The morning court in the capital had long since lost its function as a place of decision, and had instead stabilized into a predictable arena where positions were performed rather than resolved, because every session now revolved around the same unresolved contradiction between war and appeasement, and every official present had already chosen a side long before entering the hall.
The civil and military officials stood in clearly divided groups, not formally labeled, yet unmistakably aligned, and as soon as the session began, the arguments resumed with practiced intensity, as if each participant were fulfilling a required role within a repetitive structure that no longer produced new outcomes.
Voices rose and overlapped, logic was repeated in cycles, and rhetoric was deployed not to persuade, but to maintain presence, because in this environment, silence carried more risk than contradiction.
The pro-war faction pushed for immediate expansion of military operations, emphasizing momentum, opportunity, and the weakening state of the Qing Forces, while the pro-appeasement faction responded with arguments centered on resource limitations, logistical strain, and the long-term risks of overextension.
At the center of these opposing currents, two figures who once defined the conflict were now absent.
Cao Huachun no longer appeared in court, having withdrawn into the inner palace to manage imperial operations directly, where his influence could be exercised without the friction of public debate.
Gao Qiqian had been dispatched to Jinzhou as supervising authority, removing him physically from the arena while leaving behind a faction that continued to act in his name.
Their absence did not weaken the conflict.
It made it more abstract.
Because without central figures to anchor the arguments, the officials themselves became carriers of position rather than decision-makers, and the debate continued as a self-sustaining mechanism.
The noise built toward its usual peak, each side reinforcing its own logic, each argument layered upon previous arguments, forming a dense structure of repetition that gave the illusion of urgency without producing resolution.
Then the structure broke.
A eunuch rushed into the hall, his movement cutting across protocol with enough force to override ongoing speech, and his voice carried a clarity that immediately silenced the chamber.
"Eight hundred li urgent military report."
The phrase did not require explanation.
It triggered priority.
Every official turned toward him, because within the hierarchy of court operations, nothing outranked urgent military intelligence.
The eunuch advanced to the center, breathing heavily, but forcing his report into coherence.
"Several days ago, Supervising Eunuch Gao engaged the Qing general Ajige in direct combat at Dalinghe City."
The opening statement created immediate dissonance.
Because it contradicted expectation.
Because the court was still arguing whether to fight.
Yet the war had already advanced beyond discussion.
At the throne, Zhu Youjian felt a sharp shift in his expression, not yet grief, but irritation mixed with confusion, because from his perspective, the sequence was wrong.
The court had not concluded its debate.
Policy had not been finalized.
Yet action had already occurred.
"How did this battle conclude," he asked, his voice controlled, but edged.
The eunuch continued.
"Our forces achieved decisive victory, successfully defeating the Qing Forces and reclaiming Dalinghe City. During the engagement, Supervising Eunuch Gao personally entered combat, confronting the Qing general Ajige directly. Despite sustaining severe injuries, he continued fighting and ultimately perished together with the enemy commander."
The hall erupted.
Not in grief.
In calculation.
The officials present did not need to verify the narrative details, because the embellishment was obvious, yet irrelevant, while the core facts carried strategic weight that could not be ignored.
Ajige was dead.
Dalinghe City had been retaken.
These were not claims that could be fabricated, because the cost of false reporting at that level would be immediate and fatal.
At the throne, Zhu Youjian froze for a moment before the reality reached him, and when it did, it bypassed politics entirely.
"Gao Qiqian… is dead?"
The question was quiet, but it carried something the court had not expressed.
Attachment.
The eunuch delivering the report lowered his head.
"He died in service to the state."
That phrasing was formal.
The meaning was not.
Zhu Youjian's composure broke.
Tears fell without restraint, because Gao Qiqian was not merely an official within his system, but a companion from his earliest years, a figure who had remained close to him through isolation, uncertainty, and ascension, and in that personal context, the loss was immediate and absolute.
However, the court did not mirror this reaction.
No one wept.
Instead, voices rose again, but now their tone had shifted completely.
"Ajige is dead."
"Heaven favors the Great Ming."
"With Dalinghe recovered, the path toward Shengjing is open."
The focus had already moved.
From loss.
To opportunity.
One official stepped forward, his posture formal, but his timing precise.
"Your Majesty, this is the optimal moment to initiate a full counteroffensive against the Qing Forces."
The statement caused brief confusion among nearby officials, because the speaker had previously aligned with the pro-appeasement faction, yet after a short moment, understanding spread rapidly.
Alignment was not ideological.
It was adaptive.
Another official stepped forward.
"I concur. The current situation presents a rare strategic window that should not be wasted."
More voices followed.
Agreement multiplied.
Positions shifted.
Within moments, the division that had defined the court dissolved, replaced by a unified push toward war.
The mechanism was simple.
Gao Qiqian was dead.
His faction no longer had a center.
There was no longer any reason to maintain previous alignment.
The system of position had recalculated.
Zhu Youjian was still grieving when he noticed the shift, and the contrast between his emotional state and the court's behavior created a different kind of clarity.
He understood what had happened.
Not in detail.
But in principle.
The court had not changed its beliefs.
It had changed its incentives.
He looked at the officials before him and felt anger rise through grief, because what he saw was not loyalty, but opportunism presented as policy.
"You argued just moments ago that we lacked sufficient grain," he said, his voice tightening.
The official who had spoken earlier responded without hesitation.
"Resources can always be gathered if the need is urgent enough."
The answer was technically valid.
Which made it worse.
Because it revealed that previous arguments had not been constraints, but tools.
Zhu Youjian's anger crystallized.
He understood that he himself supported the idea of counterattack under different circumstances, but in this moment, the unanimity of the court did not feel like strength.
It felt like pressure.
It felt like manipulation.
And instinctively, he rejected it.
"Silence."
The word cut through the hall, restoring order instantly.
He stood, his expression hardened by the combination of grief and anger.
"First, Gao Qiqian's body will be returned and buried with full honors. As for war or appeasement, I will not discuss it now. Anyone who raises the matter again will be punished."
The decision did not resolve the issue.
It postponed it.
But in doing so, it reasserted control.
The court fell silent.
The session ended.
And just like that, the prolonged conflict between war and appeasement, which had dominated the court for so long, collapsed not through resolution, but through interruption.
Days later, Gao Qiqian's body was returned to the capital.
His expression at death had been one of shock and disbelief, but through careful preparation, it had been adjusted into a state of calm, because even in death, presentation remained part of the system.
Zhu Youjian mourned openly at the coffin, his grief displayed without restraint, and those closest to him responded with praise that reinforced his self-image.
"Your Majesty values loyalty and repays it with sincerity. Such virtue is rare among rulers."
The statements were predictable.
But effective.
Because within them, Zhu Youjian found confirmation of his identity, and in that confirmation, he distanced himself from the common judgment that emperors were inherently detached.
He believed himself different.
He believed himself just.
Three days later, that belief encountered resistance.
A scholar named Liu Maopao publicly criticized the emperor, accusing him of placing personal sentiment above state interest and delaying a critical military opportunity, framing his decision as weakness rather than restraint.
The statement spread rapidly through the capital, not because of its content alone, but because of its origin.