Daming: Brother, there is no future for monks, let's rebel

"A decree to halt imprisonment?" Zhu Yuanzhang stroked his bamboo cane as if touching the blade of an old knife, and slowly exhaled. "You're testing my temper. I don't like dragging things out; I prefer a clean cut."

“Your Majesty,” Zhu Biao spoke, his voice firm, “I request to echo my uncle’s suggestion. The law is in our hearts, and the worst thing is to create prisons. If we establish an office and a register, then ‘reading the heart’ will become the art of controlling people in the future.”

Zhu Yuanzhang stared at him for a long time, then suddenly pursed his lips and said, "Fine. I'll trust you one more time—the decree to end prisons, have the Secretariat draft it, and it will be promulgated tomorrow. Yang Xian, you draft it."

Yang Xian was taken aback, then lowered his head and said, "Your subject obeys the decree."

"One more thing." Zhu Yuanzhang's gaze, sharp as an eagle's, swept across the hall before settling on Hu Weiyong.
"There's a case in the capital that I've heard rumors about—an imperial censor was 'examined' three times, his pulse was severed, and today he hanged himself from the beam behind the hall. Death ends the story. I hate such pronouncements. Han, go investigate."

Zhu Han's gaze darkened: "As you command."

The candlelight suddenly leaped high, casting long and short shadows of everyone on the palace bricks.

As dawn broke, dew slid down the rooftops.

Behind the Military Commandery, there was an inconspicuous side gate with a half-peeled plaque that read "Judgment Office".

As soon as the door opened, a blast of cold, damp air hit my face, like water from the bottom of a well.

The deceased was named Lu Qian, a censor by profession, only thirty-six years old. He was known for his refined writing and stern temperament. Three days ago, he impeached the Vice Minister of Revenue for accepting bribes. Before the case could be filed, he was subjected to a "heart check," and on the grounds of "a corrupt heart and a weak will," his salary was suspended for three months. Yesterday afternoon, Lu Qian hanged himself behind his office. Inside the door, he left a half-sheet of paper with four characters written on it: "The heart has no proof."

"Who took this picture?" Zhu Han asked.

Cheng Fei, the chief judge, lowered his head and spoke in a voice as soft as if he were dressing a dead man: "It is said that the lecturer of the academy and two officials from the Ministry of Rites first examined the students at the Imperial Academy, and then asked Censor Lu to 'set an example.' Censor Lu refused and was laughed at. A poet wrote a vulgar line, which was then circulated in the tavern."

"A colloquialism?" Zhu Biao frowned.

Cheng Fei forced himself to read: "'Lu Lang is too timid to look in the light, yet he harbors two sharp blades within his heart. He trembles before the bright light, for a fox demon dwells within him.'"

Zhu Biao slammed his fist on the table, sending paper scraps flying everywhere: "You bastard!"

"Bring the tablet that reflects the heart," Zhu Han said.

Cheng Fei hesitated: "Your Highness, that tablet is with an official in the Ministry of Rites, and it bears the official seal. It's not easy to borrow it..."

"I'm not asking if you'll lend it or not." Zhu Han raised his eyes, his gaze unwavering. "I'm asking—whether you'll take it or not."

Cheng Fei shuddered, then gritted his teeth: "Take it!"

In the afternoon, inside the Prince's mansion. A large wooden table was covered with a white cloth. Two boards were laid out horizontally and vertically, one was a "Guangming board" used by the Imperial Academy, and the other was a "Dingguang board" made by craftsmen in the market.

The former is large and thick, while the latter is as thin as a leaf.

The light slanted in through the window frame, leaving a different light pattern on each of the two panels.

“Uncle, it looks about the same.” Zhu Biao leaned down, squinting.

“It’s different.” Zhu Han reached out and ran his fingertips along the edge of the “Guangming board.” He tightened his grip and picked out a fine powder. He smeared it on a white cloth, and it turned gray. “This board is coated with lead powder. It shines when heated and dims when damp.”

"Lead powder?" Zhu Biao was taken aback. "What does this have to do with Zhao Xin?"

"Yes." Zhu Han picked up a small lamp and placed it above the board, the flame about an inch away from the board, making no sound.

"If someone stares at a lamp and then looks at a board, their eyes will temporarily lose focus. The reflection of the lead powder will make them think their face is ashen, and the tutor or his subordinates standing below and to the side will see the sweat marks reflected by the lead powder from their angle, exaggerating the situation. Add a few words of early education—'Look, the sweat on his brow is messy,' and the onlookers will certainly believe it."

"But what if this person's mind is at peace?"

Zhu Han pointed to the back of the board: "There's a fine groove carved on the back, with a thin iron wire embedded in it. The iron is cold in winter and hot in summer. If someone presses their palm against the end of the board for a while, the palm will throb due to the expansion and contraction caused by the temperature change. Others will see this and say, 'Look, he's feeling uneasy; his pulse is pounding.'"

Zhu Biao was speechless for a long time. After a while, he let out a low sigh: "This is not enlightenment, it is temptation."

“Yes.” Zhu Han flipped both boards over.

“The holes in this ‘fixed light plate’ are extremely small, taking only a line, and actually illuminating the direction of sweat and the natural texture of wrinkles, without magnification or distortion; the ‘broad light plate,’ on the other hand, uses light and powder, heat and cold, to lure people out of their ‘sinful appearance.’ It does not illuminate the heart, but only the ‘created heart.’ This is the prison.”

“That Imperial Censor Lu—” Zhu Biao’s voice tightened.

“Lu Qian is strong-willed and disdains flattery. He would rather break than be laughed at in public.”

Zhu Handao said, “His saying ‘My heart has no proof’ was not said lightly. It was because he saw through the fact that ‘proof’ had been artificially created. A court that takes the heart as proof suddenly told him that ‘proof’ is actually powder, fire, iron, words, the eyes of the crowd, and the mockery of a mob… He hanged himself not to hide, but to reject. He rejected this ‘heart’ that had been kneaded by powder, oil, fire, iron, words, and names.”

The room was so quiet that only the sound of the wind could be heard. Outside the window, a sycamore leaf fell, carrying with it a faint scent of dust.

Zhu Biao's throat bobbed, and his eyes blazed with fury: "Uncle, this case—I want to get to the bottom of it."

"Where are the roots?" Zhu Han put away the board, his gaze darkening. "The roots are in whose hands the iron wire was forged, the powder ground, the words taught, the slang written, and the first laugh taken. Laughter is more powerful than a rod. It humiliates you, weakens you, and breaks the very bones within you."

“I’m going to the Imperial Academy,” Zhu Biao said through gritted teeth, “starting with that laugh.”

In the Imperial Academy's lecture hall, as dusk approached, rows of neatly dressed students sat on the stone steps, their blue robes billowing like a tide, while two well-groomed lecturers stood on the platform.

A "Guangming board" stands upright in front of the table, like a face with inscriptions.

"His Highness the Crown Prince has arrived—" the official from the Ministry of Rites drawled, and everyone knelt down.

Zhu Biao did not sit down, but stood beside the board, his gaze sweeping over the students: "I heard that you used 'heart-illumination' to test your courage. Who set the precedent first?"

The two lecturers exchanged a glance, and the older one coughed: "Your Highness is wise. 'Zhaoxin' originally meant to understand reason, and our academy merely adopted its meaning. Initially, it was to encourage students to be straightforward, neither deceiving themselves nor others. Later... later, as the trend changed, we were at fault for any offenses we committed."

"Who taught you these slang terms?" Zhu Biao asked directly.

The younger man's face paled, and his fingers unconsciously fiddled with the hem of his clothes: "Yes—it was a conversation between some heretical poets, a playful exchange over drinks, how dare I presume to 'teach'..."

"Could a mere jest during a drinking session really lead an imperial censor to hang himself?"

Zhu Biao spoke in a deep voice, each word sharp and forceful: "A mirror reflecting the heart, when did it become a tool for coercion? What you've established isn't learning, it's a stage."

One of the students raised his head and timidly added, "Your Highness, I have something to say—if the method of observing the mind is only used for oneself, it may be acceptable; but if used for others, it is shameful. Shame, if prolonged, turns into anger, and anger, if prolonged, turns into hatred. Hatred hides in the heart, and one will want to find a visible head to cut off."

A slight commotion arose in the lecture hall.

The moment that voice rang out, it seemed to lift a corner of what many people were thinking.

Zhu Biao's gaze softened slightly: "What's your name?"

"The student's name is Song Zhen, courtesy name Shifu."

“I’ve noted it down.” Zhu Biao turned around and glanced at the “Guangming board.” “Take out the wire on the back of this board and show it to me.”

The official in charge of the Ministry of Rites panicked: "Your Highness, this board bears the official seal. Opening it without permission is a violation—" "Violation of what?" A rustling of clothes came from the doorway, and Zhu Han stepped in, his voice flat, "Violation of that little bit of leverage you have in your hearts?"

He waved his hand, and the craftsmen he had brought from the Prince's mansion stepped forward and knocked open the back of the board in a few quick taps, revealing wires that were cold and bluish.

The students erupted in uproar, like a pigeon coop that had been overturned.

The speakers' faces grew paler and paler, their fingertips trembled, yet they couldn't utter a single word of reason.

Zhu Han looked at them and suddenly smiled: "Gentlemen, you preach and expound on doctrines, each word worth a thousand pieces of gold. Why bother to provide yourselves with a piece of wire?"

No one answered. The only response was a gust of wind that made the vermilion wooden plaque hanging from the eaves of the lecture hall creak.

The wooden plaque was inscribed with four characters: "Upright Heart and Sincere Intention".

An old lecturer suddenly knelt down, banging his head directly on the steps, his voice like torn cloth: "Your Majesty, I deserve to be executed. I was momentarily deluded, thinking I could win people's hearts with a little trick, but instead I have ended up in prison. I beg Your Highness, I beg the Prince to punish me!"

Zhu Biao took a deep breath, suppressing his anger, and shouted, "The Ministry of Rites official and the two lecturers are hereby arrested. The rest of the students will be spared. From this day forward, the Imperial Academy's 'Zhaoxin' (a system of divination and instruction) will be abolished."

He paused, then added, “Each student may reflect on their own heart and write down: From now on, I will not laugh at ‘reflecting on my heart,’ nor belittle others with my words, nor humiliate others in public. This statement will not be recorded in the official register, but will be kept in your own pocket. You may read it once a month.”

Upon hearing this, the audience fell silent.

In the west study of the Prince's mansion, three piles of things were spread out on the table: a pile of wire, a pile of small bags of lead powder, and a pile of slips of paper scattered everywhere, on which were written either neat or hastily written idioms and rhymes—those laughs were all deliberately written and deliberately spread.

“Uncle.” Zhu Biao flipped through the paper, his fingertips turning cold. “That smile... someone’s behind it.”

"What kind of person?" Zhu Han asked.

"He could not only mobilize officials under the Ministry of Rites, but also lecture at the Imperial Academy, and even get poets to write colloquial verses for taverns and theaters, and finally add fuel to the fire at the Military Affairs Bureau." Zhu Biao said, "It is not something that one government office can do."

Zhu Han nodded, his gaze shifting to the dark night outside the window. He said slowly, "It's not the government office, it's a net."

"net?"

"The Heart Network." Zhu Han tapped lightly on the edge of the table with his knuckles.

“Someone has spread a net in the city, with fine, interwoven threads, using laughter as hooks, powder as bait, iron as reinforcing bars, boards as floats, and ‘reputation’ as a buoy. When the wind blows, the net is full. Full of the shame and anger in people’s hearts.”

"Should we cut the net?"

"Let's start by pulling out one strand." Zhu Han moved aside the pile of wires and pulled out a thicker one from the bottom, with a small mark engraved at the end. "Look—this is the Ministry of Works' auxiliary seal."

Zhu Biao was taken aback: "Ministry of Works?" He then realized, "What is the Ministry of Works responsible for? — Manufacturing boards."

“Yes,” Zhu Han said. “The ‘Guangming Board’ comes from the Imperial Academy, but the board itself is made by craftsmen from the Ministry of Works according to the style of the Ministry of Rites and sent in in batches. The Ministry of Rites has the authority to follow the rules, so minor officials would not dare to change the style without authorization; the lecturers at the Imperial Academy are, in the end, just scholars. The Ministry of Works is the one that can hide iron inside the board.”

A cold glint flashed in Zhu Biao's eyes: "Who in the Ministry of Works dares to do that?"

“Those who dare to do so are most likely not from the Ministry of Works itself,” Zhu Han said slowly. “Someone is using the Ministry of Works as a front.”

He reached out and brushed aside a few more scraps of paper on the table, revealing a thin mark underneath—"West Market Lacquerware Street, 'Golden Palm' Shop, Contracted Work."

"Golden Palm?" Zhu Biao suddenly remembered something. "That's the street where the young craftsman who carved the 'Dingguangban' works!"

“Same street, but not necessarily the same restaurant.” Zhu Han stood up. “Let’s go.”

The West Market was sleepless late into the night, with oil lamps dozing on the stalls.

At the end of the lacquerware street, a dim yellow light shines on the "Golden Palm" shop.

A craftsman in his early twenties was squatting on the threshold, polishing a piece of wood. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, recognized Zhu Han at a glance, and his hand trembled, almost dropping the wood.

"Your Highness! You—why have you come?"

"Call your master out," Zhu Han said.

A short while later, an old craftsman with graying temples staggered out from the inner room. Upon seeing the prince, he hurriedly knelt down: "This humble subject pays his respects—"

"No need for formalities." Zhu Han glanced around the room and saw several half-finished boards on the table, some thick and some thin, some with holes and grooves.

He reached out and lifted a piece with a hidden wire on the back. "Did your family make this?"

The old craftsman's lips trembled: "This humble one...this humble one dares not! This is a job for 'Wancheng' in the West Wing, not for my small shop!"

"Then why did you imitate it?" Zhu Han asked.

"It's not a copy, it's an inspection." The young craftsman lifted a piece of cloth from the side of the door, revealing a piece of paper.

“Your Highness, I heard that the wooden board used by the Imperial Academy is not right. There is iron on the back, so I wanted to take a piece off to check. But there is an official seal on the board, so I can’t touch it. I can only make a piece exactly like this to see where the iron is hidden, how long it takes for my hand to throb when I press it, and how high a firelight shines on it to make me dizzy. Your Highness, there really is a problem—when the iron gets cold, my palm starts to throb; when the fire gets close, my eyes blur.”

Zhu Biao stared at him: "Who told you to do that?"

“Nobody.” The young craftsman blinked. “I carved this ‘light-fixing board.’ I couldn’t bear to see others use ‘light’ for bad purposes. Some people used it to mock and insult the ‘heart shed,’ even coming to my doorstep. I couldn’t help it.”

Zhu Han looked at him for a while, then suddenly smiled and said, "Alright. What's your name?"

“Shen He.” He pursed his lips, his eyes shining. “Your Highness, if you are willing, I will carve another batch of ‘Dingguangban’ (a type of slab), with the words ‘Xin Bu Ke Lao’ (meaning ‘The heart cannot be forced’) engraved on the back. Not for officialdom, but only for self-reflection.”

"Carve it," Zhu Han said in a low voice. "Carve one hundred pieces and distribute them to various workshops, without signing your name."

Shen He agreed, his eyes suddenly turning red.

He raised his sleeve and wiped it: "Your Highness, there is something I dare not say—some people use more than just boards, they use other things."

"explain."

“Salt candles,” Shen He said in a low voice. “Salt is mixed into the candle, and the flame is blinding and makes your eyes water. When your palms sweat, the marks on the board become even deeper. And…and there’s the ‘pulse drum’—a thin drumhead is hidden under the table, and when someone presses on the table, the drumhead sounds on its own, which others think is a heartbeat.”

Zhu Biao couldn't help but give a wry smile: "These people are really beating their hearts like drums."

Zhu Han lowered his gaze: "So, they didn't lose their minds, they just had a playful heart."

"Playfulness?" Zhu Biao repeated.

“Treating people’s hearts as playthings, molding and shaping them, watching them beat and tremble, and then taking that trembling as ‘evidence’.”

Zhu Han said, "This is the real prison—laughter and shame, good and evil, propriety and punishment, all mixed together and stuffed into your mouth, making you say to yourself: 'I was wrong.'" (End of this chapter)