Chapter 864: The Wanderer’s Journey (Part 4)

Lingzhou of the Northern Liang Dao was undeniably the Jiangnan beyond the Great Wall—a land of abundance with a rare scholarly air uncommon in the northwest. For years, Lingzhou had prided itself over Liang and You Provinces, boasting, “Our military might may not match your fierce valor, but we have far more scholars here!” Unfortunately, after a young scholar named Chen Wang rose to prominence in Youzhou, Lingzhou’s intellectual circles began to wither. Though Sun Yin, who had once hailed from Lingzhou, had climbed as high as the Right Sacrificial Wine of the Imperial Academy in the capital, he paled in comparison to the young Central Secretariat official, Chen Shaobao.

Yet such disputes never reached small, remote places like Huanghua County in Huansha Commandery. Huanghua was a lower-tier county, situated at the westernmost edge of Lingzhou and notorious for its poverty. Being part of Lingzhou only made it seem even poorer. Every time the county magistrate traveled to the provincial capital and met colleagues of similar rank, it was pure agony.

But poor as it was, unlike Youzhou, where people preferred blades over books, Huanghua County had dozens of villages, each with its own private school, aside from the government-sponsored free schools. Wealthier villages even had ancestral academies with resident tutors. Thus, the sound of children reciting lessons here was no less frequent than elsewhere in Lingzhou.

Li Xian was the most learned scholar in Lijia Village, a former provincial graduate who had once traveled to the capital of Liyang—though rumor had it he had failed the exams. After his long journey there and back, he could have easily sought an official post in Huansha Commandery. Unfortunately, as scholars from the Central Plains flooded into Lingzhou, someone snatched his teaching position. Being poor and unable to bribe his way in, Li Xian—perhaps out of resentment—returned to his village and opened a private school. With only seven or eight local children enrolled, he barely scraped by. Saving money to buy books was out of the question, especially since he even took in a few children from other families, charging no tuition and even feeding them two meals a day. As a result, many eligible young women from nearby villages, who had once admired him, were discouraged by their parents.

Today, Li Xian carried a small jug of wine to a neighboring village. There were no official roads between villages, only a narrow dirt path. Villagers who met him would respectfully greet him as “Master Li,” and he would always smile and chat briefly.

Arriving at a thatched cottage by a stream, fenced with a simple wooden barrier, he saw an old hen pecking at the ground with her chicks. Just as he pushed open the gate, he spotted a familiar figure in the distance and smiled knowingly, waiting at the door.

The old man walked slowly, hunched but spirited, carrying a jar of yellow wine and some food wrapped in oiled paper. Like Li Xian, he was a village tutor, but unlike Li Xian, he had been teaching for over twenty years. The locals, born and raised in these parts, all said this man surnamed Liu was an outsider, descended from a noble Central Plains family. When he first arrived, he had been extravagant and imposing, but over the years, his wealth must have dwindled—or perhaps age had simply bent his back.

Li Xian knew more than the other villagers: Master Liu was undoubtedly a remnant of the Spring and Autumn era. During the Hongjia Northern Exodus, he should have continued north with the other Central Plains clans into the Southern Court of Beimang. But by the time he reached Northern Liang, his family had scattered—some dead from illness, some lost, some gone mad—until only he remained. Whether he had tried to drown himself and failed or something else, he had survived in a daze. The truth was unclear, and Master Liu never spoke of those old, bitter memories. He had settled in Northern Liang, opened a school, but his eccentric, rigid, and superstitious nature kept his classes small. If not for his strange medical skills—beyond what local healers could comprehend—he might have starved long ago.

The man they were visiting with wine was another obscure tutor in Huanghua County. He had been Li Xian’s first teacher, the one who taught him the *Three Character Classic*, *Hundred Family Surnames*, and *Thousand Character Classic*. Li Xian’s first kowtow had been to the tablet of Confucius and to this old man as his teacher. Looking back now, the old man’s knowledge had been neither profound nor vast—certainly nothing compared to the enigmatic Master Liu. But to Li Xian, who had earned his own scholarly rank, a teacher was a teacher. He would never address him with a surname, as he did with Master Liu.

The villagers, however, held far less reverence for this poor local tutor. They called him “Old Baldy Wang,” and even mischievous children would dare to shout it when borrowing money or working in the fields—though whether they’d get a beating afterward was another matter. Village children were tough, running barefoot through the mountains; a few strikes meant nothing.

The feud between Li Xian’s first teacher, Wang Changqing, and Master Liu was well-known. Two old men of similar age but vastly different backgrounds, they had argued from middle age into their twilight years. Master Liu’s words were often cryptic, their sting only felt years later, while Wang Changqing’s rustic proverbs were sharp and immediate. Yet Master Liu always remained unshaken, standing above the fray. Their quarrels often devolved into mutual incomprehension, yet they never tired of it—for over twenty years.

This time, Li Xian had splurged on a fine jar of *Lüyi* wine because his teacher had just been ousted from his school by a newcomer. The young replacement, even younger than Li Xian, who was nearly thirty, had impressed Li Xian with his refined speech. Unlike most scholars who sought official posts, this one seemed to prefer teaching. Why he had come to Northern Liang to do so was a mystery, though rumors said he had fallen for a village girl at the Huanghua market and followed her here. Li Xian, who had always kept to his studies, didn’t pry. If true, he thought, it was a tale of scholar and beauty—worthy of quiet blessing.

Out of the corner of his eye, Li Xian saw his teacher, who had stepped out for sun, retreat hastily back inside upon spotting them—likely to feign illness in bed.

Entering the dim inner room, Master Liu slammed the yellow wine and food onto the small table. “If you can get up, Old Baldy, we’ll eat and drink this clean. If not, I’ll enjoy it right in front of you!”

Wang Changqing, lying in bed, snorted. “Yellow wine?”

Master Liu snapped, “What else? You think I’d drink your Northern Liang *Lüyi*? Unless the sun rises in the west!”

Li Xian intervened with a smile. “Teacher, I brought *Lüyi*, and Master Liu has spiced meat. How about it?”

Only then did Wang Changqing slowly rise, straightening his robe.

Master Liu sneered, “A monkey in a crown.”

Wang Changqing shot back, “Look at this—brand new! I’ll have another by New Year’s. Unlike your patched-up rags, year after year!”

Master Liu said calmly, “To take no rank as honor, to sleep late as wealth, to walk as a carriage, to eat late as meat, to wear rags as fur—this is the way of contentment. To hold fast to it all one’s life is to find the Dao in poverty.”

Wang Changqing rolled his eyes. “Poor is poor. Don’t dress it up.”

Master Liu scoffed. “Unlike some frogs in a well, I’ve traveled ten thousand miles, seen heaven’s principles in human affairs, and read ten thousand books, seen human affairs in heaven’s principles. And here in this backwater of Northern Liang, I see old scholars buried in ancient texts for decades, stepping outside only to lose their way. Pitiful. Especially when those texts are ones even Central Plains children could recite backward.”

Ignoring him, Wang Changqing sat on a stool, took the opened jar of *Lüyi* from Li Xian, and inhaled deeply. “This aroma alone is worth seven or eight *qian* of silver!”

By the light filtering through the broken window, Wang Changqing and Li Xian drank *Lüyi*, while Master Liu sipped yellow wine. Balding Wang sat with one foot on the bench, far less dignified than the upright Master Liu. Yet Li Xian, his student, carried himself with a grace not far inferior to Master Liu’s.

Wang poured two bowls. Li Xian declined with a smile, but Wang pointed at him, sighing. “How can you write immortal poetry if you don’t drink?”

Master Liu mocked, “Old Baldy, you’ve drunk hundreds of *jin* in your life. Have you ever written even half a decent essay? Li Xian may be your half-baked student, but he’s a proper provincial graduate. If he didn’t make the palace exams, it’s only because he’s from Northern Liang. Who are you to lecture him?”

Wang took a swig and wiped his mouth. “I can’t lecture him? And you, Liu the Bookbag, can? Just because your family was better off and you memorized a few more books?”

Master Liu bit back his words, finally muttering, “Unreasonable!”

Wang gulped more wine, belched, and tossed a piece of spiced meat into his mouth, sighing in satisfaction.

Li Xian eventually gave in and drank half a bowl, his face flushing red.

The two old men drank silently—one using his hands, the other chopsticks.

Master Liu, unusually drunk, grew wistful. “Ah, to have married a woman of the Ten Great Clans… to have been a man of Great Chu…”

Wang nudged his tipsy student. “What’s so special about these ‘Ten Great Clans’ women?”

Li Xian smiled. “They were the ten most powerful families of the Spring and Autumn era. It’s an old reference.”

Wang chuckled. “Didn’t our Great General crush them all like bugs?”

His voice carried, and Master Liu glared.

Wang, now heavily drunk, retorted, “What, you disagree? Just because you’re some Spring and Autumn relic, you think you’re better than us Northern Liang folk? I’ve put up with your nonsense for years! You used to mock our Young Master as a wastrel, and I was blind enough to agree, thinking he’d never measure up to the Great General. But if you dare sneer at us now, I’ll thrash you! And if I can’t, Li Xian here will!”

Master Liu’s eyes reddened. “Does killing make one great? Since when is that the way of the world? ‘One general’s achievement bleaches ten thousand bones’—that’s not the scholars’ truth.”

Wang slammed his bowl, spilling wine. Normally, he’d never waste a drop, but now he roared, “I don’t know if the Great General’s slaughter was just when he drowned the Central Plains! But I know this—from the Great General to the new Liang King, two generations of the Xu family have stood at the front lines beyond the northwest passes, holding back Beimang’s million-strong cavalry! And even if the Great General owed you Spring and Autumn remnants, the new Liang King and Northern Liang’s border army have repaid that debt this year, in this damned Xiangfu era! Zhao Shunzi from our village, Li Erwa from Li Xian’s, two young men from your Liu Village—four went north, only one returned. One died at Hutou City, two at Hulu Pass! Zhao Shunzi, just over twenty, was like me in your eyes—a man who’d never amount to anything. And yet? Here we are, you old turtle and I, drinking in comfort while better men lie dead!”

He smashed a fist on the table. “We who should’ve died live, while those who shouldn’t have, did! For what? Not for you, Liu Mao, or for me, Old Baldy Wang. But can’t we at least remember them kindly? Can’t you spare a shred of gratitude for Northern Liang’s three hundred thousand border troops?!”

Master Liu drank deeply, his face calm but lips pale. “It’s easy to honor the dead at the border. But why should I honor the Xu family? My Great Chu Liu clan—three hundred souls—was reduced to just me, Liu Mao, in the Hongjia Northern Exodus. You’re right: those who should’ve died live, and those who shouldn’t have, died!”

Wang bellowed, “To hell with you! I don’t care how many of your people died!”

Master Liu stood abruptly, smashing his wine jar, and stormed out.

Li Xian hesitated, then followed.

Master Liu staggered. When Li Xian tried to steady him, he was brushed aside.

Hoarsely, Li Xian said, “Master Liu, unless they’re elders from this village, few know that my teacher’s two sons died long ago beyond Liangzhou’s passes. His wife died of grief.”

Liu Mao stopped by the stream.

Li Xian gazed at the water. “When I went to the capital for the exams, my teacher gave me all his savings. He said you admired *Window and Shoe Miscellany* and asked me to bring you a copy from the capital. But one of our companions stayed behind for the palace exams, and I gave him all my money, hoping he could study without hardship in that city so hostile to Northern Liang. I never dared tell my teacher. When we parted, he told me, ‘No matter what, Master Liu is a true scholar, far beyond me. That he has taught in Northern Liang for twenty years means Northern Liang owes him. So I, Wang Changqing, must do something.’”

He added softly, “Master Liu, my teacher never asked you to forget your hatred. But our Northern Liang—this backwater in your eyes—has never forgotten kindness. Never betrayed righteousness!”

Li Xian smiled. “I’ve never met the Great General or the new Liang King. But I’ve known my teacher Wang Changqing, my childhood friend Li Erwa, Zhao Shunzi who once called me a bookworm and beat me, my teacher’s two sons, his wife… So I think, since we were born in Northern Liang, we should die here too. For us, facing Beimang’s cavalry, death is ordinary as long as war rages. When my turn comes, I’ll fear it, resent it—but fear or not, death is death. Because Beimang won’t let us live in peace. And we refuse to live on our knees!”

“Master Liu, you spoke of the Central Plains’ Spring and Autumn era—‘to have married a woman of the Ten Great Clans, to have been a man of Great Chu.’ Now, in Liyang, it’s ‘to have been born south of the Yangtze, to have lived in the capital.’”

Li Xian laughed freely. “As for me, Li Xian, a frail scholar? My only regret is not dying in Liangzhou!”

The hunched remnant of Western Chu stared at the young Northern Liang scholar’s retreating figure.

Suddenly, the old man bent over the stream, dunked his head, and drank deeply.

Then he sat cross-legged, laughing. “Fine wine!”

He turned to see Li Xian running back—likely thinking he meant to drown himself.

Liu Mao laughed harder.

On the contrary, today, he had finally understood.

Compared to the Central Plains—whether of the Spring and Autumn era or Liyang’s—Northern Liang had few scholars and fewer books.

But who could say its words lacked chivalry?