Chapter 29: If You Want My Old Life, Then Take It

Mao Wenlong, his hair and beard streaked with gray, raised a hand to signal the men in the military camp to cease their clamor. Seeing their commander speak, the gathered officers sullenly fell silent.

Mao understood the grievances of his subordinates all too well. The issue of military pay alone was enough to fuel their complaints, not to mention the court officials who periodically dragged them into the spotlight just to amuse themselves with impeachments. Yet, as their commander, Mao could not afford to show a hint of dissatisfaction. His men were already rife with discontent; should he reveal even a flicker of it, the Dongjiang Garrison would likely descend into chaos.

He remained truly hesitant about whether to journey to the capital to report for duty. His subordinates were right: going to Beijing could very well invite disaster. Using the urgency of the border conflict as a pretext to decline the imperial decree seemed a sound strategy. Furthermore, he felt he no longer needed to prove his loyalty to the Ming Dynasty. After fighting the Jin for over a decade, losing more than a hundred family members to them, and building the Dongjiang Garrison from scratch with little to no funding, he felt he had done his duty. Let outsiders call him arrogant or insubordinate; he had given all he could to the Ming.

Refusing to go meant the situation would likely remain stagnant—at worst, a few more vitriolic impeachments. Yet, this decision, which seemed simple enough, left a man who had commanded troops for decades torn. He loved the Ming Dynasty. It was precisely because of this love that he held a flicker of hope for the newly enthroned emperor. He fantasized that the Ming, already at its breaking point, had been blessed with a heroic sovereign capable of sweeping away all malaise like a thunderbolt and restoring the world to order.

Though Mao knew this was merely a desperate, one-sided fantasy—the new emperor was but a seventeen-year-old idle prince, likely to be toyed with by seasoned bureaucrats—he could not stop himself from indulging in these unrealistic hopes after hearing of the succession. A recent event had only served to deepen this longing.

Struggling internally, Mao remained silent for a moment before speaking in a hoarse voice:

"Have you all heard about the recent news regarding Yao Fumin?"

For the officers of Dongjiang, who had maintained ties with Juehua Island, the name of its commander, Yao Fumin, was well known. Everyone was aware of his heroic stand the previous year, where he led his family to their deaths after being betrayed by Yuan Chonghuan—that motherless mongrel who had even dared to shift the blame onto the Dongjiang garrison for failing to reinforce them in time. Mentioning Yao’s name stirred both heartache for the man and hatred for Yuan.

After a pause, Mao continued, "A few days ago, the new Emperor posthumously honored Yao Fumin and several other fallen comrades."

The officers froze. They had heard the news, but paid it little mind. One officer scoffed, speaking bluntly, "What use is a posthumous title? The man is dead; what’s the point of such empty gestures? Besides, will the rewards actually reach his descendants?"

The remark ignited a wave of indignation, and the conversation quickly drifted back to urging Mao not to go to the capital. Mao waved them off again. He understood his men, but his perspective differed. He felt that the young emperor’s ability to sift through a mountain of dated memorials to identify the truly meritorious officers spoke volumes. His heart began to lean toward making the trip. Whether he formally reported for duty mattered little; he simply wanted to see this young sovereign with his own eyes.

Beyond that, there was another pressing reason: he had passed the age of fifty. The lingering wounds from years of constant warfare left him aware that he had few years left. To a man who had seen so much death, his own end was not terrifying. Yet, in recent years, he often found himself reminiscing. He remembered his youth, impoverished and destitute, saved only by the kindness of relatives. Even then, his ambition had never been dulled; he once drunkenly declared in public, "I shall not rest until I am ennobled."

Nobility was now out of reach. Having achieved the rank of Imperial Commissioner, he felt his decades of life had not been entirely in vain. He knew, of course, that none of this would have been possible without the appreciation and trust of the late Emperor Tianqi.

If the new emperor wanted his life, he would take it; he was already half-buried in his grave anyway. He would consider it repaying the late emperor’s patronage. But if the new ruler had no such intention, and if this boy-emperor truly possessed the mettle of a great leader, this trip to the capital might change the destiny of the entire Dongjiang Garrison.

With these considerations, his resolve hardened. Mao looked at his officers and said, "I have made my decision regarding the trip to the capital."

The room fell silent, waiting for his words.

"I leave for Beijing tomorrow. If I do not return, the command of the Dongjiang Garrison will pass to Chen Jiesheng."

The officers were alarmed and tried to dissuade him, but a sharp look from Mao silenced them. With his decision made and his affairs settled, there was nothing left to say. After giving his final orders, he began the preparations for the journey.

...

Five days later, within the Imperial City, Zhu Youjian convened another morning court session. He again allowed low-ranking officials, who ordinarily had no standing to attend, to be present. Among them was Chen Xinjia, who had to be carried in.

Chen had suffered little more than a sore backside after his caning, but when he saw the Emperor’s close attendant, Wang Chengen, arrive that very night to personally deliver healing balm, he was so moved he nearly fainted. He later discovered that all the officials who had spoken up alongside him had received rewards from the Emperor. Spontaneously, this group had formed a small faction over the past few days, and as the first to speak and take the blows, Chen Xinjia had naturally become their leader.