Chapter 563: Xiangfu Spring, Bravery of a Common Man, Spirit of a Patriot

While the year’s endeavors traditionally begin in spring, the spring of Xiangfu’s first year was already drawing to a close after the Qingming Festival. The ancient Western Chu capital in Guangling Province, once called Shenhuang City, had been renamed Shiding City (“Lost Cauldron City”)—a name signifying humiliation—after being conquered by the Xu family's iron cavalry. In the deep mountains on the city's outskirts lay Mozhuan Temple ("Brick Grinding Temple"), whose name originated from a famous Buddhist koan that quelled the growing enthusiasm for seated meditation during the Spring and Autumn period. The abbot of Mozhuan Temple had famously said, "If grinding a brick cannot make a mirror, how can seated meditation lead to Buddhahood?"

At dawn that day, as morning birds sang, three figures walked along a tree-lined path. The eldest was very old, with white hair and snowy eyebrows, leaning on a green bamboo staff as he ascended the mountain. He stumbled on the pebble-strewn path but refused assistance. The scholar in blue robes was also not young; his temples were streaked with white, but his demeanor was exceptionally refined and otherworldly, instantly making one forget worldly concerns. The woman was the youngest, with a face of breathtaking beauty, unlike any mortal woman. She carried a purple sandalwood sword-box on her back, and her steps were light.

Likely out of consideration for the extremely elderly man, the three walked in silence as they ascended. Entering the quiet ancient temple, devoid of pilgrims, the only sound was the rustling of a young monk sweeping with a large broom. At that time, the Liyang Dynasty was suppressing Buddhism, and even Liangchan Temple had its gates sealed. Mozhuan Temple, with its sparse incense offerings over the past twenty years, had ironically escaped disaster, allowing a few monks to remain in the deep mountains, eating vegetarian meals and chanting sutras. Upon seeing the three pilgrims, the young monk quickly tucked his broom under his arm, clasped his hands together in greeting, and especially after catching a glimpse of the woman from the corner of his eye, his shaven head lowered even further, fearing he might violate a precept or stray from the path to enlightenment.

After returning the greeting, the old man led the scholar and the woman to the Hall of Five Hundred Arhats. These were not the common gilded arhats found in grand temples but rather painted clay figures with wooden cores. What was even more remarkable was that all five hundred arhats were lifelike: some sat, some listened attentively, some clasped their hands, and there were even those who glared, beat drums, or scratched their ears and cheeks. They exuded little of the ethereal aura of immortals or Buddhas, but rather a strong sense of everyday human life. The old man guided the two to a particular arhat statue. Its left hand held a mirror, and its right hand appeared to be tearing open the weathered face of a benevolent old man, revealing the handsome face of a young boy underneath, a sight that would astonish any onlooker.

Standing at the foot of the wooden arhat, the old man calmly said, “Your humble servant heard that Zeng Xiangqi, the Minister of Rites, on a snowy day in the first year of Yonghui, came alone to this temple with a large jar of wine and drank himself to death here. His last words were probably just drunken ramblings. Yet, your humble servant knows that Old Zeng never touched alcohol; he always advised us that drinking would lead to trouble. I remember one time His Majesty drank too much and missed morning court. Old Zeng, bristling with anger, stormed into the palace to vehemently scold His Majesty. Had it not been for Her Majesty the Empress intervening, His Majesty would have almost come to blows with that old fellow. Afterwards, His Majesty was still furious and privately told your humble servant that Old Zeng was the most disingenuous at the previous night's victory banquet. He didn't drink himself but vigorously plied others with wine, even His Majesty, only to turn hostile the next day. Who would have thought that such an old man, who hated the smell of alcohol like a mortal enemy his entire life, would end up getting himself stupidly drunk to death?”

Zeng Xianglin, the Minister of Rites, was naturally not a second-rank minister of the Liyang Dynasty, but rather the last Minister of Rites of Western Chu. He was a fellow disciple of Qi Yanglong, the Grand Libationer of Shangyin Academy, and also the esteemed teacher of Wang Mingyang, who had steadfastly defended Xiangfan for ten years.

The old man reached out and stroked the cool pedestal of the arhat statue, saying softly, “Old Zeng must have come to find Minister Tang of the Ministry of Revenue. Tang Jiahe had the most eclectic knowledge among our group back then and originally held the most contempt for Buddhism, deeming it a foreign teaching. Unexpectedly, he ended up seeking refuge at Mozhuan Temple. Whether he truly devoted himself to Buddhism or was simply heartbroken, only Heaven knows. Your humble servant and Tang Jiahe disagreed on politics for our entire lives, but it was always a dispute among gentlemen. The factional disputes in Great Chu were neither about ministers vying for power and backstabbing each other, nor about gentlemen fighting petty individuals. Looking back now, it seems more like clashes of temperament between gentlemen, where the people's hearts were, after all, still aligned with the Jiang clan and the common people. It was just that they took different paths, and the inevitable literary disdain ultimately led to great catastrophe.

“However, Tang Jiahe made two very insightful remarks. He said that all sentient beings in the world, when profoundly attached to something, are willing to die for it: warriors die on the battlefield, civil officials die in the imperial court, and it's not just lovers consumed by passion. Since a person can only die once in this life, one should always keep that in mind and strive for a good death. Even a blade of grass longs for the period of favorable winds and rains, let alone a human being, who is not like grass or wood. Yet, if Tang Jiahe truly wished to die one day, he would simply die, absolutely unwilling to live in ignominy. But what happened in the end? This Minister Tang, who once lost sixteen consecutive games of chess to Cao Touxiu—who is with us here—also reneged on his words. He hid in Mozhuan Temple for a few years, and then perhaps fearing that your humble servant and Old Zeng would look for him, he fled even deeper into the mountains. To this day, no one knows if he is dead or alive.”

The white-haired old man continued, “General Song Yuan, who was often admonished by His Majesty to read more and learn more characters, and to stop making a fool of himself by spouting meaningless phrases in court—that stubborn old rascal truly went mad. His only grandson, who had secretly passed the imperial examination in the sixth year of Yonghui, was burned alive by him. He also burned himself to death in a dilapidated book tower that had few books to begin with. When our Great Chu was at its peak, warriors had no brutishness, scholars no pedantry, women no excessive vanity, hermits no reclusive arrogance, and monks no worldly ambition. It was universally acknowledged as a golden age, unprecedented in the eight centuries since the Great Qin Dynasty. How could Liyang, a minor dynasty that arose from northern barbarians, that experienced fifty years of regional warlordism and fifty years of eunuch interference—with the notorious eunuch Fan Gongliang alone having killed one emperor, two kings, and six concubines, yet still enjoying a peaceful old age—how could such a dynasty, which never understood propriety, transform itself fifty years later into the unexpected ‘princess’ of the world? And how could our Great Chu simply perish just like that?

“The monarch was wise, so the fault was not with the ruler. The civil and military officials were loyal, so the fault was not with the ministers. The common people were hardworking, so the fault was not with the populace. Therefore, your humble servant, Sun Xiji, desperately wants to know what exactly happened. Since dying with eyes closed in peace is already a luxury, I wish to find some peace of mind before I die, to know an acceptable answer. Your humble servant was not afraid of bearing the stigma of being a servant to two families. I stood on the imperial court in Tai'an City, observing coldly for over a decade, but in the end, I still couldn't understand or figure out why Great Chu lost, and lost so tragically and swiftly.

“However, your humble servant came to recognize two individuals: Xu Xiao, the Human Butcher, and Zhang Julu, the Green-Eyed Boy. One conquered the world on horseback, the other governed it from beneath. They made your humble servant begin to accept fate. Xu Xiao did right: a good blade, wielded by the right person, the faster it is, the less blood the common people shed. Zhang Julu did an excellent job, risking being privately dubbed ‘standing emperors’ alongside Han Shengxuan, to manage and mend the Zhao family's household so meticulously that not even a draft could get in. Your humble servant had originally accepted my fate, but Changqing asked me to come see you, so I came. For no other reason than that an old man simply wishes to die in his homeland; that is better than anything.”

The three were Sun Xiji, the old Grand Tutor of Western Chu; Cao Changqing, who attained the realm of a Confucian Saint at the ruins of West Leibi; and Jiang Ni, the princess of the fallen kingdom, whose real name was Jiang Si.

They drank a pot of tea at Mozhuan Temple. The Grand Tutor, perhaps tired from walking and speaking, fell silent. Then the three descended the mountain and returned to the city. The old man nominally remained the Liyang Dynasty's Commissioner of Guangling Province, his official residence located on the former site of the Six Ministries' offices outside Shiding City's imperial palace. The Guangling King's residence was not within the city but in Guyu City, in the southeastern part of the vassal state's territory. In present-day Shiding City, those who were meant to leave had left—mostly refugees from other fallen kingdoms after the Spring and Autumn period concluded. Those who were meant to stay had stayed—all Western Chu loyalists. With Shiding City as the center, and its surrounding six towns and eighteen cities, they were just shy of removing the "Zhao" character (Liyang's imperial surname). Shiding City, in particular, using the Commissioner's residence and Bailu Mountain as its framework, was experiencing a resurgence, supporting a vibrant new court. If they succeeded, it would be Great Chu; if they failed, Western Chu in Liyang's history books would likely be supplanted by "Later Chu."

As the three descended the mountain, over a hundred elite halberdiers on horseback escorted them back to the city. The Grand Tutor took the two to a restaurant in the East City, saying he wished to treat Her Highness the Princess to a taste of Hilsa herring. After being seated on the second floor, the old man chuckled softly, “Your Highness, this Hilsa herring is a delicacy. Your humble servant must show off a bit of his knowledge to fully enjoy it, so please don't mind my chatter. The people see food as their heaven, and good food on the table often emphasizes not eating out of season. The Hilsa herring is called 'shiyu' because it's like a migratory bird, appearing only once a season. Every spring, outside the Chunxue Tower in Guyu City, it swims upstream along the Guangling River. Logically, by the time it reaches us here, around Xiaoman and Lixia, it should be plump and succulent. If served with the gorgon fruit from Tongzhi City, it's truly a taste of heaven. After that, once the Hilsa herring reaches Xiangfan City, its taste deteriorates. However, your humble servant thinks it will be difficult to sneak away for such a treat in the future, so I won't bother with the old gourmands' strict rules.”

Jiang Ni simply hummed in response, offering nothing further. The meal was soon served. As she took hold of her chopsticks to pick up some food, the old man noticed how she held them and playfully remarked, “Your Highness, here we believe that the higher and longer you hold your chopsticks, the farther away your future spouse will be. Your humble servant remembers when I was young, the elders in my family would always tell us this, fearing that our daughters would marry too far away, or our sons would marry women of unknown origins. At the time, we would dutifully hold our chopsticks lower to please our elders, while secretly dismissing it as meaningless chatter. Little did we know that once we became elders ourselves, we would start lecturing our own children about it. This is probably what tradition is about—it's true for a family, and it's true for a nation.” Jiang Ni, who held her chopsticks very high, indeed lowered her grip, amusing the old man, who laughed heartily and said, “Your Highness, don't take it seriously; your humble servant was just speaking casually. Actually, it's good if a woman marries far away; she can even be exempt from distant military directives.”

Jiang Ni smiled faintly, then lowered her head to eat her meal and fish. The fish bones were very soft and not prickly; she, who previously never ate fish, ate a lot. Cao Changqing ordered a pot of wine and slowly drank with the old man. Neither urged the other to drink; they simply poured for themselves. After eating and drinking their fill and settling the bill, the three stepped out of the century-old restaurant onto a street that was no longer bustling as in days past. The old man suddenly stopped, saying, “Wait a moment.” Cao Changqing sighed, remaining silent.

Soon after, a ragged elderly watchman emerged from an alley, beating his gong in broad daylight, rambling madly, “They're all dead! All dead!” and “Open your eyes and look, there's not a single living soul left in Great Chu!” The old watchman walked down the street, beating his gong and shouting, his cries heartbreaking. However, passersby on the street were clearly long accustomed to it, not even bothering to scoff, simply ignoring him. The disheveled watchman walked up to the three, saw them, paused, then pointed his gong mallet at Sun Xiji and laughed hoarsely and loudly, “Dead man!” He then pointed at Cao Changqing and cackled, “Half a dead man, not far from death!” When he saw Jiang Ni, who carried the sword-box, the old madman's eyes first glazed over, then he burst into tears, “A living person? How can there still be a living person? Go! Hurry and go!” Seeing the woman remain unmoved, the old watchman hesitated, then turned and ran off, continuing his frantic gongs and shouts.

Sun Xiji watched the watchman's retreating figure and calmly stated, “Jiang Shuilang, who once presided over the Great Chu Chongwen Academy, overseeing a hundred scholars across its three institutes and six hundred compilers of the Secret Pavilion's texts, has simply gone mad. The Liyang court and Prince Zhao Yi of Guangling deliberately did not kill this old madman; it's simply to let all outsiders visiting this city see a joke.” Sun Xiji walked towards a carriage, bowed, and said, “Your Highness the Princess may let Changqing lead you to see that home. Your humble servant still has matters to return and attend to.”

Jiang Si's home was, of course, the Great Chu Imperial Palace, so magnificent that even later generations in Tai'an City had to imitate it.

So, was it truly Jiang Ni's home?

Jiang Ni followed behind Cao Changqing, looking around blankly. She had been very young when she left this place, her memories hazy, and she had long forgotten how the sights before her, vaguely familiar, had once been celebrated as the most magnificent scenery on earth. The men and women in the palace saw them and regarded them with genuine reverence and fervent hope. Cao Changqing walked to a pavilion in the northeastern corner of the old imperial palace. After he sat down, the white-haired scholar was already sitting there, silent. Cao Changqing, from the prestigious Cao clan of Longli Commandery, was truly a child prodigy of his generation. He studied under Li Mi, the National Preceptor whose wisdom surpassed all others before Huang Sanjia. After more than ten years of learning chess, he eventually defeated Li Mi on the chessboard, becoming Great Chu's Chief Chess Master. He had played chess with His Majesty the Emperor multiple times in this very pavilion, and this "Cao Touxiu" even had the palace's highest-ranking eunuchs remove his boots and pour his wine. How could he not be the most brilliant and favored genius of the Cao family, and even of Great Chu?

Cao Changqing's gaze was warm as he looked outside the pavilion. A bit further to the northeast, his younger self had once seen a woman humming a folk tune, her lively disposition contrasting with the formality of the imperial palace. When she first entered the palace, she saw him, saw him like a dull, wooden goose, and even made a funny face at him. Later, she became a concubine, then an empress. Cao Changqing remained the brilliant but perennially subordinate Chess Master. In those harmonious chess matches between sovereign and minister, the king, whose hand strength was far inferior to the Cao family's favored master, would often frown, staring at the board. She would watch the king, while the young Chess Master, whom Li Mi called "one who never cared for victory and thus remained undefeated," would occasionally steal a few glances at her, and that was enough. When he lowered his head to place a piece, he would always see her embroidered shoes, plain and not conforming to palace etiquette. Yet, he could never forget them. After so many years, why did he still remember?

Jiang Ni softly said, “Chess Master Uncle, I know Grand Tutor Sun's intention is for me to be a good princess, and I will do it.”

Cao Changqing snapped out of his thoughts and softly chuckled, “Your Highness, don't mind that old man's nagging. Conquering an empire is a man's business; a woman merely needs to observe it.”

Jiang Ni smiled knowingly, then looked worried, “The secret letter says that the master of Song Tanglu, the Director of the Directorate of Ceremonial, an old eunuch, is escorting a coffin south. It's clearly the Gao Shulu that Huang Longshi spoke of, specifically sent to deal with you, Chess Master Uncle. Below the realm of Heaven-Humans, all are mere mortals, not immortals. Beneath the Heavenly Dao, all are minor paths, not the True Dao. But this great demon, after all, possesses a legendary realm even surpassing that of a terrestrial immortal.”

Cao Changqing smiled faintly, “It's fine. Even the courage of a mere man, your humble servant is not lacking.”

Jiang Ni hesitated, wanting to say more, but Cao Changqing softly said, “Your Highness may take a stroll and look around as you please. Your humble servant will sit here a bit longer.” Jiang Ni nodded and walked away, carrying the sword-box.

Cao Changqing sat alone in the pavilion, closing his eyes.

A moment later, Cao Guanguan, whose mastery of celestial phenomena was said to be unparalleled, seemed to travel back in time. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer the master who casually walked through the Liyang Imperial Palace as if it were a mere corridor, nor the crazed Confucian scholar of a fallen kingdom who had pushed the courage of a mere warrior to its limits. He had simply become the young, high-spirited Chess Master, a smile on his face, his two fingers joined as if holding a chess piece, moving pieces on the empty stone table with swiftness.