Chapter Eight

With a smiling face and a humble attitude, Lin Feng courteously saw Li Guangdi off. As soon as his guest departed, Lin Feng’s expression darkened, and he began to ponder the matter from every angle. Things were proving far more troublesome than he had anticipated. Li Guangdi’s opinions had just represented the entire civil bureaucracy, and until now, they had supported Lin Feng’s mercantile policies for the sake of government finances. Yet their sudden fierce opposition revealed that the current situation was indeed grave.

From a political perspective, internal reforms conducted in peaceful times are essentially a process of compromise between radical and conservative forces. Whether such reforms ultimately succeed depends not merely on economic growth, but also on the maintenance of social stability and the smooth transition of society—these are crucial measures of success. It was easy to imagine: if the policy of encouraging commerce were to trigger a split within the Han military group or alienate the conservative faction under his own rule, either outcome would be absolutely unacceptable to Lin Feng.

Thinking and rethinking, Lin Feng could find no solution. Helpless, he sent for Wang Shirong. He had little understanding of the true situation outside his office, and thought it best to dispatch someone to investigate.

This time, Wang Shirong did not offer Lin Feng any clever advice. In fact, the military, as the primary beneficiary of the mercantile policy, found itself in an awkward position. Wang Shirong, a traditional Confucian scholar, was deeply conflicted. By his own values, such heretical policies were utterly wrong and ran counter to his political ideals. Yet, as the saying goes, one's head follows one's seat; as a senior officer and the chief of the Han Army’s Bureau of Ordnance and Supplies, he knew every detail of the army’s equipment and logistics. He weighed the situation carefully, and so, in front of Lin Feng, he adopted an unusually reserved strategy: speak little, do more.

The intelligence service’s impartial stance made the investigation report exceptionally detailed. As Lin Feng read through the stack of files, he was involuntarily astonished—the results were simply shocking.

Lin Feng remembered the matter well: he had personally signed the execution order for that criminal. At the time, he found it odd—a local notable, head of the Huairen Hall, living near the Imperial Guard barracks, had been killed single-handedly, and his warehouse burned. The perpetrator was certainly a master. Yet, diplomatic matters with Russia had distracted him, and he had not investigated closely. Now, reading the report, Lin Feng realized that only a handful of people in Beijing could have pulled off such an "operation."

Beyond that case, the report listed many other incidents. Through the formal language, Lin Feng immediately understood Wang Shirong’s intent. It was clear the old general struggled with writing this report: he needed Lin Feng to grasp the seriousness, but could not risk accusing his colleagues unjustly. Nearly all the cases shared a common thread—the victims were owners of traditional artisan workshops under Han military rule, and though the crimes varied—usury, kidnapping, intimidation, threats—the ultimate aim was always to force them to relinquish their enterprises or withdraw from competition. Behind the perpetrators lurked shadows of Han military officers and government officials.

More frightening still, Lin Feng realized that even if he classified these as heinous criminal cases, he would be unable to punish them. Wang Shirong’s subtle hints made clear: these brazen acts of robbery were no longer the actions of a few desperate individuals but had become semi-official, collective behaviors within the ruling group—a mass of officials were involved.

Lin Feng had no illusions about the report’s authenticity. Ever since the crackdown on military corruption, he had gained a sober understanding of his officer corps. Now, he felt little anger; after all, he himself bore great responsibility for the expansion of Hu Ji Ironworks. Perhaps these people had been emboldened by his indulgence toward Hu Mingren, acting without scruple. Perhaps, just yesterday or the day before, Hu Mingren had unwittingly served as a political weathervane, "carrying out the ruler’s will," even if the reality was far from what it seemed.

In this moment, Lin Feng deeply understood the responsibilities and obligations of a dictator. He suddenly realized why, throughout Chinese history, so few emperors were praised as wise and heroic, while so many sank into absurdity and neglect. It was a profession that demanded utmost caution; a single careless word or deed could bring catastrophic consequences.

His thoughts churned endlessly. With hands clasped behind his back, Lin Feng paced the study, unable to reach a decision. The matter concerned internal unity; there was no one he could consult—he would have to make the decision himself.

Round and round he paced, frustration mounting, until he finally walked to the window and pushed it open. The moon hung high among the branches, a gentle breeze wafted in, carrying a faint, fresh scent of ripening wheat. Lin Feng inhaled deeply, thinking that the few acres at the Temple of Agriculture must already be ripe.

A gust of wind swept through, making the calligraphy and paintings in the study flutter noisily. Turning, Lin Feng saw the large map behind his desk billow up, beating against the wall. He stared for a long time. The Han Army’s occupied zone was tightly wedged between the surrounding Qing forces, peasant armies, and Mongol troops. Small flags marked the defensive lines, trembling precariously in the breeze.

With a sudden sigh, Lin Feng picked up Wang Shirong’s investigation report, hesitated briefly, then brought it to the candle and set it alight, watching quietly as it slowly turned to ash.