How can one be Emperor Chongzhen without money?

Chapter 321 The Storm Is Really Coming
Deep within the mansion of the Duke of Wei in Nanjing.

A secluded room, its doors and windows tightly shut, thick curtains hanging low. A charcoal brazier burned brightly, making the room warm and cozy, yet stifling. Several large rosewood chairs were arranged in a circle, and on the table lay untouched, delicate pastries from Nanjing. Several people sat in the room, their faces tense, yet their eyes betrayed a hint of excitement.

Seated in the main seat was Xu Yinjue, the garrison commander of Nanjing and the heir apparent to the Duke of Wei. Young and fair-skinned, he possessed the innate arrogance of a noble family. At this moment, that arrogance was further tinged with an air of absolute confidence.

To his left was Zhao Zhilong, the Earl of Xincheng, who was assisting in the defense. He was older, with a sharp and capable look on his face. He was currently the only one among the Nanjing nobles who truly controlled military affairs and was capable of taking ruthless measures.

Below Zhao Zhilong sat Zhu Guobi, the Marquis of Funing, whose face was somewhat gloomy, and who knew what he was thinking.

Opposite him was Liu Kongzhao, the Earl of Chengyi, a descendant of Liu Bowen, with a face full of wisdom and resourcefulness.

Next to him is Zhang Pu of the Fushe Society. Although he does not hold an official position, he is in charge of the "Jiangnan Times" and it seems that the mouths of the scholars in Jiangnan are all on his body.

At the end of the table sat Wu Tianxing, the head of the Huizhou merchants, dressed in a simple Hangzhou silk jacket, with a smile always on his face. His family had managed businesses for several generations for the most powerful and influential families in Nanjing, and they were practically family to these old nobles in the city.

"Gentlemen," Xu Yinjue spoke first, his voice trembling with excitement, "has the news from the north been confirmed?"

He was referring to the news that "Liaoxi has been defeated and Zu Dashou has surrendered"—although the news had already been released, he was still a little uneasy.

"No mistake!" Zhao Zhilong, the Earl of Xincheng, had a loud voice and became even more excited as he listened. "The copy of the report was vague, but the letters coming back from all the lines match up! Zu Dashou really did shave his head, and Huang Taiji gave him the territory of several garrisons over the Daling River! The old foundation in western Liaoning is almost gone! And what's with this wasteful 'Yellow River-Huai River diversion' project!"

"Your Excellency is right," Marquis Zhu Guobi of Funing replied sinisterly, putting down his thumb ring. "It's more than just a loss of face. If we lose in Liaoxi, the entire border region will be shaken. Where will the imperial court get its pay? They'll have to squeeze us in the southeast! If they raise the likin tax, we'll raise the grain price! If they want to manage the river, we'll raise the grain price again. We'll drive them crazy! I want to see when they'll wake up!"

Marquis Chengyi, Liu Kongzhao, coughed lightly, steer the conversation deeper: "Losing cities and territories, and generals defecting to the enemy, this shakes the foundation of the nation. Simply raising grain prices may not be enough to change the Emperor's mind. We must... make him feel the pain, let him see the resentment among the people in the southeast." As he spoke, his gaze swept over Zhang Pu and Wu Tianxing.

Zhang Pu understood and nodded slightly, speaking politely yet with a barb: "Master Liu's insight is brilliant. I have already had my disciples write an article overnight, which will be published in 'Jiangnan Times' tomorrow. It will not only confirm the defeat in Liaoxi, but also directly point out that the 'diversion of the Yellow River and the Huai River' is a continuation of Emperor Yang of Sui's Grand Canal project, which cost a fortune and will surely cause widespread resentment. At that time, students of the Imperial Academy in Nanjing and scholars in Jiangnan will naturally submit memorials to the emperor, elaborating on the advantages and disadvantages, and even... going to the various government offices in Nanjing to plead for the people." In just a few words, he laid out the path for public opinion and street petitions.

Finally, everyone looked at Wu Tianxing. This "God of Wealth" slowly raised his eyes, his voice steady yet firm: "Gentlemen, Earls, and Mr. Zhang, rest assured. In the market, not only rice, but also cloth, salt, firewood, and oil, will all see a 30% increase in price within three days. The defeat in the north and the massive construction projects in Huaibei provide ready-made pretexts. As for the timber, nails, and iron needed for the river works..." He paused, then sneered, "We've already got them in our hands. As long as the river works take off, we'll drive prices sky-high!"

Upon hearing this, Xu Yinjue smiled and clapped his hands: "Good! Public opinion, people's livelihood, financial resources, and construction materials are all in our hands! Right now, the front lines are losing ground, and the rear is in disarray! If he knows what's good for him, he should quickly issue an edict to repent, stop the likin tax, dismiss Wei Zhongxian, Cui Chengxiu, and their gang of treacherous officials, and put this disastrous 'Yellow River-Huai River diversion' plan on hold forever! Otherwise..." He narrowed his eyes, a cold glint in them, "those hundreds of thousands of refugees outside Nanjing, driven mad by hunger, who can say what they might do? At that point, they won't be able to control them!"

These words were a clear implication to incite a popular uprising and to pin a smear on the emperor.

Liu Kongzhao stroked his beard and added shrewdly, "At that time, we will jointly submit a memorial, prioritizing the overall situation in the southeast, and 'earnestly request' the Emperor to consider the nation's well-being, postpone the major construction project, and appease the people. In Beijing, our old friends and fellow graduates will surely respond. Beset by internal and external troubles, he will have no choice but to bow his head!"

"Excellent!"

"Let's see how long he can hold out!"

A burst of smug laughter suddenly erupted in the secret room.

The city of Nanjing changed overnight.

The next morning, as soon as the large grain shops on Sanshan Street took down their storefronts, the people waiting to buy rice felt a chill run down their spines. On the price list, the price of a dou (a unit of dry measure) of rice had suddenly changed to three qian and two fen.

The crowd immediately erupted in uproar.

"Why has it gone up again? It was only two qian and eight fen yesterday!" An old scholar dressed in a tattered robe clutched his shrunken money bag, his hands trembling violently.

The shopkeeper, his eyelids drooping and his voice listless, said, "The north has suffered a defeat, and the Emperor still wants to repair the Grand Canal. Where can we not need grain? This is the price, take it or leave it! It might go up after noon!"

The old scholar swayed, nearly falling, and those around him quickly steadied him. Curses and cries immediately erupted. Panic spread like a plague through the streets and alleys. In less than half a day, the price tags at cloth shops, salt shops, firewood markets, and even pharmacies all jumped up, their prices soaring. It seemed as if the heartbeat of Nanjing was being choked by these rapidly rising prices.

At the same time, the newly published *Jiangnan Shiwen* was snatched up by newsboys. The front page headline read: "The defeat in Liaoxi is too deep; how can we afford another massive undertaking? Ten reasons why the Yellow and Huai Rivers should not be diverted." The article was scathing, comparing the diversion of the Yellow and Huai Rivers to Emperor Yang of Sui's construction of the Grand Canal, arguing it was a waste of resources and manpower, sure to incur divine wrath and public resentment. In teahouses and taverns, literate people read it aloud, while illiterate people listened intently, a shadow falling over everyone's faces. The Fushe (Restoration Society) members were also busy, stirring up trouble in the Imperial Academy and academies. Within two days, a petition titled "Admonition Against Diverting the Yellow and Huai Rivers," signed by dozens of students and academy members, was completed and ready to be sent to the Nanjing Ministry of Justice.

The secret plot in the Duke of Wei's mansion turned into a knife piercing the hearts of the people.

Where unseen, the knives are even crueler. Several money shops with close ties to the River Transport Commissioner's Office and the Lianghuai Salt Transport Commissioner's Office were packed with people wanting to redeem their silver as soon as they opened their doors. Rumors circulated in the crowd: "The silver in these shops has all been borrowed by the imperial court for river repairs, and they can't redeem it!" As soon as the panic spread, the money supply tightened immediately. The timber, stones, and iron nails needed for the river works were nowhere to be found on the market; large quantities of goods seemed to have vanished overnight.

Groups of three to five people began to gather at the gates of the Nanjing Garrison Office and the Yingtian Prefecture Office. Although they did not rush inside, the noise they made made the officials inside restless.

A mountain rain is coming.

……

In the Huai'an Imperial Court, the lights stayed on all night in the duty room.

On the table in front of Emperor Chongzhen were piles of documents that had just been delivered from Nanjing by express courier. The governor of Yingtian, the imperial censor, the Ministry of War in Nanjing, the Ministry of Revenue... all said similar things: grain prices had skyrocketed, public resentment was boiling, the literati were in an uproar, and they all asked the emperor to postpone the major construction projects to appease the people.

Wei Zhongxian stood by with his hands at his sides, not daring to breathe. He felt that although the emperor did not speak, there was no panic in his silence; on the contrary, it was like a bow being slowly drawn to its full extent.

Emperor Chongzhen picked up a secret report delivered directly to him by the Nanjing Imperial Guard. It contained no fluff, only concrete details: the exact price of grain, what the newspapers were saying, and what the Imperial Academy was doing. It was more genuine and more cutting than those official reports.

After reading it, he put down the secret document, his face expressionless, except for a light tapping of his fingers on the table. "Wei Daban."

“This old servant is here.” Wei Zhongxian quickly stepped forward.

"Issue my secret decree," Chongzhen said calmly. "To Xu Chengye and Chang Yansi in Nanjing, as well as the Jinyiwei (Imperial Guards)."

He paused, then said slowly and deliberately, "Go with the flow, turn the fuse into fuel."

Just eight characters.

Wei Zhongxian's heart skipped a beat; he understood everything. He grasped the murderous intent and decisiveness involved. He dared not ask further, bowing deeply: "This old servant obeys the order, and will immediately send it out using the most secret thread!"

Emperor Chongzhen waved his hand, and Wei Zhongxian quietly withdrew.

The duty room fell silent again. Chongzhen stood up and walked to the large map. His gaze swept over the newly stabilized western Liaoning, over the chaotic Yellow River and Huai River, and finally, it fixed firmly on the two words "Nanjing".

He harbored no personal grudge against those clowns in Nanjing, but he felt they should no longer remain in their undeserved positions, wielding wealth they were not entitled to. Those positions should be given to those truly capable of helping the nation weather the storm. That wealth should be used to help the Ming Dynasty survive the Little Ice Age—the most severe disasters of which began in the fifth year of the Chongzhen Emperor's reign and only gradually subsided thirteen years later. And the fifth year of Chongzhen's reign wasn't even the peak; it was merely a year of flooding. The truly devastating year was one of floods, droughts, locust plagues, and widespread destruction—a true catastrophe for the Ming Dynasty!

"Go ahead and make a scene." A cold glint flashed in Chongzhen's eyes. "Let's see who ends up burning to death!"

……

Two days later, outside Nanjing city, in the shantytowns of displaced people on the east bank of the Qinhuai River, news of soaring prices and defeat arrived together, and despair seeped into every shack.

Inside the wooden hut of "One Bowl Gathering," Xu Chengye looked at the cooks from the surrounding sheds, his face grim. The news Shi Xiaowu brought back, along with the latest issue of "Jiangnan Times," made everyone's hearts sink.

"Elder, what should we do? The porridge is almost gone!"

"The government doesn't care whether we live or die!"

"I can't live like this anymore!"

Everyone was talking at once, and they were extremely anxious.

Xu Chengye bit his lip tightly. He knew that the powder keg the nobles had been waiting for was about to explode. Just then, an inconspicuous beggar slipped in, handed him a small wax pellet, and disappeared again.

Xu Chengye crushed the wax pellet; inside was a slip of paper with a familiar code. He quickly deciphered it: eight characters in total. "Go with the flow, turn the flames into fuel."

Xu Chengye's eyes narrowed, and the anxiety in his heart was immediately replaced by a fierce determination. He raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, his voice not loud, but resolute:
“Brothers, the snake has come out of its hole.”

"They want to incite us to chaos, to trick us into storming the government offices, so they can pin the blame on the Emperor and the important matter of river management."

"We won't!"

"Pass the word down: all groups and teams, gather everyone together! Tell them that the root cause of the hunger is not the Emperor's plan to control the river, but the hoarding and speculation by those dukes, earls, and big merchants in Nanjing! They are making a fortune that will bring ruin upon their families!"

"Get the brothers ready. The fire is about to start. But where it burns is up to us!"

He walked to the window, gazing towards the tall buildings and mansions of Nanjing. The Emperor had already laid out the path; now, it was up to them to see how accurately they would throw this "firework" into the lair of those parasites.

Thick, dark clouds hung in the sky above Nanjing, and muffled thunder rolled in from afar.

The storm is really coming.

An hour later, outside Jubao Gate in western Nanjing, a large, dark mass of refugees gathered. The soup kitchens were already out of rice, and the cries of children and desperate curses mingled together, rolling through the crowd like muffled thunder.

Someone shouted first, "The city's granaries are full! The officials are going to starve us!"

The crowd erupted into agitation, like boiling water. Several daring young men began to pound on the heavy city gate. At first, there were only sporadic noises, and the soldiers guarding the gate tried to shout at them.

But despair spread like wildfire, and more people surged forward. Wooden stakes, stones—everything usable became tools. The sounds of impact grew from muffled to chaotic, finally coalescing into a deafening roar.

The two gates that had been blocking the refugees from entering the city since their last petition for river management slowly cracked open under the frenzied impact.

The guards at the gate had all vanished without a trace.

The door opened.

The crowd froze for a moment, then erupted in a deafening roar, like a flood bursting its banks, surging into the most prosperous and bustling place in the world inside the gate.

(End of this chapter)