The next day, Prince Han submitted a memorial requesting to go to his fiefdom.
The court was in an uproar. As a seasoned holdout in the capital who should have gone to his territory ten years ago, he had delayed until now before finally agreeing to leave.
But everyone understood the unspoken truth. If Prince Han didn’t go to his fiefdom, he would remain the prime suspect in the Tiancel Guard’s cannon explosion during exercises and the Crown Prince’s grandson’s injury.
Only by going to his fiefdom and demonstrating through actual actions that he had no intention of competing for succession could this matter be resolved.
This was actually the outcome Emperor Yongle most hoped to see. As a father, he didn’t want to witness his sons killing each other and harming the younger generation.
Having carved out a bloody path through the Jingnan Campaign to seize the throne, Emperor Yongle didn’t want to know the truth. He only wanted to see the results he wished to see.
After years as ruler and minister, Ji Gang’s understanding of the imperial mind was quite accurate.
After Prince Han submitted his memorial, Ji Gang also “coincidentally” produced the investigation results: it was an accident. The technicians from the gunpowder factory unanimously stated that the new cannons couldn’t completely solve the problem of explosions—it was a matter of luck.
Thus, Prince Han was innocent.
Emperor Yongle immediately lifted the house arrest and released Prince Han. After his release, Prince Han first entered the palace to see his father the emperor, weeping that he had momentarily given in to vanity and invited the Crown Prince’s grandson to review the troops, never expecting an accident to occur. Regardless, this matter was caused by him, and he begged his father the emperor for punishment.
Zhu Zhanji, standing nearby, expressed that he had believed from the beginning that Second Imperial Uncle was innocent. Despite the pain in his arm, he knelt and begged his grandfather the emperor not to punish his imperial uncle.
Emperor Yongle took Zhu Zhanji with him on every northern campaign, and their grandfather-grandson relationship was close. Zhu Zhanji had become sensible early on, understanding that as the heir apparent, he should prioritize the greater good and set aside personal grievances—this was the scene his grandfather the emperor wanted to see.
When spring arrived and the ice and snow melted, allowing ships to sail on the rivers, Prince Han’s family set off for Qingzhou—except for heir apparent Zhu Zhanhe.
As expected, Emperor Yongle used the excuse that Zhu Zhanhe’s injury needed quiet recovery to keep his second grandson in the capital.
Prince Han was naturally reluctant to leave him behind. Ji Gang comforted him, saying that nothing ventured, nothing gained, and with him as the Embroidered Uniform Guard commander present, he would certainly take good care of Zhu Zhanhe.
For the sake of his future imperial ambitions, Prince Han had to leave Zhu Zhanhe behind, reluctantly instructing his son: “…You must be filial to His Majesty on my behalf and don’t be mischievous. Study well from the Crown Prince’s grandson. If you could learn even half of what he knows—”
“I would be completely satisfied.” Zhu Zhanhe interrupted his father, filially helping him complete the rest of the sentence. “Father King, I’m not a seven or eight-year-old child. I know what to do.”
Zhu Zhanhe had long hoped his father would go to his fiefdom. As long as his father behaved properly as a prince, their Prince Han residence would live well. They were all descendants of the Zhu family—why fight to the death? Besides, the Crown Prince and Crown Prince’s grandson were both intelligent and capable. Not all crown prince’s grandsons were failures like Zhu Yunwen who played a good hand terribly!
Looking at his son who didn’t know worry in his youth, Prince Han didn’t know whether to be happy or troubled. “You must write two family letters every month without fail. Don’t think that being in the capital means no one will discipline you.”
Zhu Zhanhe patted his chest. “Three letters—one every ten days, is that acceptable? Father King and Mother must also take care of your health and not always worry about your son.”
Zhu Zhanhe enthusiastically saw them off while Prince Han reluctantly parted. Looking back at the majestic imperial palace, he thought: someday I will return as master and enter the palace as its owner, just like the day Father and I attacked and entered the capital.
Half of Father’s throne was won by me—why should I plant the tree through hard work only to let others lie back and pick the fruit? I refuse to accept this.
After Prince Han’s departure, Zhu Zhanji’s arm injury healed and the stitches were removed. Emperor Yongle realized that though the Crown Prince’s grandson’s soft power (intelligence) was sufficient, his hard power was too weak and he still needed to depend on the Eastern Palace, so he decided to cultivate his eldest grandson’s hard power.
What harder power was there than military force?
After Zhu Zhanji’s routine perfect score of three hits at the April willow-shooting ceremony, Emperor Yongle seized the opportunity to establish the unprecedented Imperial Guard Command of the Front Division.
Emperor Yongle decreed to “select strong and brave young men from among the people,” specifying “those of appropriate age, robust and energetic, who can march quickly” to form a youth army of twenty-eight thousand, directly under the Crown Prince’s grandson’s training and command to cultivate his military abilities and future Ming officers’ loyalty to him.
The so-called youth army didn’t refer to underage soldiers, but rather young, strong men with no combat experience who were all adults, aged between twenty and thirty, eligible for selection.
The youth army was selected from civilians, not from hereditary military households, and included no high-ranking nobles. They were ordinary farmers and commoners who, unlike nobles and military households, had no various interest groups behind them.
Most Ming armies were drawn from military households—generations of professional soldiers—but the youth army was completely different. They were selected from the lowest classes of people, unconnected to any faction, completely blank slates.
Moreover, even after joining the army, the youth army didn’t have military status and didn’t change their original registration. Their descendants wouldn’t make their living from the army and weren’t professional soldiers, avoiding any ill-intentioned people in the military using future prospects to entice the youth army’s allegiance.
Only this way would the youth army remain loyal to the Crown Prince’s grandson who had no factional backing, since they could only depend on him alone. Military service was just a job for them, and protecting the Crown Prince’s grandson was their sole responsibility.
A Ming garrison typically had five thousand six hundred men. Now the Crown Prince’s grandson’s Imperial Front Guard had twenty-eight thousand men—twenty-five battalions of a thousand each—nearly five times larger!
More critically, besides protecting the Crown Prince’s grandson, the Imperial Front Guard had another function: guarding the inner palace and patrolling within it, carrying swords and other weapons.
This decision by Emperor Yongle naturally caused another great uproar. Yang Shiqi and other Eastern Palace officials who had just been released from the imperial prison and restored to office openly opposed it:
“Your Majesty, even the Crown Prince in the Eastern Palace doesn’t have such special retainers. The Crown Prince’s grandson alone controlling twenty-eight thousand escort troops entering the inner palace places him above the Crown Prince! In terms of state protocol, the Eastern Palace ranks higher than the Crown Prince’s grandson’s palace; in family terms, the Eastern Palace Crown Prince is the father and the Crown Prince’s grandson is the son—how can a son rank higher than his father? This violates principle and hinders filial piety. Please reconsider, Your Majesty!”
These Eastern Palace officials were utterly devoted to the Crown Prince. They had eaten prison food for years, watched many colleagues die in prison, and just after being released and enjoying only a few good days, they had forgotten their pain and were again confronting Emperor Yongle for the Crown Prince’s sake.
The key point was that they made sense—the massive youth army Imperial Front Guard was unreasonable both politically and in terms of filial piety.
However, Emperor Yongle was a sovereign ruler no less than Great Ancestor—he wasn’t someone who reasoned with others.
Emperor Yongle said: “Now that the Ming is moving its capital to Beijing, both capitals urgently lack troops for defense. We can’t draw from the armies guarding the north, can we? If something happens on the frontier, who will be responsible? Besides, the youth army doesn’t have military status and is of low standing—they’re just a group of mischievous children handed over to the Crown Prince’s grandson for training to guard the inner palace. What’s wrong with a grandson protecting his father and grandfather? This is clearly great filial piety. My mind is made up—don’t mention this again.”
What condescending imperial vision—the youth army wasn’t young at all! Every one was a physically strong young man—where were these “children”?
Emperor Yongle was determined to call a deer a horse and asked the Crown Prince sitting beside the throne, observing with downcast eyes: “What do you think?”
Could the Crown Prince disagree? The Crown Prince had never opposed any of Emperor Yongle’s decisions, unless he didn’t want to continue in his position.
The lame Crown Prince struggled to stand with two eunuchs’ support to respond: “Your son has no objections. Your son eagerly anticipates the Crown Prince’s grandson training the youth army into capable soldiers. He’s fifteen this year—it’s time for him to gain experience.”
With even the Crown Prince nodding agreement, which Eastern Palace officials dared oppose further? This would obviously create internal discord and show the Eastern Palace wasn’t united. Thus, the Crown Prince’s grandson forming twenty-eight thousand Imperial Front Guard youth army became settled.
With the imperial edict issued, recruitment of non-military civilian youth began nationwide, with preliminary selections in various prefectures before sending candidates to the capital for the Crown Prince’s grandson’s personal selection.
This enormous opportunity falling from heaven made Zhu Zhanji secretly groan, though he couldn’t refuse. He understood his grandfather the emperor was creating balance—with Prince Han going to Qingzhou, Prince Zhao remaining in Beijing, and the Eastern Palace dominating the capital, how could His Majesty tolerate such a situation?
He had to recruit soldiers for Zhu Zhanji, strengthen the Crown Prince’s grandson’s palace, and even assign him guard duties for the front section of the inner palace (the inner palace guards were divided into front, rear, left, and right sections by location) to check the Crown Prince.
Previously, Zhu Zhanji had calculated the cannon explosion injury to resolve the Prince Han problem in one stroke, rescuing the Eastern Palace from its embattled situation. The Crown Prince vaguely guessed something but said nothing, only wept. Father and son understood each other tacitly with perfect coordination.
Zhu Zhanji’s self-sacrifice to resolve the Eastern Palace crisis filled the Crown Prince with gratitude toward his son that transcended normal father-son affection. The father-son relationship, previously strained by rumors of “deposing the Crown Prince to install the Crown Prince’s grandson,” began to mend.
However, before this gap was fully repaired, Emperor Yongle’s assignment of twenty-eight thousand youth army to Zhu Zhanji severely slapped the Crown Prince’s face.
Truly, when it rains, it pours.
Zhu Zhanji had no choice—he had to align with his grandfather the emperor. If his grandfather wanted him to check the Eastern Palace, he had to comply. If he let his grandfather think he listened to the Crown Prince, his position as Crown Prince’s grandson would be abolished.
While Zhu Zhanji was internally conflicted, the carefree Zhu Zhanhe volunteered: “Big Cousin! If you’re too busy, I can help you. I have experience from training the Tiancel Guard with Father King, and I’m free anyway.”
Zhu Zhanji didn’t dare agree immediately and first asked Emperor Yongle, who nodded: “Let Zhanhe help you. The youth army comes from civilians, not military households, so they’re undisciplined and lawless, mocked by military households as a rabble. They’re like a piece of iron—you and Zhanhe must cut, hammer, and polish this iron into a sharp blade that you can wield skillfully. This is harder than studying. I give you one year—after a year, I want to see an army, not just a bunch of good-for-nothings. Can you do it?”
Zhu Zhanji was young after all, and hearing this, his blood boiled: “Grandson and Second Cousin will not fail in our mission!”
Emperor Yongle was very satisfied with his eldest grandson’s reaction, especially seeing Zhu Zhanji and Zhu Zhanhe’s affectionate relationship and mutual assistance, closer than real brothers. He thought that even if the sons’ generation had many conflicts, it didn’t matter—sons would age and die. As long as the grandsons got along harmoniously, the imperial family would remain stable.
Just then it struck the hour, and hearing the clock chime, Emperor Yongle quickly shifted his attention to the wooden ox on the imperial desk, waiting for the ox to walk and the shepherd boy to play his flute.
But this time the wooden ox didn’t move at all, though the shepherd boy did pop out from its back.
This made Emperor Yongle anxious: “What’s wrong? Is it broken already? Quickly, tell Palace Superintendent Hu to call her sister to repair the wooden ox clock.”
A’Lei was thus urgently summoned to the palace. Emperor Yongle gave her the wooden ox he had seized from his grandson to see if it could be saved.
To see clearly, A’Lei put on her glasses and removed the wooden shell, revealing the mechanical interior as intricately intertwined as tree roots.
A’Lei held up a Western-style magnifying glass with a wooden handle, allowing her to see even wheel axles only a quarter the size of a fingernail clearly.
A focused girl is most beautiful. Zhu Zhanji most admired her serious demeanor as she immersed herself in the mechanical interactions and connections, ignoring even someone like his grandfather the emperor who naturally carried an aura of authority, as if even the imperial palace had disappeared, leaving only the wooden ox clock in her hands.
This was Emperor Yongle’s first close look at A’Lei. He never imagined that Mu Chun’s carefree and unrestrained personality combined with Hu Shanwei’s careful thinking and skillful maneuvering in fame and fortune could produce such a daughter—distant from worldly concerns, uniquely skilled, and unmovable as a mountain.
Watching her focused expression, cold and calm as a porcelain doll, she was truly an extraordinary young lady.
A’Lei set down the magnifying glass and said: “Your Majesty, several gears are jammed. This commoner woman needs to disassemble all the parts and craft new replacements. It will take about a month. May this commoner woman take it to the small workshop at home for repair?”
Hearing it could be saved, Emperor Yongle readily agreed.
A’Lei left the palace carrying the wooden ox clock.
Meanwhile, at Guanyin Mountain in Jiangning County outside the capital, at the Mu family ancestral graves, today was the death anniversary of Princess Zhaojing, Madam Feng.
The Mu residence had already come to pay respects in the morning. Mu Chun deliberately waited until evening when there were no people around before secretly appearing with a basket of incense, candles, and other offerings to visit his mother.
Mu Chun had just lit three incense sticks when he heard someone call from behind: “Big Brother? It really is you!”
Second brother Mu Sheng and third brother Mu Ang were both stationed in Yunnan, leaving only fourth brother Mu Xin, the Prince Consort, in the capital.
Since receiving Ji Gang’s warning and tacit approval, Mu Xin had confirmed the truth that big brother Mu Chun wasn’t dead and that Miss Hu was actually his and Palace Superintendent Hu’s daughter.
Mu Xin didn’t dare openly visit the Hu family, so he could only wait by the family graves, thinking his big brother might appear on their mother’s death anniversary, hiding in the pine forest before the graves.
In April, with insects and snakes emerging, Mu Xin suffered considerably but finally waited for a familiar figure to appear.