Chapter 476: Three Memorials to the Throne—Will Fate Diverge?
When Zhu Ping’an finally awoke upon that lonely stretch of shore, the navy’s search-and-rescue fleet had already completed its sweep of the surrounding waters and turned back toward port.
The sea had swallowed what it would.
Of the pirates who had launched the assault that day, those not claimed by the waves had all fallen into the hands of the imperial navy. Even the one-eyed pirate captain and Sanji—the man in the black haori—had been captured alive from the churning sea. It could be said that the entire pirate force had been annihilated. Not a single one escaped the net.
The majority, however, had perished beneath the waves.
True, pirates were famed for their skill in the water; they lived by the sea and knew its moods better than most. But that day, against towering walls of water that rose like wrathful mountains, even their prowess proved pitifully inadequate. Their small craft were no match for the storm. One after another, their boats were smashed and overturned, pounded down into the dark abyss.
Those who survived were largely the ones who had stormed the navy’s rear supply ships. Those vessels were sturdier, built for endurance rather than speed, their hulls thick and broad enough to resist wind and wave.
Yet even among the navy’s own ships, disaster struck.
Aside from the vessel that had carried Li Shu and Zhu Ping’an, two other supply ships had been snapped in half or overturned by the raging sea and dragged into the depths. The remaining ships escaped capsizing, though most suffered heavy damage. In other words, Zhu Ping’an and the others had drawn ill fortune—of the three ships swallowed by the sea, theirs was one.
Worse still, their ship had been one of the two primary targets of the pirate assault. It had borne the brunt of the attack. By the time the waves overturned it, the pirates aboard had already suffered grievous losses.
As for the older matrons and maids who had accompanied Li Shu—they were comparatively fortunate. Though captured early in the assault and bound to the mast by the pirates, it was that very mast that saved them. When the colossal wave struck, the mast remained upright long enough to keep them above the waterline. By the time the navy returned to reinforce, they were rescued alive.
The counterattacking navy made swift work of the remaining pirates on the supply ships. Those who resisted were cut down without mercy; those who surrendered were taken prisoner. Some were beheaded on the spot, their heads preserved in salt as proof of military merit. Even the pirates who survived adrift in the sea were rounded up and captured. The one-eyed captain and Sanji were among those dragged from the water in chains.
After the battlefield was cleared and tallied, the results were staggering.
Ninety-eight pirate heads were taken—including corpses recovered from the sea. Sixty-three pirates were captured alive. The rest lay somewhere beneath the waves, lost without trace.
Of the heads collected, twenty-eight were confirmed to be genuine Japanese pirates; seventy were impostors posing as such. Among the captured, thirteen were genuine, fifty impostors.
According to interrogation reports, a total of three hundred and sixty-eight pirates had participated in the attack. That meant over two hundred had perished in the sea.
Measured by results alone, it was an overwhelming victory. In recent years of coastal anti-pirate campaigns, few battles could boast such brilliance. When these achievements were memorialized and sent to the capital, rich rewards were certain to follow.
And yet—
Linhuai Marquis could not summon even a fragment of joy.
For among those “lost to the sea” were his niece, Li Shu… and his prospective nephew-in-law, Zhu Ping’an—the court’s sixth-rank official.
Li Shu was the treasured pearl in Third Brother’s palm. Third Brother’s indulgent love for his daughter was legendary throughout the Marquis’ household. Leaving aside his mysterious official position, even in terms of wealth alone, the Marquis’ estate maintained its current grandeur largely thanks to Third Brother’s generous contributions. Just imagining Third Brother’s reaction to the news made Linhuai Marquis’ temples throb painfully.
And Zhu Ping’an—he was no small matter either.
The youngest zhuangyuan in the history of the Great Ming. Admitted early into the Hanlin Academy. Personally summoned by the Emperor and promoted on the spot.
He was someone whose name had already been spoken before the Son of Heaven.
For such a man to vanish into the sea without a body to show…
How was that to be explained?
Linhuai Marquis rubbed the edge of the table, his expression dark and strained.
Upon the table before him sat a tray. On it lay a gold hairpin.
The hairpin had been discovered around the neck of a pirate’s floating corpse during the search operation. Because the pin bore the character “Li,” the navy had immediately reported it to the Marquis.
He recognized it at once.
The engraved “Li” was the secret mark commonly used by Third Brother’s family shops. This particular craftsmanship—this delicate curvature and intricate detailing—could only belong to his niece, Li Shu.
It was this very hairpin that convinced him she had perished.
In his mind’s eye, he could almost see the scene: pirates surging aboard, Li Shu resisting desperately, stabbing one in the neck with her hairpin before the wave swept them both into the sea, dragging them down together in a final, defiant struggle.
Beside the hairpin lay a belt.
Zhu Ping’an’s belt.
It too had been found on that same pirate corpse.
It was on the basis of these two items that the Marquis concluded Zhu Ping’an had likewise drowned.
After a long silence, Linhuai Marquis rose and walked to the cabin window. Without hesitation, he gathered the gold hairpin and the belt and cast them into the sea below.
The water swallowed them without a sound.
“If Third Brother asks,” he said quietly after closing the window, “tell him Shu’er disappeared amid the storm. Zhu Ping’an, Lord Zhu, disappeared as well. The navy searched, but found nothing.”
He had thrown away the proof of death.
To say they were “lost at sea” meant finality—an end beneath the waves.
To say they were “missing” left room for hope.
Hope softened grief. Hope made explanations bearable.
With hope, perhaps Third Brother would not…
“Rest assured, my lord,” the steward who had served him for years replied with a respectful nod. “I understand.”
Linhuai Marquis gave a weary nod. “I trust you.”
At that time, news of the naval victory had not yet reached the capital. Yet the capital was far from calm.
Only days earlier, Zhu Ping’an’s memorial exposing the practice of slaughtering innocents to falsely claim military merit had stirred ripples across the court. Before those ripples had settled, two more memorials had crashed into the political waters like stones, sending up even greater waves.
The first came from Zhao Jin, the Imperial Inspector of Yunnan and Guizhou, dispatched from thousands of miles away. His memorial did not flatter the current Grand Secretary, Yan Song.
It impeached him.
Zhao Jin cited ominous celestial signs: a solar eclipse on New Year’s Day, floods in Shandong and the Huai-Xu region, repeated earthquakes. From Heaven’s portents he turned to human affairs, accusing Yan Song of abusing imperial favor, monopolizing power, manipulating judicial offices to serve personal grudges, and reducing matters of life and death to the thickness of bribes. Corruption festered, shame was abandoned, the state weakened.
He urged the Emperor to heed Heaven’s warning and dismiss Yan Song at once.
The arrow shot from a thousand miles away struck unexpectedly. The court trembled.
But Yan Song, following the counsel of his son Yan Shifan, chose a strategy of retreat to advance.
The white-haired Grand Secretary entered the palace in tears, appearing exhausted and wronged. Before the Jiajing Emperor, he wept loudly and begged to be relieved of his office, requesting permission to retire.
The Emperor watched him in silence for three full minutes.
Then he spoke gently.
An imperial edict was issued: Zhao Jin was accused of “deceiving Heaven and slandering the sovereign.” The Embroidered Uniform Guard arrested him. He was thrown into the imperial prison, flogged forty strokes, stripped of office, and reduced to commoner status.
The second memorial came from Zhou Mian of the Ministry of War’s Military Selection Bureau. Like Zhu Ping’an’s, it concerned false claims of military merit—but this time the target was Yan Xiaozhong.
And who was Yan Xiaozhong?
He was Yan Song’s grandson. Yan Shifan’s son.
An infant, still swaddled, not yet weaned.
Zhou Mian accused that this milk-scented child, who had never set foot on a battlefield, had nevertheless been granted military credit from campaigns in Guangdong and Guangxi, and awarded the post of Commandant and a thousand-household rank. He pointed directly at Yan Song, charging him with advancing his own descendants through corrupt favoritism.
Zhou Mian fared no better than Zhao Jin.
He too was imprisoned, tortured, stripped of rank.
Anyone who impeached Yan Song—or even touched someone connected to him—fell swiftly and utterly.
Thus, the capital watched.
They watched Zhu Ping’an’s memorial carefully, cautiously, waiting to see what fate would befall him.
There were differences, certainly. Zhao Jin had targeted Yan Song directly. Zhou Mian had targeted his kin.
Zhu Ping’an had not done so outright.
But the official he impeached had been promoted by Yan Song.
And in the Great Ming court, connections were everything.
So they waited.
And the storm at court had only just begun.