From Humble Origins to Revolutionary Paths

The rise of the Ming Dynasty (1368–1644) is a tale of improbable alliances and pragmatic ambition. At its heart lies the partnership between Zhu Yuanzhang, a peasant-turned-warlord, and Liu Bowen, a disillusioned scholar—two men whose initial goals bore little resemblance to their world-changing achievements.

Zhu began as a penniless monk and rebel footsoldier, his early aspirations extending no further than survival. As he later confessed, his battlefield shouts of “Charge!” masked simple desires: a safe retreat and a decent meal. Even after capturing his first city, governing it seemed ambition enough—the imperial throne remained an unimaginable abstraction.

Liu Bowen, by contrast, embodied classical Confucian ideals. The Zhejiang-born scholar-official had once dreamed of serving the Yuan Dynasty (1271–1368) with grand administrative reforms. Yet repeated frustrations—including three resignations from corrupt Yuan posts—left his youthful ideals “like a candle flame vulnerable to the slightest breeze.” By 1358, the 48-year-old had retreated to his hometown Qingtian, seemingly resigned to obscurity.

The Turning Point: A Scholar Meets a Warlord

In 1360, history pivoted during an unremarkable boat journey. Summoned by Zhu’s faction to Nanjing (then called Yingtian), Liu encountered an old friend—the poet Xu Fang—whose mocking reception laid bare the contradictions of their era.

Xu, now a hermit, greeted Liu in absurdly archaic robes, sat unceremoniously in the boat’s honored seat, and derided his friend’s decision to serve “a rebel.” That night, Liu composed a revealing poem comparing himself to Jiang Ziya (the strategist who helped found the Zhou Dynasty) while implying Xu resembled Boyi—the principled but ineffective scholar who starved rather than serve new rulers. The verses exposed Liu’s hard-won philosophy: talent obligated action, regardless of political purity.

The Uneasy Partnership Begins

Arriving in Nanjing, the scholar faced immediate tests. Zhu—then 33 and styling himself “Duke of Wu”—initially treated the renowned strategist with dismissive curiosity. During their first private audience, the warlord challenged Liu to improvise poetry about his chopsticks. Liu’s response wove together:
– The legend of Emperor Shun’s grieving consorts (symbolizing the bamboo’s origin)
– Zhang Liang’s famous “chopstick stratagem” that saved the Han Dynasty

This display of erudition and political insight made Zhu exclaim, “We met too late!” Yet tangible recognition came slowly. Liu’s initial appointment as “Senior Military Libationer” (祭酒) was largely ceremonial—akin to calling a hot dog “filet mignon,” as one chronicler quipped.

The Eighteen Stratagems: Blueprint for a Dynasty

Liu’s response to marginalization became his masterstroke. Over weeks of predawn walks through misty Nanjing, he drafted the Shiwu Shibace (时务十八策)—18 policies covering:

1. Legitimacy Through Virtue
Positioning Zhu as the anti-Yuan: “When water boils, people crave coolness; when tyranny reigns, they yearn for benevolence.”

2. Southern Consolidation First
Exploiting Yuan distraction by northern rebellions to secure the Yangtze heartland before northern campaigns.

3. Strategic Patience
Advising Zhu to avoid premature imperial claims, instead operating under the Red Turban rebels’ nominal authority—a tactic historian Wang Zhen called “borrowing a chicken to lay eggs.”

4. Nanjing as Imperial Capital
Noting its defensible geography and Six Dynasties-era prestige as “a dragon’s lair facing tigers (rivals) on all sides.”

5. The Decisive Rivalry
His most urgent analysis contrasted two threats:
– Chen Youliang: The “crocodile of the middle Yangtze” whose naval dominance made him the primary threat
– Zhang Shicheng: The “crab of the coast” whose territorial greed lacked strategic vision

Liu’s metaphor proved prescient: “To hunt wolves, first shoot the alpha. The pack will scatter.”

The Cultural Paradox

This partnership defied Confucian norms. Traditional histories celebrate scholar-officials guiding virtuous rulers, yet Liu served a barely literate warlord who:
– Employed torture techniques like “wearing a fragrant hat” (iron cage with spikes)
– Later purged thousands of officials

Contemporary critics like Xu Fang saw Liu’s choice as moral compromise. Modern scholars like Timothy Brook argue it reflected Yuan collapse’s radical pragmatism—when “the center could not hold, the best lacked conviction, while the worst filled the vacuum with ferocious intensity.”

Legacy Beyond the Stratagems

The Eighteen Policies vanished soon after presentation—likely suppressed by Zhu to claim sole credit for strategic vision. Yet their influence permeated Ming institutions:

1. Weisuo System
Liu’s “farms supporting soldiers” model created self-sufficient garrisons that stabilized frontiers for 200 years.

2. Capital Planning
Nanjing’s layout—with Purple Mountain as “natural fortress” and Yangtze as “moat”—followed his geographical principles.

3. Psychological Warfare
His emphasis on deception shaped Ming tactics, like the fake naval defeat that lured Chen Youliang into Lake Poyang’s trap (1363).

Ironically, Liu’s later reputation as a mystical prophet (due to forged texts like Shaobing Song) overshadowed his realpolitik brilliance. As historian Frederick Mote observed: “He became the Merlin to Zhu’s Arthur, when in truth he was more akin to Machiavelli advising Cesare Borgia.”

Modern Lessons from an Ancient Alliance

This 14th-century partnership offers unexpected insights for today:

1. The Pragmatism of Greatness
Both men succeeded by focusing on immediate challenges rather than distant ideals—Zhu through survival-driven adaptability, Liu through incremental policy wins.

2. Talent Recognizes Opportunity
Liu’s career demonstrates how exceptional minds can reshape chaotic environments—provided they accept imperfect platforms.

3. The Cost of Realpolitik
Their collaboration’s dark underside—Liu’s eventual poisoning by political rivals, Zhu’s later purges—warns how utilitarian alliances can unravel.

As morning mists still rise over Nanjing’s surviving Ming walls, they whisper the era’s ambiguous lesson: history rewards those who bridge the ideal and the possible—but exacts a price for the crossing.