Chapter 413: Lift the Maritime Ban

Zhu Ping’an returned to the library under a flurry of red-tinged eyes, particularly those of Yuan Wei, the Hanlin scholar-attendant, whose gaze glittered with unmistakable malice.

Yuan Wei had seen the note that the Jiajing Emperor had given to Zhu Ping’an. The message—“Sweet and sour fish goes well with rice”—clearly signaled that Zhu Ping’an’s poetry had won the emperor’s favor. This recognition made Yuan Wei bristle with indignation. To him, Zhu Ping’an was nothing more than an opportunist, a man whose poetic talent was mediocre at best. In Yuan Wei’s eyes, the emperor’s praise was not a reflection of genuine skill but a triumph of cunning.

In the past, whenever the Jiajing Emperor sent notes demanding that the Hanlin Academy submit poetry or elegant verses, Yuan Wei had always been the one to win the emperor’s heart. If Zhu Ping’an’s work had genuinely surpassed his own, perhaps he could have swallowed his pride—but what Zhu Ping’an had written? Even the simplest verses by most of the other scholars present carried more charm and poetic spirit than his.

The more Yuan Wei thought about it, the more irritable he became. It was as if a scruffy little rooster had wandered into a flock of peacocks, only to somehow strut atop their heads and claim the prize for the most splendid display.

Meanwhile, Zhu Ping’an returned to the library and resumed his monumental task of organizing the books. The collection was vast—truly a sea of knowledge. Ten meticulously arranged shelves felt like a mere speck against the backdrop of the six-room library. The task was immense, daunting, but Zhu Ping’an was prepared. He reminded himself that even the longest journey begins with a single step. Patience, persistence, and steady progress—this was his approach.

While Zhu Ping’an worked, the Jiajing Emperor, refreshed after a hearty meal, took a small pill the size of a quail’s egg—a so-called “immortal elixir”—and began to tackle the memorials sent up through the Grand Secretariat.

The emperor was not a ruler who neglected governance for the pursuit of alchemy and immortality. Had he been, the Ming Dynasty might well have fallen long ago.

Though he often skipped court sessions, the emperor still held the reins of the empire firmly in his own hands. This truth had been burned into his understanding during his youth, amid disputes with his ministers over ceremonial protocol.

Of course, the documents he reviewed were never raw memorials but those already processed by the Secretariat. A memorial first passed through the Secretariat, where clerks noted their opinions in black ink as a draft. This draft was then submitted to the emperor. Should the emperor approve, he would use a red brush to make his annotations.

This system, known as the piao-ni process, saved the emperor considerable time and effort.

Yet Jiajing made it even simpler: he delegated the task of marking the red ink to his trusted eunuch, Huang Jin.

In many ways, the Jiajing Emperor was a masterful ruler. He could sit out court sessions yet keep the Ming Dynasty firmly under his control, using methods that conserved time, energy, and mental strain.

Seated on an octagonal meditation cushion, the emperor held a handle made from the finest agarwood, next to a translucent jade bowl-shaped chime. He cast a nod toward Huang Jin. One glance from the emperor conveyed the entire command.

Huang Jin swiftly brought forward a stack of draft memorials, laying them on a low table. He prepared the red brush and inkstone, then knelt in reverence, performing a deep bow.

Once the ritual was complete, Huang Jin took the top memorial, opened it, and read aloud. He then read the Secretariat’s draft version for the emperor’s review. Placing the memorial aside, he perked his ears in anticipation.

Clang…

The emperor tapped the jade chime lightly with the agarwood handle. The metallic, resonant sound filled the room.

Huang Jin, understanding immediately, dipped the red brush into the ink and began to carefully copy the Secretariat’s draft in red. This was the emperor’s method: the eunuch could only mark the red brush when the chime sounded. One sound meant approval; without it, no red marks could be made.

The process continued. After marking one memorial, Huang Jin read two more, each time waiting for the chime before making his red annotations. Within a short while, five memorials had been processed.

Then, Huang Jin picked up the sixth memorial and paused, staring in surprise.

“What is it?” the emperor asked, his meditation unbroken.

“Your Majesty,” Huang Jin replied, “this memorial comes from Dong Wei, the Censor of Zhejiang. He petitions for a relaxation of the maritime ban, to allow fishing and forestry, and to increase revenue for the state.”

Each memorial was at least several hundred words. Even with Huang Jin’s patience, the emperor could not listen to each word. Instead, Huang Jin summarized the content concisely yet accurately—one of the reasons he was so trusted.

The reason Huang Jin hesitated was the sensitivity of this particular memorial. The court had long been divided over maritime policy. On one side, the relaxation faction argued for opening trade, collecting taxes from the ports, and aligning with maritime commerce. On the other, the strict faction demanded rigid enforcement, citing the rampant Wokou pirates along Zhejiang and Fujian, and insisted no private vessels should sail. Both factions had strong supporters, even within the inner circle of Yan Song’s allies.

The stakes were enormous. The profits of the State Shipping Office were legendary, documented in previous dynasties. During the Song and Yuan, its revenue had been several times that of land taxes—literally silver flowing in by the shipload.

The strict faction’s motives were not purely defensive; hidden within were private interests. Smuggling thrived if ports remained closed, with wealthy merchants bribing local officials for protection. Opening the ports would directly threaten their gains.

These were only the surface. The conflicts beneath were far more intricate, tangled with greed, power, and bloodshed. Three years prior, the Right Deputy Censor of the Ming, Zhu Wan, had been a brutal example.

Zhu Wan was an uncompromising strict-enforcement faction member. He combated pirates, attacked the smuggling hub of Shuangyu Island, executed the pirate leader Li Guangtou, and even beheaded coastal residents trading with Europeans without mercy. The relaxation faction seized upon this to accuse him of executing punishment without imperial approval, demanding his dismissal. The emperor ordered Zhu Wan brought to the capital for trial.

“I am poor and sickly, yet proud of my integrity. I cannot face the court. Even if the emperor spares me, the people of Fujian and Zhejiang would kill me. I will die by my own hand, without burdening others,” Zhu Wan had said, before facing the sea and drinking poison.

Such examples were countless. The term maritime ban had, in recent years, become one that sent chills through those who heard it. Huang Jin, fully aware of these deadly undercurrents, hesitated before proceeding.