Beyond the traditional Three Departments and Six Ministries, the Liyang Dynasty established six additional academies. Though most of the academic positions remained vacant, over twenty scholars had already been appointed, elevating them to the prestigious status of Editorial Scholars, a rank nearly on par with the esteemed Imperial Academy’s Yellow Gate Scholars. Among them were the rising calligraphy prodigy Dong Jurang, praised by the venerable Tan Tanweng as “divinely inspired, bright and expansive, brimming with vigor,” and the young painter Huang Quan, personally promoted by the Central Secretariat’s Qi Yanglong, renowned for his depictions of ghosts, gods, dragons, and water. These two, alongside the ten-dan national chess master Fan Changhou and the Imperial Examination’s second-ranked Gao Tingshu—who, after observing governance at the frontier, composed a seven-line poem hailed by the capital’s literati as the pinnacle of Yonghui’s twentieth year—were collectively known as the “Four Champions” of poetry, chess, calligraphy, and painting.
Additionally, Du Ming, whose father had once served as the Ministry of Justice’s Vice Minister, spent six obscure years in the ministry before astonishing everyone by co-authoring the seven-volume *Tangyin’s Astonishing Cases* with his long-retired father. Song Keli, shortly after joining the Imperial Academy, submitted the monumental *Xiangfu County Chronicles*, a work so rich in content and masterful in narrative that it left readers in awe. Rumor had it that the Emperor was so engrossed he read it by lamplight late into the night, even penning a preface himself.
Meanwhile, within the Imperial Academy, Yan Chiji and two other Yellow Gate Scholars, under the guidance of literary giants like Qi Yanglong and Yao Baifeng, successfully revised twelve Confucian classics. The court, placing great importance on this, swiftly erected eighty-one stone tablets at the Imperial College’s entrance, each seamlessly connected, allowing scholars nationwide to transcribe them. For a time, the area outside the Imperial College was illuminated nightly by lanterns.
Simultaneously, the court officially promulgated a new calendar devised by the Imperial Astronomical Bureau, pioneering methods for predicting the varying phases of eclipses—initial contact, maximum eclipse, and final contact—across different regions, hailed as the most precise calendar ever created.
During the transition from spring to summer, the Liyang Emperor hosted a “Thousand Elders Banquet” in the palace, inviting all septuagenarians and older in the capital. Remarkably, half of the attendees were descendants of the eight fallen states of the Spring and Autumn era.
All citizens of Liyang residing in Tai’an City were deeply moved by this flourishing cultural atmosphere. Many elderly remnants of the fallen Western Chu, long settled in the capital, shed tears, trembling as they removed their distinctive Western Chu scholar caps—a style never banned by the Liyang court.
While it was common knowledge that the imperial family’s princes studied in the Diligence Hall, few outside the capital’s officials knew of the nearby Sage Worship Hall, dedicated to Confucian sage Zhang. There, a plaque inscribed by the late Emperor with the words “Heaven and Earth in Harmony” hung, honoring the sage alongside his disciples and past Confucian luminaries.
Now, the young Liyang Emperor stood before the three sacred statues and eight memorial tablets, flanked by three men: Chen Wang, now a high-ranking purple-robed minister; Song Keli, the “young phoenix” of the Song family, whose forebears had once produced two great scholars but later fell from grace; and a middle-aged Confucian scholar unfamiliar to most in the capital.
The Emperor spoke softly, “Song Keli, your family once had the potential for two figures to be enshrined here. But your grandfather and father disappointed the late Emperor. Three strikes, and I do not wish for you to disappoint me as well.”
Song Keli bowed deeply and replied, “Your servant can only pledge his utmost devotion.”
The Emperor fell silent. Song Keli remained bowed until Chen Wang gently tugged his sleeve, prompting them to exit quietly—Chen Wang turning forward, Song Keli backing out respectfully. Once they had left, the Chief Eunuch Song Tanglu quietly closed the door.
The young Emperor finally allowed a trace of weariness to show. The middle-aged Confucian scholar, privileged since birth to stand before the Emperor without kneeling, sighed. “Your Majesty should not have indulged that woman from Huishan. Though I am not of the court, I know that a subject’s duty is to accumulate reputation. Reputation, when dissected, consists of what reaches the Emperor’s ears—success in tasks, securing imperial favor—ascending to the highest ranks. Then there is the oft-mouthed but rarely valued ‘popular acclaim,’ which, rising from below, is like sailing against the current. Among the court’s ministers, Qi Yanglong, the ‘recluse of the rivers and lakes’ for seventy years, stands supreme, followed by the steadfast Tan Tanweng, while Yao Baifeng, better suited to scholarship than governance, lags behind. Jin Lanting, the Ministry of Rites’ Vice Minister, has the will but not the means. The one who might surpass Yonghui’s achievements as a Xiangfu-era official is Chen Wang, who just left with Song Keli.
“As for the Xu father and son, they are not traditional subjects of the Zhao family. The more Xu Fengnian garners popular acclaim, the harder it will be for Your Majesty to suppress him, even more so than the late Emperor did with Xu Xiao.”
Zhao Zhuan asked calmly, “Does the Sacred Duke imply Xu Fengnian harbors rebellious intentions?”
The middle-aged man shook his head. “On the contrary, I have never believed the Xu family would rebel—not after the Western Rampart War, nor now, as the Liang-Mang conflict unfolds, regardless of its outcome.”
Zhao Zhuan frowned. “Isn’t that contradictory?”
The Confucian scholar, the only man in the world whose surname and lineage made him “born a sage,” sighed again. “No, Your Majesty should look beyond the next decade or two. Consider the root causes of every dynastic rise and fall in history.”
Zhao Zhuan smiled wryly. “The Sacred Duke’s question is too vast. I wouldn’t know where to begin. Empty platitudes would only invite ridicule—from you and myself alike.”
The scholar shook his head. “Your Majesty is mistaken, gravely so.”
Zhao Zhuan said earnestly, “I implore the Sacred Duke to enlighten me. Here, between us, nothing is unspeakable.”
The middle-aged head of the Sacred Duke’s household, devoid of the usual obsequiousness of courtiers, replied calmly, “The Daoist sages advocated ‘abolishing sagacity and discarding wisdom, abolishing benevolence and discarding righteousness.’ To later generations, this seems baffling. The reason lies in how, over millennia, literacy spread, minds grew cunning, and the Daoist sages’ words became like damming a flood—effective when waters were shallow, futile as time passed. What was once voluminous tomes are now mere children’s books.
“Confucianism, with its focus on rites and music, benevolence and righteousness, establishes guidelines for scholars—blending restraint with guidance, leaving deliberate spaces between rules for society to navigate with propriety. This is both an adaptation to the times and a reluctant necessity.”
He gazed at a memorial tablet. “If prioritizing rites and music is Confucianism’s prescription for governance, then the exclusive veneration of Confucianism was the Great Feng Dynasty’s founding emperor’s gift in return. The root of a nation’s rise and fall lies in what many—including Your Majesty—dismiss as mere ‘collapse of rites and music.’ When rites and music crumble, benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trust become rootless.
“Consort clans meddling in politics, eunuchs disrupting governance, warlords carving fiefdoms, factional strife harming the state, even emperors neglecting duties—are these not all breaches of propriety? Your Majesty might say knowing is easy, acting hard. The adage ‘a thousand-mile dike collapses due to ant nests’ is understood by all. But who can pinpoint the first nest’s origin, time, or culprit?”
Zhao Zhuan chuckled. “Foreseeing the subtle, tapping fingers for longevity—that’s the realm of martial masters. I’m passable at reading, but martial arts would be the death of me.”
The scholar smiled faintly, stretching out his hand as if grasping something. “Returning to Xu Fengnian—his threat lies not in disloyalty, nor in lacking righteousness or propriety. In fact, this young prince may often act unreasonably, but in my eyes, he understands propriety better than most scholars. Like Zhang Julu, he works for the realm, but not necessarily for the monarch. Zhang Julu erected a ‘Dragon Gate’ for humble scholars. In perhaps three centuries, emperors might no longer need noble birth to rule. With Xu Fengnian’s inadvertent fueling, the court’s suppression of Northern Liang only amplifies the Xu family’s merits, accelerating this trend by a century or two.
“I am no sage, unable to see as far as Huang Longshi. I can only strive to do what’s before me. Many sages died paving new paths, yet posterity may not be grateful. More paths breed more shortcuts. During the Hundred Schools’ contention, public wisdom flourished, rendering Daoist inaction a pipe dream and emperors’ hopes of effortless rule a fantasy. Perhaps one day, Confucianism too will face such a crisis…
“As a ruler, the late Emperor was wise enough, but he met Xu Xiao and Zhang Julu…”
He trailed off, sighing. “I am but a scholar, powerless in statecraft compared to Zhang Julu, strategizing compared to Yuan Benxi, defending compared to Xu Fengnian, destabilizing compared to Xie Guanying, and far-sighted compared to Huang Longshi. But there’s one thing I can do that they cannot—or rather, will not: adhere to my role.
“I asked Your Majesty to bring Song Keli today because I admire his name and hope Chen Wang, whom you hold in high regard, understands my intent.”
Zhao Zhuan studied this reclusive scholar, recalling a famous incident: in his youth, the Sacred Duke had hosted a Southern Zen master. When guests posed three questions—”Would you kill one to save a hundred? A hundred to save ten thousand? Ten thousand to save a million?”—the master remained silent. The young duke, not yet inheriting his title, reportedly slammed the table in fury, berating the monk for clinging to personal enlightenment over saving lives, calling him a “damned monk!”
The middle-aged man added, “Beyond agreeing to confront the domineering Cao Changqing in Guangling, I came to tell Your Majesty one thing.”
Zhao Zhuan nodded. “Speak, Sacred Duke.”
“The Northern Liang cavalry may remain.”
He paused, then said gravely, “But Xu Fengnian must die. Especially if Northern Liang triumphs over Northern Mang.”
Zhao Zhuan acknowledged impassively.
The Confucian scholar turned and walked out. Under the midday sun, he shielded his eyes from the glare and murmured, “A damned sage indeed.”
※※※
Chen Wang walked alone through the palace, pausing to sniff a fragrant piece of rare agarwood. Gazing into the distance, he whispered, “Hey.”
No wind or rain in Tai’an City. What about where you are?
Tai Sui Yellow Amulet Paper FuLu Taoist Love Talisman Traditional Chinese Spiritual Charm Attracting Love Protecting Marriage