The struggle for the throne during the Jiajing reign

What kind of place is Nanjing? It was the secondary capital of the Ming Dynasty, a place with a complete official system but nominal authority. It had all the six ministries and nine ministers, but apart from a few positions, the rest had no real power or influence.

Being transferred to Nanjing meant being banished from the center of power to its periphery. Their rank, salary, and even their official title remained unchanged, but from then on, no one listened to them.

This isn't just a demotion; it's like having your tongue pulled out.

What's even more ruthless is that His Majesty only took action against Gao Gong and Zhao Zhenji, while there were more than a dozen people who went to block the Yan residence that day.

Only targeting the two leaders while leaving the rest untouched is not an act of mercy; it's like separating Zhao Zhenji and Gao Gong from the crowd and displaying them alone on the city wall. Once others see this, they'll naturally consider whether they'll be next.

Censors are not afraid of being punished; being punished is an honor, a reputation, and capital for a future comeback. But being singled out and banished to a corner where no one pays attention, being watched by colleagues with sympathetic, pitying, or gloating eyes, is worse than death.

But those two men didn't even have the right to argue their case and express their gratitude; the Minister of Personnel simply agreed on their behalf.

"The princes are descended from the imperial family, and their advancement or retreat is entirely up to me."

These words came without warning, yet they were like a bucket of ice water poured over the top of everyone present.

Everyone was listening: Yan Song was listening, Xu Jie was listening, Lu Bing was listening, and even the six ministers kneeling at the end of the row were listening.

They were not just listening to the words themselves, but also to the silent, unshakeable imperial power behind them.

Foreign officials are not allowed to speak recklessly, let alone seek personal gain or curry favor.

Jiajing's voice was not loud: "Prince Yu is benevolent and should focus on his studies. Prince Jing is sincere and should also behave himself and observe proper etiquette."

Everyone was silently speculating in their hearts. There was nothing much to say about Prince Yu, but Prince Jing came to the West Garden to cry at the gate with Yan Shifan's letter. Was he being obedient or not? Was he observing the rules of propriety or not?

Jiajing did not reveal the truth; he simply placed those four words on Prince Jing's head, like a cage, neither too big nor too small, just enough to cover him.

After speaking, Jiajing was about to get up and leave, but the Minister of Personnel, who had been silent all along, suddenly spoke up: "Your Majesty, we submitted a memorial some time ago regarding the establishment of an heir apparent. I wonder if Your Majesty has made a decision?"

These words were like a knife, suddenly slashing down in the dead silence.

Yan Song did not move. He knew that this was Wen Yuan's last struggle. After Xia Yan, he had basically taken control of the Ministry of Personnel. Wen Yuan was a nominal official with no real power and had long intended to retire. This gamble was just for a posthumous title.

Xu Jie was surprised. He hadn't expected that Wen Yuan, who had always been at odds with him, would actually help him fight on the front lines and ask him the question that was most pressing to him.

"Didn't you hear what I just said?"

"I have heard it, and I know that these words are taboo, but it is precisely because they are taboo that I have no choice but to speak them."

Moreover, as the Grand Tutor of the Crown Prince, I am an official under the Eastern Palace, not an outsider. My words are sincere and spoken in front of His Majesty, and are therefore not mere idle talk.

As for currying favor, this old minister is over seventy years old, frail and decaying, with few days left. He will soon submit a memorial requesting retirement, and has long since ceased to desire wealth and honor.

He paused, as if gathering his last strength: "If the foundation of the nation is not stable, the world will be in turmoil; if the world is in turmoil, evil will arise."

Yan Shifan's gift of a toy to Prince Jing was a treacherous act; the officials of the Censorate gathering a crowd to block the gate was an evil act; and the rampant rumors in the marketplace were an omen of unease.

The root of all this lies not in Yan Shifan, not in the censors, not in the common people, but in the fact that the foundation of the nation is not yet secure.

The emperor watched coldly without saying a word, as if waiting for him to exhale his last breath.

Wen Yuan also knew that this was the last time he would step into this place. If he met the Emperor, he might be lucky enough to return home to await his death, but if he was unlucky, his corpse would return home.

"This old minister has served three emperors and has served Your Majesty for twenty-eight years. Today, these words have come from my mouth and entered Your Majesty's ears. If Your Majesty punishes me, this old minister will accept the punishment. If Your Majesty does not punish me, this old minister will submit a memorial tomorrow requesting to retire and never set foot in the capital again in this life."

"But this is a question this old minister must ask." He raised his head, looking at Jiajing's retreating figure: "His Highness Prince Yu is benevolent and kind; since Your Majesty is aware of this, why not make a decision?"

Yan Song lay motionless on the ground, his forehead pressed against the gold bricks, but the muscles in his back were taut like a fully drawn bow. Xu Jie's fingers curled slightly, his nails digging into his palms, using the pain to force himself to remain silent.

Lu Bing stood beside the throne, his palm-leaf fan stopped, and his gaze fell on Wen Yuan's graying back of the head. His expression was calm and composed, showing no emotion whatsoever.

Everyone's heart was in their throat. Wen Yuan asked about Prince Yu; he didn't mention Prince Jing, only Prince Yu.

This is his stance, and also his wisdom. He's not asking who should be chosen, but rather why it's uncertain.

The answer was already in his mouth; all that was needed was His Majesty's nod.

But everyone knows that what His Majesty hates most is having others say the answers for him.

Jiajing slowly walked down, the contours of his cheekbones outlined by the light, like knife marks. The corners of his mouth twitched slightly, revealing a very faint curve, not a smile, but an expression that was more unsettling than a smile.

Those who knew the emperor felt a chill run down their spines, including Wen Yuan, who knew the emperor would not threaten him with flogging or death.

But he had other concerns, and in front of the emperor, his courage would only diminish, even though he hadn't said anything yet.

The seventy-year-old minister lay prostrate on the ground, his back bent. The fearless spirit he had displayed when he spoke earlier melted away layer by layer in the face of the emperor's silence, like snowflakes falling in the sunlight.

Wen Yuan's gaze began to dart away, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but no sound came out. It wasn't that he was afraid of death; at his age, death was just a matter of closing his eyes.

What he feared was that the emperor would remain silent, that those deep, unfathomable eyes would continue to watch him, see into his heart, see beneath all his supposedly open and honest thoughts those things he himself was unwilling to admit, his unwavering obsession with the iron will of history.

The desire for the name Wen Yuan to occupy a line or two in the "Veritable Records of the Ming Dynasty".

What he feared was never death, but being seen through.

Jiajing saw through him, just as he saw through everyone present. Yan Song wanted power, Xu Jie wanted a position, Lu Bing wanted to protect himself, and Wen Yuan wanted fame. The courtiers, all dressed in their finest clothes, knelt on the gold bricks with impeccable posture. He could see clearly the scheming in each of their hearts.

The corners of his mouth curved slightly, the expression of a child lifting a stone to see insects and ants underneath—not joy, not disgust, but a faint, condescending amusement.

Zhu Zaizhen was standing by the small pond behind the Wenhua Hall. The water was drawn from the Taiye Pond in the West Garden, winding through several palace walls, and here it was just a narrow bend.

The pond is lined with Taihu stones, which are covered with moss. Over the years, the moss has turned from a bright green to a deep, dark green, like an old stain that can't be washed off.

…………