Before the Imperial Academy, dozens of newly erected steles stood tall, inscribed with Confucian classics meticulously transcribed by the newly appointed scholars of the Hanlin Academy, serving as references for scholars across the land to study and compare. The capital was abuzz with excitement—not only the literati but even the old aristocratic families, who had little to no literary refinement, flocked one after another to demonstrate their “reverence for learning.”
Two middle-aged Confucian scholars arrived near the academy’s archway in separate carriages. Perhaps due to the scorching sun, there weren’t many students copying the scriptures at the moment. Still, by the time the two squeezed their way to one of the steles, they had waited for nearly half an hour. They exchanged a knowing smile. Beneath the stele crouched a shabbily dressed young man with a small desk before him. It was unclear whether he was an out-of-town scholar drawn by fame or a down-and-out examinee who had failed the imperial exams and remained in the capital, waiting for the next spring session of the Ministry of Rites. The fine set of writing tools on his desk must have cost him a considerable sum. One of the middle-aged scholars bent down with interest, admiring the young man’s diligent brushwork. The youth dipped his brush sparingly and wrote swiftly, likely to save ink, yet his strokes remained meticulous—a beautiful standard script.
The bending scholar nodded slightly, while his companion neither looked at the stele nor the young man. Instead, he shielded his forehead with a hand and gazed at the distant sky.
The young scholar remained wholly absorbed, occasionally pausing to rub his wrist but never looking up—thus unaware of the two senior scholars beside him. Even if he had scrutinized them, he wouldn’t have recognized their identities.
After a long while of silent observation, the scholar adorned with a mutton-fat jade pendant straightened up and stepped behind the young man, intentionally or not shielding him from the harsh sun. He then asked softly, “Master Xie, have they all arrived?”
The man addressed as Master Xie nodded matter-of-factly. “They’ve all come, but few truly stand with Xu Fengnian. Aside from Xu Yanbing, there’s only the White-Clad Luoyang and the woman in vermilion robes. Deng Tai’a merely intends to exchange a few moves with Cao Changqing before the latter meets his end—it’ll be a perfunctory duel at best. As for Cao Changqing’s visit to the capital, he likely has some final words for Xu Fengnian. Otherwise, given his temperament, he’d never have entered the city so quietly. Thus, His Majesty’s invitation to the Sacred Duke was unnecessary. With Wu Jian and Chai Qingshan blocking the way, along with Yao, Jin, and Han of the Zhao Hook, even if Xu Fengnian were determined to rebel, he’d find it difficult. Moreover, Xu Fengnian’s unauthorized entry into the capital is about lifting the ban on water transport. The court needn’t overreact—this could be settled over a simple conversation.”
The scholar standing behind the young man remarked calmly, “It seems Master Xie has overlooked the Prince of Shu.”
Master Xie smiled faintly. “With the Sacred Duke, I see no need for pretense.”
The current Sacred Duke’s brow darkened with suppressed anger. “Does Master Xie truly wish for Northern Liang and the court to destroy each other, leaving the Prince of Shu to profit from the chaos?”
Xie Guanying, who topped the “Land of Immortals” ranking, chuckled dismissively, lowering his hand. He glanced at the Sacred Duke, who fretted over both state and people. “With Gu Jianlian’s unwavering loyalty commanding hundreds of thousands of elite troops from Liang and Liao, and Zhao Bing’s southern forces watching like tigers, how could the Prince of Shu possibly seize the opportunity?”
Realizing that provoking the Sacred Duke further was unwise, Xie Guanying sighed. “To be frank, I opposed the Prince of Shu’s northward march from Guangling to the capital. If Xu Fengnian were to go on a rampage here, would Chen Zhizhao protect the emperor or not? Standing idly by would alienate the people, while intervening gains him nothing. He’s already been Minister of War and is now Prince of Shu—what use is the empty title of ‘Grand Pillar of the State’ without additional troops? At this juncture, men like Lu Shengxiang and Tang Tieshuang can afford to act boldly, but for Chen Zhizhao, Gu Jianlian, and the Prince of Yan, the line between cicada, mantis, and oriole is razor-thin. Patience yields greater rewards.”
The Sacred Duke frowned deeply.
Xie Guanying chuckled softly. “Since the fall of Great Qin, only two kinds of people care little about who rules the realm: the common folk, who can only resign themselves to fate, and the Zhang family of the Sacred Duke’s lineage. No matter how the world changes, the Sacred Duke remains the Sacred Duke. Have you not seen the fate of Longhu Mountain? The celestial lotus bestowed by the heavens now bears but a few purple-gold blooms.”
The Sacred Duke sighed sincerely. “The rise and fall of dynasties are inevitable, but in the transition, I hope fewer lives are lost—especially fewer scholars.”
Xie Guanying replied with a hint of mockery, “Is that why you went to meet Cao Changqing by the Guangling River? And what came of it? Did he heed your counsel? Sacred Duke, scholars may read books, but they must not forget they are human. Humans have desires. Even the immortals in Taoist texts cannot achieve true immortality, and scholars cannot spend their lives solely reading. Xun Ping and Zhang Julu left their books to serve the court—one died young, the other lost his integrity in old age. On Huishan’s Snowy Plateau, a scholar named Xuanyuan Jingcheng was trapped by love, never leaving the mountain until his death. Cao Changqing is no better—he never truly stepped out of the Western Chu palace. What ‘Confucian Sage’ or ‘Master Cao’? He was merely a chess attendant!”
The Sacred Duke shook his head. “Master Cao is far from the pitiable figure you describe.”
Unfazed by the direct address, Xie Guanying sneered. “A man who cannot let go of a woman dead for so many years—how can he claim invincibility in the endgame? Playing chess only to become a pawn on the board—what a farce!”
The current sage of the Zhang family gazed at this “bowl-holder” who looked down on the world’s talents and shook his head at him.
Xie Guanying left with a loud laugh.
The Sacred Duke remained standing, murmuring to himself, “A true master foresees the tides of the world and saves the people from suffering. In times of national crisis, he should be the first to die. Xie Guanying, you are but a scholar obsessed with writing history—nothing more.”
The illustrious sage of the Zhang family turned and gazed at the rows of steles, silent for a long while. The copying scholar let out a labored breath, his wrist finally succumbing to fatigue. Then, noticing the shadow, he turned to see the unfamiliar Confucian standing behind him.
The Sacred Duke smiled and asked, “If you don’t mind, may I copy a passage for you?”
The impoverished scholar hesitated, as if making an excruciating decision, then nodded.
The Sacred Duke rolled up his sleeves, took the brush from the unsteady young man, and sat cross-legged to begin writing.
The scholar crouched again, tilting his head to observe. Relieved, he noted that the elder’s calligraphy, though unremarkable at first glance—neither overly rigid nor ethereally elegant—gradually exuded a serene and balanced aura.
Yet after watching the upright elder write unhurriedly for over a hundred characters, the young man grew anxious and whispered, “Could you write a bit faster, sir?”
The Sacred Duke nodded amiably. “Of course.”
Seeing the brush move swifter, the scholar, worried about his ink running out, sighed quietly. But after another two hundred characters, he mustered the courage to say, “Sir…”
The Sacred Duke apologized, “Understood. I’ll speed up.”
As time passed, the young man grew restless again. Yet, unwilling to pester the kind elder a third time, he bit his lip. He had been fortunate to secure this prime copying spot today—tomorrow might not yield the same luck. The capital enforced a curfew, and only students of the Imperial Academy enjoyed the authorities’ leniency, allowing them to study by lamplight. Even if he could afford to study at the academy, the cost of lamp oil pained him. Thus, only under the blazing sun could he claim a spot.
Without looking up, the scholar seemed to sense the young man’s impatience. “I truly can’t go any faster,” he said while writing.
Resigned, the young man forced a smile. “Take your time, sir.”
The middle-aged scholar seized the moment to lecture, “Writing and scholarship are lifelong pursuits. Slower, steadier efforts yield gradual but solid results.”
His legs numb, the young man plopped down and chuckled at the pedantic advice. “Well said, sir.”
Still writing intently, the Sacred Duke asked, “Your accent suggests you’re from Northern Liang?”
The young man nodded. “Yes, from Yanzhi County in Youzhou. I failed the metropolitan exams.”
The Sacred Duke pressed on, “Did you not seek help from Left Imperial Advisor Chen or Grand Scholar Yan of the Dongyuan Pavilion? Or even Chief Educator Yao of the Imperial Academy? These men, all from Northern Liang, are said to favor scholars from their homeland.”
The young man admitted frankly, “I considered it, but the academy gates were barred to me. The residences of the grand scholar and Advisor Chen seemed even more inaccessible. They say a prime minister’s gatekeeper holds the rank of a seventh-grade official—I’m too timid to knock after walking miles. Besides, those twenty-odd miles could be better spent copying scriptures.”
The Sacred Duke smiled. “You don’t strike me as impatient. Why the rush?”
The young man flushed. “Faster writing means less ink. We Northern Liang scholars can’t afford the capital’s luxuries—thick ink, light ink, dry brushes. Back home, we wrote with fingers in river water on stone, with reeds in dirt, or with brooms in snow. Here, even snow gets swept away by dawn.”
Amused, the Sacred Duke teased, “Since you mention capital refinements, let me share one: in exams, calligraphy matters. Under the Song father-son examiners, identical essays scored differently based on Song-style script. Next spring’s exams will likely be overseen by Minister of Rites Sima Puhua and Vice-Minister Jin Lanting. Sima’s handwriting, once obscure, is now widely emulated. It’s not too hard to mimic—just remember to prefer running script over standard. As for Jin the Third, he’s too proud for flattery.”
In a city where even street vendors boasted of seeing high officials, the young man wasn’t surprised by the elder’s insider knowledge. Grateful, he said, “I’ll remember that.”
The Sacred Duke nodded approvingly. “Not rigid—good. Pedantry is worthless.”
The young man laughed again.
Suddenly, the Sacred Duke asked, “Were there no Northern Liang scholars in the last palace exams?”
The young man confirmed quietly. The reasons were no secret: the court had restricted Northern Liang’s exam quotas, and the last exams coincided with the new Liang king’s contentious succession and defiance of imperial decrees. Northern Liang scholars lacked timing, advantage, and support.
After a pause, the young man added bitterly, “Of the five of us who came to the capital, four returned this spring. The Xiamawei Post House provides travel funds for failed Northern Liang scholars, so they pooled their remaining coins for me. Their essays were no worse than mine.”
The Sacred Duke frowned. “Why leave? The next exams would favor you. And with war looming in Northern Liang…”
The young man grinned. “That’s precisely why they returned.”
The Sacred Duke paused, thoughtful. “May I ask—what kind of man is your Prince of Liang?”
The young man demurred, “A poor scholar like me has only met two county magistrates back home. Who am I to judge a prince?”
The Sacred Duke returned the brush.
They switched places.
This time, the young man didn’t rush. He glanced at the nearby stele, then said to the enigmatic scholar, “Sir, do you know how many steles Northern Liang has erected? One day, they may outnumber all the characters on these academy steles. I stay not out of cowardice but fear that the court will think all Northern Liang scholars are like Jin Lanting. I’m too frail to fight—I’d only add to the barbarians’ tally. But here, even if I speak to only you today, one day, even if Northern Liang falls, I may speak to a hundred, a thousand more.”
The Sacred Duke said nothing more. He stood, walked a few steps, then turned to gaze at the young scholar’s gaunt back.
This youth, who had twice urged the elder to write faster, would never guess that while emperors could multiply, the title of Sacred Duke—passed down through eight centuries and beyond—belonged to only one man at a time.
Unbeknownst to him, thousands of students had gathered inside the academy gates, gaping at his exchange with the “unknown” scholar. Under the officials’ watchful eyes, none dared step out to disturb the Sacred Duke.
That day, the current Sacred Duke left the capital.
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