On the day of Renwu in the eighth month of the first year of Xuande’s reign, the scorching sun hung high in the sky as tens of thousands of elite Ming troops surrounded the small city of Le’an Prefecture, sealing it off completely. Beyond the four gates, battle flags blocked out the sun as dense formations of cavalry and infantry units moved back and forth with thunderous calls. On every nearby hill, dark cannon muzzles pointed ominously toward the city. Outside the south gate of Le’an Prefecture, the Emperor’s grand battle standard stood prominently on a high mound, drawing all eyes from both inside and outside the city. Zhu Zhanji sat beneath the imperial yellow parasol, crop in hand, staring grimly at the tightly shut gates.
A year had passed since his ascension to the throne. With the court now stable, it was time for a thorough reckoning.
Suddenly, a rumbling sound arose as the two city gates slowly pushed open from within. A group of people with ashen faces stumbled out. Leading them was Prince Han, Zhu Gaoxu, his hair completely white, barefoot, and disheveled, like a walking corpse. Behind him were Crown Prince Zhu Zhantan and the children and relatives of Prince Han’s household. Among the procession was a stretcher bearing Jin Rong’s corpse. From the wounds on the body, it was clear there had been a fierce struggle before death.
As the procession approached the battle standard, a young censor in blue robes rushed out from beside the Emperor. He single-handedly blocked Prince Han’s path, spread his wide sleeves, and began delivering a stern rebuke.
The censor’s voice boomed like rolling thunder, clear to soldiers and civilians near and far. His words were sharp, each phrase striking vital points like several great general cannons firing in unison. Only when Prince Han fell to his knees, trembling and begging for mercy, did the censor cease his condemnation. He turned and bowed to the Emperor on the height, announcing in a loud voice: “Prince Han requests to surrender!”
At once, drums thundered and bronze horns blared as tens of thousands of people shouted “Long live the Emperor!”
The Emperor watched it all, yet felt no joy at eliminating this great threat. The arrow wound on his shoulder had long healed, though it would occasionally ache as time passed, the pain seeming to sink deeper. Perhaps Su Jingxi was right – the wound had truly penetrated deep, and he might not live to old age.
“Your Majesty, you should rise to accept the surrender,” Hai Shou whispered beside the imperial carriage. The Emperor sighed and slowly stood. At that moment, a memorial slipped from his cloud-embroidered sleeve. He bent to pick it up and dusted it off, but didn’t open it to read. This memorial had been on his sleeve for a year; he could recite every character by heart.
This was a joint memorial submitted by the Changling Guard and the Imperial Temple Office in the sixth month of the first year of Hongxi’s reign, briefly describing the aftermath of that strange great fire: the upper portion of the Ming Tower was completely burned; many sections of the treasure city walls had collapsed; the burial mound was burned to bare earth without a single piece of wood remaining, though fortunately the underground palace and sacrificial temple were unharmed. In the subsequent cleanup, Zhang Quan’s remains were found in the Ming Tower ruins, but no trace was found of the two criminals’ bodies.
The memorialists suggested that perhaps the intense fire had completely incinerated the remains, or they might have been rescued, as White Lotus sect activity had been noticed in the area. All of this required further investigation. At the bottom of the memorial was the Emperor’s personal vermillion rescript: “Close the matter here, no need to search further.”
The Xuande Emperor silently folded it and casually placed it under a small incense burner beside him. The burner was made of wind-polished bronze, its design personally overseen by the Emperor with extremely detailed requirements for its form. It was said the Ministry of Works had ordered a batch of red copper from Siam and would begin mass production in two years. No one knew why the Emperor was so particular about this incense burner.
“In the end, only these incense burners keep me company.”
Amid the clamorous victory cheers, the Emperor descended from his carriage and walked forward. Several dozen great Han generals lined up in two rows, holding ceremonial weapons, creating a wide passage. Prince Han’s group trembled at the end of the path, awaiting imperial judgment.
Zhu Zhanji walked to Prince Han’s front and tilted his head slightly upward. His gaze didn’t linger on his uncle at all, but passed over Le’an Prefecture’s walls, over hills and mountains, falling to the horizon’s edge. There lay a thousand-li river flowing north and south day and night, its boats moving like shuttles, prosperous to the extreme, as if this was how things were always meant to be.