The Chrysanthemum Terrace was littered with casualties—flowers fallen, hearts broken.
One by one, the giant lantern frames depicting “Flowers Blooming in Wealth” and “Dragons and Phoenixes Appearing” collapsed, and fires merged into one conflagration. Fortunately, palace attendants “desperately” rescued Empress Dowager Lu’s remains, but Prince Heng could not be saved no matter what—only a charred corpse remained in the end.
The scene of earthly wealth like fierce fire cooking oil and brocade flowers instantly transformed into a living hell.
The firelight from the rear palace Chrysanthemum Terrace reflected against the night sky, turning it crimson red. Ignorant spectators, unaware of the truth, thought the rear palace was putting on new displays after the thousand Kongming lanterns, and applauded enthusiastically—the palace people certainly knew how to entertain.
Some rejoiced while others worried.
But when the fires on the Chrysanthemum Terrace gradually died down, the Imperial Guards and the Five Cities’ Military Commission all took to the streets, declaring full martial law, dispersing the common people who had been watching lanterns along both banks of the Qinhuai River, ordering everyone to close doors and stay indoors, forbidding anyone to go out.
All neighborhood wards closed their gates, set up roadblocks, and established checkpoints at every level.
Only then did the common people realize something had happened. Rumors spread from who knows where, saying Prince Yan had received help from heavenly soldiers and generals and was about to attack the city.
So whether officials or common people, all spent the sleepless night wondering: if Prince Yan entered the city, should they actively welcome him or flee with their families?
The answer was obvious. Except for a very few officials like Huang Zicheng, Fang Xiaoru, and Qi Tai who were on Emperor Jianwen’s boat, most chose the former. After all, whoever became emperor would still be from the Zhu family—everyone would still pay taxes, hold office, and life would go on as usual…
That night, everyone prepared themselves psychologically. When dawn came, proclamations were posted throughout the streets and alleys announcing national mourning, declaring that last night during the Mid-Autumn Festival, the rebel Prince Yan had bribed assassins to murder the Emperor’s entire family, resulting in the deaths of the Empress Dowager and Prince Heng… Everyone should unite in purpose to jointly crusade against the national traitor, and so on.
But in the street-corner bun shops and teahouses, completely opposite stories circulated: Prince Heng had attempted rebellion, failed to assassinate the Emperor, accidentally killed his own mother Empress Dowager Lu instead, and after his failure, set himself on fire in suicide.
Others said it was Prince Wu Zhu Yunting, as the legitimate eldest son of the original wife, who was dissatisfied with his older brother Emperor Jianwen’s status as eldest son of a concubine, so he had raised assassins to murder Emperor Jianwen’s entire family. One must know that in terms of inheritance rights, Zhu Yunting’s birth status was the strongest, giving him more opportunity to ascend the throne than Prince Heng.
Zhu Yunting wasn’t truly foolish and quickly distanced himself: he hadn’t participated in last night’s family banquet at all—he had returned to the Prince Wu’s mansion right after the afternoon imperial family banquet ended, using drunkenness as his excuse. Zhu Yunting understood the situation well. He wasn’t born to Empress Dowager Lu, and his maternal Chang family had been exterminated, so he had always kept his tail between his legs, staying low-key like air, never joining in such excitement.
Yet other rumors from unknown sources claimed the feudal princes in the capital had done it, wanting to kill their nephew to seize the imperial throne.
These feudal princes had all fled to the capital as refugees. Now they were like phoenixes fallen to earth, worse than chickens—they had lost all military authority, their armies disbanded, their lives and property entirely in the Emperor’s hands. Hearing such accusations, who could bear it?
To preserve their lives, the feudal princes all went to cry at the Ming Tombs before Ancestral Emperor and Empress Xiaoci to demonstrate their innocence…
Thus, from the court above to the common people below, everything could be described with one word: chaos. As for the official proclamation saying Prince Yan did it, few believed it. With so many suspects, everyone felt the one with the greatest motive and highest likelihood—especially the officially confirmed one—was least credible.
This essentially reflected doubt about Emperor Jianwen’s governing capability. People said the Emperor’s word was as good as gold, yet now he couldn’t even keep his own household clean or properly protect his own mother. On such a major holiday, someone had killed right into his home. Could such an emperor still be trusted? Could he still defend the realm?
If one cannot sweep one room, how can one sweep the world?
Precisely because of this, facing the capital that had become a complete mess, Emperor Jianwen felt no sense of victory from escaping death or finally rooting out traitors so he could sleep peacefully. He had thought the Mid-Autumn counter-assassination could kill two birds with one stone—eliminating Empress Dowager Lu and Prince Heng while framing Prince Yan, boosting morale and making everyone at court and in the realm stand on his side in unanimous opposition to the enemy.
However, things didn’t develop as he had anticipated. Rumors flew everywhere, spiraling into an uncontrolled state. As Emperor, his imperial edicts were actually believed by no one. And those imperial uncles crying at the Ming Tombs—I clearly did nothing to them, yet they put on such a dramatic show of crying, making noise, and threatening suicide. Wasn’t this putting me in an unfilial position?
Emperor Jianwen was quite angry. Using the excuse that autumn was dry with parched conditions, plus Yan rebels causing arson everywhere, he ordered the Ming Tombs closed and heavily guarded to prevent Yan rebels from disturbing the peace of Ancestral Emperor and Empress Xiaoci.
With the Ming Tombs closed, the feudal princes were politely “invited out.” Emperor Jianwen thought: Now you have nowhere to cry—let’s see how you perform.
However, how could this little white rabbit Emperor Jianwen’s scheming match that of battle-hardened feudal princes?
Driven out of the Ming Tombs, the feudal princes became even more furious, thinking: We’re crying for our own parents—it’s perfectly natural and right! Why should we have to read our nephew’s expressions?
If we can’t cry at the Ming Tombs, we’ll go cry outside!
So the feudal princes began their performance around the Ming Tombs area, crying themselves hoarse and attracting crowds of common people to watch.
If he drove away the feudal princes again, Emperor Jianwen would confirm the charges of “unfiliality” and harsh treatment of imperial uncles.
Not expecting these old foxes to have such audacious maneuvers, Emperor Jianwen angrily slammed his hand on the table, yet couldn’t scold them properly: the feudal princes had been summoned back to the capital by his personal order. Originally it was to prevent the imperial uncles from leading troops to join Prince Yan like Prince Ning had done. But now, Emperor Jianwen regretted it just as much as he had regretted intercepting that pot of poisoned wine meant for his mother two years ago.
If he had known this would happen, I would have ordered the feudal princes never to leave their territories, to exhaust all military strength, to guard their lands at any cost, letting the imperial uncles kill each other—that would have been clean!
But there’s no medicine for regret in this world.
In the Mid-Autumn human tragedy, no one was the big winner. Emperor Jianwen, dressed entirely in mourning white, looked at his mother Empress Dowager Lu’s remains. The Empress Dowager wore a high-collared robe that covered the horrifying knife wounds on her neck. Her face looked peaceful, as if she had merely fallen into deep sleep, showing none of the previous bloody, eyes-wide-open tragic appearance.
Strangely, Emperor Jianwen had hated his mother for a year, hated her to the point of mother-son mutual destruction, sword against sword, either you die or I live, with irreconcilable contradictions. Yet looking at his dead mother, he felt no satisfaction from revenge. His chest felt hollow, as if something had been scooped out. It wasn’t extremely painful, but this pain would linger endlessly. He had a premonition this pain would accompany him for life.
Only dead enemies are good enemies, but this was his mother.
The instant he saw his mother’s remains, Emperor Jianwen’s hatred for his mother completely disappeared. His mind was filled only with his mother’s goodness—his mother’s meticulous care when he was small, her warm encouragement when he felt inferior before his legitimate older brother due to his concubine-born status, telling him to strive for everything he wanted, his mother’s patient endurance, ultimately becoming the winner despite the father having a legitimate son and wife.
When his mother became the principal wife, his status also rose, becoming a legitimate son. His mother had never just given him life—his future, his position as heir, even his throne were all closely connected to his mother.
Why did it become like this?
Emperor Jianwen fell to his knees with a thud, bowing his head in anguished weeping. These tears were real, the sorrow was real, and his matricidal intentions had been real too. He loved his mother and also hated her—both love and hate were so intense, and neither disappeared because of his mother’s death. The two forces battled in his mind, making his head ache and his heart ache too.
Why did it become like this? Emperor Jianwen asked himself again. He had worked so hard to be Emperor, continuing the diligence of the Hongwu reign. His imperial grandfather had accomplished so many great things—regardless of right or wrong, under his iron fist, everything succeeded.
But despite working just as hard, he accomplished nothing, did nothing right. No matter how much he gave, things always developed in the worst direction. Even being a son was a failure.
Not only had he lost control of state affairs, but even the imperial family’s small household was out of control.
Emperor Jianwen cried himself to exhaustion, crying for his mother and for himself. Two full years of suppressed emotions exploded in this moment—even his emotions were out of control.
Emperor Jianwen cried so sorrowfully that the civil and military officials kneeling behind him in accompanying mourning all sighed that regardless of how immature this young Emperor might be, at least in filial piety he was beyond reproach.
That day, Emperor Jianwen cried until he fainted. When he woke, it was nearly midnight. Palace attendants quickly offered throat-soothing medicinal soup. Emperor Jianwen took the medicine cup and asked in a hoarse voice, “Has the Empress gone to sleep? How was the fetal movement today? Don’t let the Empress overexert herself.”
The palace attendant replied, “The Empress is staying in the Eastern Palace tonight with the Crown Prince. The Crown Prince cried terribly today and keeps waking with nightmares. Her Majesty the Empress said she’ll rest in the Eastern Palace for the next few days to conveniently comfort the Crown Prince.”
Emperor Jianwen drank his medicine and ate his meal. Just as palace attendants were about to prepare the bed and warm the bedding to serve the Emperor’s rest, Emperor Jianwen said, “Change my clothes for me. I’ve already rested. Now I’m going to the study to review memorials.”
As an adult, after a good cry, one still must face reality. Even if reality is already a muddy mess with squalor everywhere one looks. The adult world contains no easy options—after waking up, besides facing the immediate squalor, one must also face distant squalor.
There was no time for sorrow.
Emperor Jianwen summoned ministers on duty through the night. Facing the current situation of unsettled popular sentiment and common people gossiping about the imperial family, Emperor Jianwen would not allow continued loss of control. If left unchecked, he must devise methods to pacify popular sentiment, making the common people support imperial legitimacy instead of daily gossiping about imperial uncles and nephews fighting, wondering who would die.
Reportedly, major gambling houses in the capital were secretly taking bets on whether Prince Yan could ultimately compete for supremacy in the central plains and replace his nephew. Currently the gamblers were split roughly forty-sixty, with forty percent backing Prince Yan and sixty percent backing Emperor Jianwen.
The gambling house polls showed Emperor Jianwen slightly ahead, but as a sovereign, being mentioned in the same breath as a feudal prince was itself a humiliation.
Emperor Jianwen couldn’t sleep at all. He was anxious to resolve this situation where, despite occupying the legitimate position, he was helpless against his rebel imperial uncle.
Fang Xiaoru said, “Since ancient times, to win popular support, there have been two best and fastest measures. The first is anti-corruption—purging the administrative system, executing a group of corrupt officials. The people would be greatly pleased and naturally praise the Emperor as a wise ruler. The second is tax reduction—lightening the tax burden on common people. With more money in hand, each family member gets a new garment, an extra bowl of meat on the table. Common people are easily satisfied—let them dress and eat comfortably, and they’ll naturally feel grateful to the Emperor.”
Emperor Jianwen asked the other testamentary minister Huang Zicheng, “What does Scholar Huang think?”
Huang Zicheng held the position of Hanlin Academy Reader, similar to secretary-general of a secretarial team. He was a third-place winner from the imperial examinations. Ever since strongly recommending Li Jinglong as commander to replace Geng Bingwen resulted in great defeat, Huang Zicheng had considered this a lifelong shame and major stain, becoming much more silent. After Li Jinglong’s title was stripped, Huang Zicheng also proactively requested demotion and dismissal to take responsibility. Emperor Jianwen only fined his salary and reduced his rank but kept Huang Zicheng by his side to help handle official duties.
Only recently, when the third commander Sheng Yong won several battles through more audacious and shameless tactics, had Huang Zicheng been restored to his official position. However, Huang Zicheng had become even more silent. Unless Emperor Jianwen asked, he rarely spoke, no longer as eloquent as before.
The two strategies Fang Xiaoru mentioned—severely punishing corrupt officials and tax reduction—were common knowledge for officials. Any official could basically think of them; they had no technical content and were old chestnuts. So Huang Zicheng nodded, “Master Fang speaks extremely well.”
With both testamentary ministers reaching consensus, Emperor Jianwen asked, “Should we pursue both simultaneously or choose one?”
Huang Zicheng said, “Currently we’re at war, and it’s been going on for a year. Years of accumulated state treasury funds are more than half depleted. If we rashly reduce taxes, the treasury will inevitably be depleted. Where would military provisions for the soldiers come from? Therefore, this subject recommends starting with purging the administrative system.”
Killing several corrupt officials as examples to others would give the people an outlet for their anger. The people would certainly support the central government’s “tiger-hunting” campaign. Incidentally, confiscating family assets could supplement the court’s silver. The corrupt officials’ silver was ill-gotten—confiscating it to the state treasury was giving the corrupt officials face. It was simply killing two birds with one stone. So throughout dynasties, when new rulers ascended, most would choose to eliminate a few high corrupt officials—perfect for everyone.
Emperor Jianwen felt this made sense and nodded repeatedly. Nearby, Fang Xiaoru stroked his white beard, looking like an otherworldly sage, saying, “This old minister feels this is somewhat inappropriate. Since ascending the throne, Your Majesty’s new policies have advocated tolerance to correct the harsh punishments of the Hongwu reign, purging legal imprisonment, overturning wrongful and unjust cases. Previously overcrowded prisons have emptied considerably.”
“Master Huang’s starting point is good—wanting to eliminate corrupt officials. But court matters involve deeply intertwined interests. If Master Huang wants to kill corrupt officials, it will end up like the Four Great Cases of old, becoming a knife for court mutual exclusion and factional opposition. Mutual reporting and accusations, mutual attacking, ultimately spiraling out of control with everyone ending up in prison. From Hu Weiyong’s treason case to Lan Yu’s case, Ancestral Emperor killed tens of thousands of officials—the court was a bloody storm! Now the rebel Prince Yan hasn’t surrendered yet, so the court must maintain stability and cannot fall into chaos. Therefore, this old minister believes we should not touch the administrative system first, but start with tax reduction.”
Fang Xiaoru’s teacher was Song Lian, one of the Four Great Masters of early Ming, and Song Lian was also the teacher of Emperor Jianwen and his father Emperor Xiaokang. Back then, Song Lian had nearly lost his entire family for involvement in the “Hu Weiyong Treason Case” of the Four Great Cases of early Ming. His sons and grandsons were all executed. At that time, Emperor Xiaokang Zhu Biao knelt and desperately pleaded, plus Empress Xiaoci intervened to speak for him, which saved Song Lian from execution—he was only exiled to Baidi City.
Having personally witnessed his teacher Song Lian’s miserable final years, after becoming a testamentary minister, Fang Xiaoru consistently advised Emperor Jianwen to change the Hongwu reign’s harsh governance and severe punishments, advocating “using leniency to correct severity,” purging false and wrongful cases, and lenient sentencing policies—as long as they weren’t extremely vicious criminals, sentencing should be tolerant.
Emperor Jianwen greatly admired Song Lian and agreed with Fang Xiaoru’s proposals, feeling that troubled times required heavy laws while prosperous times should be tolerant and magnanimous, so he implemented these policies. This gained some support, but Prince Yan seized the opportunity to find fault, saying Fang Xiaoru arbitrarily changed the Hongwu reign’s political system, harboring and indulging traitors. Being tolerant to bad people was cruel to good people—Fang Xiaoru was a great traitor destroying the Great Ming’s criminal law system!
So Prince Yan raised the banner of “eliminate treacherous ministers, purify the ruler’s side,” openly listing Fang Xiaoru among treacherous ministers, actually gaining considerable support. After all, revenge for wrongs and vengeance for grudges was the simplest logic most acceptable to ordinary common people.
If even the court cannot uphold justice, why should we pay taxes (protection money)?
Huang Zicheng disagreed with Fang Xiaoru’s views, “Announcing tax reductions during wartime? Master Fang, fortunately the Hongwu reign accumulated enough wealth, otherwise, typically during wars taxes should be increased according to precedent. Now reducing taxes—where will military expenses come from? Although we just won several battles, the north is mostly still controlled by the rebel Prince Yan. This war won’t end anytime soon.”
Fang Xiaoru stroked his beard again, “This old minister has a brilliant plan. For tax reduction, only reduce taxes in the wealthy Jiangnan regions. Because previously this was Zhang Shicheng’s territory, the people here supported Zhang Shicheng. When the former Emperor pacified Jiangnan and Zhang Shicheng committed suicide, the former Emperor implemented heavy taxation policies on Jiangnan. Tax rates in these places are much higher than other parts of the Great Ming. Taking field taxes as an example, other places collect about one dou per mu in taxes, but Jiangnan regions have field taxes as high as two to three shi per mu—far too unfair.”
“Moreover, to maintain the unfair heavy taxation policy in Jiangnan, the former Emperor once decreed that officials whose ancestral homes were in the heavily taxed regions of Jiangxi, Zhejiang, Suzhou, Songjiang, etc., could never hold any position in the Ministry of Personnel, which specifically manages taxes, for their entire lives. This rule should also be changed. Your Majesty’s employment should prioritize virtue and talent—how can it depend only on ancestral origin?”
Growing excited, Fang Xiaoru bowed to Emperor Jianwen, “Tax reduction plus employing people based on merit—thus we can gain both the support of Jiangnan people and court ministers. Your Majesty will certainly win the hearts of all under Heaven!”
“Absolutely not, Your Majesty!” Huang Zicheng vehemently opposed, questioning Fang Xiaoru: “Can Jiangnan represent all under Heaven? Can officials from Jiangnan represent all officials under Heaven? Master Fang is from Jiangnan, your family fields are in Jiangnan, your family, students, and friends are all Jiangnan people—you’re blinded by a single leaf, unable to see Mount Tai. This way, except for Jiangnan people and officials with Jiangnan origins, everyone will oppose Your Majesty and become estranged from Your Majesty!”