Chapter 1045: The Final (Part 5)

In the fourth year of the Xiangfu era, early spring.

The last blizzard of the previous year had yet to fully melt away.

Zhao Sui, the Prince of Jiaodong, mobilized his elite forces and marched southward. Meanwhile, the elite cavalry of General Cai Bai from Hezhou successfully linked up with the mounted troops under Yang Huchen and Han Fang. Ma Zhongxian, the military governor of Jing’an Circuit, declared that he had gathered a hundred thousand elite soldiers and was poised to advance eastward.

These good tidings infused this year’s first court assembly with a festive atmosphere that even the New Year celebrations had lacked.

After the assembly, Sun Yin found Fan Changhou in the crowd and boasted that he had recently acquired a fragment of an ancient chess manual, which had miraculously elevated his skills to the point where he could now challenge the renowned “Ten-Dan Chess Saint” to a match.

Fan Changhou had originally been walking side by side with Song Keli, a fellow scholar in the Hanlin Academy. The two shared a deep bond, and Song Keli, a once-promising scion of a fallen noble family, was usually reticent but would often engage in late-night conversations with Fan Changhou.

Upon hearing Sun Yin’s challenge, Fan Changhou smiled and agreed, arranging to face off that evening at Sun Yin’s rented residence. Sun Yin repeatedly reminded the grandmaster not to forget to bring along some of Liu’s famous mutton from Tingma Lane on his way. Fan Changhou had no choice but to promise that even if he failed to show up, the mutton would not. Only then did Sun Yin relent.

Li Jifu, the top scholar of the previous imperial examination, jogged over to the eccentric Sun Yin, slightly out of breath. Sun Yin shot him a glare, to which Li Jifu responded with an embarrassed smile.

Li Jifu, plain in appearance and reserved in temperament, had long been mocked as the weakest among the top three scholars of the Liyang imperial examinations. He lacked the charm of a distinguished scholar and the strategic brilliance of a statesman. Compared to the illustrious Yin Maochun, who led the Yonghui era’s ministers, or even his own peers—the second-place Gao Tingshu and third-place Wu Congxian—he fell far short in pedigree, career prospects, and reputation in the capital. For three years, Li Jifu remained obscure and unremarkable. Now, with the next palace examination approaching, though the results were yet unknown, last autumn’s provincial examination top scorer, Qin Guanhai, had already surpassed Li Jifu in both demeanor and talent. Qin Guanhai, a scion of a noble family, had already gained fame in Tai’an City, further bolstered by the likes of Jin Lanting and Gao Tingshu. Li Jifu, by contrast, was relegated to the background, often singled out for ridicule.

The only notable thing about this unassuming man was his unwavering devotion to the eccentric Sun Yin. Whether for business or leisure, he would seek out Sun Yin, who had recently transferred to the Ministry of Rites, and follow him like a shadow after court sessions, as if uneasy otherwise. The court officials had long grown accustomed to this. Sun Yin, however, was anything but subdued. After his famed debate at the Imperial Academy, where he outwitted numerous scholars, he was soon dismissed from office. Within a year, he moved from the Ministry of War to the Ministry of Rites, only to promptly offend one minister, two vice-ministers, and three directors. The sole surviving director, Ma, was hounded at every court session with questions like, “Director Ma, did that man block your door and berate you yesterday?” or “Will you escape unscathed today?” or “Hold on, Director Ma! I’ve bet you’ll last the month unharmed—my next month’s salary depends on it!”

Before long, this Director Ma inexplicably became a household name, a testament to the audacity of Sun Yin, the “petty official of the Ministry of Rites.”

At dusk, in Sun Yin’s rented abode, the chess match did not feature the self-proclaimed chess prodigy Sun Yin against Fan Changhou, but rather an unremarkable out-of-town scholar pitted against the famed Xiangfu Chess Saint. After over sixty moves, the former still held his ground. The more one knew of Fan Changhou’s formidable skills, the more impressive this feat became. Fan Changhou, revered in the chess world as “Fanzi,” was considered to have surpassed Li Mi, the grandmaster of the Western Chu, and was likely on par with Huang Sanjia and Cao Changqing, with odds evenly split. Hence the jest: “Unless Xu Weixiong comes to the capital, Fan is invincible within an arm’s reach.”

The court-appointed chess masters of Liyang had conceded defeat with admiration. Yuan Mei, a renowned chess master and author of *The Peach Spring Chess Manual*, admitted that the belief in Fan Changhou’s invincibility with the first move was a misconception—simply because no one in the capital could truly prolong the game into the mid-stage.

Apart from Sun Yin and the two chess players, the room also housed Li Jifu and Song Keli. Sun Yin squatted on a small stool, cradling a large plate of peanuts. While gentlemen observed chess in silence, the less-skilled Sun Yin commented freely—fortunately, the young scholar paid him no heed. Song Keli, instead of watching the game, perused a rare ancient book Sun Yin had somehow acquired. Li Jifu, with no chair to sit on, squatted beside Sun Yin, occasionally plucking a peanut to chew slowly. If he reached too quickly, Sun Yin would swat his hand away, leaving Li Jifu looking aggrieved.

After eighty-some moves, the young scholar resigned. Though his skill was astonishing, his handling of the pieces was far from elegant, lacking even a hint of grace.

Fan Changhou looked up at his opponent, who was still studying the board, and asked gently, “Brother Liu, may I ask how long you’ve been studying chess?”

The young man, surnamed Liu, raised his head and smiled. “Less than three years. I only learned after coming to the capital for the exams. I haven’t played much—after my friends left last year, no one would play with me.”

Fan Changhou chuckled wryly. “Brother Liu, your skill is divinely inspired. Remarkable.”

Sun Yin laughed heartily, as if he had won the match himself. This examinee, Liu Huai, had been dragged to the house only after much cajoling and deception. Even then, had Sun Yin not been from Beiliang, Liu Huai might not have agreed to stay. The young man, Liu Huai, was also from Beiliang and the sole examinee from last autumn’s provincial exams, though his rank was so low he barely qualified for the palace examination. By exam standards, he would have been lucky to earn the lowest degree.

Yet Liu Huai was not entirely unknown. A middle-aged scholar surnamed Zhang, though without official rank, had copied scriptures for him at the Imperial Academy gates. After settling in, Liu Huai kept to himself, focusing on his studies. Sun Yin, notorious for his “unrivaled exam essays” during his Beiliang days, had even earned praise from Yao Baifeng, the Imperial Academy’s left chancellor, and later from the unyielding elder Huan Wen, who begrudgingly admitted, “This boy could top the exams with ease.”

Liu Huai, preparing for the spring palace exams, benefited greatly from Sun Yin’s guidance. Though meticulous, Liu Huai lacked arrogance and pursued knowledge tirelessly. When stumped during late-night studies, he would jot down questions and wait until dawn, when the court-bound Sun Yin awoke, to seek answers. Sun Yin, though always obliging, often grumbled about Liu Huai’s “diligence outweighing talent” or how he “couldn’t even match that fool Li Jifu.” On better mornings, he might pat Liu Huai’s shoulder and console him: “Don’t worry—writing essays as poorly as Li Jifu isn’t too shameful. After all, you’re not me, Sun Yin. Talents like you and Li Jifu come once a decade, but a man like me appears once a century!”

Li Jifu, a frequent guest, would simply smile at such remarks.

Damn it—Li Jifu’s exam essays were flawless, even if his career had stalled. Three years prior, a former top scholar had publicly admitted, “How fortunate I was not to sit the same exam as Li Jifu! How unfortunate for Gao Tingshu and Wu Congxian!”

And yet, Li Jifu never once protested.

Initially, Liu Huai assumed this mild-mannered “Brother Li” merely shared a name with the top scholar. Upon learning the truth, he privately urged Sun Yin to at least refrain from mocking Li Jifu in his presence. Sun Yin waved him off: “Countless have suffered my insults, but few earn my grudging respect. Li Jifu should be honored, not angered!”

Furious, Liu Huai nearly moved out, only to be stopped by Li Jifu. After a heartfelt talk outside, Liu Huai returned, and for the next ten days, Sun Yin restrained himself—though visibly struggling.

Finally, after Sun Yin swallowed his words yet again, Li Jifu scratched his head and said, “Brother Sun, just say it. Your silence unsettles me more.”

Sun Yin pointed at Li Jifu and grinned at the exasperated Liu Huai. “Hear that?!”

Having picked up some of Sun Yin’s crass phrases, Liu Huai muttered, “Damn it, no justice—no damn law!”

Thus, the three coexisted in relative harmony.

Liu Huai knew Li Jifu was genuinely talented, possessing a rare “balanced and steady” temperament—humble yet principled, far from the “wolf in sheep’s clothing” type.

Today, Liu Huai only knew Sun Yin had chess guests. When the two distinguished visitors arrived, Sun Yin didn’t introduce them, only promising that if Liu Huai won, he’d treat him and Li Jifu to a lavish meal at the tavern down the street. “My salary’s here—let’s spar with those coins. If it’s not enough, we’ll owe them. Isn’t the name ‘Sun Yin’ worth tens of thousands in gold?”

Thus, Liu Huai only knew one guest was surnamed Song, the other Fan.

Now, hearing Fan praise his “divinely inspired” play, Liu Huai found it odd. As an amateur who’d stumbled into chess, such flattery seemed misplaced.

Sensing Liu Huai’s gaze, Fan Changhou sighed inwardly—unlike Sun Yin, he lacked the shamelessness to boast.

Sun Yin, thoroughly amused, grabbed the last handful of peanuts, shared half with Li Jifu, then stood and shook out his robes. With a smirk, he said, “Liu Huai, know who this is? ‘Fanzi’ of the chess world, the Ten-Dan Chess Saint, our dynasty’s top player, second only to Cao Guanzi—the illustrious Hanlin attendant, Fan Duanxian!”

Fan Duanxian?

The torrent of titles drew even Song Keli, reading in the corner, to chuckle and shake his head.

Fan Changhou facepalmed.

Liu Huai, no fool, quickly rose and bowed. “Liu Huai thanks Master Fan for his guidance.”

Fan Changhou hastily stood to return the courtesy. “A mere exchange—no guidance to speak of.”

Sun Yin rolled his eyes and turned to Li Jifu. “See? Pedants! Two of them!”

Before Li Jifu could reply, Sun Yin sighed. “Including you, three!”

Song Keli interjected, “Spare me the praise—make it four!”

Sun Yin blurted bluntly, “Song Keli, not to criticize, but since you’re close with the young Marquis Yan Chiji—a true friendship—why fret over gossip? Pity Fan Duanhou got between you two.”

Song Keli took a deep breath and stayed silent.

Sun Yin pressed on, “Song Keli, remember—when affection runs too deep, it fades. Don’t let pride ruin a fine match made by fate.”

Liu Huai and Li Jifu exchanged glances—was there more to this?

Fan Changhou, privy to the details, stifled a laugh.

Song Keli raised the rare book. “Three hundred taels! Don’t let it burn—then it’s not even worth thirty!”

Sun Yin quickly gave a thumbs-up. “A masterstroke! I yield!”

Song Keli snorted and resumed reading.

Liu Huai ventured, “Master Fan, may we play another?”

Fan Changhou nodded. “Just call me by name.”

They sat back down to play.

Bored, Sun Yin lost interest in spectating and spaced out.

Li Jifu, though no chess enthusiast, enjoyed watching the masters duel—his etiquette far surpassing Sun Yin’s.

Sun Yin mused aloud, “Pity Vice Guardian Chen and Yan Chiji aren’t here. Then all the folks I tolerate would be under one roof.”

Liu Huai played with intense focus—a trait he applied to all endeavors.

Fan Changhou, having studied countless games, was equally unshakable in his moves.

Song Keli pondered Sun Yin’s words.

Only Li Jifu smiled, simply happy.

It was strange. Though he had known Sun Yin for quite some time, their conversations had never delved into heartfelt confessions. Sun Yin often lost himself in thought, drifting far from the present. Li Jifu, by his side, rarely spoke first, usually just quietly reading or pondering the intricacies of the court and the people within the yamen.

Sun Yin mused aloud, “Honestly, Fan Duanxian is too competitive, yet he knows when to hold on and when to let go. He’s truly suited for officialdom, not chess. Wandering through places like the Hanlin Academy, the Imperial College, and the Chongwen Hall—slow and steady wins the race. As for Song Chuji… no, Song Chufeng—his strength lies in boldness and relentless ambition. Three years as a vice minister, five as a minister, ten as the Chief Grand Secretary—oh, no, wait, the Chief Grand Secretary should be me, Sun Yin. That’s the only fitting title. Song Keli, you’d better settle for being a minister. At worst, I’ll let you pick whichever of the six ministries you want. As for Liu Huai—don’t bury yourself in books and never emerge. Being a teacher won’t get you far. At best, you’ll get a mediocre posthumous title like ‘Wen Jie,’ ‘Wen Yi,’ or ‘Wen Da.’ Hardly flattering—more like an insult. And you, Li Jifu—just muddle through your days in the bureaucracy. Remember to burn incense and pray often. If you’re lucky, you might snag a third-rank vice minister or a prefectural governor. If not… well, you’ll have to borrow money from me just to scrape by. Even marrying a decent wife might be a stretch…”

Li Jifu nodded solemnly.

Well, it seemed the top scholar actually took it seriously.

Song Keli shook his head again.

Before the capital’s night curfew, Fan Changhou and Song Keli took their leave, with Liu Huai seeing them to the door. Li Jifu left later, and Liu Huai carried a lantern for him until the alley’s bend before handing it over.

Liu Huai clearly saw the top scholar, as he walked away, holding the lantern with one hand while the other shielded his eyes, his shoulders trembling slightly.

Before leaving, Sun Yin picked up the book Song Keli had left on the table and casually tossed it to Li Jifu. “Borrow it if you want. Friendship aside—you have to return it! Three years at the earliest, five at the latest. I’ll be counting the days. If you dare not return it, I’ll dump a bucket of manure at your doorstep. Believe it or not!”

“Stop dawdling and get lost!”

In the night, Li Jifu walked away, his steps growing faster and more determined.

In truth, this top scholar, whose official career had been rocky, had recently been borrowing money from colleagues but never dared to ask Sun Yin. Rumor had it his family had sent urgent letters to the capital, needing a substantial sum to weather a crisis. Yet his family likely naively believed their glorified son had already soared to great heights in the capital, unaware of the brutal climb in the Tai’an court. Had Li Jifu not been the coveted top scholar but merely a high-ranking jinshi, his life might have been easier—at least financially and socially. Even a lesser jinshi posted to the provinces could fare better, either as a local official or struggling to stay clean. But as the top scholar with no influential backing, no mentor to lend a hand, how could Li Jifu rise like a dragon amidst the storm? Instead, he was bent under the weight of the capital’s entrenched powers. Sun Yin’s offhand remark about “enduring” had struck true.

Yet, no matter how hard, as the top scholar, Li Jifu’s future, barring major setbacks, would smooth out. Even if he never reached the pinnacle, given the Liyang emperors’ temperaments, no top scholar had ever been cut down prematurely—the worst still stumbled their way to fourth-rank.

So in three to five years, Li Jifu could certainly afford to repay the book.

And if he sold it now, even at a discount, it would fetch over two hundred taels—enough to help his family cross any hurdle.

Sun Yin, the eccentric scholar who had outshone all Liyang’s examinees, was no bookworm. Did he truly lack worldly wisdom?

Impossible.

Liu Huai returned to the house, emotions swirling, and looked at Sun Yin lounging with a book. Softly, he said, “Even if it’s unnecessary, I’d like to thank you on Li Jifu’s behalf.”

Sun Yin didn’t turn his head. “You thank me for him? Hah! Just watch—that blockhead Li might not even remember your kindness in the future.”

Liu Huai said calmly, “Li Jifu and I have always had a friendship as light as water. Not as intoxicating as wine, but wine quenches thirst less than water. I never wanted any transactional ties between us, so…”

Sun Yin cut him off. “Wrong. Dead wrong. Do you know why, throughout history, the fierce factional struggles always see the true gentlemen crushed while the hypocrites thrive?”

Before Liu Huai could answer, Sun Yin continued, staring at the oil lamp. “You don’t. Even what you think you know is wrong. Gentlemen pride themselves on having friends, not factions. They naively cling to this, not realizing that on the path to power, the greatest danger isn’t a lack of allies but the illusion of having many while standing alone. In times of crisis, especially when the emperor turns against you, the help of fellow gentlemen often backfires. Why? Because they don’t know who the world’s most stubborn mule is.

“It’s the shameless hypocrites and the bold gamblers who stake everything who might save the day. And don’t think hypocrites and scoundrels are just empty-headed scholars. A man’s virtue has little to do with how many books he’s read or how famous he is. Take Song Keli’s father and grandfather—the ‘Two Song Masters’ renowned during the Yonghui era. Was the elder Song’s calligraphy not peerless? Centuries later, scholars will still emulate it. Was the younger Song’s prose not exquisite? Of course it was—versed in all forms, his essays might still rank among the top ten a millennium from now.

“But if these two men fell from grace in their twilight years, their reputations ruined, was it merely because Chief Grand Secretary Zhang Juju envied their literary dominance? Do you truly believe that, Liu Huai? I, Sun Yin, don’t—or at most, only half. To unravel this fully, we’d need to talk till dawn—touching on court secrets, the imperial examination trends, the rise and fall of scholarly traditions, the winds of public opinion in Jiangnan, the chronic ills of the Ministry of Personnel and Rites… You’d be overwhelmed.”

Liu Huai stood frozen.

Sun Yin, still lounging, legs swinging, chuckled. “Once you enter the court, true kindred spirits will be rare. But remember this: whether in the capital or the provinces, official seats are finite. Every chair you take means one less for someone else. Political enmity runs deeper than martial grudges—a truth spoken by a great scholar… namely, me. The higher you climb, the fewer the chairs. Ambitious scholars who keep their ideals intact only suffer more, because to realize your vision, you need power—and thus allies. You must juggle countless interests.

“Take a simple example: if your rivals slander you, and half the capital echoes it, or half the literati blindly join in—or worse, even the common folk start cursing you—what do you do? Retaliate? As a high-ranking gentleman, would you stoop to public brawls? That’d tarnish your dignity and the emperor’s opinion. So what do you do? Do you form factions? Build your own power base like Zhang Lu? Lead a faction like the Qing Party? Liu Huai, search your heart—I can’t answer for you.

“I’ll just say this: to clear the path for governance, you must confront the systemic rot blocking the court and the people. Some of it stems from bad policies, some from good ones twisted by corrupt officials, some from idle bureaucrats’ indifference. Those who talk do so freely; those who act bear the brunt of blame. The world’s hustle and bustle is all about profit.

“Here’s a sad truth: Zhang Juju sought his own doom because he saw that scions of noble houses, accustomed to wealth, cared too much for money—yet their character paled compared to those who rose from poverty. Not all, but many.

“Ask yourself: when such men suddenly gain power, even if they stay clean, will their families not demand endlessly? Will they not bully locals? Become tyrannical gentry? Filial piety is paramount—how many officials dare deny their unscrupulous parents? Brotherly duty—if your elder brother supported your studies, then demands land and concubines, do you oblige? If your wife’s kin commit crimes, do you let them hang? If childhood friends beg for office, do you oblige? If allies later betray the state, do you spare them for the sake of their families—children you named, infants who call you grandfather?”

Sun Yin finally fell silent, throat dry, and rose to rummage for wine.

Liu Huai stood dumbstruck, drenched in sweat.

Sun Yin found a jug of green-ant wine, drank deeply, then smirked at Liu Huai. “The corrupt rich don’t scare me—let their towers crumble. But ‘desperate wickedness’ and ‘poverty-stricken ambition’—do those frighten you? They frighten me! And they terrified Zhang Juju even more!”

Liu Huai didn’t move or speak.

Sun Yin waved a hand before his eyes. “What, cat got your tongue?”

Liu Huai’s eyes reddened, tears glistening.

Sun Yin handed him the jug. “Don’t be scared. Have a drink.”

Liu Huai shook his head. “I’ve never drunk before.”

Sun Yin rolled his eyes, took back the jug, and sat on the threshold. “Fine, more for me.”

Liu Huai silently joined him.

Early spring’s chill bit deepest during late frosts and melting snow.

Sun Yin muttered, “Even if you had no family or ties, once you rose high, would you do small kindnesses? Fear small evils? I, Sun Yin, neither wish to nor fear either.”

Liu Huai sighed.

Sun Yin, a quick drinker, swirled the expensive dregs. “Ah, headaches! Too lofty, too clear-eyed, too lucid—that’s why I’m lonelier than you fools. Never wasting my wine on you again.”

Liu Huai said softly, “I’ve decided. I still want to be an official.”

Sun Yin laughed. “Damn, you’re even more blockheaded than Li Jifu! When did I ever stop you? If you don’t become an official, how will you back me up in court?”

Liu Huai grumbled, “But I’ll only serve myself—and do something for Beiliang.”

Now it was Sun Yin’s turn to freeze.

After a long silence, Sun Yin stood, set down the jug, and headed inside. “Seems you’ve truly figured it out. Then my wine and words weren’t wasted.”

Liu Huai hesitated, picked up the jug, sniffed it, and asked, “Can I drink this?”

Sun Yin, back turned, raised a hand, curling two fingers. “About three sips left. That’ll be three taels—but since we’re fellow provincials, I’ll charge you… six!”

Liu Huai protested, “How does that math work?!”

Sun Yin slammed the door behind him. “My exam skills are unmatched! My swindling skills? Second to none!”

Liu Huai turned, took a small sip, and shuddered.

From that night on, Tai’an City had one more drunkard.

Yet many years later, the young drunkard did not become an old drunkard, but instead transformed into a… wine immortal whose disciples spread far and wide.