Recently, Lao T has been browsing Zhihu, reading over a dozen questions and hundreds of answers about Kangxi and Hong Chengchou. Roughly estimating, the total word count likely exceeds 300,000. Regarding what could be called the most influential contemporary phenomenon of “grassroots historical invention,” Lao T has some personal reflections. Here, Lao T won’t revisit whether Kangxi was Hong Chengchou’s son but will instead share some thoughts on the phenomenon itself.

Recalling childhood days watching Qing palace dramas on TV, the power struggles among emperors, empress dowagers, and ministers always felt off to Lao T. It wasn’t that the plots were overly dramatic, but there was a sense of “only half the story being told.”

Take, for instance, the episode of Kangxi passing the throne to Yongzheng—the theories about “passing to the fourth son” versus “passing to the fourteenth son,” and the alleged tampering with “Yinzhen” and “Yinzhen.” While countless folk interpretations exist, official history rigidly provides a “standard answer.” Although later, after reading serious historical research, Lao T learned that the claim of the edict being altered is “pseudo-history,” upon reflection, the persistence of such rumors might not be just a matter of “coincidence.”

Overall, this has led Lao T to reconsider the role of “coincidence” in history.

Coincidence Isn’t Evidence, but It Warrants Attention

With over a decade of experience in legal work, Lao T has a fundamental principle: “Coincidence is not evidence.” For example, in complex petition cases, parties often present numerous clues suggesting “disciplinary or legal violations,” only for these so-called “clues” to turn out as isolated, unconnectable incidents, unable to prove judicial misconduct or bias.

However, Lao T has also encountered cases with overly coincidental circumstances that immediately raise suspicions of foul play among ordinary people. Yet, often due to being only circumstantial evidence, they still fail to overturn the original ruling.

Logically, the convergence of multiple anomalies doesn’t necessarily imply causation. But in practice, if these anomalies remain unexplained, not only will the parties never accept the conclusions, but anyone encountering such cases will also harbor doubts.

The case of Kangxi and Hong Chengchou fits this perfectly. The issue gained traction precisely because of coincidences—like placing a photo of Kangxi next to one of Hong Chengchou, which would make anyone wonder.

In subsequent online research into their relationship, coincidences have piled up. For instance, one of the most typical involves the incident with Emperor Qianlong’s step-empress.

On the 18th day of the second lunar month in 1765, during Qianlong’s southern tour to Hangzhou, his step-empress Nara suddenly cut her hair in a vow. This day coincidentally marked the 100th anniversary of Hong Chengchou’s death (18th day of the second lunar month, 1665).

In the Qing dynasty, cutting one’s hair was an extreme act, equivalent to cursing the emperor’s death and symbolizing the end of the dynasty’s fortune. According to the Draft History of Qing, that morning, Qianlong and the Nara empress had breakfast together harmoniously, yet by afternoon, they had a falling out. She was demoted and died despondent a year later. The historical records omit the reason, merely stating she “offended the emperor.”

Now, linking Nara’s hair-cutting to Hong Chengchou does have some logical plausibility.

Such coincidences abound in the Kangxi-Hong Chengchou narrative, with netizens identifying around fifty to sixty “coincidences.”

While reviewing these netizen-uncovered historical materials, Lao T noticed many employ a “chain of reasoning” approach: it’s not about one coincidence but multiple cross-verified ones. When coincidences accumulate, they warrant deeper investigation—not for sensationalism but to understand the gaps in history.

A Decentralized Grassroots Movement of Historical Creation

Observing online discussions about Kangxi and Hong Chengchou’s relationship, Lao T sees a decentralized environment where individuals contribute arguments and evidence, complementing and correcting each other. This has rapidly formed one of the largest decentralized historical creation activities on the internet. Logical historical arguments resemble detective work, piecing together timelines, official appointments, memorials, and diplomatic records into推理 chains.

For example, after Hong Chengchou’s surrender, he was often “present but not fully committed.” After being involved in the Fire God Temple case in the seventh year of Shunzhi’s reign, he entered semi-retirement. In the ninth year of Shunzhi, after Cining Palace was completed and Empress Dowager Xiaozhuang moved in, Hong suddenly received promotions and “took off.” Nine months later, Kangxi was born. Netizens speculate that after Dorgon’s death, Xiaozhuang and Hong Chengchou “rekindled their old relationship,” with Cining Palace facilitating secret meetings, leading to Kangxi’s birth.

Another example is after Kangxi ascended the throne, 2,000 soldiers from the Plain Blue Banner bizarrely engaged in anti-Qing activities, even kneeling to the Southern Ming’s Yongli Emperor, and were ultimately killed by Wu Sangui, whom Kangxi then praised. Logically, this is akin to a Japanese Imperial Army division turning against Japan, being eliminated by Wang Jingwei, and then Wang being commended by the Japanese—utterly illogical under normal reasoning. But if Kangxi is assumed to be Hong Chengchou’s son, it suddenly seems plausible.

Some netizens in their “research” use linguistic and titular clues, decoding hidden messages in names, poems, sacrificial texts, and symbols like deciphering coded telegrams.

A typical example is the suspicion that “Hong Taiji” might be “Hong Taiji” (as “皇” and “洪” sound similar in Manchu). It’s well-known that Hong Taiji’s original name strangely disappeared during the Kangxi-Qianlong era, with the world no longer knowing his birth name. Similarly, in some Qing edicts, the character “承” oddly lacks strokes; “Chengtianmen” was changed to “Tian’anmen”; the Qing national anthem “Gong Jin’ou” begins with “承天帱,” which netizens easily interpret as intentional avoidance. Especially, the plaque in Qianqing Palace reading “正大光明” contains “大明” (Great Ming), oddly without any taboo regarding the Ming dynasty. While much of this content seems far-fetched—for instance, both Chengtianmen and “正大光明” date to the Shunzhi era—it adds to the mystery of the event.

The most contentious part of this event involves genetic and DNA arguments.

From a侧面 perspective, official history states Kangxi ascended the throne at eight, but Korean envoys recorded him as “appearing twelve or thirteen,” and Dutch envoys said he was “around sixteen,” which doesn’t necessarily challenge his origins. Descriptions of Kangxi’s appearance and portraits showing a lack of smallpox sequelae, along with genetic traits like double eyelids differing from Shunzhi, add more suspense. Particularly in DNA testing, the semi-official results lack substantial persuasiveness, giving netizens more grounds for speculation.

Some oral histories also add to the fog.

For instance, renowned historian Lü Simian mentioned in his works that his family’s oral tradition holds that his ancestor, the Top Graduate and Grand Tutor of the Heir Apparent in the fourth year of Shunzhi, resigned and retreated to the countryside for fear that Empress Dowager Xiaozhuang might inflict a “Lao Ai disaster” upon him. Subsequently, many netizens searched the records of Top Graduates during Shunzhi’s reign and found almost all had similar resignations or early deaths. Another example is Zhang Xueliang’s oral history, where he mentioned Hong Taiji having Xiaozhuang persuade Hong Chengchou to surrender using her charms, hinting that Kangxi was Hong Chengchou’s son. Additionally, some online claims by self-identified Manchu descendants mention family rumors to this effect.

Most importantly, the Kangxi-Hong Chengchou matter carries typical symbolic significance in social psychology.

For example, if Kangxi were Hong Chengchou’s son, it would fill the “Yuan-Qing bug,” corroborate the historical positioning of late Ming landlord elites betraying the nation and ethnicity, and align with Sun Yat-sen’s statement that “even Han emperors must be overthrown,” etc.

From a formal perspective, these “researches” are diverse, with each person presenting their own, yet they cross-correct each other, attempting to build a closed-loop argument system that explains numerous “coincidences.” The spontaneous scale and collaborative depth of this research are indeed somewhat surprising.

Why Grassroots “Research” Deserves Respect

A long-standing phenomenon in historiography is the academic circle’s tendency to look down upon public discussions, even dismissing their ideas as “not worth refuting,” often labeling them “conspiracy theories.”

However, in the specific case of “Kangxi and Hong Chengchou,” from Lao T’s observation, many netizens aren’t merely fooling around. They meticulously read the Draft History of Qing, translate the Veritable Records of the Joseon Dynasty, consult local gazetteers, and even compare genealogies of descendants. This resembles a “distributed research” effort, with each person excavating a fragment, attempting to piece together a complete historical picture on the internet.

The vitality of grassroots historical exploration stems from strong curiosity and the courage to touch upon “politically incorrect” taboos.

Of course, such spontaneous actions can easily become extreme or speculative. But in the current special context of Qing history research, the rise of this grassroots inquiry has its无奈的 soil. As is well known, the official Qing History project remains unresolved, undoubtedly providing space for public “history revision” or interpretation, echoing the old saying in historiography: “All history is contemporary history.”

Netizens’ persistence in questioning the “official history” narrative stems from their perception that “history is always a girl being dressed up.” When doubts and “coincidences” in historical records pile up, the sealed windows are naturally pushed ajar—not out of sensationalism but from an instinctive pursuit of historical truth.

Reflecting on this public fervor around Kangxi’s origins, Lao T’s biggest takeaway is that perhaps the best attitude toward history is to maintain vigorous curiosity while learning and adhere to empirical methodology in curiosity. Merely emphasizing “orthodoxy” and “authority” not only fails to quell debates but can provoke stronger backlash.

History doesn’t readily reveal all its answers. What we can do is patiently unearth every piece of evidence and honestly examine it under the sunlight.

For the historical controversy of “Kangxi and Hong Chengchou,” filled with coincidences, the ultimate “truth” may forever remain veiled.

However, the process of continuously approaching the truth and the profound recognition of history’s complexity in this process恰恰印证了 that simple yet powerful judgment: when historical “coincidences” accumulate to such an extent, they themselves may already constitute a part of history.