Following the venerable Elder Tantan Huan Wen, the master of Neo-Confucianism Yao Baifeng, and three others, Liu Huai assumed the position of Left Sacrificial Wine of the Imperial Academy at the age of forty. For the next thirty years—thirty full years—he never transferred to any other institution or ministry, ultimately passing away while still serving as the Left Sacrificial Wine of the Imperial Academy.
During this time, the youngest Left Sacrificial Wine in Liyang’s history repeatedly declined the offers of the new Liyang emperors—refusing to become the Minister of Rites or the Chancellor of the Hanlin Academy.
In his seventies, the elderly scholar gave his final lecture at the Imperial Academy, an unconventional session dedicated solely to the scholars from Northern Liang who filled the hall.
Holding a flask of Green Ant Wine, the old man raised his arm and gently shook the flask before beginning his lecture to the solemnly seated scholars. With a smile, he said, “Do you know how much this flask of wine cost in the fourth year of Xiangfu? You’d never guess. Even now, as the finest Green Ant Wine, it’s only sixty wen. But back then, on a cold early spring night in the fourth year of Xiangfu, the first time I ever drank, it was this very Northern Liang Green Ant Wine—and it was outrageously expensive! Someone left me just three sips from a half-empty flask and charged me a full six taels of silver! At the time, I didn’t even think it tasted good—just scalded my throat. If I hadn’t been penniless and only managed to drink it on credit, I’d have spat it out right then. And that someone? He had the gall to claim he was giving me a ‘fellow Northern Liang discount’—selling me three taels’ worth of wine for six! Tell me, wasn’t that man utterly shameless?”
The young scholars in the Imperial Academy burst into laughter.
The old man smiled. “Utterly shameless, right? Well, this man isn’t a stranger to you. He once briefly served as the Right Sacrificial Wine of our Imperial Academy—fortunately, he was soon kicked out. His name is Sun Yin. Yes, that ‘Old Fifth Sun’ of Tai’an City, the man who served as Minister of five out of the six ministries in the Secretariat—all except the Ministry of War!”
The Northern Liang scholars first froze in shock, but soon erupted into laughter again.
Had it been any other official—let alone a Minister of the second rank, but even a Vice Minister or Director—none would dare laugh so openly. But Old Minister Sun was different. As he himself once said: “You youngsters, as long as you don’t take advantage of my frailty to beat me up, you’re free to curse me to my face or behind my back. Since becoming a high-ranking official, I’ve never bothered cursing those beneath me. Why? If I don’t like them, I just fire them—what’s the point of cursing? The only ones I curse are those above me, those with louder voices than mine. That’s the only way I can vent!”
Sun Yin wasn’t known for a good temper—in fact, his temper was notoriously foul. Yet, people either despised and feared him or admired him to the point of reverence. Neutral opinions were rare.
Even the Emperor once remarked with a laugh: “Every time Old Man Sun points and shouts curses in court, whether I agree or not at the moment, I never rush to judgment. I let his words sink in first, then decide whether to curse him back or reward him with fine wine.”
Sun Yin, who served as Minister in five different ministries, bore some resemblance to the influential statesman Tantan Weng of the previous dynasty—yet was also profoundly different.
Perhaps the only man in the world who could out-curse Sun Yin was the old Northern Liang Provincial Administrator, Chen Xiliang—the longest-serving administrator in history, who only entered the capital three times in his life. Only he could claim that title.
Half a lifetime as Provincial Administrator, half a cycle as Left Sacrificial Wine.
In today’s Liyang court, these phrases describe officials who remain in their posts for extraordinary lengths—the former referring to Chen Xiliang, the latter to Liu Huai.
When the laughter subsided, the old man’s expression turned solemn. “Your generation of Northern Liang scholars can scarcely imagine the past. I remember it vividly. The year I left for the capital to take the imperial exams was the final year of Yonghui. By the time I arrived, it was the first year of Xiangfu. Back then, in Tai’an City, I encountered a group of scholars from other regions—dressed in fine silks, waving fans, adorned with jade, the very picture of elegance. Hmph, much like all of you now… Among them, two men, upon learning I was from Northern Liang, began a mocking exchange. One asked, ‘The Liyang exams emphasize classical scholarship over poetry. Logically, Northern Liang’s impoverished scholars should have an advantage—so why do they fail year after year? How strange!’ The other loudly replied, ‘Because those Northern Liang barbarians can’t even compose proper poetry, let alone classical essays!’”
The old man surveyed the young faces before him—some burning with indignation, others wearing the calm or ironic expressions of those who’ve seen fortunes reversed, and still others entirely detached. Having weathered countless storms, none of these reactions surprised him.
He said calmly, “At the time, I didn’t blurt out, ‘To hell with your ‘how strange!’’ Not because I didn’t dare, but because I feared reinforcing outsiders’ perception of Northern Liang scholars as crude. You, today, likely won’t face such mockery. If anything, you’d be the ones mocking others—like the long-scorned scholars of the Southern Frontier.”
He didn’t elaborate on the fate of Southern Frontier scholars. By now, he understood—justice lies in the heart, not in others’ words.
Liu Huai returned to his main point. “I, Liu Huai, rank myself first in drinking, second in teaching, third in chess, fourth in writing, fifth in thick skin, sixth in quarreling, and dead last in officialdom. The world sneers that this old man of the Imperial Academy schemes to dominate the literary world, to wield influence over the nation’s scholars, until all high-ranking officials are my disciples.”
The hall fell silent.
The old man laughed heartily. “Nonsense!”
Suddenly, his expression turned resolute, radiating authority no less than that of the highest-ranking ministers. His words carried the weight of a lifetime’s conviction.
“When I entered the capital at twenty, I made a vow: If I ever rose to power, I would never let the struggles I faced as a Northern Liang scholar in the capital be repeated for future generations!”
“Liu Huai would never let Northern Liang scholars pay more for books or brushes!”
“Liu Huai would never let Northern Liang scholars be mocked for their accents!”
“Liu Huai would never let the imperial court lack Northern Liang voices speaking for the nation and the people!”
His face flushed, the Left Sacrificial Wine paused, then sneered. “Now, the world fears our ‘Liang Faction’s’ unity, curses our ‘arrogance,’ and above all, hates our unyielding spines!”
The term “Liang Faction” had always been an open secret in the Liyang court—no one dared voice it outright. Yet today, Liu Huai, regarded as one of its pillars, spoke it aloud.
“In my heart, the Liang Faction exists. Among the older generation—those of my age—some have passed, some remain. Like the former Grand Secretary Chen Wang, the former Minister Sun Yin, the former Hanlin scholar Yan Chiji—all of them! Beyond the capital: Kou Jianghuai, Xie Xichui, Chen Xiliang, Cao Wei, Yu Luandao, Li Hanlin, Lu Chengqing, Huangfu Ping, Song Yan, Chang Sui, Hong Xinjia, Cao Xiaojiao, Wang Zhi, Hong Shuwen, Hong Biao, and more—they are all part of it!”
The old man laughed uproariously, answering his own question. “So many figures destined for history books, all members of our Liang Faction! Aren’t you afraid? I’m terrified myself!”
With a mocking lift of his brow, he added, “What? You think I forgot someone? That old Vice Minister who hid away in Jiangnan early on? That’s because he’s not worth mentioning! Of course, I’ve been calling him ‘worthless’ for years. But you might not know—in his later years, even he tried to claim Northern Liang heritage. Sadly, Jin Lanting was desperate to ‘return to his roots,’ but we ancestors simply refused to acknowledge such a disgraceful descendant.”
Earlier, the old Sacrificial Wine had ranked himself sixth in quarreling—just above officialdom. Judging by these masterfully cutting remarks, that “sixth place” was no modest claim.
Suddenly, he raised his voice. “The Liyang Ministry of War—three successive Ministers, seven Vice Ministers! Kou Jianghuai! Cao Wei! Yu Luandao! And the seven Vice Ministers—all veterans of the Northern Liang frontier army!”
“Forty years! Half of all military honors bestowed—from Northern Liang!”
“How magnificent!”
“How magnificent, our Northern Liang!”
“Do not forget—your robes of office, your jade adornments, your lofty debates—they were bought with the lives of 320,000 Northern Liang cavalrymen in the first four years of Xiangfu! They were bought with the 320,000 named stone tablets on Qingliang Mountain, where the former Northern Liang Palace—now the Provincial Administrator’s residence—stands!”
“What other scholars think, I neither control nor care. But you, scholars of Northern Liang—as long as I live, I expect you to remember this!”
“Finally, one last thing. Remember this man.”
“His surname is Xu!”
The old man, who had spoken with unprecedented boldness, never took a sip of the Green Ant Wine that day. And that final sentence—the heaviest, most forbidden words—remained unspoken.
Without him, there would be no Central Plains.
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