Chapter 5: On the Wenhua Hall, Further Refusals

“Ask after the Prince’s health.” Gao Gong stood at the head of the civil and military officials.

“I am well.” Zhu Yijun replied.

“With reverence, we dare to submit a memorial, having gazed upon the Son of Heaven’s countenance.” Gao Gong added.

“Proceed.” Zhu Yijun responded.

The Grand Secretariat, Six Ministries, Nine Ministers, and censorial officials bowed again.

“We humbly hold that, having left the radiant light behind, you now inherit its glow, long in harmony with the people’s hearts.”

“Our late Emperor embodied Yao’s boundless benevolence and Shun’s majestic virtue. He studied the Six Classics, managed myriad affairs, and personally attended to them without rest.”

……

“We reverently hold that Your Highness, endowed with surpassing wisdom and innate benevolence and filial piety, ought to emerge in majesty and assume the role of teacher, yet you persist in humility and adhere to ritual restraint.”

……

“We again beseech: the sacred vessel cannot remain without a master; the imperial throne cannot long lie vacant. We humbly beg Your Highness to grant the ancestral spirits a place of reliance and the myriad people enduring benefit.”

Zhu Yijun’s face showed no expression; in truth, his mind had wandered far away, hearing not a word.

In his own words, the sixth day of the sixth month in Longqing Sixth Year marked the second meeting of the Great Ming’s thirteenth emperor’s nomination assembly, held in the Wenhua Hall.

Representatives from all quarters, led by Gao Gong, cited classics and delivered speeches urging Zhu Yijun to assume this role.

Upon hearing them, Zhu Yijun displayed a faint look of sorrow, and replied in a recited tone, rigid and formal: “Your devotion to the state and ancestral rites is profound; your words are earnest. Yet hearing them only deepens my grief—I cannot bear to ascend the throne so soon. Your request is denied.”

This was strategic modesty: cleverness was fine, but appearing too theatrical would be unwise; the recited, wooden delivery best fit his persona.

“Your Highness, reconsider!” Zhang Juzheng urged again.

“My resolve is firm!” Zhu Yijun replied firmly.

“If so, the state cannot be without a master for even a day. We beg Your Highness to assume regency as heir apparent, set aside your grief, and ascend the throne.” Gao Yi stepped forward to respond.

“Regency is acceptable. The rest shall be reconsidered!” Zhu Yijun conceded.

“We further beg Your Highness to select a date to move into the Qianqing Palace and establish the true imperial seat!” The ministers kowtowed.

“Agreed. Let the Ministry of Rites propose a date.” Zhu Yijun approved.

These were all pre-arranged rituals; the emperor and ministers merely recited their lines, and the ceremony proceeded smoothly.

Zhu Yijun had no intention of stirring up trouble now. Ritual form was substance—and his foundation. Before establishing any other base of power, he could not afford to damage it.

Each act of refusal carried real meaning.

The previous refusal at Huijimen, before the eyes of all, under the bright sun, symbolized the emperor’s death and the designation of the heir, carrying the weight of proclamation.

This refusal at the Wenhua Hall, in the emperor’s private hall, with officials bowing low, formally confirmed Zhu Yijun’s authority to govern and set the date for his move to the Qianqing Palace—establishing boundaries between outer court and inner court, and defining ranks within the palace.

Next time, he could accept their pleas in good conscience and refer to himself as “Solitary” and “Alone.”

Zhu Yijun shifted his stiff neck; he was still a child’s body, and sitting still for long was unbearable.

Fortunately, after a brief exchange, the ritual was finally complete.

Then, the token civilian and military representatives, and lower-ranking officials, gradually withdrew, leaving only the senior ministers of the Six Ministries and Nine Ministers.

Zhu Yijun realized: the real deliberations were about to begin.

The entreaties had drawn crowds, but central imperial deliberations were not open to all.

Major matters were discussed in small meetings; minor ones in large ones.

Zhu Yijun wished to observe closely, but two young eunuchs brought a screen and placed it before the imperial desk, blocking his view.

He sighed helplessly—this was what “listening to governance” meant: he could hear, but not speak.

Just moments ago, he had received the ministers’ kowtows and cries of “Your Majesty,” yet now, in the central deliberations, he had only the right to attend—not to deliberate. The contrast was stark.

Feng Bao stood beside the screen, in the position connecting inner and outer court.

As Chief of the Directorate of Ceremonial, he held high rank and power, and was naturally entitled to participate in court deliberations.

Zhu Yijun asked Feng Bao: “Big Companion, must one be of a certain rank to attend the regular court?”

Feng Bao stepped two paces closer from beside the screen: “Your Highness, there is no fixed number for those admitted to the regular court. By custom, the Grand Secretariat leads. When matters arise requiring deliberation or action by the ministries, only those ministries send representatives. The Ministers and Vice Ministers may come directly; rank is not the criterion. For specialized matters, even low-ranking clerks occasionally attend.”

Zhu Yijun understood and nodded.

He was not deeply familiar with these matters; without the memories of his predecessor, he had imagined a scene of hundreds standing below while he sat above, shouting, “Any matters to report? Then dismissed!”

Now it seemed more like the deliberative meetings of his past life.

He glanced again at Feng Bao—the senior eunuch’s expression was humble, revealing no trace of resentment.

Suddenly, he grabbed Feng Bao’s sleeve, his eyes pleading: “Gao Gong is tyrannical and domineering; I was forced to make you lose face. I am sorry for the injustice you’ve endured.”

Politics? Playing the child is no shame.

Calming Feng Bao was necessary. Let him and Gao Gong tear each other apart—do not let the fire reach me.

His predecessor had been forced to kneel wrongly before the coffin and issue a self-censure edict—still ringing in his ears.

Let Feng Bao suffer a little; let Gao Gong bear the hatred.

Feng Bao bowed his head deeply: “Your Highness humbles me!”

A flash of malice vanished from his eyes.

Zhu Yijun whispered: “Big Companion, rest assured—when I ascend the throne, I will make Gao Gong pay!”

He clenched his fist and let out a cold snort.

Feng Bao lifted his head, tears glistening, on the verge of falling: “Your Highness…”

What an incredible performance! Zhu Yijun marveled. If half the pretty boys of his past life had this level of skill, he wouldn’t have missed a single TV drama.

Each harboring secret intentions, the court deliberations began in orderly fashion.

The Minister of Justice and the President of the Court of Criminal Appeals exchanged glances; the former then drew forth a memorial from his sleeve and stepped forward: “This is a case from Huguang.”

“A eunuch sent to collect mining taxes attempted to assault a woman and had his tongue bitten off. The matter involves the inner court; neither the local authorities nor the Ministry of Justice may decide unilaterally.”

He looked at the Grand Secretaries, paused, then turned to Feng Bao: “Your Excellencies, Grand Eunuch Feng—what does the Ministry of Justice propose? Should we convene a court trial? Let all parties establish a procedure, so we may submit our petition to the palace.”

Behind the screen, Zhu Yijun nearly choked. A eunuch assaulting women? What nonsense? Had he misheard?

He glanced at Feng Bao.

Feng Bao stepped to the side of the screen and replied without expression: “The Directorate of Ceremonial is already aware of the case details. The Ministry of Justice shall handle it according to law.”

Below, Gao Gong immediately added: “Handle it according to law. Report the facts truthfully.”

“Handle it according to law”—meaning they truly intended to treat it as a case of a eunuch assaulting women. Rarely had they agreed so swiftly.

Zhu Yijun was stunned. Didn’t they find this absurd?

A mining tax eunuch…

In Huguang…

He suddenly realized!

This was no criminal case—it was a fire set against the imperial envoy!

The eunuch was not there to collect taxes—he was there to inspect them. In short, he was a central inspector auditing accounts.

Yet this inspector, a man without testicles, went to Huguang and instead of auditing, he assaulted women?

Who were they fooling?

This was no difficult case—it was a naked power struggle between the provinces and the center. No wonder the Ministry of Justice dared not act—it had been thrown straight into court deliberation.

Did Huguang really believe the court would accept such a ridiculous pretext?

They were brazen. Perhaps even intentional.

Using such a ludicrous excuse to drive the envoy away—utterly audacious.

And the most absurd part: the center, faced with this provocation, retreated without hesitation!

How deep was the corruption in Huguang’s mining taxes?

Too bad he could not speak freely in court—not even as freely as Feng Bao.

He could only wait until the Ministry of Justice submitted its memorial, the Grand Secretariat drafted its opinion, and it reached the two palaces before he could intervene.

The matter passed as if trivial. The Minister of Justice and the President of the Court of Criminal Appeals exchanged glances and sighed in relief.

Then Zhang Juzheng took up the next agenda.

“Recently, I petitioned the Empress and Noble Imperial Consort: to avoid disrupting the Crown Prince’s studies, I requested he attend court only on the third, sixth, and ninth days of each month, and continue his daily lessons otherwise. I also petitioned to expand his curriculum with additional classics. Both palaces approved.”

“Let the Six Ministries and the Directorate of Ceremonial be informed.”

He fell silent.

Zhu Yijun, unable to see clearly, leaned forward, peering through the screen at Zhang Juzheng.

His current lessons were only in the morning, limited to reciting the Four Books and Five Classics—hardly burdensome, equivalent to half a school day with only one subject: Chinese.

But Zhang Juzheng’s tone suggested he intended to increase the burden.

Fine. What a wonderful teacher—afraid his studies were too light, leaving him too much idle time to meddle in politics?

He had anticipated this. Earlier, when he clung to Gao Yi at the palace entrance, he had precisely this in mind. After all, history recorded Zhang Juzheng as a famously strict tutor—he knew.

Gao Yi was different: a harmless, forgettable man. Pulling him into the middle now gave Zhu Yijun breathing room.

Most importantly, compared to Gao Gong and Feng Bao, he dared not yet play the adversary against Zhang Juzheng, famed for his brilliance.

Zhang Juzheng’s proposal stirred no ripple among the ministers.

Ming China was not like Han or Northern Song; today’s scholarly factions were busy vying for intellectual dominance among literati, not fighting over imperial education.

How heavy was the emperor’s study load? None of their business.

Gao Yi, seeing the matter pass, immediately followed up.

“The Right Censor-in-Chief, concurrently Minister of War and appointed Grand Coordinator of Xuan-Da military affairs, Wang Chonggu, has submitted a memorial. Let us all deliberate.”

Behind the screen, Zhu Yijun asked Feng Bao in confusion: “Big Companion—is this one person or three? If one, how can he hold so many offices?”

The long string of titles had confused him.

If you have questions, ask—this is both a good habit and the very purpose of attending court.

Feng Bao bowed slightly: “Your Highness, our dynasty’s official system works this way. The latter, the Viceroy, is a temporary appointment—merely meant to oversee military affairs in Xuanfu and Datong, a position of high rank and power, to be granted only on an ad hoc basis.”

Zhu Yijun nodded; this was to prevent any single official from growing too powerful—the post could be revoked at any time.

Feng Bao continued: “The former is an honorary title, not an actual post, used solely to clarify status and benefits. The Right Censor-in-Chief, bearing the title of Viceroy Wang, holds the authority to submit sealed memorials directly to His Majesty. The Minister of War, bearing the title of Viceroy Wang, holds the authority to mobilize troops.”

With this, Zhu Yijun understood.

Yet despite this, Wang Chonggu was surely a genuine frontier governor, wasn’t he?

Gao Yi continued: “Viceroy Wang reports that the Tatar tribes, upon hearing of the late Emperor’s passing, have been lingering along the border, repeatedly making demands, and we fear unrest—please let the central court decide.”

“He also requests funds to repair autumn defenses, in preparation for unforeseen events.”

As soon as Gao Yi finished speaking, the hall fell silent for a moment.

Censor-in-Chief Ge Shouli asked in surprise: “Isn’t this the voice of a seasoned, prudent statesman? It should be approved outright—why bring it to the regular court session for debate?”

Gao Gong suddenly turned his head and fixed his gaze on Minister of War Yang Bo: “Minister Yang, do you think so too? Is this the result of your Ministry’s internal deliberations?”

Ge Shouli was startled; sensing the tension, he immediately fell silent.

Yang Bo, called upon by Gao Gong, remained silent for a moment.

Then he spoke hoarsely: “I was unaware of this matter. Let me return to my ministry for further deliberation, and we will submit a report to the Grand Secretariat.”

Gao Gong snorted coldly, visibly displeased.

Zhu Yijun, however, was still confused; adhering to the principle of not being ashamed to ask: “Big Eunuch, what’s the real issue here?”

Feng Bao smiled: “Your Highness, this old servant is incapable—I neither understand state affairs nor dare to speak foolishly.”

Zhu Yijun withdrew his questioning gaze and internally sneered: This old fox is pretending ignorance now—but you’ll have your tears later.

He pulled his thoughts back and began to reflect quietly.

Just now, like that Censor-in-Chief, he had thought this was sound statecraft, nothing amiss—but Gao Gong’s reaction clearly indicated hidden undercurrents.

What exactly was wrong here…?

Wait!

He had almost forgotten—he was in the Great Ming, not an age of information!

How many days since the late Emperor’s passing? Five!

How could the Tatars have learned so quickly? And made demands multiple times!? The memorial had already reached the imperial desk!

This “Tatar extortion” is surely the Viceroy of Xuanfu and Datong extorting the central court!

The phrase “using bandits to bolster one’s own power” flashed into his mind.

No wonder all the court officials were stammering. No wonder Gao Gong suddenly turned hostile.

But what does this have to do with Minister of War Yang Bo?

Wang Chonggu… Yang Bo… Zhu Yijun turned the two names over in his mind.

He looked at Feng Bao and asked: “Big Eunuch, what is Wang Chonggu’s native place?”

Feng Bao’s eyes flickered with surprise, then quickly masked it.

He replied softly: “Puzhou, Shanxi.”

“And Minister of War Yang Bo?”

Feng Bao’s expression remained unchanged: “Puzhou, Shanxi.”

Zhu Yijun instantly understood.

The Jin Faction!

So it’s you!

He didn’t recall their names well, but the moment he heard “Jin Faction,” it all came back—he knew it well.

The backer behind the Jin merchants who dominated the nation.

The foundation for the near-autonomy of Xuanfu and Datong.

The traitors who aided the Manchus.

On his first day attending court, what a grand welcome gift.

No, it was more than that.

Zhu Yijun suddenly realized.

Today, it seemed, was all welcome gifts.

The Huguang tax resistance was the local gentry showing muscle—a test and warning to the central court’s fiscal authority.

The Jin Faction’s extortion was the Xuanfu-Datong garrison using bandits to intimidate and mock the central court’s military authority.

Even Zhang Juzheng’s increased tutoring was the Grand Secretariat’s control and restriction over him.

Was this his first lesson in attending court?

And who was teaching him?

Yet he could not retaliate.

The former host lacked the ability—fine. But now that he was in control, even if he had grand plans, he could only proceed slowly.

Why? He dared not!

The Ming emperor’s position was a high-risk one.

The imperial physician Liu Wentai had successively killed two emperors—Xianzong and Xiaozong—and returned home in honor.

Emperor Wuzong and Emperor Xizong both drowned while boating, fell ill, and never recovered, dying on the throne.

Emperor Shizong, Jiajing, nearly strangled by palace maids; three times his imperial lodging burned down during southern tours—if not for Lu Bing carrying him out, he’d have been roasted alive.

Who could guarantee none of this was deliberate?

As for whether he was being paranoid?

After Emperor Guangxu’s death, historical records clearly stated he died of illness—but in modern times, when his tomb was opened and his hair tested, traces of arsenic were found—he had been poisoned!

In scholarship, one assumes innocence until proven guilty. But now he was inside the game—he could only assume the worst and proceed with caution.

So how should he respond to today’s lesson?—

Note 1: The Viceroy of Xuanfu requested exemption for Henan’s spring and autumn garrison troops from serving in Xuanfu for three years, with annual monetary compensation of over 17,000 taels, to be used exclusively for local construction. —《Veritable Records of the Shenzong Emperor》

Note 2: During the Longqing era, eunuch tax commissioners only supervised taxation, not collected it. Only in the twenty-fourth year of Wanli did they begin collecting mineral and salt taxes, triggering the massive Huguang Mineral Tax Case.

Note 3: (Eunuchs) appointed as military supervisors, procurement officers, grain and tax commissioners, or mineral supervisors—these posts were not permanent, and their number was countless. —《Great Ming Code of Institutions》

(End of Chapter)