Under Huang Jin’s anxious gaze, Emperor Jiajing picked up the topmost memorial from the young eunuch’s hands and opened it.
With just a glance, Jiajing let out a “hehe” and laughed.
Huang Jin’s spirits lifted instantly, his eyes gleaming as he looked at the memorial in Jiajing’s hands, like a man dying of thirst in a desert spotting a bottle of water.
Which lord submitted this memorial, and what great news did it contain that the emperor laughed after just one look?
The heavens had finally shown mercy—the emperor could calm down and have some food! Hmm, what should he order from the imperial kitchen for this snowy weather? The emperor was dressed so lightly, so a steaming pot of mutton soup would be perfect, paired with some fresh greenhouse vegetables to dip in it, and a jug of warm rice wine to heat him up.
As for the rest of the dishes, he’d leave it to the imperial kitchen to sort out, yes, that’d do, he’d arrange it that way shortly.
In the blink of an eye after Jiajing’s “hehe,” Huang Jin had already planned out the meal arrangements.
But just as Huang Jin’s mood brightened, Jiajing’s next words shattered his newfound hope into pieces.
“Hehe, would you look at that, I called it—they’re actually blaming this snow on me too.”
Jiajing sneered coldly.
In an instant, the temperature in the hall seemed to drop seven or eight degrees, as if they were suddenly in an ice cellar.
Huang Jin’s heart sank, as if he’d plummeted from the heights of a rainbow cloud to crash hard onto the ground.
Damn it, which blasted minister wrote this memorial? He’d thought it was something good, but it turned out to be so infuriating it made the emperor laugh in anger—how maddening must it be to push him to that point?!
Curse it!
To even pin the snow outside on the emperor—he’d find out who this minister was later and have the factory guards watch his entire household, from family to servants, twelve hours a day without missing a beat.
No one in this world is truly clean, he refused to believe they couldn’t dig up some dirt, and when they did, he’d make sure that minister paid.
Huang Jin quietly resolved himself.
“This memorial says that with the freezing weather and continuous snowfall, the people—especially those in the city—are scrambling to hoard meat, vegetables, rice, grain, oil, and other supplies, causing shortages and driving up prices, and because I ordered the circulation of official coins and banned shoddy private coins, there aren’t enough coins in the market for trade, further spiking prices… Look at this, look at this, they’ll pin anything on me!”
Jiajing tossed the memorial to Huang Jin, fuming.
Huang Jin respectfully caught it with both hands, quickly scanning it, the contents matched what Jiajing had said, he then zeroed in on the submitter: Liu Zui, a censor!
Liu Zui!
Fine, I’ve got you marked!
Huang Jin committed Liu Zui’s name to memory, determined to have the factory guards tail him, his family, and his servants, digging up every scrap of dirt to teach this wretch a lesson later.
“Huang Ban, how do you think I should handle him?!” Jiajing turned to Huang Jin, asking slowly.
“Forgive me, True Lord, this servant doesn’t know,” Huang Jin replied, dropping to his knees to beg forgiveness the moment Jiajing asked how to deal with Liu Zui.
Emperor Taizu, Zhu Yuanzhang, had explicitly forbidden eunuchs from meddling in politics.
Though that rule was now more or less a formality, and Huang Jin effectively wielded power by drafting edicts on Jiajing’s behalf, he still adhered to that line in the emperor’s presence, never crossing it, every edict he drafted strictly followed Jiajing’s verbal instructions, reflecting only the emperor’s will, never his own opinions.
So when Jiajing asked him how to handle Liu Zui, he immediately knelt and pleaded guilty.
“You rascal, I was just asking your opinion, look how scared you got,” Jiajing laughed, shaking his head.
“Hmm, he says my issuing official coins and banning shoddy private ones has left the market short of coins for trade, doesn’t he?! Then let him go figure out exactly how much coin the market is ‘short,’ whatever amount he finds, I’ll issue that much in official coins, if he can’t find out, don’t blame me for being harsh.”
Jiajing kicked the memorial toward Huang Jin with his foot, ordering, “Draft it, have him investigate for me just how much coin the market is ‘short,’ it must be precise, with well-founded data.”
“By the True Lord’s decree,” Huang Jin shuffled forward on his knees, picked up the memorial with both hands, stood slowly, and retreated to the drafting table, bowing as he went, he lifted a red brush and began writing Jiajing’s instructions beside the memorial.
Huang Jin knew Liu Zui was in for it now—no need for the factory guards to watch him around the clock anymore.
Investigate how much coin the market was “short”? And make it precise, with well-founded data?
That task was impossibly vast and difficult, practically unfeasible.
The Ming Dynasty spanned two capitals and thirteen provincial administrations, below which were prefectures and counties, with cities as numerous as a chessboard and villages beyond counting, the population numbered in the tens of millions, across such a vast territory with so many people, how could anyone determine how much coin was “short” for trade? Where would you even start, how could you possibly figure it out? It was a complete mess of an account—how could it be precise or well-founded?!
Liu Zui wouldn’t be able to handle this decree, he’d never find out, at best he’d stumble through it and come up with a vague tally.
But that would mean defying the emperor’s orders—the emperor demanded precision and evidence.
So Liu Zui was bound to bear the crime of disobeying imperial will, dismissal and investigation would be the least of it, exile wouldn’t even be surprising.
Yet neither Liu Zui nor the court could fault the emperor, because it was Liu Zui who claimed that issuing official coins and banning shoddy ones caused a coin shortage in the market, driving up prices.
You said there’s a shortage? Then go find out how much—perfectly reasonable, right?
After this, surely no one would dare criticize the emperor’s policy on official coins and banning private ones again.
Next, Jiajing opened another memorial, his face darkened instantly, and he threw it to the ground in a rage.
This one didn’t directly say his fasting was wrong or that it wasted money, instead suggesting he redirect the funds used for fasting to military expenses and the people’s livelihood.
“Scoundrel! My fasting is for the empire and the people! With such supreme devotion, how could a mere subject understand?!”
Jiajing erupted in curses.
Huang Jin, drafting nearby, nearly spat blood—these ministers couldn’t let the emperor have a moment of peace and a meal, could they?!
