The Darkened Sun and a Monarch’s Unease

In the sixth lunar month of 1371, Emperor Zhu Yuanzhang’s western campaign forces captured Chongqing, toppling the regime of Ming Sheng—son of the late warlord Ming Yuzhen. While the victory warranted celebration, the emperor found himself troubled by an unsettling celestial phenomenon. The Imperial Astronomical Bureau reported: “Dark spots have appeared in the sun again, persisting for three years.”

Zhu Yuanzhang vividly recalled a similar omen years prior, coinciding with the execution of his general Hu Shen by enemy forces. Superstition gripped the court as officials submitted exhaustive records of historical solar anomalies, linking them invariably to disasters—yet none could interpret the present signs. Frustrated, the emperor turned to the one man he had long sidelined: Liu Bowen, the legendary strategist whose wisdom had once shaped the Ming dynasty’s rise.

A Calculated Reckoning: The Letter from the Throne

Zhu Yuanzhang’s summons to Liu Bowen was layered with irony. His letter, ostensibly seeking counsel on the sunspots, dripped with veiled barbs:
– Mock humility: Requesting Liu to “consult mountain hermits” for answers, despite knowing Liu’s unparalleled expertise in divination.
– Political theater: Feigning concern for Liu’s health while subtly pressuring him to serve.
– The unspoken threat: A reminder that even in retirement, Liu remained subject to imperial whim.

Liu’s response walked a tightrope. He congratulated the emperor on his military triumph before dissecting the omen with characteristic logic: Solar anomalies do not dictate earthly events; governance requires balance, not blind adherence to omens. His words temporarily assuaged Zhu’s fears, rekindling a fragile dialogue.

The Mirage of Reconciliation

For a brief period in late 1371, Liu Bowen experienced a resurgence. Correspondence from the emperor—now laced with personal inquiries and nostalgic references to their shared past—fueled his hope for renewed influence. His health improved markedly; witnesses noted his renewed vigor as he climbed Qingtian Mountain “with the speed of a young man.”

Yet this renaissance was illusory. As historian Ray Huang observed, “Autocratic rulers seldom tolerate independent thinkers once their power is consolidated.” Zhu Yuanzhang’s apparent warmth masked a deeper calculation: Liu’s intellect remained a tool to be wielded and discarded.

The Tanyang Affair: A Strategist’s Gamble

The unraveling began with Liu’s well-intentioned proposal to establish a xunjiansi (armed checkpoint) in Tanyang—a lawless frontier region straddling Zhejiang and Fujian. His detailed memorial outlined how this remote “bandit haven” required imperial intervention.

### The Political Firestorm
– Hu Weiyong’s humiliation: As de facto prime minister, Hu took Liu’s bypassing of bureaucratic channels as a personal slight.
– The conspiracy: Minister of Justice Wu Yunmu crafted a lethal accusation: Liu sought Tanyang’s lands for his ancestral tomb—implying designs on the throne’s feng shui.
– Zhu’s reaction: Though likely skeptical, the emperor saw an opportunity to humble Liu further, stripping his stipend while stopping short of harsher punishment.

The Final Pilgrimage

In July 1373, a visibly aged Liu Bowen journeyed to Nanjing to plead his innocence. The once-vibrant capital now seemed decayed—a metaphor for his own decline. His audience with Zhu was a masterclass in political theater:
– The confession: Liu admitted to “improper tomb selection,” a fiction he embraced to survive.
– The emperor’s cold mercy: Allowing Liu to remain in Nanjing under virtual house arrest.

Historian Frederick Mote notes: “This was not forgiveness, but a slow suffocation—a way to neutralize Liu’s influence while maintaining the facade of imperial benevolence.”

Epilogue: The Dying Light

Liu Bowen’s final months were marked by paradoxical acts:
– Intellectual defiance: Composing “Two Ghosts”—an allegorical poem critiquing Zhu’s autocracy through mythological imagery.
– Personal reconciliation: Revisiting his literary rivalry with Song Lian, another founding scholar now also fallen from grace.

When Hu Weiyong became chancellor later that year, Liu’s deathbed prophecy—”If I am wrong about him, it is the people’s blessing; if right, their calamity”—proved tragically prescient. Hu’s subsequent tyranny would culminate in a purge killing 30,000, validating Liu’s warnings too late.

Legacy: The Unheeded Prophet

Modern reassessments frame Liu Bowen as:
1. A bridge between eras: His fusion of Yuan scholarly traditions with Ming pragmatism influenced later administrative reforms.
2. The cost of integrity: His fate illustrates the peril of moral absolutism in autocracies—a theme echoed in critiques from Machiavelli to modern political theory.
3. Cultural immortality: Folk legends transformed him into a quasi-mythic figure, a “Chinese Nostradamus” whose prophecies were posthumously celebrated even as his statecraft was ignored.

As the sunspots of 1371 faded, so too did the last embers of Zhu Yuanzhang’s trust in his greatest advisor. In the end, both men became prisoners of their own making—one of paranoia, the other of principle. The tragedy of Liu Bowen lies not in his failure to foresee his downfall, but in his unwavering belief that reason could temper power.