Who killed the Ming Dynasty?

Song Zandian's copper abacus slammed onto the ship's side with a "thud":

"Ah! The advance collection of taxes for suppressing the rebellion is an urgent matter personally approved by the Grand Secretary."

His voice suddenly rose in pitch.

"Zhang Xianzhong's sword is already at the gates of Chengdu, and you're talking to me about the old almanac from the Hongwu era?"

Zhang Youyu forced a smile, and fine wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes:

"Your superior is wise, and the urgent task of suppressing the enemy's rebellion should be carried out swiftly and decisively. It is only my own foolishness that I am left hanging here at the dock?"

Song Zandian tore open the tax bill with a "hiss":

"Hanging it here is to give those peasants from the canal gangs some light."

He tossed the tax bill at the mast.

"Once these three living lanterns are hung up, even the dockworkers in Wuchang Prefecture know to grab their copper coins and jump into the tax box."

“Pah!”

A sharp crack suddenly interrupted his shouting.

Zhu Cilang slammed his hand on the gunwale, glanced at Song Zandian, and swallowed back the angry rebuke that was about to come out, only letting out a very soft snort from his nose.

Song Zandian glanced sideways at Zhu Cilang, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Oh, young master, you have quite a temper."

"Could it be that you've been spending too much time on the pleasure boats of the Qinhuai River and can't stand these sordid things? In this world, even the most worthless weeds think they're peonies."

Just then, a wave crashed in, causing the boat to sway slightly. Suddenly, a loud "clang" came from inside the cabin as a porcelain bottle shattered, and the strong smell of Panax notoginseng powder mixed with the bitter smell of mugwort instantly filled the air.

It turned out to be Wang Jing, a military officer from the Beijing garrison disguised as a waiter, who stumbled and knocked over a medicine box in the corner with his elbow.

More than twenty packets of wound medicine were scattered all over the ground.

Song Zandian's triangular eyes lit up like a hungry wolf eyeing meat. He bent down, picked up a pinch of powder, and two more beads were added to the abacus.

"Twenty catties of wound medicine are worth five taels of silver, plus a fine of 30% of the cost of suppressing the bandits."

Before he finished speaking, he had already made a heavy stroke on the tax book with his vermilion pen.

Two shovel operators took the opportunity to rummage through the cargo hold. With a "rip," a bolt of fine Suzhou silk was torn open with three large rips.

Zhu Cilang caught a glimpse of the words "July of the seventeenth year of Chongzhen" on the corner of the tax bill. The ink from the "Edict on Reducing and Exempting Taxes in Huguang" issued just last month was probably not yet dry.

As the morning mist dissipated, the taxation of Zhu Cilang's "merchant ships" was also finalized.

The tax office's wooden box was already filled with twenty-three taels of silver.

When he took the tax stamp, his fingers touched something damp and sticky—the ink on the three characters "River Works Donation" was still wet.

The tax collector, hunched over, carrying a wooden box, with two porters on either side, jumped back into their small boat.

Zhu Cilang stared at the swaying shadow, his throat suddenly tightening, a feeling of suffocation washing over him.

He walked heavily back to the cabin, the deck groaning painfully beneath his feet.

Zhang Youyu, the Vice Minister of Revenue, followed closely behind with his head down.

Customs duties, water duties, anchorage tax, levies for suppressing bandits and pacifying the people, river dredging fees, ballast tax, incense money for the River God, advance payments for suppressing bandits...

Zhu Cilang held the thick stack of tax stamps, his fingertips icy cold.

There are twelve types of taxes in total.

Only the first two types—the customs duty on paper money and the customs duty on water—were official taxes levied by the imperial court. All the others were either privately imposed taxes or disguised surcharges by local authorities.

Inside the cabin, the fishy smell of the river mixed with the lingering bitterness of the mugwort, weighing heavily on one's body.

Zhu Cilang slammed the stack of tax stamps onto the sandalwood table with a loud thud.

The celadon teacup on the table clattered and jumped up, spilling tea that trickled down the bright red cinnabar mark on the "ballast tax" insignia.

"Twelve kinds!"

"A total of twelve types of taxes!"

He grabbed a few tax stamps and tore them to shreds with a "rip," "rip," "rip."

Snow-white pieces of paper fluttered wildly before Zhang Youyu's horrified eyes.

"Water tax and paper tax were the official taxes set by the founding emperor."

"What is that anchor tax? And what kind of monster is the River God's incense money?"

Zhu Cilang stood up abruptly and shouted:

"Is this how the Ministry of Revenue manages its finances? What is your Ministry of Revenue doing? Do the common people even need to live?"

Zhang Youyu fell to his knees with a thud, his knees slamming heavily onto the deck.

"Your Highness...Your Majesty, please calm your anger!"

His words were cut off before he could finish speaking.

Zhu Cilang slammed his fist on the table, erupting in fury:

"The military grain ships of the Wuchang camp must pay taxes to suppress the bandits and pacify the people, and the tribute silk woven in Suzhou must pay taxes to quell the bandits."

"Even the ballast bricks are being valued at a discount—it's utterly lawless."

He grabbed the scattered tax books and jabbed his fingertip hard into the words "Treasury for Suppressing Bandits and Pacifying the People":

"The blood and marrow of those who fought against the bandits, and the backbone of the people, were all stuffed into the pockets of these parasites. The tax revenue figures reported by the Ministry of Revenue every year were probably made from the bones of the people."

Suddenly, he ripped open his collar, revealing bulging veins in his neck and heavy breathing.

"Are you, the officials of the Ministry of Revenue, pillars of the court, or mere lackeys of local tyrants?"

Zhang Youyu's face turned deathly pale instantly. His lips trembled as if he wanted to explain something, but in the end he just buried his head even lower.

Suddenly, a mournful wail came from outside the cabin, as if another merchant ship had been wrecked.

Zhu Cilang staggered, steadying himself on the table, and pointed out the window with his right hand:

"Listen! This is the weeping of the people of the Ming Dynasty!"

The pent-up anger could no longer be contained.

He abruptly overturned the table, spilling teacups and account books, leaving a mess.

"From Jiujiang to Wuchang, there are such exorbitant taxes everywhere."

"If the Ministry of Revenue can't even control taxes, what use are you all? What use are these corrupt officials?"

A sudden gust of river wind rushed into the cabin, causing the scattered pieces of paper to swirl and dance wildly, much like the unvented anger in his heart.

Zhu Cilang was furious!

Only now did he truly understand the meaning of the Ming Dynasty's riddled state.

Those absurd tax items printed on tax stamps are like the bare bones weighing down on the shoulders of the people, the last rations scooped from the bowls of starving people.

The so-called "suppression of bandits and pacification of the people" is nothing more than a fig leaf for corrupt officials to greedily devour the people's wealth.

Every exorbitant levy pushes desperate people into the arms of "bandits".

He finally understood why the post stations were closed down and why the relief funds couldn't reach the disaster victims.

It turns out that the entire bureaucratic system had long been rotten into a nest inhabited by maggots, and even the imperial decrees had become tools for them to amass wealth.

In my ears, I could almost hear again the words of Wang Aoyong, a surrendered official of the Ming Dynasty:

"Does Your Majesty believe that a mere imperial edict can save the people from their suffering?"

Looking out the window at the murky river water.

He suddenly realized that the "bandits" he truly needed to eradicate were currently dressed in official robes, holding tax bills, and gnawing away at the very foundations of the Ming Dynasty, leaving it teetering on the brink of collapse.

The shattered fragments of celadon gleamed coldly in front of Zhang Youyu's knees.

Spilled tea seeped from the wreckage of the overturned teacup, soaking the tax stamps scattered on the ground.

Zhang Youyu's indigo robe was soaked with cold sweat at the back, clinging tightly to his back.

Yet he remained in the bowing posture, motionless.

As the sixth wave gently lapped against the hull, Zhu Cilang's violent chest heaving gradually subsided.

Just as a seagull shrieked as it swept past the porthole, Zhang Youyu suddenly kowtowed heavily, his voice like tearing silk:

"Your subject—risking his life to report this!"

Zhu Cilang suddenly turned around, startling the scattered pieces of paper on the ground.

"Zhang Qing, please straighten your clothes and reply."

Zhang Youyu slowly rose, straightened his wrinkled coarse cloth clothes, and helped Zhu Cilang, who had overturned the table, to a proper position. He then bowed and said:

"Your Majesty, the problems with our dynasty's taxation system stem from three major chronic issues."