Chapter 103: Debate

During the Han dynasty, scholarly debates on the classics were commonplace. From the disputes between the New Text and Old Text schools of Confucianism in the Western Han, to the White Tiger Hall conferences in the Eastern Han, intellectual contention never ceased.

One of the most notable debates toward the end of the Han was between the esteemed scholars He Xiu and Zheng Xuan. Beyond that, many classic debates took place. For instance, Zheng Xuan was once forcibly summoned by Yuan Shao; numerous renowned scholars gathered, each espousing different doctrines and schools of thought. Zheng Xuan methodically refuted them, leaving all convinced.

There is also the famed verbal duel of Zhuge Liang against a host of scholars in Jiangdong—a scene dramatized in the Romance of the Three Kingdoms, though based on historical prototypes reflecting the period’s custom of mutual scholarly debate.

The true verbal sparring among scholars, however, occurred later when ministers Fei Yi and Dong Hui were dispatched to Eastern Wu. Sun Quan sent Zhuge Ke and Yang Dao to debate them, resulting in a fierce exchange of wit and argument, with neither side prevailing decisively.

Thus, debates were widespread in the Han era, serving several purposes: first, to propagate one’s own doctrines and contest opposing views; second, to build reputation and fame; and most importantly, to achieve strategic aims. The dispute between He Xiu and Zheng Xuan extended the earlier contention between New and Old Text schools, while Fei Yi and Dong Hui’s debates aimed to solidify an alliance against Wei.

Today, many scions of noble families have gathered here with their own agenda: to suppress Shen Chen and prevent him from spreading his anti-Cao ideology, thus avoiding the wrath of Cao Cao should they later seek favor with the court. If they succeed in undermining Shen Chen, they might gain Cao Cao’s approval, securing official posts in Xuchang—an opportunity for rapid advancement.

Naturally, they have come to disrupt Shen Chen’s gathering.

Yet disrupting Shen Chen’s forum is to obstruct his path of discourse—a grand path where life and death are at stake. Confucius once executed Shao Zhengmao precisely because that man taught the grand path. Thus, Shen Chen’s fierce aura is not mere posturing; when it comes to contest, it is a matter of ultimate judgment.

Among the crowd, many so-called noble sons were intimidated by his imposing presence and instinctively stepped back. But not all were sheltered flowers; some possessed true scholarship and experience—scholars who had traveled far, wielded swords at their sides, and sought masters amid chaotic times.

One such was Wen Xia, who had left Chaling to study under Wang Jun. A genuine scholar who dared to bear a sword, he was displeased by Shen Chen’s tacit threat to all and boldly remarked, “If this is a contest of swords, then all of us against you would surely defeat you.”

Shen Chen smiled, revealing his gleaming teeth. “Do not misunderstand. If it is fair combat, one-on-one, be it sword or archery, I welcome it. But if you wish to gang up on me, I can face you all together as well. What say you?”

The twenty warriors dispatched from Huangmen Pavilion to maintain order drew their ring-headed sabers in unison, roaring with fury. These were fierce veterans who had slain many in battles against Cao’s forces. Their killing aura was unmatched.

Even the most martial among the scholars, Xu Shu, would fall if confronted by all twenty simultaneously.

Faced with the furious warriors’ cries, many scholars shrank back, suddenly realizing that these men had led troops to defeat tens of thousands of Cao’s elite, even beheading generals like Cao Ren and Le Jin. If a real fight broke out, only local powers like Cai Mao, Zhang Yun, and Huang Zu might stand a chance.

With Huangmen Pavilion’s forces now numbering two thousand, and Gan Ning’s underlings exceeding five thousand, their strength was formidable. Militarily, Shen Chen was well-supported; economically and agriculturally, Huangmen Pavilion resembled a fortified city.

Thus, politically shielded by Liu Biao and militarily powerful, Shen Chen was a force few could suppress except through debate, attacking his scholarly standing and reputation.

This realization brought despair to many scholars. Even if they won a duel and killed Shen Chen, their own lives and family fortunes would be doomed. After all, Deng Hong was a son-in-law of the Cai family, and Shen Chen commanded thousands of troops with Liu Biao’s backing.

The imperial loyalists would not hesitate to sacrifice a small county family to appease Liu Biao and the Deng clan of Xinye. Even Cai Mao or Kuai Yue would have to weigh the consequences before acting against Shen Chen, so how much more these lesser scholars?

Hence, while Shen Chen could propose a duel, they dared not truly fight him and could only engage in verbal combat. Fortunately, their original intent was literary debate, so even if outmatched in spirit, they could proceed without burden.

Hu Shang, son of Hu Zheng and a leader among these scholars due to his father’s ties to Cai Mao, stepped forward. “Gentlemen do not resort to violence. Fighting and killing are unbecoming. Let us determine superiority through words.”

“Hmph, gentlemen who shun battle? Twisting the sage’s intent, nonsense! Didn’t you hear the next line, ‘war must be victorious’?” Shen Chen snorted coldly, releasing his sword from his waist and stepping forward. “Your swords are but ornaments in a basket. I come from Xuzhou, having seen death by the hundreds of thousands. On the battlefield in Nanyang, I personally slew Cao Cao’s generals Cao Ren and Le Jin. You overestimate yourselves—how dare you challenge me?”

Hu Shang swallowed nervously. Although Shen Chen was only twelve years old and about 1.7 meters tall—many present were taller—his daily martial training had made him robust and imposing, with a fierce demeanor and an aura forged in battle that mere sheltered scholars could not match. Trembling, Hu Shang said, “We agreed to decide by words, not warfare.”

“Of course,” Shen Chen replied, his gaze commanding as he reached the hall’s entrance, looking upon the assembly of scholars. “If it is a discussion on the classics, I fear no one. Since we are here to debate the Way, then let us begin.” He ordered mats brought forth and seated himself cross-legged, signaling them to sit and engage in dialogue.

Behind him, his students watched his commanding figure with profound reverence, their eyes filled with admiration.

From the Spring and Autumn period through the Han dynasty, Chinese civilization had built a social order based on agricultural production, emphasizing centralized authority and a hierarchical system rooted in Confucian values of loyalty and filial piety. This hierarchy resembled a pyramid, reaching its zenith during the Wei, Jin, and Southern and Northern Dynasties.

From the emperor to prime ministers and ministers, to noble families, local governors, and county elites, each level was a formidable rung. Ordinary people rarely interacted with county magistrates or local gentry, instead dealing mostly with township leaders or elders—figures who, to these impoverished students, held absolute sway over their lives.

Yet now, these lofty figures were being rebuked and taught by their own teacher. How could the students not feel inspired, hopeful that education might brighten their futures?

The challengers, unaware of the morale boost Shen Chen gave his pupils, were filled with indignation and took their seats, filling the courtyard to capacity. The estate Shen Chen bought covered two acres, with a large front yard of about two hundred square meters shaded by several large trees. Over a dozen mats were neatly arranged on the bluestone slabs, though many had to stand due to the unexpected crowd.

Those who secured seats sat opposite Shen Chen; others queued, while curious townsfolk and scholars gathered around, eager to witness a magnificent debate.

“Please, I am Liao Bo from Deng County, courtesy name Changsong,” came the first speaker—about thirty years old, with a sharp countenance and a goatee.

Shen Chen responded solemnly, “I am Shen Chen of Xiangben, Xuzhou. You’re welcome.”

Liao Bo asked, “May I inquire which classic you specialize in?”

Shen Chen smiled, “Sir, you may speak freely.”

Implying he would not restrict the topic, this irritated Liao Bo. At the time, scholars typically dedicated themselves to one of the Seven Confucian Classics, often studying a single text intensely over many years before branching out. Some, like the famed Chen Guo scholar Ying Rong, devoted their lives solely to the Spring and Autumn Annals’ Zuo Commentary, making great achievements therein.

Only truly great scholars mastered multiple classics. Shen Chen’s remark meant he was prepared to address any topic from the Seven Classics.

Liao Bo, who specialized in the Analects and had initially intended a gentle approach, was provoked by Shen Chen’s arrogance and retorted sharply, “I detest the purple that usurps the vermilion, the Zheng tones that disrupt elegant music, and the sharp tongues that overturn the state. Young man, what is your intention?”

This was a veiled accusation of misleading people. Shen Chen sneered, “I don’t know what you mean.”

Liao Bo clasped his hands toward the north and declared, “Officials disregard propriety and the court. How can the state know the emperor as the Son of Heaven but by ruling the world with law? Is there any principle that does not honor the sovereign? Without lord or father, what is left?”

His argument echoed the White Tiger Hall Conference, compiled by Ban Gu and other great scholars, which profoundly influenced two millennia of feudal civilization. It upheld the “Three Bonds and Five Constants,” laying the foundation for the Neo-Confucianism of the Song and Ming dynasties.

In later times, this was seen as a creed upholding feudal tyranny, binding the people’s spirits, and sanctifying the hierarchical order.

Shen Chen fully understood Liao Bo’s meaning: Cao Cao wielded the young Emperor Xian as a puppet to justify his conquests. Opposing Cao Cao was thus treason.

Though aware this loyalty was a feudal shackle, Shen Chen could not outright reject it, so he sought another angle.

After some thought, he asked coldly, “According to you, then, is Cao Cao the emperor?”

His words caused an uproar.

Liao Bo was dumbfounded and hastily waved his hands, “Do not speak nonsense; I never intended that.”

“Great shame, Shen Chen, how can you utter such blasphemy?” someone shouted.

The assembled scholars, incensed, condemned Shen Chen. Bystanders and onlookers were shocked—no one expected such audacity.

Modern readers might not grasp the severity of this statement; it was akin to proclaiming rebellion during the Qing dynasty.

However, the Han rarely punished by speech alone; a great scholar, Yuan Gusheng, once spoke even more provocatively without consequence. As long as reasoned argument was presented, it was permitted.

Shen Chen replied indifferently, “If that is Liao’s meaning, it concerns him, not me. He says I rebel by opposing Cao Cao and thus break the bonds of loyalty. I ask, when Cao Cao marched on Nanyang, did he have an imperial edict?”

“Cao the Minister of Works claims to act by imperial command,” someone answered.

Shen Chen nodded. “Many claim imperial authority. But I ask you, does Cao Cao have an edict? Does he bear the imperial seal? Where is the decree? By what right does he represent the court and emperor?”

Liao Bo was momentarily speechless. Emperor Xian no longer even possessed the imperial jade seal, so how could he issue decrees?

Though imperial power was not solely dependent on edicts—an imperial tally could confer supreme military authority to act without further approval—Cao Cao lacked even this.

Perhaps Cao Cao had informed Emperor Xian before setting out, but without a formal edict or tally, his campaign against Nanyang was a private venture, legally untenable.

Liao Bo had started by citing legal principles against Shen Chen; Shen Chen now turned the argument on its head, denouncing Liao’s law as false and asserting his own as true, using logic as a weapon.

Shen Chen sneered, “The Master said, ‘I detest the sharp tongues that overturn the state,’ to clarify right and wrong, to uphold righteousness and expel evil—not to confuse and mislead.”

Liao Bo, speechless, bowed and withdrew.

The second challenger stepped forward soon after.

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Shen Changqing walked along the road, nodding or greeting acquaintances, though no one showed much expression—everyone seemed indifferent. He was accustomed to this.

He served in the Demon Suppression Bureau, an agency maintaining stability in the Great Qin, chiefly tasked with slaying demons and monsters, though it had other responsibilities.

Within the Bureau, every member’s hands were stained with blood.

One accustomed to life and death grows indifferent to many things.

When Shen Changqing first arrived in this world, he found it unsettling, but over time grew used to it.

The Bureau was vast. Those who remained were either formidable experts or had the potential to become so.

Shen Changqing belonged to the latter.

The Bureau had two roles: Guardian Envoys and Demon Slayers.

All newcomers began as Demon Slayers, the lowest rank, and gradually advanced, aspiring to become Guardian Envoys.

Shen Changqing’s previous incarnation had been a trainee Demon Slayer, the lowest among Demon Slayers.

With memories of his former self, he was well acquainted with the Bureau’s environment.

Soon he stopped before a pavilion that stood serene and distinct amid the blood-soaked surroundings of the Bureau.

The pavilion’s doors stood open, with occasional comings and goings.

He hesitated briefly, then stepped inside.

Within, the atmosphere changed abruptly.

A scent of ink mingled with faint blood permeated, causing his brows to knit instinctively before relaxing.

The bloodstains on each person in the Bureau were nearly impossible to wash away.