Chapter 277

Just as Magistrate Wang had predicted, that same evening Wang Xiujin was informed that he was to accompany the morning court assembly at dawn. Wang Xiujin sensed that, during the audience, the Emperor would announce before the gathered ministers that the shipyard would be handed over to him—perhaps even sold to him. Rubbing his faintly aching temples, Wang Xiujin truly had no desire for the shipyard; to him, it was nothing but trouble. Yet, in every age, when those above assign you a task, it is because they value you, because they believe you capable—not because they wish to hear your refusal. The only difference is, before an emperor, a refusal can cost you your life.

After some thought, Wang Xiujin took out the banknotes he had prepared. To buy a shipyard, one must pay, after all. Originally, he had planned to donate almost all his family's assets, leaving only the working capital. Now, he would need to retain more; the shipyard’s operation would require liquid funds. Tomorrow, he must meet with those “returnees” from overseas—there was much he needed to confirm. When seeing them, he could not overlook the artisans from the army workshops either; after all, if cannons were to be made, they could not be constructed in the shipyard.

Unable to sleep, Wang Xiujin rose to his desk to draft his plans. He lifted his brush, then set it down again. Not having met the men yet, he could not be sure of the state of development abroad. Were it not for the dangers at sea, he would have liked to see those foreign lands with his own eyes.

He picked up the brush again and wrote a single word on the page: “Electricity.” If machines were already in use overseas, they must have invented electricity. Given the current technology, it could only be coal-fired power. Wang Xiujin scribbled and drew on the paper, then sighed. Some questions, like the age-old “chicken or egg,” were endless circles with no answer. As for domestic coal mines, he only knew of those in Shanxi, and perhaps in Liaodong, though he was not certain. Mining itself was a challenge, so he left a question mark.

Next, he pondered how to transport the machines back. Given the current carrying capacity of ocean vessels, how many machines could be brought in one trip? If several journeys were needed, the cost would be immense. If a foreign country assisted, that would be well and good, but might it create new problems? Would the allied navies assemble in advance?

One question after another sprang to mind, and the page filled with question marks. In the end, he consigned it all to the brazier, letting it turn to ash—no one could answer him. That night, Wang Xiujin found no rest. Only recently he had been pleased with himself for achieving his “first barrel” and “first carriage,” even dreaming these innovations would pass into legend a hundred years hence. Yet now, sea vessels carrying cannons had appeared overseas, while Great Liang had only just begun to use gunpowder in war. Could one claim they loved peace? In any world, the law of the jungle prevails—the weak are meat for the strong, in families as with nations.

Leaning against the chair, gazing out the window, Wang Xiujin’s face was full of uncertainty, the questions in his heart swelling ever larger. Was it his own butterfly effect propelling the world forward, or had someone else, too, crossed from another time to shape history’s rapid advance? Who could blame him for overthinking? He had always believed the dynasty of Great Liang to be akin to the Song or Yuan, at most the early Ming—a time when, however weak, they stood atop the world. Yet now, the furious pace of overseas development had caught him wholly off guard.

Before leaving for court, General Li sent a servant, but Wang Xiujin was already dressed and ignored the proffered pastries. How could he have any appetite?

Upon entering the palace, he did not stand with the Li or Wang clans but alone, eyes closed, conserving his strength. His mind was a tangle of thoughts. Just before leaving his house, it had struck him: what if this world was parallel to the Qing dynasty? The idea made him shudder, fear mounting with every moment. He sighed inwardly, feeling he was being absurd; just because foreign ships now carried cannons, was that enough to frighten him so? It should not be. If foreigners could mount cannons, so could they—and theirs must be better, with greater range.

Wang Xiujin did not realize that his pensive demeanor, standing alone, deterred all those who wished to approach and inquire why he was at court. His aura of “strangers keep away” was so powerful that even Magistrate Wang and General Li and his son glanced over repeatedly.

When it was time for the assembly, Wang Xiujin was at a loss—he was neither a civil nor a military official, so where should he stand? Though his rank was not low, there was truly no place for him in the ranks. Inwardly he cursed the emperor for putting him in such a bind, when a personal attendant approached and bade him follow. Knowing the man served at the emperor’s side, Wang Xiujin mustered his courage and followed.

Inside the grand hall, Wang Xiujin stood beside his father. As the civil and military ministers chanted their thrice-repeated “Long live the Emperor,” the grand court meeting commenced.

What followed was a cacophony of bickering, reminiscent of a quarrel in a market alley, until Wang Xiujin’s ears rang with it. The arguments all revolved around personal interests—narrow-minded, shortsighted, seeing no further than their own noses. As for the interests of the nation or its future development, he heard nothing at all, and it left him stifled. Wang Xiujin did not think himself especially noble, but he knew this much: without a nation, all those petty gains and losses were nothing but so much exhaust—whether loud or silent, it made no difference.

He could not help but pity the man on the throne. With ministers such as these, even the wisest, most valiant sovereign would be at his wits’ end. The Emperor, in recent years, had executed more than a few; though lately he seemed to have softened, the sword still hung high. These officials—did they choose to ignore the blade above their heads, or did they truly believe the Emperor would not act? Wang Xiujin had a premonition: these men would not live long. How could the Emperor allow those who daily opposed him to survive for long? If their opposition was well-founded, perhaps he would tolerate it; but if they opposed for opposition’s sake, they could only hope they were Heaven’s favored sons.

In truth, the Emperor’s patience was thin. After several days of pointless dispute, he grew weary, picked up a memorial at hand, and, casting a cold eye upon the reckless ministers below, tossed the document to the floor. Instantly, the clamor ceased; all those who had been shouting now prostrated themselves.

With a chill in his voice, the Emperor spoke, “Perhaps my beloved ministers should first read what is written in this memorial.”

A sense of dread gripped those kneeling on the floor. The foremost of them, with trembling hands, picked up the memorial and, upon reading it, felt his foreboding intensify.

“Read it aloud for Us. We had not finished before court began; let the whole assembly of ministers hear it,” the Emperor said, lifting his teacup and gently blowing away the floating leaves.

“Your servant is guilty beyond pardon,” the minister holding the memorial fell flat to the ground. If the Emperor had irrefutable evidence, why else would he present it in open court? Perhaps confessing immediately might spare his life.

“Guilty beyond pardon? I have heard that phrase too often. Every minister who knowingly oversteps the law says the same, and each time I hear it, it makes me want to twist off your heads and use them for a game of kickball.” The Emperor's light words sent fresh tremors through the kneeling officials. Today, they feared, they would not escape death. Now, at last, they began to reflect—they never should have so eagerly opposed from the start. The Emperor was not a man they could control with a mere “no.”

“I shall not kill you,” the Emperor continued, “for I would only regret it. Since you deem overseas ventures absolutely forbidden, I will not trouble you further. The northern grasslands are empty; you shall spend your remaining years there. For five generations within your nine kin, the civil service exams are forbidden. None may leave without imperial edict.”

The reprieved officials breathed a sigh of relief, but when they heard the rest, nearly fainted. This was a fate worse than death. For five generations and nine branches…they might not even reach the grasslands before their clansmen sought their doom; and if they did, little good would come of it.

Wang Xiujin raised his brow in surprise. That the Emperor had not shed blood today was a miracle indeed. With these troublemakers dealt with, the court grew much quieter, and business proper could proceed. The Emperor understood well that others stood behind these petty figures, but the time for dealing with them had not yet come. For now, they would be left as a warning—after today’s events, those in the shadows should behave and understand his methods.

As the Emperor anticipated, though a few dissenting voices remained, their arguments were well-reasoned and earnest, focusing on coastal defense, maritime trade, and the risk of silver and gold flowing abroad.

The outflow of precious metals was indeed a problem that required a solution. Wang Xiujin, too, did not wish to see the nation’s wealth drain overseas. When called upon, he stepped forward and bowed, saying, “Your servant believes that what is good abroad should be learned, and the outflow of silver and gold must be gravely regarded. A twofold strategy must be found.”

As soon as he finished, others quickly expressed agreement: learning from foreign strengths was uncontroversial. “Your servant proposes opening select seaports for trade. If foreign lands have goods Great Liang needs, surely they, in turn, will require goods from us. All passing through these ports should pay customs duties.”

“If other means could replace silver and gold in trade, we might also avoid the danger of outflow.”

With their minds focused on shared interests, the ministers’ suggestions were far more comprehensive than Wang Xiujin’s alone. The Emperor nodded frequently. When coastal defense was raised, the military officials also spoke: ports could be opened, but must be chosen for defensibility, with increased garrisons and a naval presence. “The foreign sea vessels—Great Liang must build her own, and quickly.”

At the mention of ships, the Emperor took the opportunity to announce that the shipyard would be handed over to the Imperial Merchant for management. All eyes turned to the minister who formerly oversaw the shipyard, then to the merchant who had spoken only a few words—they now understood why he was present at court today.

“Does any among my ministers object?” the Emperor asked lightly, seeing none dared speak.

“I accept the edict,” Wang Xiujin quickly knelt to receive his orders. As for the former overseer’s mood, he had no mind to care. But taking over the shipyard would be no easy task.