Though the year’s plan starts in spring, the spring of Xiangfu Year One was already nearing its end after Qingming. The ancient capital of Western Chu along the Guangling Route, after being stormed by the Xu family’s iron cavalry, had been renamed from Shenhuang City to the humiliating Shiding City. In the deep mountains near the outskirts stood a temple called Mojian Temple, named after a famous Buddhist koan that cooled the fervor of meditation practices which had grown increasingly intense during the Spring and Autumn Period. The temple’s abbot once said, “Polishing bricks cannot make a mirror, so how can meditation lead to enlightenment?”
One dawn, as birds chirped in the early morning, three figures walked along a tree-lined path. The elder was very old, with snow-white hair and eyebrows, leaning on a bamboo cane as he climbed the mountain path paved with uneven pebbles. He stumbled but refused help. The scholar in green robes was no spring chicken himself, his temples frosted with age, yet his demeanor was especially refined and otherworldly, instantly making one forget mundane concerns. The woman was the youngest, with breathtaking beauty that seemed otherworldly, carrying a sandalwood sword case with light, graceful steps. Perhaps out of consideration for the very aged man, the trio climbed in silence, entering the quiet, visitor-free ancient temple. Only the rustling sound of a young monk sweeping with a large broom could be heard.
At this time of the Disbanding of the Buddhist Order under the Lianyang regime, even the Two Chan Temples had their gates sealed. Mojian Temple, with its sparse incense offerings over the past twenty years, had narrowly escaped destruction, allowing some monks to remain hidden in the mountains, eating vegetarian meals and chanting sutras. When the three visitors arrived, the young monk hurriedly tucked his broom under his arm, clasped his hands in greeting, especially careful not to look at the woman, his bald head bowed lower, fearing he might break his vows and stray from the Bodhi path.
After returning the greetings, the old man led the scholar and the woman to the Hall of Five Hundred Arhats. Unlike the gilded Arhats found in grand temples, these were painted wooden statues, each uniquely lifelike—some sitting, some listening, some with palms joined, even some with wide eyes, beating drums, or scratching their heads. They lacked the air of celestial beings but exuded a strong sense of worldly life. The old man led the two to a statue of an Arhat, holding a mirror in his left hand and, with his right, tearing off the aged, kind face to reveal a youthful, handsome visage, enough to leave onlookers stunned.
Standing beneath the wooden Arhat, the old man said calmly, “I heard that Minister of Rites Zeng Xiangqi once came here alone on a snowy day in the first year of Yonghui, carrying a large jar of wine. He died drunk here, and his last words were probably drunken ramblings. But I know that Zeng was once a teetotaler who always warned us that drinking led to trouble. I remember one time when the Emperor got too drunk and missed the morning court, Zeng stormed into the palace, scolding the Emperor furiously. If the Empress hadn’t intervened, the Emperor might have come to blows with this old man. Later, the Emperor was still angry and privately told me that during the previous night’s celebration banquet, this old man was the most unfair—he didn’t drink himself but kept pouring drinks for others, even getting me drunk. The next day, he turned his back on us. Who would have thought that this old man, who hated the smell of alcohol like an enemy, would end up killing himself with a drunken stupor?”
Minister of Rites Zeng Xianglin was naturally not a high-ranking official of the Lianyang dynasty but the last Minister of Rites of Western Chu, a fellow disciple of the Grand Sacrificial Official Qi Yanglong of the Shangyin Academy and the mentor of Wang Mingyang, who defended Xiangfan for ten years.
The old man reached out to touch the cool base of the Arhat statue, speaking softly, “I suppose Zeng came here to find Minister of Revenue Tang Jiahua. Tang Jiahua was the most versatile scholar among us and originally the least disdainful of Buddhism, an imported religion. Unexpectedly, he fled to Mojian Temple to embrace Buddhism. Whether it was genuine devotion or just despair, only heaven knows. Jiahua and I always disagreed politically, but it was still a gentleman’s quarrel. The factional struggles in the Great Chu were neither about ministers competing for power nor between gentlemen and villains. Looking back now, it was more like a quarrel between gentlemen, fueled by personal pride. Ultimately, everyone still had the ‘Jiang’ name and the common people in their hearts, but they took different paths and inevitably looked down on each other, leading to great disaster. However, Tang Jiahua once said two things with great insight: ‘All sentient beings, where their emotions are fixed, can die. Warriors die on the battlefield, ministers die in the court, not just lovers entangled in passion. Since one can only die once in a lifetime, one should always keep this in mind, to die well. A person is like a blade of grass, yearning for the time of five winds and ten rains. How much more so for a person who is not grass or wood? But if Tang Jiahua ever really decided to die, he would go through with it and refuse to live on. But in the end, this Minister Tang, who once lost sixteen games in a row to our Cao Toutou on the chessboard, also regretted his decision. He fled to Mojian Temple for a few years, and later, perhaps fearing that I and old Zeng would find him, he fled deeper into the mountains. Whether he is alive or dead, no one knows.”
The white-haired old man continued, “General Song Yuan, who was often scolded by the Emperor to read more books and learn more characters, always making a fool of himself in court with his clumsy classical phrases, really went mad. His only grandson, who had secretly passed the imperial examination in the sixth year of Yonghui, was burned alive by him, along with himself, in a dilapidated study that had barely any books. When our Great Chu was at its peak, warriors had no sword qi, scholars had no pedantic air, women had no perfume, hermits had no misty aura, and monks had no incense smoke—an era of prosperity unmatched since the Qin dynasty eight hundred years ago. The Lianyang dynasty was just a small kingdom rising from the northern barbarians, ruled by warlords for fifty years, and eunuchs for another fifty. The great eunuch Fan Gongliang killed one emperor, two princes, and six concubines in his lifetime, yet still enjoyed a peaceful old age. How could such a dynasty, which knew nothing of propriety, transform in fifty years to mysteriously become the ruler of all under heaven? And how could our Great Chu just collapse so suddenly? The ruler was wise; the fault was not with the king. The officials were loyal; the fault was not with the ministers. The people were hardworking; the fault was not with the people. Thus, Minister Sun Xiji wanted to know what exactly went wrong. Since even the hope of dying with eyes open was a luxury, he sought peace of mind before death, hoping for a satisfactory answer. He was not afraid of being cursed as a traitor serving two dynasties and stood coldly observing the court in Taian City for over a decade. But in the end, he still could not understand why the Great Chu lost so badly and so quickly. However, he came to recognize two men: Xu Xiao, the Butcher, and Zhang Julu, the man with the green eyes. Xu conquered the world on horseback, and Zhang governed it off horseback. They made him start to accept his fate. Xu did right—once a good sword is in the right hands, the faster the blade, the less blood the people will shed. Zhang did well, risking being secretly compared to the eunuch Han Shengxuan as a ‘standing emperor,’ mending and patching the Zhao family’s courtyard so tightly that not even wind could pass through. Minister Sun had already accepted his fate, but Changqing asked him to come see you, so he came—not for any other reason, just an old man wanting to die on his homeland, which was better than anything else.”
The three were none other than Sun Xiji, the old Grand Tutor of Western Chu; Cao Changqing, who attained the level of a Confucian sage at the ruins of Xilei Wall; and Jiang Ni, the princess of the fallen state, whose real name was Jiang Si.
They drank a pot of tea at Mojian Temple. The old Grand Tutor, tired from walking and talking, fell silent. Then the three descended the mountain and returned to the city. The old man was, in name, still the Governor of Guangling Circuit under the Lianyang regime, with his official residence located at the former site of the six ministries outside the imperial palace in Shiding City. The Guangling Prince’s Mansion was not within the city but in Guyu City, in the southeastern part of the feudal lord’s territory. At present, those who had left Shiding City were mostly the remnants of other fallen states after the Spring and Autumn period had settled down. Those who remained were the remnants of Western Chu, centered around Shiding City, with six towns and eighteen cities nearby, almost tearing off the Zhao name.
Especially in Shiding City, with the Governor’s mansion and White Deer Mountain as its backbone, a new and vibrant temple hall was rising again. If they succeeded, it would be the Great Chu; if they failed, the Western Chu in the Lianyang historical records would probably be replaced by the Later Chu.
As the three descended the mountain, over a hundred elite warriors on horseback escorted them back to the city. The Grand Tutor led the two to an eastern city tavern, saying he wanted to treat the princess to a taste of shad fish. After sitting on the second floor, the old man smiled softly and said, “Your Highness, this shad fish is a delicacy. Old man must show off a bit of knowledge before I can truly enjoy it. Please don’t mind my chatter. The people live by food, and the best things on the table often follow the principle of ‘eating according to the season.’ The shad fish is called so because it is like a migratory bird, appearing only once a year. Every spring, in Guyu City’s Spring Snow Tower, it swims upstream along the Guangling River. According to reason, by the time it reaches here, it should be just right around Xiaoman and Lixia, plump and delicious. If accompanied by the lotus seeds from Tongzhi City, it would be the ultimate delicacy. However, once the shad fish reaches Xiangfan City, its taste deteriorates. But old man thinks that in the future, it will be hard to find time to indulge, so I no longer care about the old gourmands’ principles.”
Jiang Ni hummed in agreement and said nothing more. The meal was quickly served, and as she picked up her chopsticks to take a bite, the old man, seeing her grip, teased with a smile, “Your Highness, around here, we believe that the higher and longer you hold your chopsticks, the farther away you will marry. I remember when I was young, the elders always used this to talk to us, fearing that the girls among us would marry too far away, and the boys would grow up and marry unknown women. At that time, we naturally held our chopsticks lower to follow the elders’ wishes, but in our hearts, we were indifferent, treating it like wind in our ears. But when we became elders ourselves, we started nagging our children the same way. This is probably what we call tradition. A family is like this, and a country is no different.”
Jiang Ni, holding her chopsticks high, obediently lowered them, which amused the old man, and he laughed heartily, saying, “Your Highness, don’t take it seriously. Old man was just joking. Actually, it’s not bad for a woman to marry far away. She can be like a general stationed outside, not bound by orders.”
Jiang Ni smiled gently, lowered her head, and began eating. The fish was soft and didn’t have sharp bones. She, who usually didn’t eat fish, ate quite a lot. Cao Changqing ordered a pot of wine and slowly drank with the old man, neither urging the other to drink. After the meal, they paid and left the centuries-old tavern, walking along the streets that were no longer bustling as before. Suddenly, the old man stopped and said, “Wait a moment.” Cao Changqing sighed softly but said nothing.
Before long, an old night watchman in tattered clothes emerged from an alley, ringing a bell in broad daylight, raving, “They’re all dead! They’re all dead!” “Open your eyes and see, there’s not a single living person in the Great Chu anymore!” The old watchman walked down the street, ringing and shouting, his cries tearing at the heart. However, the passersby on the street had long become accustomed to it, not even bothering to laugh at him, ignoring him completely. The disheveled watchman approached the three, saw them, hesitated for a moment, then raised his bell stick and pointed it at Sun Xiji, shouting hoarsely, “Dead man!”
Then he pointed it at Cao Changqing, chuckling, “Half-dead man, not far from death either!”
When he saw Jiang Ni with the sword case on her back, the old madman first looked blank, then burst into tears, “A living person? How can there still be a living person? Run away! You must run away!”
Seeing the woman unmoved, the old madman hesitated, then turned and ran off, continuing to ring his bell and scream.
Sun Xiji gazed at the retreating figure of the watchman and said calmly, “Jiang Shuilang, once in charge of the Chongwen Academy of the Great Chu, overseeing three hundred scholars and six hundred scribes of the Secret Library, has gone mad like this. The Lianyang court and Prince Zhao Yi of Guangling deliberately spared his life, wanting all outsiders coming to this city to see this joke.”
Sun Xiji walked toward the carriage and bowed, saying, “Your Highness, you can have Changqing take you to see that house. Old man still has affairs to attend to.”
Home.
Jiang Si’s home was naturally that magnificent Great Chu palace, so exquisitely built that even the later Taian City had to imitate it.
So, was it truly Jiang Ni’s home?
Jiang Ni followed Cao Changqing, looking around in confusion. She had left here when she was very young, her memories hazy, and had long forgotten why the sights before her were once praised as the most splendid scenery in the world. The palace’s men and women, upon seeing them, showed genuine respect and hope. Cao Changqing walked all the way to a pavilion in the northeast corner of the old palace and sat down. The white-haired scholar sat there in silence.
Cao Changqing, born into the noble Cao family of Longli County, was undoubtedly a prodigy of his generation. He studied under Li Mi, the wisest national teacher before Huang Sanjia, and after learning the game of Go for over a decade, he eventually defeated Li Mi and became the chief Go advisor of the Great Chu. He had often played Go with the Emperor in this pavilion. This “Cao Toutou” even made the most powerful eunuchs in the palace take off their shoes and pour wine for him. How could he not be the most brilliant talent of the Cao family, and indeed, of the entire Great Chu?
Cao Changqing’s eyes softened as he looked beyond the pavilion. Further northeast, the young version of himself had once seen a woman humming a folk tune, her lively nature at odds with the grandeur of the palace. When she first entered the palace, she saw him, who looked like a dull, Dull-headed goose, and made a face at him. Later, she became a concubine and then the Empress, while Cao Changqing remained the talented but always second-best Go advisor. Those past games of Go with the Emperor, where the Emperor, always inferior in skill, would frown at the board, she would watch the Emperor, and the young Go advisor, whom Li Mi called “never seeking victory and thus always undefeated,” would occasionally steal glances at her, which was enough. When he lowered his hand to place a stone, he always saw her embroidered shoes, which did not conform to the palace’s etiquette. They were ordinary, but he could never forget them. Even after so many years, why couldn’t he forget?
Jiang Ni spoke softly, “Uncle Go Advisor, I know what Chancellor Sun meant. He wants me to be a good princess, and I will do it.”
Cao Changqing came back to his senses and smiled gently, “Your Highness, don’t mind what the old man says. Conquering the world is a man’s job. A woman can just look at the world.”
Jiang Ni smiled with understanding, then looked worried, “The secret message says that the master of the Chief Eunuch Song Tanglu of the Directorate of Ceremonial is protecting a coffin southward. It’s clearly the Gao Shulu mentioned by the Yellow Dragon Scholar, specifically meant to deal with you, Uncle Go Advisor. Below the celestial realm, all are ordinary people, not worthy of the title ‘immortal.’ Below the heavenly Dao, all are minor paths, not the great Dao. But this great demon is indeed at a level said to surpass even the Land Immortal in legend.”
Cao Changqing smiled, “It’s okay. As for mere bravery, I am not inferior.”
Jiang Ni hesitated, as if wanting to say more, but Cao Changqing softly said, “Your Highness might as well take a walk and have a look. I will sit here a little longer.”
Jiang Ni nodded and walked away with the sword case on her back.
Cao Changqing sat alone in the pavilion, closing his eyes.
After a while, Cao Guanzi, who had claimed eight out of ten parts of the celestial phenomena, seemed to travel back in time. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer the master who had entered the Lianyang palace four times like walking through a corridor, nor the mad Confucian scholar who had embodied the ultimate bravery of martial artists in the fallen kingdom. He had simply become the young, spirited Go advisor again, smiling, his fingers together as if holding a Go stone, placing and lifting stones swiftly on the empty stone table.
In Western Chu, there was a scholar in green robes, unmatched as a national scholar.
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