The Political Chessboard of 1370

In the sweltering summer of 1370, the Ming Dynasty’s imperial court became the stage for a dramatic power struggle that would end in bloodshed. At the center of this turmoil stood Yang Xian, a shrewd but fatally ambitious official whose meteoric rise and catastrophic fall unfolded within a single lunar month. Emperor Hongwu (Zhu Yuanzhang), the founder of the Ming Dynasty, orchestrated this political theater with calculated precision, revealing the perilous nature of power in the early years of China’s last imperial dynasty.

The Making of a Political Operative

Yang Xian’s career trajectory was emblematic of Hongwu’s unconventional approach to governance. Unlike traditional scholar-officials, Yang rose through the ranks as an intelligence operative—a background that granted him intimate knowledge of court secrets but left him lacking the temperament for high office. His patron, the legendary strategist Liu Bowen, had warned the emperor that while Yang possessed administrative talent, he lacked the moral compass required of a chancellor.

The emperor’s decision to appoint Yang as Left Vice-Chancellor of the Central Secretariat in July 1370 was no accident. Hongwu, ever the master of political manipulation, deliberately contravened Liu Bowen’s advice to test both men’s loyalties. The promotion placed Yang directly beneath Wang Guangyang, a seasoned administrator whose sudden passivity in the face of Yang’s aggression puzzled observers.

The Fifteen Days of Hubris

Yang’s brief tenure as vice-chancellor became a case study in political overreach. Within days of his appointment, he purged experienced officials and installed his own faction throughout the bureaucracy. When Wang Guangyang meekly cautioned that the emperor disapproved of such factionalism, Yang retorted with chilling cynicism: “Which grand secretary doesn’t staff his office with loyalists?”

The turning point came when Hongwu casually revealed Liu Bowen’s unflattering assessment of Yang’s character. The revelation triggered a paranoid rage that drove Yang to confront Liu Bowen in his home. The tense encounter—where Yang stood dripping sweat in the Nanjing heat, accusing his former mentor of betrayal—marked the beginning of his downfall.

The Art of Political Destruction

Yang’s subsequent campaign against Wang Guangyang demonstrated his mastery of Ming political warfare. Discovering Wang’s alleged lack of filial piety—a capital offense in Hongwu’s Confucian regime—Yang mobilized censors to impeach his rival. The emperor’s response was telling: rather than punishing Wang for the nominal charge, Hongwu exiled him for failing to control Yang’s ambitions.

With Wang removed, Yang assumed the left vice-chancellorship and began eyeing the chancellorship itself. His triumph, however, lasted mere days. The powerful Huai faction, led by Chancellor Li Shanchang, mobilized against the upstart. Their argument was simple but devastating: a former spy with unchecked power would destroy the civil bureaucracy.

The Emperor’s Justice

Hongwu’s execution order in late July 1370 confirmed a fundamental truth of Ming politics: no official, no matter how talented, could challenge the emperor’s absolute authority. Yang’s fatal miscalculation lay in his failure to recognize that Hongwu valued restraint above all else in his ministers. As the emperor lamented after Yang’s death: “He never understood—they are all just my staff officers.”

The speed of Yang’s demise shocked even seasoned officials. Within weeks, he had risen to the pinnacle of power only to be crushed by the very system he sought to manipulate. His story became a cautionary tale about the limits of ambition in Hongwu’s autocratic regime.

Liu Bowen’s Bitter Reward

The aftermath revealed deeper currents in Ming politics. Liu Bowen, despite his instrumental role in Yang’s downfall, received only a token aristocratic title (Count of Chengyi) in the 1370 honors list—a deliberate snub that placed him below far less accomplished officials. The emperor’s belated recognition, accompanied by a flowery edict comparing Liu to legendary strategists Zhuge Liang and Wang Meng, could not disguise the paltry 240 piculs of grain allotted as his stipend—a fraction of what lesser figures received.

Liu’s quiet acceptance masked profound disillusionment. His twilight years in Nanjing, spent observing court politics with detached melancholy, reflected the precarious position of even the most brilliant minds in Hongwu’s China. As he wandered the capital’s streets, anonymous among the crowds, the architect of Ming victory composed poetry that hinted at his foreboding:

“Woodcutters and fishermen’s affairs—
Heaven keeps accounts with human cares.
Empty fame has wasted my years…”

The Bloody Legacy

The events of 1370 foreshadowed the purges that would decimate the Ming bureaucracy. Yang Xian’s execution marked the beginning of Hongwu’s systematic elimination of potential threats. The aristocratic titles bestowed that autumn—including six dukeships and twenty-eight marquisates—would later become death warrants as the emperor turned against his own creation.

By 1398, only two of the fifty-nine honored nobles survived Hongwu’s paranoia. Liu Bowen’s modest title, initially seeming like an insult, may have spared his family the worst of the coming storm. His mysterious smile in later years—described by observers as “Mona Lisa-like”—suggested grim awareness that exclusion from the emperor’s honors list might prove the greatest favor of all.

The tragedy of Yang Xian and the quiet despair of Liu Bowen reveal the essential contradiction of early Ming rule: brilliant men were necessary to build the empire, but became dangerous once their usefulness ended. In this world of shifting allegiances and sudden executions, survival depended on recognizing the unspoken rules of imperial favor—a lesson Yang learned too late, and Liu understood all too well.