In Xiangzhou, where the Guangling and Nanjiang roads meet, the city is renowned for its relatively new Apricot Alley. This alley, flanked by Jiangnan-style courtyards, is neither grand nor ostentatious, yet it exudes a refined charm. Its residents are not nobles or officials but rather displaced scholars who did not flee north during the Hongjia exodus. Among them are reclusive remnants of the Western Chu and disillusioned scholars from the Shangyin Academy. When these scholars settled here, they were financially strained and could not afford to build grand mansions.
The Fan family’s residence lies at the furthest end of Apricot Alley. Once a powerful clan in Southern Tang, the Fan family was immensely wealthy. During their escape, this branch of the family refused treasures during the division of assets but insisted on taking an entire tower of books, which were difficult to transport. Over the past two decades, they have struggled to make ends meet. Without selling off their ancient texts, they would have faced starvation.
The Liyang dynasty flourished, bringing prosperity to the nation and the art of Go. Fortunately, the Fan family produced Fan Changhou, a Go fanatic indifferent to fame and fortune. Alongside Wu Congxian, a newly crowned third-place scholar of the Liyang court, he was hailed as one of the “Dual Nines.” Both were under thirty and had already become unmatched Go masters south of the Guangling River. Wu Congxian, later one of the Eight Talents of the capital, gained extraordinary fame after being personally chosen by the emperor to challenge four top Go masters of the court—and won all four matches decisively. Although Wu Congxian was considered slightly superior in the rivalry, Fan Changhou emerged as the de facto top Go master of Liyang, earning the title “Fan Shiduan” (Fan the Tenth Dan).
For a time, Apricot Alley bustled with visitors eager to meet Fan Changhou. However, the Go-obsessed master remained secluded, refusing all guests. While Fan was known for his calm and dignified demeanor on the Go board, he was notably aloof in daily life.
The Fan family’s collection was housed in two pavilions: “Kuanxin” (Broad Mind) and “Qiushu” (Seeking Forgiveness). The latter was a three-story building with a hipped roof, six bays deep, and corridors front and back. A square courtyard of three mu was paved with blue bricks, not a single weed growing, used for airing books in summer. Recently appointed head of the Fan family, Fan Changhou established strict rules for the library, including that the collection must not be divided across generations and that no books could leave the pavilions. Neither outsiders nor female members of the Fan family were allowed entry, and the keys to the bookcases were entrusted to the eldest sons of various branches.
Today was a warm winter day, perfect for airing books to dispel dampness. A refined man in green robes carried bundles of printed and copied books out of the pavilion, personally laying them on the courtyard’s blue bricks without delegating the task to servants. A girl with a rosy-cheeked face squatted nearby, flipping through books with a furrowed brow rather than curiosity. Glancing at her back, the man smiled faintly, stretched, and noticed a massive figure sitting on the edge of the courtyard, where sunlight and shadow intertwined on the steps, silent and unmoving. A shadow passed over the man’s mood. The giant had arrived in a shocking manner—without presenting a visiting card or knocking on the door, but by descending from the sky and crashing into the Fan family’s backyard pond. At that time, Fan Changhou was locked in a deep contemplation during a Go match. His opponent urged him to bring the visitor, and Fan instructed the servants not to make a fuss. Since then, the giant had followed the old man and the young girl like a shadow, never uttering a word.
Fan Shiduan approached the old man, who sat on a small stool before a chessboard carved from golden Silknanmu wood. Beside him were a small bowl of salt, a plate of crisp white radish, and a bowl of plain rice. Since the golden-skinned giant’s arrival, the old man had set up this unfinished Go problem but had not made a move or spoken. Only when the girl addressed him did he respond; even Fan Changhou’s words were met with silence. Standing behind the old man, Fan gazed at the nearly completed endgame. The black and white stones interlocked fiercely, a typical battle of strength, disregarding form. Yet in Fan’s eyes, this game did not warrant such intense focus.
Though the world saw Fan Changhou as self-taught, even labeling him dull-witted, he had risen through sheer perseverance to eventually match Wu Congxian’s prowess in his later years. But in truth, Fan had a master—Huang Longshi, the legendary Go master of the Spring and Autumn period. Without Huang’s guidance, Fan’s “late blooming” would have taken another twenty years.
In today’s world, Go masters were ranked up to the ninth dan. The top court Go advisors, serving emperors, were undeniably strong ninth dans. Some rural experts also reached ninth dan strength but lacked the “strong” designation. The Northern Liang princess Xu Wei Xiong, who studied at the Shangyin Academy and gained fame, was known as “Xu Shi Qie Shi San” (Xu the Tenth and Thirteenth). “Xu Shi” meant she surpassed ninth dan players, rightfully earning the title of tenth dan master. “Xu Shi San” referred to her ability to play moves so brilliant and unpredictable they seemed like those of a thirteenth dan player. Alongside the Western Chu strategist Cao Guanzi, she was considered a Go sage. Fan Changhou humbly accepted the title “Fan Shi Duan” but acknowledged a significant gap between himself and Xu Wei Xiong or Cao Zhangqing, even needing two handicap stones when facing his current master. Yet, even with those two stones, Fan lost all ten matches.
The old man stared at the board, sprinkling salt on the radish. “Yuetian, do you remember what I said when we played our first game?”
Fan Changhou, styled Yuetian and known as the “Buddha’s Disciple,” replied respectfully, “Master said two things: ‘True mastery lies beyond the board,’ and ‘Even the finest Go is just that. Knowing how to play and knowing how to be a person are worlds apart.'”
Huang Longshi nodded, chewing the bland radish. “That’s why I taught you not only Go but also the importance of scholarship. Now Wu Congxian has risen to fame in the capital, yet you, by not chasing glory, have surpassed him in renown. No matter who sits on the throne in Liyang, whether Surname Zhao or another surname, you will always have a place.”
Fan Changhou asked softly, “Why did you urge me to befriend the Crown Prince of Yan’e? Was it because the emperor disappointed you by killing Chancellor Zhang Julu?”
Huang Longshi countered with a smile, “Do you think Biyan deserved to live?”
Fan Changhou did not evade the question. “Even if the emperor wanted to clear the way for Crown Prince Zhao Zhuan, killing Zhang Julu alone would have sufficed. Annihilating his family was excessive.”
Huang Longshi chuckled. “Let’s set aside whether it was excessive. Tell me why Biyan was doomed.”
Fan Changhou moved to the opposite side of the board, sat upright, and spoke solemnly. “Chancellor Zhang Julu revitalized the imperial examination, opening the gates for poor scholars. His proteges, like Yin Maochun and Zhao Youling, were not only capable officials but also thrived under his protection, mastering court politics and the emperor’s mind. They knew how to survive and build influence while securing their place in history. Unlike the loyal ministers of the Spring and Autumn period who willingly died for their lords, these men would not easily give up their lives. As more such scholars emerged, their willingness to sacrifice everything for the state grew stronger. Zhang Julu was the architect of the Yonghui Spring and the pioneer of scholars rising from poverty to high office. That is one reason for his death.”
Huang Longshi took a bite of rice, smiling. “That’s not enough.”
“Crown Prince Zhao Zhuan is destined to be a peaceful emperor without military achievements. Yet if the court has Zhang Julu as the chief minister and Gu Jiantang as the general, the new emperor will struggle to assert authority. The current emperor has been testing Zhang Julu—appointing Jin Lanting to criticize him, reviving old grievances against General Yang Shenxing and the Han family of Jizhou, promoting Chen Wang, the son-in-law of Duke Chai, and recalling Qi Yanglong to the capital to counterbalance the Shangshu Province by reviving the Zhongshu and Menxia provinces. These tactics have steadily pressured Zhang Julu. Though Zhang Julu appeared to retreat, dissolving his faction and abandoning Zhao Youling, Yin Maochun, and Bai Guo, leaving only Wang Xionggui, the weakest of his allies, he remained silent even after Wang was demoted to the Guangling Circuit.”
Fan Changhou paused. “But as long as Zhang Julu lives, even if he resigns, the scholar-officials will still look to him as their leader. Qi Yanglong, appointed to balance Zhang Julu, would become awkward. And with Zhang Julu’s age versus Qi Yanglong’s, Zhang Julu could emerge as the people’s savior. The emperor understands this well and will not leave a mess for his son. If this were the only reason, it might be seen as a balance of power. But in a peaceful dynasty with growing talent, the emperor’s Xiangfu Spring rivals Zhang Julu’s Yonghui Spring. Why would the Zhao family need Zhang Julu anymore?”
Huang Longshi nodded. “Zhang Julu’s twenty years of hardship were like coal in snow—necessary then, but now he’s like a flower on a gift—useless and dangerous. That’s a second reason for his death. Now, continue.”
Fan Changhou, clearly prepared, continued without hesitation. “The first two reasons concern the emperor’s legacy. The current pressing matter is the war between Liang and Mang and the pacification of Guangling. Zhang Julu made many enemies—royal clansmen, aristocratic ministers, and local generals. These groups harbored deep resentment. The royal family suffered like rats in the streets, expecting to share power after the unification of the Liyang Zhao dynasty. Instead, Xu Xiao and Zhang Julu took all the credit. How could they bear it? As long as Zhang Julu stood in the court, these aristocrats could not rise. The more impartial Zhang Julu was, the harder it was for these families to pursue their interests. When Zhang Julu reformed the bureaucracy, salt trade, and grain transport, the old Minister of Works resisted fiercely to protect his allies. He was protecting the entrenched families. The struggle between civil and military officials is a historical norm. Though Zhang Julu managed to suppress factionalism, his use of the Guangling campaign to weaken the military and reduce the power of regional lords—Yan Zhenshun, Yang Shenxing, and the feudal lords—left the generals resentful. By killing Zhang Julu, the emperor appeased all three factions, achieving a triple benefit.”
Huang Longshi said calmly, “That’s another reason for his death. But there’s something you haven’t said. If Zhang Julu had been removed from power at his peak, his enemies’ resentment would have eased, making it harder for them to unite against him. Without that unity, even with the emperor’s support, they would be easily defeated, just as Zhang Julu crushed the Qing Party.”
Fan Changhou bowed respectfully. “Your disciple understands!”
Huang Longshi reached for the last of the radish, glancing at his disciple, the “Buddha’s Disciple” of the Go world. “Is that all? You’re far behind your younger apprentice brother in Xiangfan.”
Fan Changhou smiled. “Zhang Julu refused to form factions, cutting off his own support by parting ways with his strongest ally, Tan Tanweng, leaving him isolated. Without that, how would those ignorant scholars dare to throw accusations at his door to gain fame? It’s just like how every scholar with a title once criticized the butcher Xu Xiao. If Huan Wen had stood firmly by Zhang Julu’s side, even those passionate scholars or Jin Sanlang wouldn’t have dared. Without Huan Wen, Zhang Julu had another reason to die.”
Huang Longshi made no comment, instead shifting the topic. He looked at the salt and rice, smiling. “Famous scholars have many anecdotes, like salt for the scholar’s rice—without them, the rice lacks flavor. They don’t kill, but they lack spirit. In the early days of Liyang, when warlords oppressed scholars, there were no such stories. Biyan was truly remarkable. In just one Yonghui era, stories like the drunken Hanlin Academy official being covered by the emperor and Tan Tanweng discussing the world over a warm cup of wine emerged. Thus, though scholars still bent their knees, their spines finally stood straight.”
Fan Zhanghou looked up at the books basking in sunlight and sighed, “The memory of those turbulent days as a homeless stray still lingers vividly. The generals guarding the checkpoints only cared for gold and silver, creating endless obstacles. But what haunts me most was watching them use spears to lift scholars’ book chests, scattering rare and precious manuscripts across the ground, trampled without care. I suppose an era where books can bask peacefully in the sun is a good era for us scholars.”
After a moment of reflection, Fan Zhanghou took a deep breath and continued, “Zhang Julu’s corruption in the imperial examinations, his eldest son’s seizure of farmland, and the local families’ exploitation of the people—all these charges are well substantiated…”
He paused, then added with a bitter smile, “But what a ridiculous ‘substantiated charge’ it is. The latter two might be true, but if anyone claims Zhang Julu leaked the exam questions, it would seem absurd. Regardless of the truth, combined with the tragic Han family case implicating the former Grand Chancellor, it’s yet another death sentence.”
Clutching his fists tightly on his knees, Fan Zhanghou’s voice carried a hint of anger, “That alone would be bad enough, but among the ten charges, there’s even one accusing him of colluding with the border armies. Colluding with whom? The eastern front, built with half the empire’s taxes to defend against the Northern Barbarians, was a national policy established by the late Emperor. What crime has Zhang Julu committed?”
Huang Longshi shook his head, “This charge is the most obscurely worded. You’ve misunderstood—it’s not about Gu Jiantang. It’s about Beiliang. Naturally, there’s also an intention to warn Gu Jiantang’s northern border troops. After Zhang Julu assumed power, although he appeared to suppress the Xu family of Beiliang at every turn, in reality, those were merely surface maneuvers. The benefits Beiliang received from the border remained unchanged. If someone else had become Grand Chancellor, the court might have become chaotic, but Beiliang would have suffered even more. Zhang Julu sacrificed his relationship with the emperor to secure a hidden stability for the northwest. And for that, he deserves death.”
Fan Zhanghou was stunned, then stood up and bowed deeply toward the north.
Huang Longshi sneered, “Are you beginning to think Bi Yanye shouldn’t have died? Don’t be fooled by the apparent joy of countless people celebrating the Grand Chancellor’s downfall. In truth, the real clear-eyed individuals, especially scholars like you who believe ‘the people come first, the ruler second,’ are biting their lips in silence. Did you really think everyone who cursed Xu Kuizi back then truly hated Beiliang? Bi Yanye, Tan Tan Weng, Gu Jiantang, Yan Zhenshun, Lu Baijie and Lu Shengxiang, Xu Gong, and others—did they only harbor hatred without genuine respect? Remember when Xu Xiao led his Beiliang cavalry southward, the elite general Cai Nan, personally chosen by the court to intercept Xu Fengnian, faced the old cripple with six thousand troops. Not only did they refuse to fight, they knelt down in submission, simply saying, ‘This humble officer salutes the Prince of Beiliang.’ And it wasn’t just General Cai Nan, who was expected to curb Beiliang’s influence, but all six thousand soldiers shared the same sentiment. To catch even a glimpse of Xu Xiao was considered the greatest honor of their lives. In the end, Xu Xiao ended up inspecting Gu Jiantang’s iron cavalry, and while the court officials whispered in indignation, the military officers and soldiers across Liyang saw nothing shameful in it. Xu Xiao’s dominance was well-earned, and for a scholar like you to remember Zhang Julu in silence, that too was Bi Yanye’s due. Hence, another death sentence for Bi Yanye!”
Huang Longshi, expressionless, picked up a Go stone from the bowl and murmured, “Crown Prince Zhao Zhuan never held Bi Yanye in high regard. He once tried to befriend Zhang Julu’s youngest son, Zhang Bian Guan, but failed. In times of chaos, generals are nurtured; in times of peace, scholars are valued. This man is destined to be an emperor of letters, but to maintain balance between civil and military powers, he will surely continue the late Emperor Zhao Dun’s strategy of mutual checks among the three central ministries. There will be more cabinet ministers, but the civil leadership must not be too strong. For Zhao Zhuan to secure his throne, Zhang Julu must die once again.”
“Zhang Julu saw further than anyone else. By tarnishing his own reputation and leaving no escape route, he warned future generations. Bi Yanye knew full well that a scholar-led governance would emerge, and the ‘etiquette’ of not punishing officials would be repeatedly invoked by civil ministers. Since the Yonghui era, the Shangshu Province has dominated—since no minister, not even a vice-minister, has been executed, it will be even harder for a ‘scholar-official’ to face death in the future Liyang. There’s an interesting trend in this regard: the corruption of aristocratic and powerful families at least maintains a semblance of decorum, but the newly risen scholars from humble backgrounds become even more shameless and craftier in their methods. Bi Yanye was fully aware of this, so this death was self-imposed. But in my opinion, the death of a Grand Chancellor will do little to improve the declining morals of future generations.”
“But precisely because of this, I, Huang Longshi, admire Zhang Julu the most.”
Huang Longshi, holding the stone between his fingers without placing it on the board, fell silent. The salt, rice, and radish had long been eaten clean.
Fan Zhanghou whispered, “Zhang Julu had nine deaths.”
Huang Longshi looked down at the Go board and asked with a smile, “They say nine deaths and one chance of survival. Do you think Bi Yanye still has that one chance?”
Fan Zhanghou shook his head, “Everyone wants him dead, and he no longer wishes to live. How can he survive?”
Huang Longshi placed the white stone on a spot in the northeast of the Go board and adjusted its position slightly. Fan Zhanghou was greatly surprised—his master had always played with swift decisiveness, never bothering to adjust a stone once placed. Huang Longshi had always said that once a stone is placed, it takes root, just as the world is mercilessly unyielding. Even if the elixir of immortality exists, there is no pill for regret. This rekindled Fan Zhanghou’s curiosity about the game, which had previously lost its appeal. As he leaned in to examine the board, Huang Longshi bent down, picked up a black stone, and gazed toward a position slightly to the west. He traced a circle above it with the stone in hand and said calmly, “Earlier, you watched me set up this entire board in one go. Don’t be fooled by the apparent intensity of the battle here—this fierce struggle between black and white may actually be irrelevant to the overall situation.”
Fan Zhanghou, sitting opposite Huang Longshi, felt a jolt in his heart and leaned forward, asking repeatedly, “Is this the standoff between Liyang and Northern Barbarians?! Is this Beiliang? With thirty thousand iron cavalry, how could it possibly be irrelevant to the overall situation? Master, I really don’t understand. Can you help me grasp this?”
Huang Longshi tossed the black stone back into the bowl and laughed, “How could a mere Fan Shiduan like you guess the next move of the Northern Barbarians’ Taiping Ling? Don’t waste your brainpower—it would take you a hundred years to figure it out. Your skill in Go is already impressive enough. In the future, focus on securing your place in the new political landscape. The higher one’s Go skill, the more humble one should be.”
Fan Zhanghou cautiously glanced at his master.
Huang Longshi chuckled, “I meant ordinary folks like you. Your master and the Northern Barbarians’ Imperial Tutor are exceptions.”
Fan Zhanghou asked, “What about Cao Changqing of Xichu?”
Huang Longshi laughed, “Fifty-fifty. Knowing it’s impossible yet still striving—it’s just foolishness. Cao Changqing’s entire second half of life was spent fighting for a single breath of pride, utterly meaningless.”
A distant scoff echoed.
It seemed to mock the old man’s presumptuousness in lecturing the world. Huang Longshi looked slightly embarrassed, while Fan Zhanghou, seeing his master at a loss, tried hard not to laugh.
Huang Longshi stood up and walked to the young girl flipping through books nearby, gently ruffling her hair with a sigh of affection, “Daughter, don’t seek revenge on that bronze figure anymore. You won’t be able to kill him.”
The old man picked up a book and approached the Northern Barbarian bronze figure master, who had been thrown to this place in Guangling by Qi Xuanzhen. But soon, he was squeezed between the two by the giggling girl. Huang Longshi had to shift aside slightly, placing his hand on the book, feeling the lingering warmth of sunlight, and said, “When I was young, I visited Qi Xuanzhen at the Demon-Slaying Platform. That great immortal said, ‘It’s better for the wind to turn pages than for a man to write books.’ I, Huang Longshi, neither believed nor accepted that. Otherwise, this journey would have been in vain.”
The bronze figure master said nothing.
Huang Longshi turned and asked, “How much longer?”
The bronze figure master continued to stare blankly ahead.
Silence returned to the courtyard of Qiusu Pavilion.
Day after day, eventually, the entire world learned that the Grand Chancellor Zhang Julu had died in prison.
At that time, the world finally remembered an old turtle who should have died but didn’t, who had long ago given the then all-powerful Grand Chancellor an ominous prophecy.
“Hard to survive the New Year’s Eve.”
Only then did everyone realize that all the predictions of the great soothsayer Huang Sanjia had come true one by one.
New Year’s Eve marks the end of the old year, thus connecting to the beginning of the new.
The old year is now gone, and a new year begins.
On the New Year’s Eve of Xiangfu Year One, every household in Apricot Alley, regardless of age, lit lanterns and stayed up all night to welcome the new year, and the Fan family was no exception.
Before Kuanshin Pavilion, the bronze figure master stood in the courtyard, gazing at the sky.
The little girl and Fan Zhanghou sat on the stone steps.
The girl wore a stern expression.
Fan Zhanghou, like a child, lowered his head, stifling sobs.
Earlier that day, his master had, for the first time, patiently told him many things and many truths—discussing the strategies of several surviving grand strategists, comparing the strengths and weaknesses of the Liyang Crown Prince Zhao Zhuan and the Prince of Yan’s heir Zhao Zhuan, advising him on how to support his junior apprentice Lu Xu, and how to emerge victorious amidst the bloody struggles of various factions. Even how to retire gracefully after achieving success, his master had shared with him. Finally, his master said something utterly inexplicable, as if it were a final verdict from future historians on Fan Zhanghou: “Fan Zhanghou, a man who loved fame and power, skilled in politics, eloquent in writing, harsh inside but gentle outward, one of the six ministers who contributed to Liyang’s revival, met a peaceful end, posthumously honored as Wen Zhen.”
Inside the pavilion, the old man, who held the top three honors in the Spring and Autumn Annals, walked quietly between the bookshelves with an oil lamp in hand. The lamp wick burned shorter and shorter, and as the New Year approached, the wick grew ever shorter.
The flickering flame was about to go out.
Huang Longshi walked to the window, gazed at the night sky, smiled broadly, and murmured, “I’m glad I met you all—Ye Baikui, Xu Xiao, Zhang Julu, Yuan Benxi, Li Yishan, Zhao Changling, Gu Jiantang, Nalan Youci, Huan Wen, Qi Yanglong, Cao Changqing, Li Dangxin.”
The old man raised the oil lamp, “To you all, to the Spring and Autumn Annals, to your heroic exploits and elegant spirits!”
He opened the window, tossed the nearly extinguished lamp out into the night, and laughed heartily, “What a glorious life I’ve lived!”
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