Tai’an City, as the capital of benevolence, was densely populated and naturally governed by numerous rules. Even the residences of officials were stratified into three grades and nine ranks, broadly categorized into the powerful, the impoverished, and the wealthy. For instance, the grand mansions where the likes of the Duke of Yan and the Marquis of Huaiyang resided were mostly occupied by illustrious families, with dukes, marquises, and counts clustered together. Newcomers like Chen Wang, if not for his prior connection as a son-in-law to a prince, would never have been able to secure a residence there, no matter how high he climbed as the Left Imperial Censor of the Chancellery.
The scholarly elite of the capital often hailed from the Hanlin Academy, the Imperial College, and the Censorate. These were not just officials of Liyang but also renowned literati who enjoyed the company of their peers, living in close proximity to save the trouble of summoning friends from afar.
Yet, there were also impoverished officials in Tai’an City. The Ministry of Rites, for example, was a classic “clear-water yamen”—a government office with little financial gain. Many low-ranking officials who weren’t in leadership positions even relied on calligraphy commissions to make ends meet, living in genteel poverty while boasting of their incorruptibility. The bitterness of their plight was something outsiders could scarcely fathom.
The wealthy, like Song Tianbao, who rubbed shoulders with Wang Yuanran, son of the former Minister of Revenue, and Yan Tongshu, grandson of the veteran general Yan Zhenchun, faced their own dilemmas. Though his father was one of the richest men in the two Liao regions, buying a mansion in Tai’an City was awkward. The aristocratic district was out of reach no matter how hard he tried, while the impoverished officials’ quarter was unappealing—who’d want to endure disdainful glances all day? The middle ground between the powerful and the wealthy became his only option. By day, he’d play the sycophant to high-ranking officials; by night, he’d reclaim his dignity from those wealthier but less influential than himself.
Some busybodies studied the officials who rose to prominence during the late Yonghui and early Xiangfu eras. Most began in the impoverished southern district of Tai’an, where scholars and pedants congregated, then swiftly ascended to the powerful northeastern elite, and finally moved eastward to flaunt their wealth in grand mansions. If one could, like Chen Wang, the Junior Guardian, settle in the western part of the capital, life would be considered complete—free of regrets and a worthy legacy for ancestors and descendants alike.
In the second year of Xiangfu, the northern gentry clans, led by the Peng family, suddenly flooded into the northeastern district of Tai’an, driving up the already exorbitant property prices. This infuriated middle-ranking officials who had finally saved enough to escape rented lodgings, prompting them to privately curse the “barbarians from Liaodong” for being nothing but rich upstarts.
The established power in the northeast, the officials of the Six Ministries under the Secretariat, also viewed the newcomers with disdain, maintaining a frosty distance. This was unsurprising. Over the past two decades, especially after the former Chief Grand Secretary, the “Green-Eyed One,” personally oversaw the imperial examinations, Liyang had ceased favoring northern scholars in the civil service exams. Southern candidates now dominated, occupying at least seventy percent of the positions, creating a clear “northern generals, southern ministers” dynamic.
However, during the peaceful decade following Yonghui before Xiangfu, few new military leaders emerged, allowing southern officials to dominate court politics. The Qing faction, known for its unity, was the most prominent example. With the aging and passing of northern-born generals from the Four Expeditions, Four Pacifications, and Four Garrisons, northern scholars found fewer opportunities to speak with authority in the northeast. Were it not for the remaining prestige of General Ma Lulang, the Conqueror of the North, southern officials might have completely marginalized their northern counterparts.
Thus, the Peng family’s first act after acquiring their new mansion was to pay a grand visit to General Ma’s residence. Though they reportedly failed to meet the bedridden Ma Lulang, they were personally received by his eldest son, Ma Zhongxian, the General of the Eastern Capital Garrison.
Following the Peng family’s lead, the mass migration of the two Liao clans proceeded smoothly. The departure of Minister of War Lu Baijie and the arrival of Hong Lingshu, the backbone of the Qing faction, seemed like a neutral exchange for southern influence in court. Yet the underlying damage was undeniable, making the northern scholars’ large-scale entry into the capital all the more intriguing.
The gates of officials’ mansions were elevated above street level—a centuries-old tradition symbolizing rank. The number of steps leading to the entrance was strictly regulated by Liyang law. Only those of sufficient rank could build higher steps: three for sixth-rank, four for fourth-rank (common for prefects and generals), five for most vice-ministers, six for ministers, and seven for a select few like former Minister of Personnel Zhao Youling and current Minister of Rites Sima Puhua.
Interestingly, while seven steps were rare in the northeast, they were commonplace in Chen Wang’s western district. There, anything below six steps was considered shameful, and even eight steps, like those of Duke Gao Shizhi of Yan, weren’t unusual. But officials knew the western steps were hollow, propped up by ancestral prestige and the Zhao family name, while the northeastern steps were earned through recent generations’ official ranks. Hence the saying: “A western seven is less rare than a northern five.”
In the northeast, another saying prevailed: “Ma’s eight, Yan’s seven, ministers’ six.” Most ministerial residences had six steps, but the Yan mansion boasted seven, and the Ma mansion matched the eight steps of princely estates.
Recently, not only had Ma Zhongxian frequently returned from the Eastern Capital Garrison, but even his often-absent, perfume-drenched eldest grandson, Ma Wenhou, had obediently stayed home.
Having heard too many false alarms about the old general’s impending death, few paid attention to the father and son’s unusual behavior. But both Ma Zhongxian and Ma Wenhou knew—this time, the old man might truly be fading.
After years of frailty, the old general had suddenly regained vigor, sitting up to sip porridge with clear eyes. It was the final flicker before the flame went out.
When Ma Zhongxian told his father that Northern Liang had defeated the Northern Barbarians, the old man merely opened his clouded eyes and whispered, “How many… died?”
Ma Zhongxian reported the still-vague battle details—more accurate than the Ministry of War’s intelligence.
The old man sat up for the first time when he heard the young Prince of Northern Liang had entered the capital uninvited. But exhaustion soon forced him back to bed—until news arrived that eight hundred Northern Liang cavalry had terrified the Western Capital Garrison. Then he summoned his “hopeless” grandson home.
Ma Wenhou was an oddity in Tai’an. Neither a wastrel like Wang Yuanran nor an ambitious talent like Yin Changgeng, he and Zhang Bianguan, the “useless” youngest son of the late Chief Grand Secretary Zhang Julu, were dubbed the “Capital’s Eccentrics.” Yet unlike the erratic Zhang, Ma Wenhou was well-liked. At twenty, he’d traveled for over two years—to the Eastern Martial City, the southern mountains, Western Shu, Nan Zhao, Qingzhou’s Xiangfan, and northern Ji Prefecture.
Dragged home by his father, Ma Wenhou helped his grandfather sit up again. From then on, the old man spent more time sitting than lying down, listening to his grandson read.
News of Northern Barbarian General Yang Yuanzan’s death at Hulu Pass or the restlessness of Gu Jianjia’s two Liao cavalry failed to stir the old man, a veteran of sixty years in politics.
But when he handed over the tiger tally, he muttered, “A path to death”—whether referring to the young prince or someone else, no one knew.
That morning, the old man considered attending court but knew his body couldn’t bear the journey, sparing his family the dilemma.
At Ma Zhongxian’s behest, hidden family retainers fanned out across the city, tasked with one mission: discreetly tracking the young man surnamed Xu.
Reports soon flowed back: the young prince left Xiamawei Posthouse—not for court but for the old Ministry of War, stopping at the gate without entering. He visited the Ministry of Rites, sending Minister Sima Puhua fleeing. Finally, he went to the Imperial Observatory, meeting Empress Dowager Zhao Zhi and the proprietress of the Ninety-Nine Pavilion.
The old man commented on each update, his mind sharp, as if determined to unload a decade’s worth of words.
“The old Ministry of War… a feng shui treasure, now abandoned. Pity.”
“Wenhou, our Ma family has long been a Liyang vassal. But we pivoted swiftly. At eighteen, my father threw me into the Ministry—many thought him mad, risking his only heir in the capital. Yet after twenty years, when I became Vice-Minister, the naysayers fell silent. Some died; others lost face to complain.”
“I’ve spent my life in the Ministry and barracks yet never fought or killed. Isn’t it absurd—a man like me becoming Conqueror of the North?”
“As a young ministry official, I saw many ambitious, capable, ruthless commanders. One Xu, a Jinzhou barbarian, struggled terribly—always defeated, his troops decimated. No one backed him, including me. No roots, just desperation.”
“Back then, Liyang was never at peace. Killing a hundred barbarians today earns you captaincy; back then, a thousand Eastern Yue or Northern Han deaths might not suffice. Once, this Xu—then a mere captain—stood in the ministry courtyard in pouring rain, a chest of silver at his feet, spine straight, no beggar’s posture.”
“That silver? Enough for seven or eight hundred troops? Everyone knew he wasn’t greedy—after victories, he’d send spoils to the ministry. But his last defeat had killed a ministry official’s protégé sent to ‘earn merit.’ So no one helped him.”
“I’d never seen someone so reckless in battle, always charging ahead. Who’d invest in such a man? Skilled in war, inept in politics—likely to die any day.”
“But that day, I was in a fine mood. A senior official constantly opposed me, so I decided to spite him by granting Xu troops.”
Ma Wenhou asked, “Did he win big soon after?”
The old man smiled faintly. “He won three battles—but exhausted the troops again. Still, I profited. Back then, lives were cheap, but armed men had value. Our family’s foundation was built then—while many warlords lost theirs.”
Ma Wenhou fell silent. Like most of his generation, he’d grown weary of old war stories. Yet this time, he listened.
The old man sighed with emotion, “That Jinzhou Commandant who once had to gauge your grandfather’s mood and expression—you must have guessed it long ago—was Xu Xiao. Later, the Butcher of Liyang, and finally, the King of Northern Liang.”
Ma Wenhou nodded gently.
This old tale was something the old man had never shared with anyone before.
“The old saying goes, ‘He who commits many injustices will perish by his own deeds.’ True, but not entirely. No matter how you look at it, Xu Xiao managed to die of old age in his bed, riddled with wounds and ailments—perhaps the heavens’ reward for his unwavering sense of righteousness. But another saying, ‘He who commits many cruelties brings calamity upon his descendants’—that, I firmly believe. The Xu family is a prime example. Xu Xiao killed so many people, yet look at his children—who among them was truly blessed? The eldest daughter died young, the second daughter is paralyzed in a wheelchair, the youngest son is a fool. As for the eldest son… that young man, I imagine, hasn’t had an easy time these years either. The glory on the surface is just that—surface. People are strange creatures. The poor assume the rich live in comfort, common folk believe those in power can do as they please—half right, half wrong. Take a simple analogy: if an ordinary man is kicked in the street for no reason, he might curse a bit, fume for a few days, and then move on. But what if it were you, Ma Wenhou? If Yin Maochun’s son or Gu Jiantang’s son slapped you across the face, would you forget that sting by tomorrow or next year? No. That kind of resentment, compared to a poor man losing a dozen taels of silver and feeling like his world has ended, is about the same.”
Ma Wenhou muttered under his breath, “Yin Changgeng and Old Gu’s son dare slap me? I’d break all three of their legs!”
Ma Zhongxian glared at him furiously. “How old are you? Don’t you know what’s important?! ‘A man should be independent at thirty’—what independence have you shown, you brat?!”
The old man waved his hand, signaling Ma Zhongxian to calm down. “Zhongxian, don’t think your son is just all talk—he’s cunning beneath the surface. And don’t think teaching Yin and Gu’s descendants a lesson is wrong. Is it? No. If done right, it’s actually a good thing. In this insight, you, Ma Zhongxian, are a hundred thousand miles behind your son.”
Ma Zhongxian grunted in acknowledgment. Though this General of Andong was notorious in the capital for his defiance, his filial piety was absolute. He obeyed Ma Lulang without question, never once thinking himself too mighty or his father senile.
The old man, now gaunt to the bone, smiled happily. With trembling hands, he gently squeezed his son’s shoulder. “You’re better than me. You’ve truly fought battles, earned merits, and your nature is simple—that’s a tremendous advantage. You’re best suited to preserving what we have, especially under the emperor’s nose. Clever men cause trouble, and those who think themselves clever court death. The burden of the Ma family—you’ve shouldered it well.”
Turning his gaze to Ma Wenhou, who had idled away the past decade, the old man said, “Building our legacy was the duty of your grandfather and great-grandfather’s generations. Safeguarding it fell to your father. Now, the family’s revival—or reaching greater heights—is your turn.”
Ma Wenhou pressed his lips together, silent.
Seeing his son’s listless demeanor, Ma Zhongxian felt a surge of anger. Just as he was about to explode, the old man shot him a look, and he immediately fell silent.
The old man spoke softly, “Wenhou, my boy, I have only one son—your father—but four grandsons and two granddaughters. All these years, your three brothers have been busy vying for favor and power, while you alone carefully shielded your two sisters. That’s good. Those three good-for-nothings have no real skill, only a talent for petty rivalries—more womanly than women themselves. Entrusting the family to them would see our wealth squandered within a generation, no matter how vast.”
The old man repeated emphatically, “You are good!”
Ma Zhongxian stood frozen.
The old man curled his lip in a cold smirk. “There are two kinds of people in this world you should never deal with. The first are near-saintly paragons, like the Green-Eyed One. No matter what you do, forging personal ties or gaining benefits from them is nearly impossible. The second are those without principles. It’s not the lowly you should fear—you know what they are, and with caution, you can avoid harm and seek profit. But those without principles? You never know when they’ll bring you a ‘surprise.’ People like the former Minister of Personnel Zhao Youling or the current Vice Minister of Rites Jin Lanting. Befriend them deeply, and one day they’ll sell you out completely. You’ll be aggrieved, while they gloat. If the Ma family were small and needed to climb the social ladder, that would be different—just being noticed by them would be an achievement. But though we’re not the foremost noble house in Tai’an City, we’re still within the top ten. So, we need not entertain such people. Stay away from both types.”
Here, the old man offered solemn advice to both his son and grandson.
“Zhongxian, don’t spend your days dreaming of glorious military exploits, especially not rushing to join the chaos in Guangling. Remember, when a ruler wants someone dead, it’s not always his own will. Did the late emperor truly not wish to see Zhang Julu and Yan Zhenchun end their days honorably, recorded in history together? But when the emperor demands your death, as a subject, whom can you appeal to? So, never seek great merit for the state—but always ensure small favors for the sovereign. Remember this!”
“Wenhou, I’ll leave you with a saying the Unswerving Elder once shared with me: ‘Deep waters flow slowly; noble men speak deliberately.’ Stop spouting those grand declarations—’I regret not meeting the ancients, but more that they never met me,’ ‘In life, I’ll be enfeoffed as a marquis and minister; in death, I’ll rest in the ancestral temple.’ They sound impressive, but compared to the Unswerving Elder’s words, they’re leagues behind. Some thoughts are best kept in your heart, never spoken aloud. A man’s ambitions aren’t like a woman’s pregnancy—visible after just a few months.”
Ma Wenhou chuckled. “I don’t spout that nonsense anymore. Back then, I just thought if I ever made a name for myself, future historians could quote me directly.”
The old man laughed and scolded, “You little rascal!”
Ma Zhongxian looked aggrieved. “Father, why am I being scolded too?”
The old man forced a weary smile and reached out to pat Ma Zhongxian’s head. “You’re a rascal too. There, all three of you scolded.”
Ma Zhongxian laughed, but tears welled in the rugged man’s eyes.
Ma Wenhou kept one hand supporting his grandfather’s arm, the other bracing his back.
At that moment, a nearly seventy-year-old Ma family elder appeared at the door, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “Xu Fengnian has already slain over thirty immortals at the gates of the Imperial Observatory. The twelve hundred heavy cavalry have yet to enter the fray.”
The Northern Expedition General Ma Lulang’s gaze grew distant.
Then, suddenly, the old man barked, “Zhongxian! Go to the palace at once! Even if you have to kneel until your knees break, stop His Majesty from deploying that heavy cavalry!”
Ma Zhongxian shot to his feet instinctively, but hesitated, remembering his father’s impending death.
The old man roared, “Fool! I’m using the Ma family’s dignity to give His Majesty a ladder to climb down with grace! Whoever the emperor appoints to lead the heavy cavalry next, it must not be you, Ma Zhongxian! Only then will Wenhou have a chance to rise swiftly into the imperial court!”
Ma Zhongxian wiped his eyes fiercely and strode away without looking back.
Ma Lulang gasped for breath, and Ma Wenhou gently patted his back.
The old man smiled bitterly. “Let me lie down. I can’t hold on anymore—no need to.”
Ma Wenhou carefully helped him recline.
Clutching his eldest grandson’s hand, the old man whispered, “Few live to seventy, yet I’ve passed eighty. What’s there to grieve?”
Ma Wenhou forced a smile, voice choked. “It’s just that my father’s tongue is clumsy—even his scolding misses the mark. But you, Grandfather, with your wisdom, don’t need to scold for me to listen.”
The old man lay quietly, his breaths growing fainter.
Calmly, he said, “Wenhou, ‘At seventy, follow your heart’s desires without overstepping bounds.’ An intriguing notion. After seventy, I truly believed it. If you don’t, then you must live to that age. Your heart isn’t calm enough—read more. In the stillness of night, sit often on those eight steps.”
Ma Wenhou gripped his grandfather’s hand and nodded hard.
Ma Lulang slowly closed his eyes. “Born before you, Xu Xiao, dying after you—finally, I’ve won one round.”
With those final words, the old man passed peacefully.
“Now, it’s my time to die.”
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