed has silted and raised, and the danger of blockage, breach, or diversion lies not in this autumn, but next year."

"Night and day, I have worried and studied. Yu the Great governed water by following its nature. Now, we force the river to serve our canal, bending its nature to our will—even Yu the Great could not succeed."

Fu Xizhi paused, then spoke clearly: "I propose: abandon the Xuzhou river section entirely and dig a new canal—the Jia River! Leave the Yellow River out of the equation—that alone is the eternal solution!"