Chapter Forty-Three: The Past of the Right Sentinel

“Fortunately… fortunately, Qin Xia moved quickly in the Imperial Academy! I moved even faster!” Countless thoughts raced through Fu Shuxun’s mind, then he shouted in a harsh voice, “Are the lower officials not all terrified? Absurd! The Ministry of Revenue operates by established law. Attendance is marked together, and official business proceeds accordingly—how can we disregard the laws of court and country simply because of so-called unrest? Your Majesty, I have already sent orders from the Department of Administration in the Ministry of Revenue to the Shuntian Prefecture, instructing the three classes of constables to enter the Zhejiang Guild Hall. Any personnel of the ministry found to have deserted their posts are to be brought in and held at the ministry to await the judgment of the court!”

“As for concrete evidence…” As Fu Shuxun spoke, he gritted his teeth in resentment, then roared with a resolve born of desperation, “Tomorrow, I shall personally submit to Your Majesty a memorial detailing the deficiencies in the capital garrison’s accounts! Before the sovereign, there is no jest; since I have sworn a military oath before my lord, I will not turn back! The funds to pacify the mutinous troops originated with the Ministry of War and should come from the Ministry of War. The affairs of the Ministry of Revenue must not be thrown into chaos because of this!”

Hearing this, the Chongzhen Emperor stopped the ministers who were about to speak, leaned back into his chair, silent and uncertain how to decide.

If he compromised and chose Vice Minister Wang Zhengzhi, the Ministry of Revenue could resume operations immediately, and he would obtain three hundred thousand taels of emergency military pay. With these funds, the mutiny would be swiftly quelled, and the capital garrison could be reorganized.

“But all this… does not come without a price…” The Chongzhen Emperor’s gaze swept the hall; no one dared meet his eye, and all prostrated themselves.

These officials had all entered the court as high ministers on Chongzhen’s command, no changes before or after. The sum of three hundred thousand taels depended, in truth, on a single man.

That man was his own son—Zhu Cilang!

To compromise now would mean betraying Zhu Cilang.

At this thought, Chongzhen seemed to see again those steadfast eyes.

A long silence passed before the emperor’s voice echoed through the hall.

“It shall be as Lord Fu has said. The Ministry of War will prepare the funds and provisions from the Imperial Stables first… If the mutiny cannot be quelled, let the Ministry of War handle the pacification. As for the Ministry of Revenue, six days remain—how to proceed will be decided then.” Having spoken, he rose and returned to his chambers.

All present bowed to see him depart.

The emperor’s words, once spoken, were rarely changed. Yet every courtier sensed a heavy, storm-laden gloom hanging over the day.

Wang Zhengzhi hung his head, his eyes dark and brooding like a brewing tempest. Suddenly, he glanced toward the edge of the hall, where a young eunuch in blue quietly withdrew. Joy surged in his heart. Seeing Wei Zhaocheng glance at him, unmoved as a mountain, hope flared anew.

“We still have a backup plan!”

“We still have a chance!”

“This evidence—is it not merely the accounts calculated by Qin Xia? If they dared to mutiny, then why not simply…”

Jiaozhong Ward, Martial Virtue Guard Barracks.

Holding a secret letter from the palace, Qiao Bosheng looked at the brothers gathered around him and exhaled softly, “Seventeenth Brother, how many of our Right Wing went south? Of those who returned from the south, how many are left? And how many are in the barracks now?”

The man called Seventeenth was a slightly short veteran, fierce in bearing and steady in movement—a man who’d gambled with his life on the battlefield. Yet at Qiao Bosheng’s question, a faint mist clouded his eyes as he slowly exhaled, “When General Sun led us south, three thousand of the Right Wing went. Along the way, two hundred were lost—stragglers, those who fell into traps, those who died of illness. In Huguang, the climate and poor supply of grain drove off or lost several hundred more. After several battles, over three hundred died, more than a thousand were wounded, and who knows how many were captured or surrendered. In the end, when General Sun was merciful and arranged for barges to bring us back to the capital, only nine hundred thirty-seven brothers made it back. On the journey home, two hundred and seven more were lost—died on the way, fell ill, or succumbed to old wounds. Upon reaching the capital, more died of hunger, others—still unhealed—were driven out and froze to death in the city. I’ve lost count.”

His voice steadied. “I’ve counted—there are six hundred thirteen of these old brothers left. With Third Brother’s orders, five hundred and three are in the barracks today.”

At last, Seventeenth paused and said, “If not for Third Brother’s help, two or three hundred of us wouldn’t have survived in the capital.”

Those who could serve in the capital’s garrison were men with no one else to rely on: the last sons of military households, or men driven to the army by desperation. In Great Ming, soldiering was considered the lowest path—no decent family would choose it. Whatever their backgrounds, these wounded Right Wing veterans had one thing in common: returning to the capital brought no safety, no one to depend on. Worse still, as wounded men, they needed medicine, food, and meat to recover.

Thus, because he’d rescued them from fire and water, Qiao Bosheng’s prestige among the Right Wing was unmatched. If he tied up a camp officer, so be it—even if some soldiers sensed something was amiss, they hesitated not at all.

Hearing this, Qiao Bosheng let out a cold laugh. “That silver—my surname Qiao bought it with my life! On the killing grounds, I’ve been saved by my brothers more times than I can count. If I use this hard-won money to help my brothers today, I do it willingly. But have you ever thought—shouldn’t we, as soldiers who risk our lives for the country, be paid our rations and wages?”

“Rations and pay…” Seventeenth licked his lips, understanding, and scoffed. “Rations from the court? Since returning from Huguang, we haven’t seen a copper for three months! Even in Huguang, those high-and-mighty lords barely spared us a glance. Only when we risked our lives did we eat our fill.”

“But we’re imperial soldiers—we ought to have our rations!” Qiao Bosheng’s voice grew impassioned. “What they owe us, we must never forget!”

“I remember my first master in the camp, Old Qi the Ninth. He taught me how to handle a spear, to hold a shield, taught me to stand tall as a man, to kill the enemy without fear, to have a clear conscience, to be immortal through the ages! But what became of Old Qi? When I got in trouble and took ten lashes, trembling on my back, it was Old Qi who used his last savings to buy me medicine! At Xiangyang, when the central command’s bastards all ran, it was Old Qi who blocked a bandit’s blow for useless me—I survived, but Old Qi was wounded in the back, bedridden for half a month. I begged every medic in the army to treat him, but not one dared, all terrified by that damned eunuch!”

Qiao Bosheng recalled, his mind’s eye filled with vivid scenes, raw emotion in his voice, his gaze clouded. Remembering the bleakest moment, his voice grew hoarse, heavy, as if thunder threatened to break.

“When I finally brought a doctor back from the county with a knife in my hand, Old Qi couldn’t hold on—he was gone.”