The Rise of a Corrupt Regime

The year was 1624, the fourth year of the Tianqi era in Ming Dynasty China. The imperial court had fallen under the shadow of Wei Zhongxian, a eunuch whose grip on power rivaled the emperor’s. As superintendent of the Eastern Depot—the notorious secret police—Wei had turned the government into his personal fiefdom, purging dissenters, enriching his allies, and terrorizing officials into submission.

Against this backdrop stood Yang Lian, the Vice Censor-in-Chief, a man of unshakable integrity. On a fateful day in June, Yang drafted a memorial accusing Wei Zhongxian of twenty-four capital crimes, from murdering loyal officials to plotting treason. The document was a damning indictment, meticulously detailing Wei’s atrocities. Yet Yang knew the odds: the court was already infested with Wei’s lackeys. Submitting the memorial through official channels would ensure its suppression.

A Desperate Gambit

Yang Lian’s plan was bold. He would bypass the bureaucracy and present the memorial directly to the emperor during an audience. But fate intervened—the emperor canceled court that day. Faced with no alternative, Yang submitted the document through routine channels, fully aware it would land in Wei’s hands.

Wei Zhongxian, illiterate but cunning, had the memorial read aloud. As the litany of his crimes unfolded, his initial arrogance turned to terror. The accusations were irrefutable. Panicked, Wei resorted to his ultimate weapon: isolating the emperor. For days, he prevented Tianqi from holding court, buying time to suppress Yang’s accusations.

The Power of the Written Word

Wei underestimated Yang’s resolve. Copies of the memorial spread like wildfire. Scholars transcribed it by hand; commoners recited it in the streets. The Donglin Academy—a bastion of reformist scholars—amplified its message, turning Wei’s crimes into public knowledge. Even some of Wei’s allies, sensing shifting tides, defected.

For a fleeting moment, victory seemed possible. But Yang had overlooked a critical weakness: the emperor’s indifference. Tianqi, more craftsman than ruler, spent his days building wooden models, leaving governance to Wei. When confronted with the scandal, the emperor—barely literate and manipulated by Wei’s allies—dismissed the accusations.

The Iron Fist Descends

Emboldened, Wei struck back. In October 1624, he orchestrated a purge. Yang Lian, along with Donglin leaders like Zuo Guangdou and Zhao Nanxing, was dismissed. But Wei wasn’t satisfied. Unlike past political vendettas, he sought annihilation.

The key to crushing the Donglin faction lay in extracting false confessions. Wei’s henchman, Xu Xianchun, targeted Wang Wenyan, a minor official with ties to the Donglin. Tortured relentlessly, Wang was ordered to implicate Yang Lian in bribery. His defiance was absolute: “There is no corrupt Yang Lian.” Even as Xu forged a confession, Wang’s dying words echoed: “Do not falsify! Even dead, I will confront you!”

The Martyr’s End

With Wang’s “confession” in hand, Wei arrested Yang Lian. What followed was a grotesque spectacle of cruelty. Yang endured brutal floggings, iron brushes that flayed his skin, and nails driven into his ears. Through it all, he refused to confess.

In his cell, Yang penned a blood-written testament, hidden in his pillow:

“I die without regret. Let my bones be devoured by maggots, but may our nation stand strong, our emperor wise, and our people at peace. This foolish hope, I take to my grave.”

On July 24, 1625, Xu Xianchun hammered a nail into Yang’s skull. The man who had defied tyranny was dead.

Legacy of Light in Darkness

Yang’s blood letter survived, smuggled out by a guilt-ridden jailer. Three years later, after Wei’s fall, it became a symbol of resistance. In a world of compromise, Yang Lian chose principle over survival. His story transcends time—a reminder that courage can outlast even the darkest oppression.

Why remember Yang Lian? Because in an age of sycophants and butchers, he stood unbowed. Not for wealth, not for fame, but for justice. As his final words proclaimed:

“Laughing, laughing, still laughing—
The wind blows, the swords fall—
What are they to me?”

A thousand years may pass, but such defiance never fades.