Chapter Eighteen

Rising from a mere commoner directly to a high-ranking government official is a rarity throughout history. From Lin Feng’s knowledge, such occurrences typically belong to the realm of legend—like Shang Yang of Baili Creek or the story of the Three Visits to the Thatched Cottage. The pattern is usually similar: a certain ruler hears of a remarkable talent renowned for both virtue and wisdom, highly esteemed by his local community. The ruler then bypasses the usual bureaucratic procedures, summons the individual, entrusts him with significant responsibilities, and appoints him as a vital aide to serve the realm and its people, thus leaving a celebrated chapter in history.

Such instances do occur, but they are exceptional precisely because they defy traditional Chinese protocols for selecting talent and do not align with the conventions of officialdom. It must be understood that attaining an official post was never an easy feat, and promotions even less so. Many spent the better part of their lives lingering between the sixth and seventh ranks, some even studied their entire lives without ever earning the title of xiucai (a lower-level scholar). From their perspective, suddenly elevating someone who started on the same footing to a high office is glaringly unfair. The side effects are obvious: accusations of “a petty man’s lucky break, a ruler who cannot discern talent, and the court’s harboring of a malignant influence.” Clearly, Xu Danyang fell into this category. The majority of the Han court’s officials reluctantly accepted Lin Feng’s appointment, holding their noses as it were, because as loyal subjects, they could only offer counsel. Once the sovereign insisted, obedience was their only choice.

This matter ran counter to their way of thinking and traditional norms. It was well known that political elites in Chinese tradition never included merchants. Historically, few merchants rose to prominence in politics—counting only Lü Buwei as a leading figure, who was often regarded more as a politician than a merchant. To officials, such direct appointments were not entirely impossible, but certain conditions had to be met: first, the individual must be profoundly learned, at least able to recite sage texts by heart; second, the person must have a strong reputation—not that of a financial magnate, but esteemed among scholars nationwide; third, they must have notable academic achievements or significant contributions.

Xu Danyang himself hired several venerable scholars at high salaries, respectfully paid visits to his superiors, circulated invitations to colleagues, and diligently studied the classical poetic forms and couplet craftsmanship, striving to integrate into the bureaucratic circles of the Han court.

Unlike the merchants who congratulated him warmly, the Han court’s bureaucracy received him with coldness, even disdain. According to official tradition, when a new official took office in the central government, senior members in the capital, whether familiar or not, friends or not, were obliged to attend the ceremony to show camaraderie and unified loyalty to the Han king. However, the inauguration of Minister of Commerce Xu Danyang was unusually subdued. Even his direct superior, Minister of Revenue Chen Tingjing, sent only a junior official as a mere formality. In contrast, Xu’s two subordinates at the fifth rank enjoyed lively celebrations, swarmed by peers, hometown friends, and literary companions, showered with poetry and calligraphy gifts, outshining their superior who held a third-rank ministerial position—a glaring and infuriating inversion.

Xu had anticipated resistance but not such a dire reality. After the Commerce Ministry’s inauguration, his scholars and clerks appeared disheartened. The citizens of Beijing quickly recognized the spectacle, and every day, idlers gathered outside the office, watching from afar, eager for a laugh.

After taking office, Minister Xu met obstacles everywhere in Beijing. Admittedly, he was not inept at socializing; before entering public service, he enjoyed a favorable reputation in the city, with acquaintances in nearly every powerful department—some shared drinks, others more intimate diversions. Yet now, it seemed like a conspiracy: every visit was met with excuses—illness or pressing duties. What frustrated him most was that these officials were mostly junior to him, yet they dared to swagger and put on airs before a third-rank minister.

Only Minister Chen Tingjing showed some respect. Xu admired this elder statesman, despite knowing Chen likely harbored deep resentment toward him. Compared to others, Chen was the most courteous, promptly opening the door for visits, speaking politely, though regrettably offering tea and sending guests away shortly thereafter.

Lin Feng quickly learned of these developments. Like Xu, he was unprepared for the officials’ covert backlash. He realized the matter was far from over—in fact, it was just beginning. In this reform, Lin Feng wielded his own authority to push through his vision, but the officials had theirs: non-violent non-cooperation. At this impasse, Lin Feng was powerless, for on the surface, no fault could be found with these officials. As the ancients said, “Those of differing principles do not plot together.” Even as Han king, he could not decree that others befriend Xu or harmonize with him, since most of these interactions were private matters.

What terrified Lin Feng was that in this era, most state affairs were treated as “private matters.” Without personal connections—no shared hometown, no kinship, no teacher-student bonds—everything was “official business only,” yet under such conditions, nothing could be accomplished.

In this predicament, even Gu Yanwu was helpless. Though his political proposal passed, to avoid suspicion, he petitioned to resign as Director of the Imperial Academy. Lin Feng, as usual, denied the request; Gu retained his rank but was reassigned to the Hanlin Academy to compile the History of Ming. Upon learning of Xu’s plight, Gu was surprised but not entirely shocked. Despite Gu’s immense erudition and reputation, he lacked official experience and could only watch helplessly when faced with such political cunning.

The Minister of Works was Dai Zi, but he rarely stayed in the capital, spending his time among mines in Zunhua, Anshan, and Datong. His position was largely nominal, with actual authority in the capital resting with two Vice Ministers.

Lin Feng suspected that Dai Zi, with his political acumen, would not meddle in such affairs. It was likely the idea of his two Vice Ministers. The scheme was simple: whoever served as Dai Zi’s deputy was fortunate because although Dai Zi was intellectually sharp, he was politically naive. Any excuse—such as “military copper shortages”—would suffice to obtain an imperial directive from Dai, which the deputies then used to harass Xu blatantly and shamelessly. When Lin Feng confronted them, the two Vice Ministers waved the edicts with innocent faces and said, “Your Highness, we acted under orders!” Meanwhile, Dai Zi bore the blame.

“Yes, my lord, since the Former Ming dynasty centuries ago, most local governance has been controlled by these secretaries, while the officials merely serve as puppets on the stage. Do you know why?”

“The imperial examination system,” Lin Feng replied, patting his head ruefully. “Scholars cram a few books for rigid tests, then rush into office. When faced with complex affairs, they inevitably fumble.”

“This is widely known, but why has no one changed it?” Xu shook his head.

“That’s a problem,” Lin Feng nodded. “All officials come from the exams. Reform will face strong resistance; nobody dares to tackle it.”

“That’s part of it,” Xu said, “but I think differently.”

“Go on.”

“The court believes the system is reasonable,” Xu smiled bitterly. “They think as long as scholars have good character and prestige, talent is unimportant.”

“Exactly!” Lin Feng laughed. “Those bastards really think that way.”

“In their eyes, the greatest role of officials is to control personnel and set an example for the people. Other matters—punishments, taxes—can be delegated to low-ranking clerks. So locally, whether magistrate or prefect, their main job is supervising subordinates, not handling affairs themselves,” Xu sighed. “Thus, as long as scholars maintain moral integrity and a righteous spirit, it doesn’t matter if they’re utterly incompetent.”

“Heh, makes sense!” Lin Feng nodded. “But what does this have to do with the Grand Han Royal Mint?”

“Unlike other offices, the Mint concerns livelihoods and commerce. It cannot be a timid bureaucracy where petty clerks embezzle and enrich themselves,” Xu explained when Lin Feng looked puzzled. “My lord, the Mint is like a clearinghouse. Besides supervising silver currency nationwide, its business is mainly deposits and loans. To operate properly, it must have credibility. If run like a typical office, I fear it would collapse in three days.”

Though Lin Feng was a later figure, he understood little of this. He frowned, confused. “You mean our Grand Han Mint should be run like a private clearinghouse?”

“Precisely,” Xu nodded. “In my view, the Mint is just a larger clearinghouse, differing from pawnshops and clearinghouses only in having more powerful shareholders and authority, not an official government bureau.”

“Interesting, very interesting!” Lin Feng was startled, then laughed heartily. “Go on, go on!”

“So my proposal is to set up two teams for the Mint: one for official matters—supervising nationwide clearinghouse operations. Other clearinghouses must deposit one-tenth of their capital with us as credit reserve. Loans and transfers must be reported to us, and large silver bills’ exchange and discounting must follow Mint standards, including denominations and designs. Additionally, every year or two, we dispatch inspectors to audit clearinghouses. Any with poor credit, unclear accounts, or illicit dealings will be publicly denounced and ordered closed. This way, we ‘bind the world as one and protect the prosperity of commerce.’”

“Good!” Lin Feng regarded Xu appreciatively. “This team would be officials—scholars who passed the exams.”

“Exactly!” Xu beamed at the approval. “The other team would be private citizens, without official rank or authority, operating strictly according to private clearinghouse practices.” He smiled and added, “The Mint should focus on large-scale silver dealings—loans to major factories and merchant guilds, inter-lender borrowing among private clearinghouses—and refuse transactions under 100,000 taels to avoid competing unfairly with the people.”

“Your idea is excellent; I find it very agreeable,” Lin Feng pondered, then asked, “What about Minister Chen Tingjing’s stance?”

“Many colleagues disagree with me, but Minister Chen says little. When asked, he smiles and tells me to proceed as I see fit—he takes responsibility,” Xu sneered inwardly. “His attitude is quite similar to Your Highness’s.”

Lin Feng laughed aloud, clicking his tongue. “Look at that—you should learn from him. That’s what being an official means. Despite your business savvy, you’re still green when it comes to officialdom.”

“Yes, thank you for your guidance!” Xu smiled. “Actually, I have another idea, but I’m not sure if I should share it.”

“Nonsense!” Lin Feng scolded playfully. “You’re no spring chicken—don’t you know when to speak and when not to? Must I teach you that too?”

“Yes, yes,” Xu was embarrassed. “I think the Grand Han Mint could operate differently.”

“How so?”

“By imitating the old Han system, like the Shaofu (Imperial Treasury),” Xu bowed his head and spoke softly. “According to court discussions, the Mint’s capital is 12 million taels, allocated by the Ministry of Revenue over two years. Afterwards, the Mint becomes the state’s external treasury and source of revenue...”

“Quit hemming and hawing—continue!”

“Yes, but I think the Mint’s funds need not come from the court. Instead, from... from...” Xu glanced cautiously at Lin Feng’s expression and whispered, “From... Your Highness yourself!”

Lin Feng was shocked, leapt to his feet, incredulous. “What did you say?! Where would I get so much silver?!”

“Ahem...” Xu bowed deeply. “May I ask, Your Highness, how much can you allocate from your private funds?”

Lin Feng shook his head. “I’m a poor king.” He pointed to the table and chairs. “Besides this royal residence, I have little property. If private assets count...” He thought for a moment. “I hold 40% shares in an arms merchant company. Initially four thousand taels, now it’s grown, worth perhaps one or two million taels.”

Xu was stunned. He had assumed a king would be wealthy, yet Lin Feng had little silver on hand. He sincerely admired the king’s frugality.

“Admire what?” Lin Feng shrugged. “Why would I need silver? What I want, I don’t buy with silver!”

“Of course, of course,” Xu agreed, then shifted gears. “My point is, the Grand Han Mint is called ‘royal’ because it belongs to the king. Otherwise, it would be a misnomer.”

“Oh?” Lin Feng chuckled. “So what’s your suggestion?”

“I think the Mint should not be state property but your private asset,” Xu smiled. “To be fair, a sovereign has no family matters. The Mint should not belong to the Ministry of Revenue but under the Imperial Clan Court, with its earnings going to your personal treasury, not the national coffers.”

Lin Feng remained silent, pondering.

“I am but a humble merchant, yet Your Highness has trusted and elevated me. Such grace, I could die a thousand deaths and still not repay...” Xu suddenly rose and knelt, “If Your Highness wishes to increase your private funds, I am willing to exhaust my family fortune, donating 8 million taels as your capital!”

“Oh?!” Lin Feng hesitated.

Seeing this, Xu hurried to explain, “My lord, the Mint’s capital is to be 12 million taels over two years. Normally, 3 to 4 million taels in reserve is sufficient for opening. I plan to merge the entire capital of the Taifeng Clearinghouse into the Mint. If Your Highness adds some silver, what else is needed?”

Lin Feng was torn, unsure how to decide.

“Rest assured, I only ask for 30% shares,” Xu raised three fingers, excited. “If Your Highness consents, you will hold 70% of the Mint’s shares. The world’s premier clearinghouse will be the Grand Han Shaofu!”

Lin Feng fixed Xu with a cold gaze, unsettling him. He reflected, a merchant remains a merchant, even as a minister; to have such skill to reach the king’s side is truly remarkable.

“...Ahem...” Xu stammered as Lin Feng remained silent. “If Your Highness declines, then I...”

“Very well!” Lin Feng waved his hand, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “Do as you say!”

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