Chapter 113: Hidden Undercurrents Beneath the Historical Records—I'm Just an Onlooker

Xu Cunren, a statesman of the early Ming Dynasty.

After Zhu Yuanzhang conquered Jinhua, he brought Xu into his service and assigned him to tutor the imperial princes.

Later, when the emperor secured Jiqing Road—the predecessor of Nanjing—Xu became a lecturer at the National Academy and eventually rose to the position of dean.

When Zhu Yuanzhang established Crown Prince Zhu Biao and appointed Song Lian as his tutor, Xu Cunren was also named the prince’s mentor, a testament to Zhu’s deep trust in both his scholarship and character.

However, Xu’s later actions stirred the emperor’s wrath.

Just after Zhu Yuanzhang ascended the throne, Xu applied to retire and return to his hometown.

His subordinate, the supervisor, cautioned him that leaving so soon after the emperor’s rise might offend the ruler.

But Xu refused to listen, insisting on resigning and bidding farewell to the emperor.

This ultimately enraged Zhu Yuanzhang, who found a pretext to execute him.

In a past life, Zhang Yi read about Xu’s story and thought the old man was foolish.

First, if Xu hadn’t resigned, his official career would likely have flourished.

Second, since his subordinates warned him, staying an extra year wouldn’t have hurt. Yet he chose to abandon the court just as the emperor took power. Given Zhu’s petty and sensitive nature, it was no surprise he met a deadly fate.

But now, Zhang Yi understood that the brief historical records concealed turbulent undercurrents.

Xu wasn’t naïve; his departure had reasons.

“Sir, as head of the National Academy, you enjoyed the emperor’s trust. Though the academy held little actual power, it influenced Ming’s talent selection system. Perhaps you discussed this with His Majesty, and he proposed ideas you found disagreeable?”

Zhang Yi lightly tapped the items on Xu’s desk. Xu’s expression grew complex.

“You are a man with ideals and ambitions, having served the emperor for ten years. Yet since I met you, you’ve always spoken of retirement! I even heard you say that but for unforeseen events, you would have resigned already! I think your health is robust enough to serve another decade without issue... Now I realize, you left because your principles diverged from His Majesty’s.”

Xu was speechless.

This clever rascal had only jotted down a few notes to ease his frustrations, yet Zhang Yi’s glance apprehended nearly all his thoughts.

Indeed, Zhu Yuanzhang had consulted him on the recruitment of talent for the Ming. Although the imperial examination had not yet been implemented, history dictated it was inevitable.

But with the realm unsettled and many urgent matters at court, the emperor had no mature plan for education or exams.

As a veteran minister who served the emperor for a decade, Xu keenly sensed changes after Zhu’s ascension—subtle shifts that unsettled him.

“You’re just a little Daoist, don’t overthink things!” Xu tried to scold Zhang Yi, but the youth ignored him.

“His Majesty likely wants obedient scholars, not old ministers like you with independent thoughts! You’re old-fashioned and surely disagree with his ideas. The emperor knows you dissent, and you know he dislikes your delays. So you had no choice but to leave quietly in protest. But did you ever consider this might bring mortal danger upon you?”

Xu’s face clouded with uncertainty.

“I’ve served His Majesty for ten years; surely it’s not that serious?”

Zhang Yi replied, “Why not? You know how scarce talent is in Ming. The new dynasty ought to attract scholars, but the emperor has alienated the Jiangnan gentry, and scholars remain cautious. The Northern Yuan, though weakened, still holds legitimacy in many minds. Plus, His Majesty’s background and methods cause hesitation among the literati. At such a critical juncture, if you resign, it would severely damage the dynasty’s recruitment efforts. Your purge is almost certain!”

“Your anger is because you don’t want His Majesty to treat scholars like livestock, right?”

Xu was stunned, staring at Zhang Yi speechless.

He had only scribbled a few complaints in his study, yet Zhang Yi saw through so much?

No, that’s impossible—this kid must have some insight!

Then Xu recalled Zhang Yi’s other identity, as a direct disciple from Longhu Mountain.

Though a Confucian, Xu secretly held Daoists in slight contempt; yet the aura enveloping Longhu Mountain for centuries stirred thoughts in his mind.

“Did you see something?”

“I only sensed a deathly aura around you,” Zhang Yi hesitated but still offered a warning. Though he respected Xu, he didn’t want to get entangled in trouble just because of that.

Yet tonight’s meal and the earnest way Xu taught him showed sincerity.

The objects on the desk inspired Zhang Yi to make an effort.

If he could change Xu’s decision, that would be a merit.

If not, then so be it.

“So death is real after all.”

Xu smiled calmly, as if unbothered.

But he asked with interest, “What do you think the emperor will do? Is his approach right or wrong?”

“Sir, you mentioned Wang Anshi of the Song Dynasty abolishing poetry and essays in favor of classics. I boldly guess His Majesty has a plan for future exams. Building on the previous tradition of using ‘classics’ and ‘questions on classics’ as essay topics, I suspect the emperor will take it further. If I were him, how would I implement my design in a way that unsettles you but silences scholars’ grumblings?”

Zhang Yi paused, and Xu’s curiosity was fully piqued.

“To speculate, one must understand the emperor’s intentions.

He rose from humble origins; many aristocratic clans look down on him. Many still doubt the new dynasty’s longevity because no one like him has ruled before. These clans, steeped in poetry and scholarship, have always held sway in court. Their hostility heightens the emperor’s insecurity. He knows that if he openly reinstates the exams, these clans will likely dominate power again.

His distrust of scholars motivates him to reform the talent selection system. So I guess the future exams will further restrict topics on the classics. But since the previous dynasty already limited topics to the Four Books, further restriction is unlikely.

Instead, His Majesty will focus on format—but that’s secondary.

The key is to imprison scholars’ thoughts—and the most straightforward way to do this is through ‘Reverence for Antiquity.’”

Zhang Yi’s so-called speculation was actually based on known facts, using the answer to deduce the process.

His words caused Xu’s expression to shift repeatedly.

Seeing Xu’s reaction, Zhang Yi knew he had guessed correctly.

In the third year of the Hongwu era, after the realm was pacified, Ming finally had the capacity to focus on talent selection and opened the imperial exams.

Zhu Yuanzhang set new regulations.

Topics were drawn from the Four Books and Five Classics, essays were structured in eight parts—introduction, elaboration, main body segments, and conclusion—written in the voices of Confucius and Mencius, with strict tonal and rhyming rules. No references to nature’s imagery that might profane the sages were allowed.

This reform faced little resistance among most scholars.

But the emperor’s deeper intentions only gradually emerged in later generations.

Though Zhu’s methods seemed sound, by rigidly fixing all rules, he effectively bound scholars’ thoughts.

This favored monarchical centralization, but whether it benefited governance is another matter.

One’s background deeply shapes character.

Throughout Hongwu’s life, his mistrust of ministers was constant.

As a great emperor, his decisions were never impulsive.

Even in Hongwu’s first year, Xu had some awareness of the eight-legged essay’s future birth, knowing Zhu had long pondered this matter, perhaps even planning the rise and fall of prime ministers far ahead.

From Xu’s reaction, Zhang Yi knew the emperor had confided his thinking, but Xu resisted the idea.

Though Zhang Yi hadn’t interacted much with Xu, he sensed the elder’s passionate spirit.

His understanding of teaching clashed greatly with Zhu’s.

What others might overlook troubled Xu.

This divergence created a rift in their “way.”

“Are you really only seven years old?” Xu finally said after a long pause.

He hadn’t intended to engage Zhang Yi in this discussion when he brought him back today, but the topic arose, and Zhang Yi’s insights surprised him beyond expectation.

This illiterate, grammatically poor child, when meeting his gaze, felt like conversing with great Confucian scholars like Liu Ji or Song Lian about state affairs.

“Sir, does your granddaughter have a match for me?” Zhang Yi reverted to his playful grin, making Xu laugh silently.

Yet he was more convinced than ever of his earlier judgment: this boy was a budding scholar.

“My view is simple: the emperor’s method will only select empty, mediocre talents. If that’s the case, I’d rather recommend an interesting young fellow like you...”

“Too bad you’re too young. Otherwise, before the imperial exam opens, I’d have recommended you to the emperor!”

“Please spare me!” Zhang Yi waved his hand hastily. Working under Lord Zhu was something he’d never agree to.

“Then do you think the emperor’s choice is right or wrong?”

Xu, now engaged, wouldn’t let the question go easily.

He brewed tea, signaling a long, earnest conversation to come.

Zhang Yi pondered and replied, “Right or wrong depends on perspective.

This reform reflects the struggle between imperial authority and ministerial power.

You represent ministerial power and the scholars, naturally worried the emperor’s move harms their interests, both immediate and long-term.

From the emperor’s view, he is not wrong either. Centralization is a monarch’s nature.

You scholars wish the monarch to stay hands-off, which is your nature.

Essentially, it’s a power struggle; no need to flatter yourselves.”

That stung a bit.

Xu frowned slightly, and Zhang Yi inadvertently pressed the point.

He asked, “And what about your own stance?”

“I’m just here to watch the show!” Zhang Yi replied nonchalantly.

(End of chapter)