Rise of the Poor

Chapter 449: The First Memorial of My Life

After leaving the mountain valley, Zhu Ping’an’s face was ashen, his jaw clenched tight. He kept his head lowered, eyes fixed on the road beneath his feet as he strode forward in great, heavy steps, clearly forcing himself to suppress the fury roiling inside his chest.Thieves pass like a comb.

Soldiers pass like a fine-toothed sieve.

For Zhu Ping’an, words that had once existed only as a few cold lines in history books now rose up before his eyes, dripping with blood and reeking of death. The pain, the suffocation, the indignation—each feeling pressed down on him in turn, nearly swallowing him whole.

These were men who should have defended the nation and safeguarded its borders. Men who should have protected the common people. Men sustained by the sweat and blood of those very people. And yet, in order to claim merit, they slaughtered unarmed civilians without hesitation, treating human lives like pigs and dogs. Hah—borrowing the people’s heads for a moment, spoken so lightly, so cheerfully, as though it were nothing more than borrowing a tool. If soldiers were this rotten, how could the empire endure?

The collapse of discipline within the official armies, and the decay of their fighting strength, had been among the direct causes of the Great Ming Empire’s downfall. In the late Ming, the rebel leader Li Zicheng’s slogan—“Punish the soldiers, pacify the people”—had been aimed squarely at this very rot.

Scum like Zhao Daying could not be allowed to live.

Every extra day he remained alive meant another village might suffer the fate of “lending heads.” Every extra day meant the people of Great Ming would be harmed one more day by such men. Every extra day such a man lived meant countless commoners losing decades of their lives. A thousand-mile dike collapses because of ant holes—each additional day Zhao Daying remained was another ant gnawing away at the empire’s foundation.

This could not be endured.

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Inside the mountain valley, several sturdy young villagers stared at the five pieces of broken silver and dozens of copper coins placed atop a rock. The corners of their bronze-dark eyes glistened with tears. That young man had turned his money pouch completely inside out, leaving behind every last coin he carried. They were neither kin nor acquaintances, and they had even stolen and eaten his fine horse—yet he had left them all his money.

“When we finish what we must do… if we’re still alive,” one of them said hoarsely, voice trembling, “then this hundred-plus pounds of my life will belong to our benefactor. Through boiling water or raging fire—I will not refuse.”

“Me too.”

“And me as well.”

The young men in the valley made their decision. Once they had settled their affairs, if they survived, they would seek out Zhu Ping’an. They would place themselves at his disposal. Even if he refused to take them in, they would still serve him in secret, repaying his kindness from the shadows.

After emerging from the valley, Zhu Ping’an escorted Li Shu and the little bun-faced maid back to the Linhuai Marquis’s encampment. Then he borrowed a horse and immediately spurred it forward, galloping straight out of the camp without pausing for even a breath.

He did not spare a glance for the lively scenes of spring outings.

The delicate, enchanting daughters of noble families, nor the brightly dressed girls from modest households, could draw even a flicker of his attention.

The cheers of noble youths walking yellow dogs, urging fine horses onward, bending bows to shoot at game—none of it could slow his pace by even a step.

Zhu Ping’an rode hard out of the encampment, ignoring the burning pain where the saddle rubbed his thighs raw. He lashed the reins again and again, urging the horse faster—faster still—heading straight for the Hanlin Academy. Upon arrival, he tossed the reins to the gate guard and broke into a run toward the library pavilion.

The Hanlin scholars on duty stared in astonishment as Zhu Ping’an charged through the grounds like his backside was on fire. They all froze for a moment. Weren’t the newly promoted jinshi on holiday? Why had Zhu Ping’an come back—and in such a frantic state? What on earth had happened? Curiosity flickered in every pair of eyes.

Once inside the library, Zhu Ping’an shut the doors firmly. He took out brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, laying them out on the desk. As his mind raced, he ground the ink, the steady rasp of stone against stone echoing in the quiet room.

He truly could not endure it any longer. He could not waste even a moment. He was going to write a memorial—one that would reach the Son of Heaven himself. He would expose and denounce Zhao Daying, tearing away the customary cover-ups and unspoken agreements, laying bare the bloody crime of killing innocents to claim merit. Under normal circumstances, Zhu Ping’an would never act so rashly—he was someone who planned carefully before moving. But after hearing those blood-soaked truths, he simply could not restrain himself.

After all, he was still young, his blood not yet cold.

The people of Great Ming had suffered too much. Someone had to speak for them.

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Zhu Ping’an would write a memorial—a memorial dripping with blood. One that pierced the heart. One that thundered loud enough to deafen the court. One that the officials could not ignore.

He searched his memory for similar impeaching memorials he had read in his previous life, and found that the most famous came from the Chongzhen era at the end of the Ming. It had been a time when the empire teetered on collapse, bandits and soldiers alike ravaging the land, threats pressing in from every border. Among all the chaos, the slaughter of innocents by official troops in pursuit of false merit had been especially rampant.

Zhu Ping’an drew upon the shocking, blade-sharp language of those later memorials, blending it with modern rhetorical techniques. He combined them with what he had witnessed today, and submitted a blood-soaked indictment of Zhao Daying to the court:

Your Majesty governs the realm with pure wind and clear virtue, the lord of all under Heaven, loved by your subjects for cherishing and protecting the people. Under your sagely rule, how then can there exist such reckless cruelty, such defilement of the common folk, as committed by the hundred-household officer Zhao Daying? I dare enumerate his crimes and present them before Your Majesty.

To strengthen soldiers, nothing surpasses enforcing the law. Yet today’s troops grow fierce when seeking rewards, but weak when facing the enemy; fierce when killing innocents to claim merit, but weak when eliminating evil and rescuing the people. Zhao Daying, a mere hundred-household officer, panics and trembles when bandits arrive, yet once they withdraw, he orders the magistrate to report merit. The magistrate asks: “Without heads, how can merit be reported?” Zhao replies: “That is easy.” Shortly thereafter, he presents fifty-nine heads, among them twenty-six women and children—harvested from the slaughter of innocent villagers in the mountains. Zhao drives his troops to massacre the people, openly declaring he is “borrowing heads to offer merit.” When bandits pass, husbands still dare arrows and blades to fight the enemy; yet after the bandits leave, the entire village—old and young alike—falls to the hands of its own soldiers. Alas! What manner of man is this? With the imperial countenance so near, he dares such contempt; beneath the vast sun and moon, even Heaven’s light is stained!

Thieves pass like a comb.

Soldiers pass like a fine-toothed sieve.

I humbly beg Your Majesty to unleash thunderous justice, to command civil and military officials alike, to order the Ministry of Justice to conduct a strict investigation, so as to uphold the law of the state and return the people to the clear light of sun and moon. Even in death, your servant would not regret it.

Once the memorial was finished, Zhu Ping’an copied it onto an official submission, affixed his seal, and burned the draft to ashes. Without pausing for a moment, he tucked the finalized document into his robes and hurried out of the Hanlin Academy, heading straight for the Office of Transmission.

The Hanlin officials had only just seen Zhu Ping’an rush into the academy like a man possessed. Not much time had passed before they saw him dash out again, just as frantic. Their curiosity only deepened. What was that boy up to—jogging for exercise, or had his head been caught in a door?

“Sigh… young people these days,” Yuan Wei muttered as he watched Zhu Ping’an’s hurried figure recede, shaking his head in disdain. “No composure at all.”

Zhu Ping’an soon reached the Office of Transmission on horseback. In the Ming dynasty, this was the bureau responsible for receiving memorials. As a mere sixth-rank official, he had no right to submit directly to the Jiajing Emperor; his memorial had to pass through this office. Only officials of the fourth rank and above could present memorials directly. Minor officials like Zhu Ping’an had no choice but to rely on intermediaries.

After registering with the office clerk, the memorial was archived and queued for handling by designated personnel.

Only after leaving the Office of Transmission did the turbid breath trapped in Zhu Ping’an’s chest finally escape. His emotions slowly cooled, the raging fire within him settling into a grim, resolute calm.