Chapter Forty-Eight: One Is One, Two Is Two

Loyalty—to the nation, to the emperor, to the order of the realm, and to one’s own true heart.

The order of the realm is rooted in filial piety. Throughout the ages, governance has always been based on filial respect. This filial piety encompasses obedience and the proper observance of rank and age, where everyone fulfills their due role and finds peace within their place.

“The Son of Heaven is the sovereign of the world and the father of all people,” Zhang Juzheng began by explaining the origin of the term “lord and father,” which has existed since ancient times. The Spring and Autumn Annals state: “Ministers turning their backs on their lords and fathers—though their affairs differ, their nature is the same.” The Zuo Commentary says: “The commands of lords and fathers are not to be disregarded.” The Records of the Grand Historian also mentions: “Though lords and fathers hold high status, they cannot usurp the affections of their subjects; a common man cannot be deprived of his will.”

From the Spring and Autumn period to the Records of the Grand Historian, and on through the Book of Han, the Later Han, the Records of Wei, the Book of Jin, the Book of Sui, the Old and New Tang Histories, the History of Song, and the Veritable Records, all make reference to this principle.

This touches upon the fundamental logic of how the realm operates.

Zhang Juzheng answered His Majesty’s question about the origin of the lord and father and continued, “A benevolent person is human, and filial love is foremost; righteousness is propriety, and honoring the virtuous is paramount. The distinctions in filial affection and the ranks among the virtuous are born of propriety.”

“Filial piety, respect, loyalty, and steadfastness are what bring peace to the lord and father.”

Filial piety pertains to respect among elders and juniors; respect denotes reverence and awe; loyalty means fulfilling one’s true heart; steadfastness is unyielding resolve.

The lord and father sits above the ninefold heavens; if the world follows filial piety, respect, loyalty, and steadfastness, then the lord and father rests at ease.

The reason past dynasties governed by filial piety becomes clear: if all adhere to the proper hierarchy of age and rank, then the most exalted emperor will not be as perplexed as Louis XVI was.

Zhang Juzheng respectfully bowed his head and said, “The father is the lord of the household; the sovereign is the father of the nation. To regard the father as the lord and the lord as the father—these two roles are one; one is two; lord and father are one body.”

At this point, he dared not proceed further. No matter what the emperor asked or said next, Zhang Juzheng was determined not to continue, for the topic below truly could not be broached.

He feared the emperor might suddenly say, “A ten-year-old ruler—can he be a household lord? Can he be a national father?”

Zhu Yijun smiled and said, “Sir Chancellor, one is one, two is two.”

Upon hearing this, Zhang Juzheng shuddered inwardly. If His Majesty had asked about how a ten-year-old ruler could be both household lord and national father, at least Zhang Juzheng could have answered! But this “one is one, two is two”—he had no reply.

This phrase could only pass in one ear and out the other; it had to be ignored. Yet once heard, it etched itself like a brand on Zhang Juzheng’s heart.

One is one—the monarch is the monarch; two is two—the father is the father.

With this division, the order of the realm immediately collapses! The ranks among the virtuous are born of propriety; if separated, where is the law?

How can the two identities of lord and father be distinguished and separated?

Yet, “one is one, two is two”—two distinct identities cannot be conflated.

Some questions, if left unconsidered, breed no doubt; but once someone breaks the taboo and poses them, thinking becomes strange and irreversible.

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Zhu Yijun did not press further, knowing that excessive force often yields poor results. It was better to proceed gently, step by step.

“The captains and soldiers of the capital garrison are neither loyal nor filial,” he said, turning to the incident that had occurred that day and expressing his imperial view.

“Indeed,” Zhang Juzheng breathed a long sigh of relief. The emperor did not continue to debate the division of lord and father but instead spoke of how the captains of the capital garrison had caused trouble for Qi Jiguang beyond the northern outer city.

This was a straightforward issue—right and wrong were clear at a glance.

Disloyalty meant being unfaithful to the sovereign, the state, and ultimately to oneself, because the grand strategy of cultural cultivation and military might was winning great success. The status of the military was declining, yet these capital troops, also soldiers, were infighting—a betrayal of themselves.

Unfilial conduct meant violating the hierarchy of age and rank and rebelling against superiors. Qi Jiguang was a hereditary commander of a thousand households and now held the second rank as commander of the three garrisons. The captains were at best sixth rank officials, so their insubordination was unfilial.

Unloyal and unfilial, indeed.

Zhang Juzheng hoped that the simple, honest young emperor would ask more questions like this—questions that were straightforward.

The lecture continued, time flowing slowly. For Zhang Juzheng, the ordeal was agonizing. Finally, with a slight bow from the emperor, it ended.

Zhang Juzheng bade farewell and, standing under the midday sun, felt somewhat dazed. He glanced at the Wenhua Hall behind him and then turned toward the Wenyuan Pavilion. As the Grand Secretary, he had numerous memorials to draft and review daily. The merit examination system was being implemented in the capital, with the Six Boards sending him heaps of accounts to verify.

The merit examination system assigned the Six Boards to oversee the central ministries, which in turn supervised civil and military officials as well as local magistrates. Yet, intriguingly, no one appeared to monitor the Grand Secretariat itself.

In Zhang Juzheng’s design, oversight of the Secretariat was the emperor’s prerogative—or rather, imperial power.

Though the young emperor was inexperienced, Empress Dowager Li held court in the Qianqing Palace, exercising imperial authority and thus providing oversight.

After lunch, martial training, Empress Dowager Li’s review of studies, and tending the fields and transplanting rice seedlings—a busy sequence—Zhu Yijun strode toward the majestic palace as the sun set. Turning to Feng Bao and Zhang Hong, he asked, “Gentlemen, do you know what we are doing?”

“Planting fields? Your servant is simple-minded,” Feng Bao replied, puzzled. Had they not just finished planting?

Zhang Hong considered before answering, “Planting crops, trying to ensure the seedlings of potatoes and sweet potatoes take root.”

“Yes,” Zhu Yijun said firmly, “planting potatoes and sweet potatoes, nurturing them to take root, sprout, bloom, prune flowers, trim branches, remove floating roots—months later, digging them up from the earth, that is the harvest.”

“Feng Daban, I am truly planting. I want these potatoes and sweet potatoes to genuinely nourish the people. So, do not bring in fake produce bought by the eunuchs of the Yuegang Maritime Customs just to make up numbers.”

“One is one, two is two. Only by speaking with facts can we identify problems, find causes, and discover possible solutions through repeated practice. If from the start the phenomena are false and hypocritical, then everything is false.”

“Sir Chancellor taught me: scholars are mere words without practice; those who act without sincerity are disloyal; knowledge and deeds without truth are hypocrisy; and in the end, nothing is gained.”

“Virtue is to walk the path and gain from it—solid, grounded practice. Feng Daban deceived me with false appearances; how can I cultivate virtue? Practice alone is the sole test of understanding.”

Zhu Yijun had learned magnanimity, loyalty and filial piety, trustworthiness, and benevolence.

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If the appearances are all false, then all is false.

“Your servant obeys the imperial decree,” Feng Bao understood clearly what His Majesty meant: to speak with facts, rejecting the purchase of various potatoes and sweet potatoes brought to the capital to fabricate auspicious signs and deceive the emperor, ministers, and the realm.

Zhu Yijun had issued explicit orders. Should Feng Bao disobey, his downfall was certain. The iron box for reporting between father and son—used to discipline the harem—was both Feng Bao’s tool and the sword hanging over his head.

Feng Bao fully grasped the emperor’s intent: protecting the Baoqi Hall was the foremost duty; everything else was nonsense.

With the sunset fading, Zhu Yijun entered the Ming imperial palace.

The commander of the capital garrison, Wang Chonggu, was unusually absent from the city, instead at the northern outer city. The captains, banners, and soldiers who had barked defiance at Commander Qi the day before were tightly bound and pressed at the city gate. The commanding general Zhu Xizhong was also present.

Zhu Xizhong was a military hero. The bound soldiers were under his command. If he could have controlled them properly, then during the Gengxu Incident in the 29th year of Jiajing, he would have led the troops out of the Nine Gates to fight invaders in the city instead of merely defending the walls.

After the Tumu Fortress disaster, the Ming capital garrison was devastated. Yu Qian was appointed overseer of military affairs, and Shi Heng was the garrison commander. Under the edicts of Emperor Ming Daizong Jing, the capital garrison was rebuilt. In the 14th year of Zhengtong, a newly formed garrison marched beyond the city to defend the civilian settlements, firmly pinning the Mongol forces at Xichimen and Deshengmen gates—at the western and northern outer cities—and ultimately repelling them.

Zhu Xizhong was a military hero, but the garrison he led could only rely on the city walls, awaiting the retreat of the enemy after eight days of plunder.

Zhu Xizhong could not control the capital garrison. Though placed above other military nobles and deeply trusted by the emperor, as a warrior official he was fading in influence. If he could not manage the garrison, who could?

The military affairs commander of the capital garrison, Wang Chonggu, could.

Sometimes Zhu Xizhong envied Qi Jiguang, who had ambushed and annihilated the entire band of the fox Dong, and even captured Dong’s nephew when he came to aid. The military governor of Ji Prefecture, Liang Menglong, did not impeach Qi but instead lavishly praised his valor.

Qi Jiguang could train troops, fight battles, and win. Moreover, no one plotted against him after victory. Zhu Xizhong had none of these conditions.

“Commander Qi, cough, cough…” Zhu Xizhong coughed. Injuries sustained in the defense of the capital in the 29th year of Jiajing had left him chronically ill. The chilly, drizzling rain of early spring triggered relentless coughing.

“Greetings, Duke Cheng and Lord Wang,” Qi Jiguang bowed respectfully but did not kneel, merely inclining his head in salute.

In Ming protocol, there were two distinct schools regarding whether officials should kneel before one another. The first, led by Hai Rui and his disciples, firmly rejected kneeling—kneeling before heaven, earth, parents, or the sovereign, but never before superiors. The second was the mainstream, where kneeling ceremonies were customary, with kowtows upon meeting.

Hai Rui, while serving as an education official in Nanping, Fujian, once met a superior with two subordinates who knelt. Hai Rui refused to kneel himself, standing between them like the character for “mountain,” earning him the nickname “Hai Penrack.”

Qi Jiguang, as commander of the three garrisons, neither wished nor deemed it necessary to kneel. Zhang Juzheng forbade him from doing so. Why kneel before Wang Chonggu?

“Commander Qi, your recent display of our Ming military might was excellent,” Zhu Xizhong said with heartfelt emotion. The dignity of a soldier is won through one victory after another. Qi Jiguang had long earned respect through his fierce campaigns against the Wokou pirates.

Wang Chonggu looked at Qi’s robust figure and said helplessly, “I brought those reckless fellows before you, Commander Qi. I leave their punishment to you.”