Who killed the Ming Dynasty?

He had long heard of the thinker Huang Zongxi.

His father, Huang Zunsu, was a member of the Donglin Party. He was framed by the eunuch faction for impeaching Wei Zhongxian and died unjustly in prison.

In the first year of the Chongzhen Emperor's reign, the eunuch faction fell from power, and Huang Zongxi, only sixteen years old, submitted a memorial requesting the execution of the remaining eunuch faction members.

During the joint trial held by the Ministry of Justice in May, he unexpectedly pulled out an iron awl from his sleeve and stabbed his enemy Xu Xianchun in front of everyone.

He then severely beat Cui Yingyuan, plucked out his beard and took it to offer as a sacrifice to his father's spirit. This incident caused a sensation throughout the land, and he was called "the loyal minister and orphan" by the late emperor.

With such a deep-seated blood feud, it's no wonder he hated the eunuch faction to the bone.

He stabbed his enemy with an awl and plucked his beard to offer as a sacrifice to his father.

It is evident that this person possessed both the stubbornness of a scholar and the decisiveness of a knight-errant; he had the integrity of a traditional scholar-official and dared to break with convention and do extraordinary things.

"Master, this poetry gathering..."

Zhang Youyu lowered his voice, his eyes filled with worry.

Zhu Cilang raised his hand to stop him, gazing at the upturned eaves of the Yellow Crane Tower in the distance:

"Having arrived at this famous building, how could one pass by without entering? Let us behold the grandeur of the Jianghan cultural heritage."

The group climbed up the winding path made of boulders, and the wind from the river grew stronger as they approached the top of the rock.

The jingling of the copper bells on the eaves of the Yellow Crane Tower drowned out the shouts of the vendors selling kudzu root preserves downstairs.

Zhu Cilang straightened his clothes, deliberately making the lake beads on the collar more visible, pretending to be a curious rich young master.

He stood on the steps and looked up, where the triple-eaved roof resembled a yellow crane spreading its wings, ready to take flight.

The plaque inscribed with "Qi Tun Yun Meng" hangs in the center of the main building, its ink strokes resembling a dragon breaking through the waves.

The glazed tiles reflect the sunlight.

This pavilion, rebuilt during the Wanli era, now resembles an old general in armor guarding the river, seamlessly integrated with the rocks on the mountaintop.

On the mottled lacquered pillars, the ink fragrance of the new couplet "Clouds stretch across the nine tributaries, the Yellow Crane floats" still lingers.

Several children were tiptoeing to peek through the second-floor lattice doors. The colorful projection of Lü Dongbin riding a crane was imprinted on their tender shoulders, and suddenly shattered into light spots with the river breeze.

"Zheng—"

Suddenly, a sound like tearing silk came from the third floor.

"This building has a more rustic charm than Yueyang Tower."

Zhu Cilang deliberately raised his voice, brushing his hand across the deep marks left by the poles on the railing—the rings of time etched by the Yangtze River's floods.

As soon as he stepped onto the stone steps, he saw a group of scholars gathered in front of the building.

In the center of the crowd, a young man dressed in a moon-white long robe stood with his hands behind his back, exuding a gentle and refined air.

"Young master, you possess an extraordinary bearing; could you also be here for the Yellow Crane Poetry Gathering?"

A scholar wearing a square scarf looked Zhu Cilang up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment on the jade belt buckle at his waist and the lake pearl on his lapel.

Zhu Cilang smiled and cupped his hands in greeting:

"I have long admired Mr. Taichong's noble character, and I am extremely fortunate to have the opportunity to meet you today."

The man in the moon-white robe turned around, his gaze clear as a spring:

"Meeting by chance is all fate; since we've come to this land of white clouds and yellow cranes, why not admire the misty moon over the great river together?"

He was Huang Zongxi.

His moon-white robe accentuated his tall and straight figure, like bamboo, yet his brows seemed to hold unmelted frost, hinting at a hidden sharpness.

After exchanging pleasantries, Zhu Cilang followed the crowd up the steps, the wooden stairs creaking as the clatter of voices grew louder. Zhang Youyu, the Vice Minister of Revenue, followed closely behind.

On the second and third floors, dozens of scholars sat in the corridors, some holding books in the breeze, others discussing politics around a stove, with tea smoke mingling with the river mist.

The white silk hanging from the ceiling was fluttered by the river breeze, and the six characters "to celebrate the passing of Mr. Taichong" swayed gently in the wind.

Step into the main hall on the third floor of the Yellow Crane Tower.

The sound of the zither suddenly arose, and the copper bells echoed the crashing waves against the shore.

Everyone fell silent.

The white-haired musician's withered fingers suddenly swept across the seven strings, the sound startling the swallows roosting between the beams.

Huang Zongxi stepped onto the stage, still resonating with the lingering charm of "High Mountains and Flowing Water." As his black wide sleeves rolled up, half of an iron awl-shaped penholder was revealed inside.

His gaze swept over the more than twenty sandalwood tables below the stage.

The scholars' hands, holding cups, froze in mid-air as the freshly brewed Junshan Silver Needle tea rippled in the celadon cups.

He raised his cup to the river, his voice clear and resonant:

"Gentlemen, set aside worldly pleasures for now, and let us use our hearts and souls as ink and the mountains and rivers as paper—for the sake of all living beings, let us play the zither and sing!"

After speaking, he threw his cup into the river, and the scholars applauded his words.

As the music faded, a scholar from Lingnan with a broad forehead and deep-set eyes smashed his cup and rose to his feet:

"Chen Zisheng of the South China Sea!"

"In the past, I followed my elder brother Chen Zizhuang to resist the eunuch party in Guangdong. Now I am compiling the poems left behind by Mr. Muzhai (Qian Qianyi)."

Chen Zisheng picked up the brush on the table and wrote:

"Eunuchs can't block out the sun's rays; scholars with iron will can break through heavy curtains."

"good!"

A burst of cheers immediately erupted from the surrounding area.

"Brother Qiao's words express the sentiments of us all. The eunuch faction is the dark cloud that obscures the sun, while our unyielding spirit is the sharp sword that pierces through the darkness."

The cheers shook the dust off the beams.

Huang Zongxi laughed loudly, the iron-tipped pen twirling between his fingers.

"Brother Qiao's brushstrokes are probably tempered by the raging waves of the Pearl River."

"Do you remember in the fifteenth year of Chongzhen's reign, when I used an awl in my sleeve as a judge's pen to write the plaque of the Wei eunuch's ancestral hall upside down?"

Suddenly, he composed himself, flicked his sleeve, dipped the tip of his iron-tipped brush into the inkstone, and immediately began writing swiftly on the paper:

"The iron awl rusts before it pierces the inkstone; the ink pool serves as a temporary Hulao Pass."

As the pen fell, the entire room fell silent for a moment, then erupted in even louder cheers.

An old man stroked his beard and sighed:

"Brilliant! Tai Chong is treating his desk as a battlefield and his inkwell as a formidable fortress, every stroke a spear aimed at the heart. This is exactly how we scholars should resist tyranny."

As he threw down his pen and recited a long poem, ink dots flew like stars, landing precisely on the three characters "蔽日晖" (bì rì huī, meaning "covering the sun's rays") in Chen Zisheng's poem.

"Gentlemen, look! This eunuch who tried to cover up the sky has long been riddled with holes by our pens."

Zhu Cilang walked slowly to the desk, his slender fingers pressing down on the paperweight holding the poem manuscript:

"Is it only scholars who possess unyielding integrity?"

Before he finished speaking, he suddenly flicked his sleeve, picked up a brush, dipped it in ink, and began to write with flowing, dynamic strokes:

"In the seventh year of the Tianqi reign, the frost-covered moon was cold."

The late emperor brandished his sword to solemnly command the court officials.

The ancestral hall of Wei Yan was burned for three days.

The imperial edict was issued before the ink was even dry.

After finishing writing, he threw down his pen, turned to look at everyone, and said meaningfully:

"Can you hear the pine trees rustling on Coal Hill? That is the true weapon that pierces the heart."

Upon hearing this, everyone's expressions tightened, and they immediately understood that the poem was praising Emperor Chongzhen's achievement in eliminating Wei Zhongxian.

Huang Zongxi squinted and carefully examined Zhu Cilang:

"Everyone says that the brocades of Suzhou and Hangzhou are exquisitely crafted, but I think the young master's poem actually exudes an imperial aura."

"But this character—"

He grabbed the manuscript of poems in front of Zhu Cilang and unfolded it in front of everyone with a "whoosh."

"It looks like the tiny handwriting of a bookkeeper in a silk shop. If it were framed as a plaque, people would probably mistake it for the signboard of 'Wan Guan Tang'."

The entire room erupted in laughter!

The musician plucked the strings violently, producing a piercing sound that startled a flock of crows outside the building into flight.

Zhu Cilang's gaze suddenly fixed on the iron awl pen at Huang Zongxi's waist:

"Sir, your iron-tipped pen is a reminder that just as silk requires clear warp and weft, writing also requires a pen tip as sharp as a knife."

"But this poem, sir—"

He made a fist with his left hand as if holding an awl, then suddenly flipped his wrist.

"It's like poking holes in rice paper with an awl; if used to cut satin, it would probably save the trouble of using scissors."

Before he could finish speaking, an even louder burst of laughter nearly lifted the roof off.

Amidst the laughter, Huang Zongxi's eyes narrowed slightly, and he suddenly took out an iron awl pen from his waist.

The musician seemed to sense something and plucked out a murderous sound with his fingers.

But when he dipped his iron-tipped brush in thick ink and applied it to the snow-wave paper, the strokes were as swift as a sudden gust of wind—

"The emperor is not a lone traveler on a boat; it is the people who carry him on their journey."

The ink, which had penetrated the back of the paper, was not yet completely dry.

Zhang Youyu slammed the abacus down on the table with a "clatter" to use it as a paperweight, his withered fingers twirling the wolf-hair brush, behaving like a bookkeeper.

The brush tip hovered three inches above the plain silk when Zhu Cilang lightly tapped the celadon teacup. Only then did he hastily begin writing:

"Rivers bend nine times but eventually flow to the sea; how can boats and oars leave the helm?"

The signature, however, is simply "Zhang Yan, a commoner from Jinling".