Chapter Thirty-Eight: Who Knows Where the Peach Blossom Spring Lies

Chapter Thirty-Eight: Who Knows Where the Peach Blossom Spring Lies

Had he been as aggressive as the previous “Master Gui,” Zhang Qian could have simply retorted, “None of your business,” and walked away. After all, Zhang Qian neither received wages from Great Tang nor begged to do business with these people.

But the man before him adopted a posture of earnest inquiry, making it awkward for Zhang Qian to respond with outright hostility. After a brief hesitation, he smiled and stepped aside to return the courtesy, “Elder, you are too polite. To be honest, I do not know what price is appropriate for this medicine. Though there are ten pills left, they are only enough for one person's use. If you could estimate a suitable price, ensuring the medicine finds its way to someone truly in need, I would gladly follow your advice and adjust the price immediately!”

Passing the ball back—this was one of the debate tactics Zhang Qian had learned at university. Turn the question back on the questioner, using their own logic against them! As soon as this move was made, the elder called “Master Ji” fell right into the trap. His face darkened as he pondered for a long time, but in the end, all he could do was sigh deeply.

“Why do you sigh, Master Ji? Even if this medicine is unique in the world, selling it for fifty strings is already an exorbitant price,” said the elder named “Master Shi,” still unaware why his friend conceded defeat so quickly, frowning as he tried to help.

Before the words had faded, Zhang Qian turned toward him, bowing respectfully, “May I ask, elder, if someone is afflicted with evil toxins but cannot afford fifty strings, are they not left to await death with closed eyes? And if a wealthy family buys the medicine to store it away in a high cabinet, does this not betray the original intention of the alchemist to save lives?”

These two questions, originally voiced by “Master Ji,” were repeated by Zhang Qian with only one change: he substituted the suggested fifty strings for the ten thousand strings previously mentioned, returning the rest unchanged.

Looking at the elder called “Master Shi,” he was instantly rendered speechless by Zhang Qian’s questions, unable to find a single word in reply.

Just as in twenty-first-century China, in eighth-century Great Tang, there are wealthy people who cannot afford ten thousand strings, and middle-class families who cannot afford fifty strings. There are even those who work tirelessly yet earn less than a hundred coins a month, living in utter poverty. Thus, unless the medicine were given away for free, no matter how it was priced, some would always be unable to buy it. (Note: Based on millet’s purchasing power, one coin is approximately ten yuan.)

Moreover, the lower the price, the greater the likelihood it would be hidden away rather than used. From this perspective, “Master Shi’s” suggestion of fifty strings was utterly misguided.

“May I ask the two elders: if someone spends fifty strings to buy the medicine to save his son, and another offers five thousand strings to purchase it from him, do you think he will choose to save his son or seek profit? If someone spends five thousand strings to acquire the medicine but, before he can use it, a county magistrate’s envoy arrives with a request to transfer the medicine to save the magistrate’s father, do you think he would dare refuse? And if the request came not from a magistrate but from a governor, a minister, or someone even higher, who do you think would ultimately possess the medicine?”

“This…” Both “Master Ji” and “Master Shi” blushed deeply, unable to respond.

If Great Tang were currently peaceful, with virtuous rulers and ministers, they could have rebuked Zhang Qian for being cynical. If every household in Great Tang practiced brotherly affection and filial piety, they could have accused him of spreading malicious rumors. But as it stood, the officialdom of Tang was rotten to the core, and among the common people, those who would sacrifice their own children for profit were never in short supply.

So unless they closed their eyes and lied, they could not deny that the scenarios Zhang Qian described were likely to occur. In such cases, whether the medicine was priced at ten strings or ten thousand, it would never reach the hands of ordinary folk. The lower the price, the more conflict it would generate. Setting an unattainable price in Chang’an might actually avoid much trouble.

Although Tang was wealthy, there were probably no more than fifty households in Chang’an who could easily muster ten thousand strings without hardship. These families were either among the Five Surnames and Seven Clans or backed by founding nobles and the royal family. Those who could afford ten thousand strings for medicine had the power to prevent officials from seizing it through cunning. Thus, Zhang Qian’s pricing was not ruthless, but the result of careful deliberation—a virtuous act. Others should not question him, but instead applaud his wisdom.

“Master Ji” and “Master Shi” could never have guessed that the strange pricing of the “Anti-Evil Pill” was not determined by the young Zhang Qian, but by the shrewd merchant Ren Qiong. In scholarship and officialdom, Ren Qiong might not compare to them; but in business, he could leave them far behind.

Both elders were true scholars, too dignified to argue against the facts. Yet admitting that Zhang Qian’s sky-high price was virtuous was too much to bear. Thus, after much embarrassed contemplation, “Master Ji” sighed again, while “Master Shi” awkwardly bowed to Zhang Qian and quickly changed the subject, “If this is the only such medicine in the world, I have nothing more to say. But, young friend, are you truly a disciple of the Mohist school? Your words are as sharp as those of the School of Diplomacy!”

This was his real concern. No matter what price the pill fetched, he had no intention of buying it, nor did he wish to nitpick like “Master Gui.” Life was short; he preferred to spend his time on interesting matters, such as betting with his old friend “Master Ji”—and winning.

“Why do you say so, elder?” The abrupt change in topic caught Zhang Qian off guard, and he grew wary. “Who says Mohist disciples cannot defend themselves when slandered? If only the School of Diplomacy is skilled in argument, what did the Mohist sages rely on to resolve conflicts and prevent war during the Warring States?”

These words struck directly at the heart of the matter, leaving “Master Shi” speechless once more. The Mohists advocated universal love and non-aggression, and practiced what they preached. Historical records show that Mo Di and his disciples prevented seven or eight wars, and those not recorded were surely even more numerous.

If they had relied only on advanced weapons and passionate resolve, Mo Di and his direct disciples would have perished long ago, never founding one of the top five philosophical schools and passing on their legacy. Most often, they persuaded others with reason. Their debating skills were as formidable as their weapons.

“Very true, Master Shi, you are too focused on appearances!” Seeing his friend bested by Zhang Qian, the elder called “Master Ji,” with his immortal bearing, let his embarrassment and frustration be overtaken by schadenfreude. Smiling, he loudly supported Zhang Qian, “The School of Diplomacy excels in debate, but often resorts to sophistry and empty talk, seeking only personal wealth and status. The Mohists, however, are eloquent and virtuous, acting for the benefit of all and to eliminate harm, never swaying like wild grass. Young friend, do you agree?”

“Elder, you are absolutely right!” Having claimed Mohist identity, Zhang Qian could only accept the praise. He smiled and bowed, “Thank you for your kind words, elder. I am deeply honored!”

“Don't thank me yet!” Unexpectedly, “Master Ji’s” purpose was not merely to beat his friend in judgment. Smiling, he waved his hand and continued, “May I ask, young friend, who made this medicine? Is it truly impossible to produce another?”

‘So you’re after the recipe, too. I took you for an honest elder just now,’ Zhang Qian’s vigilance spiked, and he frowned coldly, replying, “This medicine was made by my school. When I left, I took two portions: one was used on Master Ren, and the other is here in Chang’an, as you see. I do not know the recipe, nor can I make it myself. In fact, I wish someone would create a second batch—then I’d have fewer troubles and wouldn’t be constantly interrogated!”

With that, he glanced sidelong at “Master Gui” and resumed walking, as if moving too slowly would leave him vulnerable to these “disrespectful elders” who might waylay him.

Though “Master Ji” was nearly fifty, his sight and hearing were still sharp. Seeing Zhang Qian’s obvious disdain, his face flushed nearly to bleeding, yet he forced himself to catch up and loudly explained, “I understand your meaning, young friend. If there were more of this medicine, fewer people would focus their attention on you. I do not wish to pester you or covet your recipe. I only think that, since your school can make it, if you could return for more, wouldn’t more lives be saved?”

He wiped the sweat from his brow and added, “You claim to be a Mohist disciple, and the Mohists are committed to saving the world. Young friend…”

“Elder, you are quite right, but I cannot return!” Before the man could finish, Zhang Qian interrupted with a sigh.

If he could return to the twenty-first century, would he still be here? Not to mention the Tang court was now a boiling cauldron, liable to drag him down at any moment—life without the internet, kebabs, television, movies, novels, and with every minor injury risking infection and death, held no appeal for him.

Other transmigrators have systems to upgrade, wise elders to guide them, loyal followers at their feet, and beauties flocking to their embrace, each with a perfect figure and dazzling charms. But for him, from start to finish, he’d only met Ziju, a minor, flat-chested girl—neither attractive nor edible.

“Why? I’ve heard your school is secluded in Mount Zhongnan, is it not?” Noticing Zhang Qian’s genuine sorrow, “Master Ji” could not suppress his curiosity and pressed further, “Mount Zhongnan is vast, but with enough people searching, surely your school’s location can be found!”

‘Looks like Master Ren has spread everything I said for the sake of selling medicine!’ Zhang Qian, clever as he was, could easily guess how his background had been so thoroughly uncovered. He smiled bitterly and gave the answer he’d long prepared, “Mount Zhongnan is not so vast, but how does it compare to Wuling? Since the fisherman in Tao Yuanming’s tale, has anyone ever found the Peach Blossom Spring?”