Chapter 458: A Single Memorial Stirs Up Turbulent Waves
When Zhu Ping’an cast his line and pulled a massive fish from the water, the day-long wind and rain over the capital gradually subsided. A damp mist lingered over the city, shrouding the streets and alleys in a soft, ethereal haze. Trees and flowers, still glistening with raindrops, appeared and vanished in the fog like spirits wandering in a dream. The entire Ming Empire seemed to hum with peace and prosperity, as if the world itself had paused for a moment of quiet celebration.
Yet at that very moment, the memorial Zhu Ping’an had submitted to the Tongzheng Office before leaving had begun to stir a considerable commotion.
Initially, Zhu Ping’an’s memorial had been buried among a pile of other submissions filled with praises and formalities, blending into the bureaucratic background. The left and right councillors of the Tongzheng Office, responsible for the preliminary review, had long grown numb from handling such reports. They flipped through dozens of documents, all alike—lavish in praise, unremarkable in substance—and no one had thought to pay particular attention.
The left and right councillors arranged the memorials according to the submitting officials’ ranks, then followed standard procedure, passing them upward for further review. Once the higher authorities had examined them, the documents would be forwarded to the Grand Secretariat.
This batch included thirty-eight memorials, each carefully ordered by official rank.
“Huh… this one is from a sixth-rank officer?” The left councillor frowned as he came across the last document, a minor official’s work buried at the bottom. His surprise quickly shifted to disdain, his lips curling into a faint sneer.
The memorials he had just reviewed had come from fourth-rank ministers at the very least. By comparison, this sudden appearance of a sixth-rank official’s report seemed laughable. During holidays or ceremonial occasions, it was common for these minor officials—sixth or seventh rank—to submit letters of congratulations, and that was somewhat acceptable. But to suddenly join in this display of ambition? It was absurd. Did they not understand their own station?
The right councillor shook his head with a similar mixture of disbelief and derision. “Here we go again—some bright young thing trying to get ahead through opportunism. Every year, there are always one or two fools attempting this, but such memorials are endless. At most, they get a cursory ‘read’ and then vanish into oblivion.”
For the left and right councillors, memorials from minor officials were a familiar sight. Each year, a handful of small-time bureaucrats would pen reports filled with flattery, omens, and exaggerated accomplishments, hoping to attract the emperor’s favor. Reality, however, was harsh: such memorials were like a drop in the ocean—ineffectual and quickly ignored. The imperial court received countless similar submissions from officials far above their rank. Minor officials’ memorials rarely progressed beyond the briefest acknowledgment, a single word—Reviwed—marking their fate before being consigned to the archives.
Yet despite these recurring failures, the wide-eyed dreamers never ceased to hope. None ever rose to power through these letters; the aspirations remained nothing more than the reflection of the moon on water, beautiful but unreachable.
“Huh… Zhu Ping’an?” one councillor muttered, the name ringing faintly familiar.
“There are countless names we see every day. Perhaps he’s someone vouched for by a superior,” the other replied.
“Maybe… but it doesn’t matter. People like him need to hit the wall a few times before they learn.” The left councillor shook his head, chuckling before passing the memorial to a clerk, instructing him to submit it to the Tongzheng Historian.
The Tongzheng Historian, the chief administrative officer of the Tongzheng Office, was a third-rank official overseeing the reception and forwarding of memorials, official correspondence, and responses. At the moment the memorial arrived, he was busy drafting a formal report for Grand Secretary Yan, a task assigned to him with strict instructions to complete before day’s end.
During ceremonies, countless flattering memorials arrived, usually trivial and unworthy of detailed scrutiny. Trusting the preliminary review done by the councillors, the historian would often give these documents a cursory glance, noting them merely to be registered and stamped for submission to the Grand Secretariat.
Thus, Zhu Ping’an’s memorial, mingled among a stack of sycophantic reports, was logged, stamped, and forwarded without further thought.
The purpose of registering memorials was to prevent powerful officials from withholding submissions for personal gain—a system established during the tenure of former Grand Minister Xia Yan. Every document sent to the Grand Secretariat had to be handled officially; none could be secretly retained.
What passed without ripple in the Tongzheng Office caused an uproar in the Grand Secretariat.
The Secretariat was not solely composed of ministers like Yan Song; it also employed supporting clerks. These clerks were the first to handle incoming memorials. The earlier documents were predictable, full of praise and formalities. When Zhu Ping’an’s memorial arrived, the clerk initially shared the same condescending smile, amused at yet another minor official trying to make a mark.
“Oh, Zhu Ping’an… the top candidate of this round, huh? Let’s see how he flatters the court,” the clerk mused, opening the document.
But after a single glance, his smile vanished, replaced by a grave, tense expression.
“Sir Dong, what’s wrong?” another clerk asked, curious.
Dong handed over the memorial without a word. The moment the second clerk read it, his complexion turned pale.
Accusing a mere hundred-household officer might have been trivial, but this report implicated the falsification of military achievements—and touched upon the Gengxu Incident from the previous year, a fresh wound in the Ming dynasty’s pride and a public embarrassment for Emperor Jiajing.
The stakes were severe.
The Gengxu Incident had left the empire humiliated. Only after the retreat of the Andab troops did local generals execute over a hundred enemy soldiers, reclaiming some measure of dignity for the empire. Memorials praising these generals had even been personally approved by Grand Secretary Yan Song. The case also involved multiple departments, including the Ministry of Rites and the Ministry of Personnel. One hundred-household officers with significant achievements had been promoted multiple ranks—was this the very officer being impeached?
Though the accusation concerned only a minor officer, its implications were enormous—a burning political hot potato.
At that moment, Dong and the others felt a surge of resentment toward the Tongzheng Office. What was their purpose? How could such a sensitive memorial be transmitted so quickly to the Secretariat? Surely some delay for verification and review should have been enforced, allowing sufficient time to manage the aftermath. Ten or fifteen days of administrative delay would have been perfectly reasonable.
Yet here it was, sent immediately.
Unable to hesitate, Dong and his colleagues selected Zhu Ping’an’s memorial with extreme care and delivered it to the ministers’ quarters, bracing themselves for what was to come.
Outside, as they waited, a sharp slap of a hand against a table echoed from within the room. The sound jolted them to the bone.
Sighing, one thought bitterly, so much for a few days of peace…