Chapter 84: Restore the Lost, Repair the Gaps

The twenty-third day of the twelfth lunar month was typically the coldest time of year.

Snowflakes drifted through the sky from time to time.

Zhu Yijun halted the eunuch on the other side who was chiseling ice to catch fish.

He handed the fishing rod to Jiang Keqian, stood up, and stretched lazily.

He walked over to Chen Jingbang, took the fish he had roasted—it was slightly charred—so he kindly gave it to Deng Yizan, the mid-level secretary trailing behind him, then took the one Zhang Hong had roasted.

Zhu Yijun beckoned, summoning the several senior ministers to gather around the brazier and sit.

The brazier stood in the center, surrounded by wind-blocking cloth—so it wasn’t particularly cold.

“The weather is bitter cold; I’ll get straight to the matter,” Zhu Yijun said, extending his legs toward the fire. “What are your views on the salt administration of the Two Huai regions?”

Originally, they had planned to discuss official business at Wanshou Palace, but Zhang Juzheng was allergic to the bronze chime on his desk and insisted on moving to Wenhua Hall.

In the end, neither side bothered to travel, so they simply sat around a brazier beside Taiye Pool.

At the mention of official business, the senior ministers all grew serious.

Zhang Juzheng spoke first, reminding them: “Since we’re discussing the Two Huai, we might as well summon Secretary Shen and the Ministry of Revenue.”

Zhu Yijun readily agreed.

He turned to the mid-level secretary Deng Yizan: “Deng Qing, go and summon Minister Wang Qing of the Ministry of Revenue and Vice Minister Shen Qing of the Ministry of Personnel.”

As the man was about to leave, Zhu Yijun added: “Also bring along Yu Youzi, the Assistant Director of the Bureau of Manuscripts.”

Deng Yizan bowed and departed, heading straight for the Six Ministries’ offices.

Zhang Juzheng asked bluntly: “Your Majesty, what specific aspect of the Two Huai matter are you referring to?”

As he spoke, he removed his large fur-lined cloak and folded it over his knees, then tucked his hands inside its lining.

Zhu Yijun admitted frankly: “According to the memorial submitted by Inspector Hai, the Two Huai salt administration is riddled with corruption.”

“I trust Inspector Hai can clean it up.”

“But imperial inspectors are merely a passing storm—fear that once the wind passes, no trace remains.”

The central government cannot send an imperial inspector every year to patrol the salt trade, and future inspectors may not all be Hai Rui—they could be Yan Maoqing instead.

An imperial inspector’s patrol merely cracks open a fissure in the Two Huai salt system, which has long been impervious to outside interference.

To ensure tax revenues are secured year after year, we must rely on top-level institutional design.

According to the recent memorial from Nanzhili, Hai Rui has already begun acting; the central government must prepare its own move in advance.

Gao Yi declined Li Jin’s skewered meat and picked up the thread: “Your Majesty intends to institutionalize the imperial salt inspection?”

Zhu Yijun turned to Gao Yi and shook his head: “That’s not what I mean, Master.”

“Imperial inspectors are merely a temporary measure; I wish to use this momentum to reform the salt administration.”

“But I am lacking in virtue and talent—merely a fool’s thousand thoughts. The specifics must be decided by your opinions, my senior ministers.”

Zhang Juzheng automatically ignored the emperor’s modesty and fell into thought.

He cut straight to the core and spoke slowly: “Reforming the Two Huai salt administration…”

“The Grand Secretariat has reviewed Hai Rui’s memorial; the Two Huai region could produce another five hundred thousand jin of salt.”

“That already accounts for half of the empire’s total salt output.”

“It has indeed become unwieldy.”

There are six Salt Transport Offices: Two Huai produces seven hundred thousand jin, Two Zhe produces four hundred thousand jin, and the remaining four regions combined produce only seven hundred thousand jin.

If Two Huai adds another five hundred thousand jin, it will account for half of the empire’s total salt production.

Lü Diaoyang’s eyelid twitched, and he couldn’t help but warn: “Your Majesty, Grand Secretary, Nanzhili has a long historical legacy and a complex tax structure—it’s not merely a matter of salt administration.”

Yan Maoqing had once proposed reforming the Two Huai salt system for Emperor Shizong, but Xu Jie blocked it—precisely because of the remark, “Yan Maoqing abruptly increased salt taxes by four hundred thousand taels; (Xu) Jie urged the censors to restore the former quota,” which made Xu Jie an eyesore in the emperor’s eyes.

Salt administration is just salt administration; cutting flesh and drawing blood only hurts those above—it’s not yet a full-scale bone-deep cure for Nanzhili as a whole.

The difference lies in this: no matter how deeply entrenched a noble or high official may be, as long as his name is known, he cannot stir up trouble.

Conversely, if Nanzhili as a whole turns hostile, the central government cannot withstand it.

Lü Diaoyang feared most that the emperor and the chief minister were moving too aggressively, provoking unified resistance from Nanzhili.

Zhu Yijun extended his hands, warming them back and forth beside the brazier.

Hearing Lü Diaoyang’s words, Zhu Yijun nodded in agreement: “I understand your point, Lü Qing. Today, we’ll discuss only salt administration.”

Nanzhili’s problems extend beyond salt: tea taxes, grain levies, official appointments, administrative boundaries, culture—all are intertwined.

As Lü Diaoyang said, if the entire region rises in opposition, quelling it won’t be easy.

The central government currently lacks the strength; merely touching salt administration is already a feat.

Yang Bo couldn’t help speaking up: “Even now, merely pressuring salt taxes has delayed the autumn grain transport by two months, Your Majesty—you must proceed with caution.”

Compared to tax revenue, Yang Bo cared more about grain.

After all, Shanxi, Xuan-Da, and other regions depend entirely on southern grain supplies.

If things truly erupt, these regions will be the first to suffer.

Zhu Yijun was stunned—he hadn’t known this, since he’d left all Ministry of Revenue matters to the Grand Secretariat.

He pressed: “Delayed by two months? What’s the excuse?”

Yang Bo smiled bitterly: “No real excuse. At first, they claimed every step followed protocol and took longer than usual, just missing the autumn grain delivery window.”

“Now it’s deep winter; the Grand Canal is frozen everywhere, and shipping has slowed considerably.”

Zhu Yijun sighed.

This was using the broader situation to coerce the central government.

The worst part was that such incidents rarely had a clear culprit.

Internal systemic backlash—whether in concealment or destructive power—far surpassed the so-called “pillar of Nanzhili” like the Prince of Wei.

Today, the two capitals of the Great Ming are, respectively, the political and economic centers, linked by the Grand Canal—their lifeline.

If Nanzhili repeatedly uses the broader situation to blackmail the center, it will be difficult to handle.

This issue must ultimately be resolved through maritime transport.

Since not everyone had arrived yet, and formal deliberation couldn’t begin, Zhu Yijun took the opportunity to inquire about maritime transport.

He turned to Gao Yi: “Master, what’s the status of the Ministry of Works’ shipbuilding?”

Gao Yi was blowing warm air onto his hands; at the emperor’s question, he quickly replied: “Our dynasty has not used maritime transport for 160 years; many documents and blueprints have been lost.”

“The Ministry of Works has offered rewards for craftsmen’s blueprints and has made slight progress.”

“Currently, Zhu Heng is leading the effort, first collaborating with the Grand Canal Transport Office to improve previously tested vessels; after spring arrives, we’ll test maritime transport along the original route.”

Maritime transport vessels differ from canal transport vessels.

With over a century without maritime transport, the glory days of Zheng He’s voyages are long gone.

To build large ocean-going ships now, we must engage in archaeological-style research.

Just then, Minister of Revenue Wang Guoguang, Vice Minister of Personnel Shen Shixing, and Assistant Director Yu Youzi arrived together.

The eunuchs immediately brought out three chairs, fur-lined cloaks, and portable brazier heaters.

Zhu Yijun gestured for them not to bow, inviting them to sit and begin deliberations, then continued speaking to Gao Yi: “Master, I’ll say a few things—please relay them to Zhu Qing.”

“Maritime transport involves two fronts: the Ministry of War and the Ministry of Works.”

“The Japanese pirates issue will be resolved eventually; I hope the Ministry of Works can build the large ships before then.”

“This was the lifelong wish of my late father and Duke Ding’an, and it remains a deep concern for me and the Grand Secretariat—please devote extra effort.”

Gao Yi nodded in assent.

Now that everyone had arrived, Zhang Juzheng briefly explained to Shen Shixing and the others why the emperor had summoned them.

After speaking, Zhang Juzheng concluded: “So, Your Majesty intends to reform the Two Huai salt administration.”

He fell silent.

Then he turned to the emperor: “How does Your Majesty plan to reform it?”

All eyes turned to the emperor.

Wang Guoguang looked thoughtful.

Yu Youzi, however, was puzzled as to why he—a mere Assistant Director—had been summoned.

Zhu Yijun, seeing all present, prepared to speak.

He instinctively reached for the microphone before him, grasped nothing, then awkwardly rubbed his chin and began slowly: “I’ve heard from Hai Rui.”

“The current Two Huai salt tax is bundled and sold by the Transport Office to the Salt Merchants’ Guild.”

“The Guild then sets its own prices and sells to smaller salt merchants.”

“This is unacceptable—I believe it must be changed.”

This was the standard method of embezzling public funds.

A primary subcontractor, wielding the power to re-price, openly manipulates the system.

The silver siphoned off inevitably ends up in certain hands—no need to spell it out.

Moreover, once the Guild replaced the Transport Office as the legal subcontracting channel, contraband salt could be sold as official salt.

The Transport Office’s books remained spotless, since salt workers themselves didn’t know how much salt they produced.

Smaller merchants were happy too—though the purchase price was higher, they could obtain more goods.

Certain figures behind the Guild could now feed directly on the tax base.

A three-way win—except the central government lost tax revenue.

This model must be dismantled!

The four senior ministers and the three newcomers listened intently.

The mid-level secretaries behind them scribbled furiously.

Zhu Yijun continued, “That was one point.”

“Moreover, the Grand Secretary’s remarks just now hit the nail on the head.”

“The Two Huai regions produce too much salt.”

“Furthermore, Shandong has no Salt Surveillance Commissioner, so the Two Huai must also oversee Shandong.”

“Such a vast system is indeed unwieldy—I consider this the second flaw.”

He did not pause, continuing: “There is a third point as well.”

“Six Transport Bureaus, seven Salt Tax Superintendencies, each acting independently, with no coordinated oversight.”

“For example, each Transport Bureau’s salt is allotted to a fixed number of prefectures: Shandong Transport Bureau’s salt may only be sold in ten prefectures, such as Jinan.”

“Yet Huai salt is sold in forty-two prefectures, including Wuchang in Huguang and Runing in Henan.”

“Even so, Huai salt merchants still secretly sell salt into Shandong and other regions.”

“The several Transport Bureaus often bring disputes over this matter to the central court.”

“Or, like several Salt Surveillance Commissioners, they constantly bicker over border permits, delaying official business.”

“Of these three issues, what advice do you, my ministers, offer me?”

After speaking, Zhu Yijun scanned the assembled ministers.

His three points were, respectively: the sales model of Huai salt, its volume, and central oversight authority.

In short, all must be changed.

Seeing the ministers lost in thought, silent for a moment,

he turned directly to Shen Shixing and named him: “Shen Qing, you are from Nanzhili—speak first.”

Shen Shixing rose immediately: “Your Majesty, I have never identified with my native region—this matter has nothing to do with my origin!”

Zhu Yijun waved his hand, signaling him not to be tense: “You may have no regional bias in thought, but your origin remains a fact—Shen Qing, do not be nervous.”

Shen Shixing sighed helplessly.

His mind raced through possibilities.

These three points could not be baseless—the Emperor spoke at length, surely with a prepared plan.

This was like composing an examination essay.

Shen Shixing felt as if he had returned to the day of his palace examination, his thoughts swirling.

What exactly did the Emperor mean?

The three points mentioned in salt reform: salt permit issuance… central coordination… volume…

Shen Shixing sensed a thread, yet it remained unclear.

His gaze swept over Wang Guoguang, the Minister of Revenue, and Yu Youding, who had also been summoned.

Suddenly, a flash of insight struck Shen Shixing’s mind!

A term—or rather, a policy—leapt into his thoughts.

After a moment’s hesitation, meeting the Emperor’s encouraging gaze, he uttered one word: “Kai Zhong Law!?”

Zhu Yijun slapped his thigh, exhaled deeply, his breath visibly steaming.

He praised: “Revive the Kai Zhong Law!? Shen Qing, that idea is well worth discussing!”

“What do you all think?”

The Kai Zhong Law had already collapsed; thus, reviving it was indeed a restoration.

Seeing the Emperor’s reaction, the ministers immediately understood his intent.

Silent, they began to ponder.

The Kai Zhong Law meant issuing salt permits—whether called salt coupons or salt vouchers—to authorize merchants to purchase salt from the Transport Bureaus.

But how did one obtain these permits? That was Kai Zhong.

It was well known that the south was wealthy, the north impoverished.

Plainly put, the north was, to some extent, a burden on the central court.

What had the Song Dynasty done? It abandoned all governing burdens—like the Sixteen Prefectures of Yan and Yun.

So much so that when border troops captured territory, the central court would beg for peace and cede it back.

This mindset had guided them.

Even today, southerners may not have abandoned this attitude.

But the Ming court was different: after founding the dynasty, the Hongwu Emperor enfeoffed the north; after moving the capital, the Yongle Emperor made the Son of Heaven guard the frontier.

Not an inch of northern land could be willingly abandoned—otherwise, the very foundation of the state would be shaken.

Yet if it could not be abandoned, how to govern it? Under economic constraints, some degree of north-south division was inevitable; even grain production alone created natural conflict.

To bleed wealth into the north, the Kai Zhong Law emerged.

Kai Zhong meant merchants fulfilled state tasks—such as transporting grain, cloth, and silk to the north—in exchange for salt permits.

In essence, it leveraged merchants to bleed wealth into the north.

The cost was naturally high, but if the court did not wish to abandon the north strategically, as the Song had done, this was an unavoidable operational cost.

Yang Bo leapt to his feet: “Your Majesty! I endorse Secretary Shen’s proposal!”

“The collapse of the Kai Zhong Law is a great sorrow for border troops and civilians—I have long heard the people of Shaanxi, Shanxi, Xuan-Da, and Ningxia still cherish the Kai Zhong Law.”

“If it could be restored, it would be a virtuous policy indeed!”

Yang Bo’s stance was unquestionable.

On this matter, Zhu Yijun could unconditionally trust Yang Bo, who represented northern interests.

Since the Kai Zhong Law collapsed, repeated petitions to restore it had always come from border officials.

The most recent attempt was in Longqing’s second year, by Wang Chonggu, then Viceroy of the Three Northwestern Frontiers.

Some may have selfish motives, but state policy can still exploit such motives.

Zhu Yijun looked at Yang Bo with satisfaction and praised: “Grand Secretary Yang has served in provincial posts and possesses broad experience—he is precisely the one to identify gaps and fill them.”

At this moment, Zhang Juzheng spoke solemnly: “Your Majesty, the Kai Zhong Law did not collapse without reason.”

Zhu Yijun turned, meeting Zhang Juzheng’s gaze.

He nodded calmly: “Grand Secretary is right—I am aware of some of the reasons.”

The collapse of the Kai Zhong Law was not because the policy itself was flawed.

But… it was somewhat ahead of its time.

Under this system, salt permits—salt coupons—functioned, to some extent, as financial currency; at the time, they were hard currency among merchants.

In a backward mode of production, the imperial household held the power to issue currency—with predictable results.

Credit currency in the hands of the central court was like holding a sharp sword by its blade—the fate of Jiaozi and Baochao was identical: endless overissuance.

Eunuchs, nobles, and officials all petitioned for salt permits, then resold them to merchants.

Indeed, even the imperial household itself was no exception.

Since salt permits were tied to salt, overissuing them inevitably led to absurdities—merchants arriving at Transport Bureaus only to find no salt available, waiting in line for years.

Naturally, salt permits became worthless paper.

During the reign of Xiao Zong, Ye Qi, a native of Huai’an and Minister of Revenue, delivered the final blow to the Kai Zhong Law.

He allowed merchants to exchange silver for salt permits.

This move completely erased the original intent of mobilizing merchants to bleed wealth into the north, turning it into a farce of the central court extracting silver.

The Kai Zhong Law collapsed entirely.

In other words, as long as overissuance of salt permits could not be curbed, the Kai Zhong Law could never become state policy.

Zhang Juzheng was warning the young Emperor not to treat this as a means of revenue extraction—that would be drinking poison to quench thirst.

Zhu Yijun first reassured Zhang Juzheng: “I have always learned from past precedents and absorbed lessons.”

“If we revive the Kai Zhong Law as Secretary Shen proposes, we must not overissue salt permits.”

“Specifics must be debated in court assembly—we here will only establish broad principles.”

Zhang Juzheng, having received the Emperor’s promise against overissuance, bowed slightly in acceptance.

Wang Guoguang took up the thread: “Your Majesty, this method is extremely costly, and there are constant complaints of merchants being exploited, both inside and outside.”

“At the time, memorials from Nanzhili censors requesting abolition of the Kai Zhong Law nearly overwhelmed the Ministry of Revenue.”

Plainly put, every policy carries a cost—there is no pure gold.

Since the north received blood transfusions, and the central court paid only with salt permits, without imposing additional corvée labor, someone must have been quietly exploited.

First, the merchants.

It meant attaching corvée labor to salt permits that could otherwise be purchased directly.

Due to the long distances, merchants later simply cultivated land in the north, then delivered grain to government granaries—what was called merchant colonies.

Whether transporting grain or establishing merchant colonies, both increased the merchants’ burdens.

Second, the south.

Because merchants bore added burdens, salt prices naturally rose.

The salt-producing regions themselves should have the lowest prices.

Yet to bleed wealth into the north, southerners paid more for salt—and naturally resented it.

Ye Qi of Huai’an may well have been catering to southern public sentiment.

Zhu Yijun looked at Wang Guoguang.

He understood this Minister of Revenue was not opposing, but simply analyzing the economic implications.

This Minister of Revenue, author of the Wanli Financial Records, was among the rare financial talents of the age.

Of course, his thoughts were overly confined to accounting costs.

Zhu Yijun pondered for a long while.

He considered modern financial knowledge to twist logic and deceive this Minister of Revenue.

The words reached his lips, but his heart stirred, and he swallowed them back.

Amidst the gazes of all, Zhu Yijun sank into thought again, as if carefully choosing his words.

A long time passed.

Zhu Yijun finally understood—he now saw clearly where his earlier unease had come from.

He had grown accustomed to collective deliberation in his past life and had not yet shed that mindset; now, as sovereign, he could no longer act thus.

Sometimes one must employ cunning and deceit, yet as sovereign, one must not lose grandeur and dignity.

Since this is state policy, the advantages, disadvantages, and reasons must be made clear.

He rose slowly, his gaze sweeping across the ministers.

His expression solemn, his tone earnest: “Prime Minister, Master, both Grand Secretaries.”

“Wang Qing speaks with mature prudence; I cannot but agree.”

He turned to Shen Shixing: “Shen Qing, I will not deceive you—this measure will indeed increase the burden on southerners.”

Shen Shixing immediately rose to apologize.

Zhu Yijun pressed him down and continued: “I have one thing I must say privately to you all here—I will only acknowledge this here; if I speak it in court, I will deny it.”

He paused, softened his tone, yet grew even more solemn: “The north-south divide has long existed.”

“From the old Southern and Northern Examination Scandals to today’s Huai Salt Case—there are countless examples.”

“Suzhou, Yangzhou, and other regions are wealthy and have long been the empire’s lifeblood—I am deeply aware of this.”

“The Open Middle Method will increase the burden on southerners and inevitably breed resentment...”

“Yet, to bear the nation’s disgrace is to be its true sovereign.”

“This must be done!”

“As sovereign, one must mediate the realm, unify north and south—I cannot evade it; I must not shirk my duty.”

“Even if southerners resent it, even if merchants are furious, I still believe the Open Middle Method is imperative!”

“What do you all think?”

I had something this morning and didn’t have time to write; I’m an hour and sixteen minutes late—sorry about that.