The struggle for the throne during the Jiajing reign

"Yuanmei, what do you know?"

Wang Shizhen glanced around. There were only the two of them under the eaves. The sun was already setting, and the light slanted down from above the courtyard wall, casting long shadows of the two of them.

In the distance, a clerk carrying documents walked by, his footsteps echoing on the stone slabs, gradually fading into the distance.

He lowered his voice and spoke twice as fast as before: "Uncle, don't ask about this. Li Weixing is Yan Shifan's man. He committed a serious crime. The Ministry of Justice took the case but has been holding it back for more than a month."

Why was it suppressed? Because the investigation couldn't proceed. If it went up to Yan Shifan, the Ministry of Justice wouldn't dare to investigate. If it went down to Wu Weiyue himself, Yan Shifan wouldn't allow it.

They were left hanging like that, keeping everyone in the Ministry of Justice up at night.

He paused, then lowered his voice even further: "What are you, a mere junior scholar, doing getting involved in this?"

Zhang Juzheng loosened his sleeve. He understood, but not the case itself; the case wasn't difficult to understand.

Li Weixing was Yan Shifan's man. He committed a crime and was taken in by the Ministry of Justice. The Ministry of Justice dared not investigate him or release him, which was not unusual in the Ming Dynasty court.

He understood something else entirely. Wang Shizhen knew this very well, even more so than a mere official in the Ministry of Justice should. This meant that there was also infighting within the Ministry of Justice. Some wanted to investigate, while others wanted to suppress it. Those who wanted to investigate leaked information, while those who wanted to suppress it desperately tried to cover it up.

"Yuanmei." Zhang Juzheng's voice suddenly became very serious, so serious that Wang Shizhen felt somewhat uncomfortable: "You're in the Ministry of Justice, so be careful."

Wang Shizhen was taken aback. He had thought Zhang Juzheng would press for details of the case, what role Yan Shifan played, and how the Ministry of Justice planned to handle the matter. The Zhang Juzheng he knew was always the kind of person who would get to the bottom of things.

But Zhang Juzheng didn't ask any questions. He just told him to be careful. His Adam's apple bobbed, and his arrogance and impatience from before suddenly disappeared.

"I know." His voice also became serious, with a hint of warmth in his seriousness. "You too, although the Hanlin Academy is prestigious, it is too close to those people above. Where you are close, the storms are bigger than elsewhere."

Zhang Juzheng nodded. Wang Shizhen straightened his clenched sleeves, turned and walked out, but stopped after a few steps without looking back.

"Uncle, think about the poetry club again. Although those people are arrogant, there are advantages to their arrogance. They dare to say anything. These days, there aren't many people who dare to speak their minds."

With more people talking, even those who don't want to listen have to!

Zhang Juzheng did not answer, and Wang Shizhen did not wait for his reply. He had already strode out of the courtyard gate, and the corner of his robe disappeared as soon as it swept across the threshold.

Zhang Juzheng was left alone in the corridor again. He stood there, not returning to his duty room immediately. The sun had sunk a little further, and the light slanted down from above the courtyard wall, illuminating half of his body in the light and hiding the other half in the shadow.

He gazed in the direction where Wang Shizhen had disappeared and suddenly recalled the time when they went to the capital together to take the imperial examination. At that time, Wang Shizhen rode a green horse with a wine bag hanging on the saddle. He would take a sip every now and then, and after finishing the wine, he would recite a poem aloud, which was Li Bai's "Bring in the Wine".

His voice was so loud that even the stray dogs by the roadside barked along with him. Farmers and women in the fields along the way couldn't help but put down their work to listen to him recite poetry, their eyes filled with envy, anticipation, and resignation.

Of course, there were also naughty children who chased after him, laughing and reciting poems like parrots. Zhang Juzheng found it noisy at the time, but now he actually misses it.

He was in a carriage at the time, because he couldn't ride a horse. He was reading in the carriage, so he didn't have the same carefree and unrestrained spirit as Wang Shizhen, who rode a horse and drank wildly. Therefore, he didn't compose any poems.

After Wang Shizhen had finished drinking, she turned around and called out to him: "Uncle, aren't you tired?"

He didn't answer, not because he wasn't tired, but because he dared not stop. Wang Shizhen could walk, drink, and recite poetry because he had a way out. The Wang family was a prominent family in Taicang, and his grandfather and father were both Jinshi (successful candidates in the highest imperial examinations). Even if he failed the exam, he could still go back and enjoy his life of poetry and wine.

Zhang Juzheng had no way out. Behind him was only a family that had fallen on hard times. If he failed the exam, he would be nothing. If he took the exam again next time, he might not even be able to afford a carriage and would have to rely on his own two legs.

And now it is the same. He suddenly remembered the words Xu Jie had told him last year, which were meant to make him assess the situation and not just look at the present.

He didn't quite understand it then, but now he understands a lot more.

The Ministry of Justice dares not try cases because there are people above them who are suppressing them.

The existence of Yan's faction in the imperial court is because there are people above suppressing them.

This is an illness, and it is very difficult to cure. Can the memorial he has written now really cure the root cause?

...............

At this time of year, Guangzhou is shrouded in sweltering heat; the wind blowing from the river feels sticky and clinging to the skin.

The streets and alleys around the examination hall were bustling early in the morning, with many scholars in blue robes coming and going in groups of three or five, discussing current affairs or policy essays, full of high spirits.

The restaurants and teahouses were packed with people. Some were talking loudly, some were discussing in hushed tones, some were applauding, and some were shaking their heads and sighing. They were all talking about the same thing: the provincial examination.

The provincial examination, held every three years, was a hurdle that these scholars had endured for countless years, even resorting to extreme measures like hanging themselves by their hair or pricking their thighs with their elbows.

If you pass the imperial examination, you become a Juren (a successful candidate in the provincial-level imperial examinations), which qualifies you to become an official. You cross the threshold that divides all scholars in the world in two, and from then on, you are no longer involved in hunger, cold, or poverty.

If he failed, he would go back and wait for three more years, then another three years, and another three years, until his hair turned white and his son came to take the exam with him.

Hai Rui did not go to the teahouse. He was thirty-five years old and had come from Qiongshan by sea. The cost of the voyage and food along the way had almost exhausted his accumulated salary.

His complexion was slightly dark, his figure was rather thin, and his eyes were small. He was not particularly good-looking. His only advantage was that his clothes were neatly starched, giving him a scholarly air.

After entering the city, he did not visit his fellow townsmen or famous scholars. He simply found a simple inn near the examination hall to stay in. The walls of the inn were made of bamboo and covered with a layer of yellow mud. Where the mud peeled off, the bamboo strips underneath were exposed. The wind blew in through the gaps, carrying the smell of the sewers in the alley.

He didn't care. Every day before dawn, he would get up and recite the scriptures in the morning light. During the day, he would stay at home and only study the rules of writing strategies.

Many of the scholars living in the same dormitory laughed at him for being pedantic and poor, saying that he was just a poor scholar from Hainan who had neither a teacher nor money, yet he studied so hard and was only there to accompany others in the examination.

Upon hearing this, Hai Rui merely frowned slightly, offering no explanation, and continued to bury himself in his work.

Besides the Four Books and Five Classics, there were also several simple drawings he had made on his desk. They depicted the terrain of the Li people's territory in Hainan. The drawings were rough, with some ink lines bleed and others drawn crookedly, but the direction of the mountains, the bends of the rivers, and the distribution of the Li villages were all clearly drawn.

This wasn't copied from a book; it's something he learned step by step, wearing out countless pairs of straw sandals in the process.

When he was an instructor in Qiongshan, he taught in villages on the edge of the Li territory. These villages were inhabited by both Han and Li people, who did not understand each other's languages ​​and had different customs, leading to frequent disputes. He often traveled through mountains and rivers to help people resolve these disputes.

While others read classics, histories, philosophical works, and literary collections, he would constantly compare the principles in the books with the advantages and disadvantages of the local area. When reading "Yu Gong," he would think about how to dredge the waterways of Qiongzhou; when reading "Zhou Li," he would think about how to determine the taxes of Li; when reading "Sun Tzu," he would think about how to defend and attack based on the terrain.

These thoughts fell into his heart like seeds; some sprouted, while others remained buried in the soil, waiting for a rain.

...............