Chapter 637: The Lofty Temple Hall

In the city of Tai’an, streets once bustling with life now stood eerily empty. The emperor Zhao and Empress Zhao Zhi had arrived outside the city walls, bringing with them all the eunuchs of the Hanlin Academy, simply to await the arrival of one man. Even the heads of the Six Ministries had abandoned their duties to gather outside the city, with the Minister of War, Lu Baijie, making time in his busy schedule to attend. As for Yuan Guo, the Minister of Personnel and a man with ample leisure time, he was naturally present. Among the Six Ministries, Zhao Youling, the esteemed Minister of Personnel, and his former classmate Wang Xionggui, the Minister of Revenue who had long since parted ways, each stood surrounded by clusters of loyal officials, their factions clearly divided. Also present were many esteemed Grand Secretaries, including Yan Jie Xi, who, though of noble birth, maintained a lofty and detached status. Additionally, numerous senior statesmen, whose age exempted them from regular court sessions, attended alongside their descendants. It could be said that only Cishi Yin Maocun, who was stationed outside the capital to oversee local officials’ evaluations, was absent. Yet only the most observant would notice that this grand outdoor banquet was slightly marred by the absence of two powerful figures: Chief Minister Zhang Julu and Huan Wen, the revered elder known as Tan Tan Weng, who wielded great influence in the Menxia Province. However, Tai’an’s outskirts were already teeming with nobles, officials, and commoners alike, and the intentional or unintentional absence of these two senior ministers did not diminish the extraordinary fervor of the capital on this day.

Who was it that, during the reign of the Song family as literary overlords, turned away father and son during their snowy night visit? Who was the mentor of Xu Wei Xiong, whose pride was unmatched, and who ended up losing the prestigious position of Grand Sacrificial Official at Shangyin Academy after picking a quarrel? Who was the one capable of provoking the entire rationalist scholarly clan led by Yao Baifeng into an all-out struggle? Who was the figure that once moved the Emperor of Great Chu to lament, “If this man does not rise from seclusion, what hope remains for the common people?” And during the final years of the Spring and Autumn Period, who was it that stepped forward alone before Xu family’s ten thousand iron cavalry, convincing the infamous butcher general to change his course with only a few words?

This towering figure, universally acknowledged by the court and the people alike as possessing knowledge so lofty it rivals the heavens,

Was none other than Qi Yanglong, the current Grand Sacrificial Official of Shangyin Academy.

More than fifty miles from Tai’an, along a somewhat secluded road, a peculiar group of travelers made their way. The eldest among them, already sporting sparse white hair, was small in stature, travel-worn, and carried a worn bamboo book chest on his back. A man in his thirties carried a girl in green robes on his back. The three had met along the road north to Tai’an. The elderly man, despite his years, still clung to the youthful dream of wandering scholars, but with little coin in his pocket, he had latched onto the pair, refusing to leave their company. The young girl in green disliked this old man who defied decorum, always spouting words she could not understand—wasn’t that just a half-baked scholar showing off? Especially when the old man rambled endlessly about Beiliang, the girl harbored deep resentment toward the feudal lord who had taken away her beloved Second Grandfather, and thus refused to acknowledge the elderly man, whom she had mockingly nicknamed “Short Winter Melon.” To make matters worse, the old man had a habit of ogling beautiful women he passed along the way, and the girl often complained to Yu Xinlang, her companion, though he simply smiled and did not respond.

At that moment, a group of aristocratic youths, clad in fine silks and mounted on spirited horses, galloped past on the road. The old man finally tore his gaze away from a wealthy lady riding by, muttering once again, “Ah, the young girls nowadays are truly more delicate and lovely than those from fifty or sixty years ago. They’re far more beautiful.”

Yu Xinlang, who had been journeying north since departing from Wudi City, chuckled softly and asked, “Master, you have such preferences too?”

The old man carefully combed through his thinning white hair, feeling a pang of sorrow for the strands that had fallen along the way. He squinted and sighed, “Indeed, when the world is prosperous, women flourish as well. The older I grow, the more I envy the youth. Young man, when you reach my age, you’ll feel the same way.”

The young man addressed as “young man” was none other than the eldest disciple of Wang Xianzhi, and Yu Xinlang, never one for idle chatter, simply smiled and said nothing more.

The old man, once he started speaking, was like a floodgate bursting open, unstoppable, muttering to himself, “The world flows like water, but after the end of the Spring and Autumn wars, there was a great turning point, a shift in direction. From now on, things will generally keep improving. The reasons? I could talk for three days and nights and still not finish. But I just know it.”

The girl in green, lazily slung over Yu Xinlang’s back, sneered, “Even if you like to talk, do you think I like to listen?”

The old man chuckled, “Little girl, do you know what it means to love someone?”

The girl turned her head away, refusing to even look at the annoying old man.

The old man answered his own question, “It means not knowing what love is before you meet that person, and never understanding it even after you’ve lost them.”

Yu Xinlang, whose cultivation had reached unfathomable depths, seemed to feel a subtle resonance, furrowing his brows slightly.

The old man gave a little hop, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of Tai’an’s city walls. The comical sight of an elderly man with a heavy book chest doing such a motion caused the girl, who had been secretly watching him, to burst into laughter. The old man made a face at her, prompting the girl to roll her eyes. She rested her small head on Yu Xinlang’s warm shoulder and asked, “Short Winter Melon Grandpa, have you ever loved someone?”

The old man shook his head and smiled, “No, but when I was young, there were countless girls who loved me.”

The girl poked fun at him, making a face and pretending not to be ashamed of the old man’s boasting.

When Yu Xinlang reached a fork in the road, he smiled and said, “Master, we must continue northward. I hope we may meet again one day.”

The old man waved his hand, smiling with a carefree air, “Once we part today, meeting again will be difficult. I am but an old man with dirt already up to my neck. Little green girl with no name, you must grow up to be graceful and beautiful.”

The girl simply replied, “Oh.”

Yu Xinlang continued northward with the little girl on his back, while the old man headed toward Tai’an.

After living for so many years, hiding so many words within his heart.

Unable to find anyone to share his thoughts with, he had long since resigned himself to speaking only to himself.

“Old Hong, you took in a whole basketful of disciples and students, yet only Zhang Julu and Huan Wen turned out to be worthy. It seems your wide net didn’t catch many big fish.”

“And look at me, Xun Ping, Xie Feiyu, Yuan Benxi—only three unregistered students.”

“Old Hong, I’m coming to the capital this time, don’t blame me for taking advantage of the situation. But if you can manage to crawl out of your coffin to scold me, then I’ll admit you’ve got some skill.”

As he walked, the old man finally caught sight of Tai’an’s majestic silhouette. He adjusted the book chest on his back and began humming a little tune in a hoarse voice.

“I come from the mountains, carrying my old book chest. I head toward the bustling city, but where is my hometown…”

※※※

Tan Tan Weng carried a pot of fine wine as he strolled down a quiet, desolate street. On either side stood the grand mansions of the capital’s most prestigious families. But today, all their occupants had gone to greet that old, stubborn bastard who was even older than himself, leaving the gates tightly shut, which spared Tan Tan Weng from unnecessary gossip and commotion. He paused before one estate, gazing up at the golden plaque inscribed by the emperor’s own hand. The gatekeeper, dressed simply but serving as a “minister’s” housekeeper, was momentarily stunned to see such an unexpected guest. However, in previous years, Tan Tan Weng had always visited in a low-key manner, so the old servant did not dare to make a fuss, lest he be reprimanded by the Left Servantshe later. He simply bowed respectfully and exchanged a few casual words with Tan Tan Weng. Huan Wen smiled and nodded, making small talk like, “Old Ma, has your daughter finally married? If not, should I help you kidnap a young man from the Menxia Province?” The old gatekeeper was delighted. Tan Tan Weng was so familiar with this estate that he needed no guide, walking straight into the Chief Minister’s study without knocking. Zhang Julu, who was habitually standing in the shadows reading a book, gave him a sidelong glance but said nothing. Huan Wen placed the imperial wine he had casually taken from the Ministry of Rites on the desk and sat on the only chair in the study, saying, “Truly, the louder the cicadas, the quieter the forest.”

The two old men were lifelong friends. As Tan Tan Weng once put it, “I know exactly what you’re going to do the moment you lift your ass.” Zhang Julu quickly understood and said calmly, “This is no mere noise. Qi Yanglong’s arrival in the capital is like a dragon entering the sea through the Yangguan Road.”

Huan Wen snorted coldly, picking up a few memorials from the desk and immediately feeling a sinking sensation in his heart. “So you’re really going to overhaul the grain transport system controlled by the northern aristocrats and the salt administration considered the lifeblood of the new aristocracy in the capital? And the other day in court, you proposed that the left and right vice ministers of the Ministry of War should conduct regular inspections of the border defenses. Well then, the two major strongholds of the literati, the local generals led by Gu Jiantang, and your campaign to weaken the feudal lords—none of them are spared. Are you, Biyan’er, simply tired of having too few enemies?”

Zhang Julu did not look up, replying, “You’ve missed one. I also intend to reform the corruption among the petty officials. Even after scholars from humble backgrounds rise in rank, they must still abide by discipline and rules.”

Huan Wen muttered, “You’ve gone mad.”

Zhang Julu closed the book in his hands and carefully returned it to its original place on the shelf. The tall, imposing Chief Minister stood in the shadows, slowly saying, “Our Liyang is no longer the Great Chu of old, confined to the south of the Yangtze. No matter how long it takes for the remnants of the Western Chu to be extinguished, transporting grain and resources from the wealthy southeast to the capital is a national strategy that must be pursued for centuries. Moreover, war on the borders is imminent, a pressing matter. I once proposed transporting grain by sea, but it proved too risky. The disappearance of that fleet at the end of the Yonghui era remains a mystery—whether it was a storm or pirates. This canal has been cursed as a scourge that strips the southeast bare, but that only underscores its importance to the court. My original strategy was to use the southeast’s taxes to support the soldiers of Beiliang, and in doing so, force the Western Chu into rebellion. I even deliberately allowed the annual disputes among the people along the canal to escalate into uprisings, choosing not to suppress them. But in recent years, the northern aristocrats from our homeland have seized control of this lifeline, growing increasingly reckless. In the sixth year of Yonghui, nine million shi of grain still reached the capital, but since then, the numbers have steadily declined, now barely reaching eight million. Where has it gone? Even if bandits and thieves were openly stealing the grain, how much could they take? The court, in an effort to appease these so-called founding heroes, has even established a second-rank official position—the Grand Grain Commissioner—with eight subordinate offices, each led by officials of fifth rank or higher, essentially retirement posts. If they were content to simply enrich themselves, it would be tolerable. But now that the Western Chu has risen again, they dare to reject the Ministry of War’s orders to mobilize troops, citing ancestral customs. If I do not take action on the grain transport system, who will? Do you expect our northern soldiers to fight the Northern Liang with empty stomachs? Should our brave soldiers have to beg and plead with those arrogant grain officials, who have never respected the Ministry of Revenue, just to get a meal?”

Huan Wen sighed, flipping through a memorial in his hand. “And the salt administration? Who isn’t making money? It’s already a fat prize in the hands of outsiders. Why must you wrest it away?”

Zhang Julu sneered, “Stagnant water stinks; flowing water is clear. They’ve held the power to issue salt permits for over a decade, earning enough wealth to last their descendants ten lifetimes. Hasn’t the court rewarded them enough? Even the greatest military achievements have their limits. It’s time for a new group to take over and reap the profits.”

Huan Wen asked, “Are you planning to hand it over to those self-righteous Jiangnan aristocrats who claim to be incorruptible and carry the moon on their shoulders?”

Zhang Julu nodded. “Only by doing so will they truly commit to serving the court. Otherwise, while the court is locked in a decades-long struggle with the Western Chu, they will continue to leisurely enjoy their decades of poetry and romance. The habits of the great families have always been thus. There are only two things that can make them bow: official titles and wealth.”

Huan Wen hesitated, about to speak, but in past years, he would have debated each matter with Biyan’er endlessly, ensuring that no harm would come to the people before jointly implementing each national policy, like slowly clearing the empire’s meridians.

Zhang Julu stepped out of the shadows. In the twilight, the golden glow of the setting sun illuminated one side of the tall old man’s face.

Huan Wen sighed.

Zhang Julu asked, “I heard you were coughing badly recently?”

Huan Wen glared, “A minor illness compared to the fool who drinks himself to death—tell me, who dies faster?”

Zhang Julu smiled.

Huan Wen hesitated, then Zhang Julu smiled and said, “That young man from Beiliang under your protection—I’ll give him a review stating he is ‘clever but lacking in character, useful but not for great tasks.’ That should keep him safe for a few years.”

Huan Wen looked deeply at his old friend, then silently walked out of the study.

Zhang Julu opened his mouth, but in the end, he did not speak. He merely gazed at Huan Wen’s aged back as it disappeared into the distance, gently waving his hand.

After leaving the residence of Zhang Julu, where even now someone had dared to throw insults at the Chief Minister’s doorstep, Tan Tan Weng made his way to the Zhao Family’s study hall. The Hanlin Academy was nearly empty, with only minor clerks and servants present.

The old man smiled bitterly. The people of Tai’an believed that once the old dragon emerged to save the world, what need would there be for a deer?

Huan Wen walked into a quiet room, had someone fetch a key, and opened it. Though no eunuchs had worked here for many years, the room was still regularly cleaned and remained elegant and clean.

In the past, he and Biyan’er had been in this very room. Huan Wen, full of youthful vigor and arrogance, would drink and curse anyone under the sun, declaring that no matter what matter of the world, he could not refrain from commenting.

But Biyan’er never drank. He only listened. Every time Huan Wen got drunk, he would carry him home.

Huan Wen rummaged through a book chest in the corner and retrieved a set of cups and chopsticks, placing them on the table.

He sat down, then tapped the porcelain cup lightly with a chopstick.

The sound rang out.

The old man choked up, whispering, “Spring mountains never grow old, still green. But when a man reaches old age, no one walks beside him. Only the sound of axes chopping wood remains.”

Ding ding ding.