Chapter Thirty-Nine: Boss, Which Knee Should I Kneel On First?

Chapter Thirty-Nine: Great Master, Which Knee Should I Kneel on First?

In these times, there wasn’t a single scholar who did not remember Tao Yuanming’s “Record of the Peach Blossom Spring.” Not only did that work embody their beautiful vision of a world governed by non-action, but it also carried within it the hope for a reclusive life, born from weariness with the darkness and helplessness of reality.

Therefore, ever since the Wei and Jin dynasties, many scholars had tried to seek out the Peach Blossom Spring in Wuling, yet few attempted to prove that such a utopia had never existed at all.

So, when Zhang Qian threw out the topic today that the Peach Blossom Spring could no longer be found, to prove that his own sect would never again be discovered by the world, the effect was immediate.

The face of “Elder Ji,” which had been flushed with embarrassment, suddenly turned dark and ashen, as though he had lost a peerless treasure. He looked utterly bereft, standing in a daze for a long time before shaking his head regretfully. “Alas! You are right. After Master Five Willows, who among all the people has ever found the Peach Blossom Spring? That hidden paradise must surely have been moved by some great master, able to shift the very heavens and earth. One moment its entrance is on Mount Zhongnan, the next it could be at Kunlun or Penglai! It is a pity that you, young friend, were fortunate enough to enter the gates of the mountain, yet almost left empty-handed.”

‘If you, old man, ever wrote science fiction, even Liu Cixin would have to call you master!’ Amazed by the old man’s boundless imagination, Zhang Qian mused silently in his heart. Outwardly, however, he could only continue to feign a look of heartbreak, as though wounded to his very core, and silently cupped his hands before trudging on, dejected.

Who would have guessed, after only a few steps, the old man called “Elder Gui” came panting after him, paying no heed to whether anyone wanted to talk to him, and loudly shouted, “Elder Ji, Elder Shi, don’t listen to his flowery words! This nonsense about the Peach Blossom Spring never being found again is just an excuse—he simply refuses to bring out his elixirs to save the world. Yangism and Mohism have never been separate. Those who refuse to pluck a single hair to benefit the world—those words were meant for them! These two sects, always conniving together, are the sworn enemies of us scholars. Without ruler or father—they are beasts, nothing more!”

Had these words been spoken twenty days earlier, Zhang Qian might not have understood what he meant. But ever since he had pretended to be a disciple of the Mohist School, Zhang Qian had worked hard to patch up the holes in his story, poring over all the materials stored on his phone and racking his brains, until he had committed many Mohist anecdotes to heart. Now, hearing Elder Gui’s attack, he instantly realized the man was borrowing Mencius’s words criticizing Yang Zhu and the Mohists, and making a scene of it.

No disciple could remain unmoved when their sect was insulted. The more of an impostor Zhang Qian was, the more he had to fight back. This was a matter of his very footing in the Tang Dynasty—he could not afford to pretend deafness just because the man hadn’t cursed him by name.

He took a deep breath, turned with a cold smile, and strode straight up to Elder Gui. The old man, seeing Zhang Qian’s aggressive approach, panicked and tried to hide behind Elder Ji. The servants accompanying them, meanwhile, all cried out as if facing a great enemy, crowding together to block Zhang Qian’s way.

“If plucking a single hair from my body could benefit the world, not to mention all the hairs on Zhang Qian, even my flesh and blood could be taken without my so much as frowning!” he declared with a cold smile, pointing at Elder Gui hiding behind the others. “But if you plucked me bare and it did nothing for the world, why should I let you have your way? What’s more, these so-called benefits to the world are nothing but talk—a pretext for robbing others in the name of doing good! My body, hair, and skin are all gifts from my parents. As Confucius said, ‘Not daring to harm them is the beginning of filial piety!’ If even I dare not harm myself, how can I let an outsider mistreat me at will?”

Before the other could retort, Zhang Qian pressed on loudly, “As for the criticisms Mencius once made against the Mohists, in my view, they were nothing but a misunderstanding. Mencius said, ‘Life is what I desire, rightness is also what I desire; if I cannot have both, I will give up life for rightness.’ In the past, when the Chu army besieged Yangcheng, all the meat-eaters fled like beasts, but the Mohist leader Meng Sheng and one hundred eighty-two sages stood against tens of thousands, not one of them retreating till death. Was this not exactly what Mencius called ‘giving up life for rightness’? The Confucians speak with words, the Mohists act with deeds—they complement each other. For a Confucian to slander the Mohists is to slap himself in the face. As a later disciple, knowing Mencius was misled by gossip and failed to correct the error is perhaps understandable. But to persist in error is truly laughable!”

It turned out Zhang Qian’s days of effort had not been in vain. His string of classical references not only left Elder Gui speechless, but also made Elder Ji and Elder Shi look at him with new respect.

In terms of mastery over the Thirteen Classics of Confucianism, Elders Ji and Shi were certainly far superior to Zhang Qian. Yet never in their lives had they thought to combine Confucian maxims with Mohist deeds so seamlessly. Zhang Qian’s grafting of the two schools was flawless, and they could not help but feel refreshed.

“Young friend, though this is my first time hearing such an argument, I must admit there is some truth to it!” Elder Ji, evidently a scholar of great integrity, refused to deny a reasonable point. Pushing aside the servant blocking his view, he stepped forward.

“Confucian sages once guided the Mohist saints; we disciples of Mohism must never forget their teachings!” Zhang Qian sighed and cupped his hands solemnly.

Though he had defended his sect’s honor, history had taught him that since the Han dynasty, Confucianism had always prevailed. So he wisely chose to stop while ahead, firmly avoiding turning the quarrel with Elder Gui into a wider conflict between the two schools.

Elder Ji, seeing his moderation, grew all the more fond of him, and smiled as he returned the salute. “You are too courteous, young friend. The Mohists were both brave and wise, and indeed added much color to the history books. It’s only a pity that later the Mohist School split into three, and the factions became enemies—thus began its decline.”

Zhang Qian’s knowledge of Confucian theory was even deeper than that of the Mohists. Sensing that Elder Ji was a learned scholar, he smiled and quoted Confucius, “The Master said, ‘It is the time and the mandate!’ The Mohist School’s decline—who’s to say it wasn’t Heaven’s will? If we follow destiny and do our best, we can be content!”

“Indeed, well said!” Elder Ji seemed touched, nodding with a sigh. “The world is uncertain, and sometimes all we can do is accept fate and do our utmost…”

Before he could finish, Elder Gui poked his head out from behind the servants and loudly interjected, “Ha! Mohist disciples say they never forget the Confucian sages’ teachings, but you, boy, just criticized Mencius and claimed he wronged your Mohist School!”

“I love my teachers, but I love the truth even more!” Zhang Qian shot him a cold look, replying with a voice that rang out like a bell.

At those words, the faces of the three elders all changed. Elder Gui went pale and trembled all over. Elder Ji nodded forcefully, as if suddenly enlightened. Elder Shi, pushing his way through the crowd, clapped his hands and laughed, “Well said! ‘I love my teacher, but I love the truth more!’ With those words, I truly believe you are a disciple of Mohism. Brother He, this time I admit my defeat!”

The latter half was addressed to Elder Ji, who stroked his beard with satisfaction. “So, you finally admit my judgment is superior? If he were a disciple of the School of Diplomats, would he have such a character?”

“Perhaps he is a Mohist, but I still doubt he comes from Qin,” Elder Shi said, refusing to admit total defeat. “Though the Qin dialect has diverged greatly from ours with the turn of the stars, it is not without traces. Other regional dialects, even Persian and Arabic, are similar. Young friend, I have a bold request: would you say a few sentences in the Qin tongue, so I can judge for myself?”

‘What? He wants me to speak Qin dynasty dialect? And he can understand it?’ Zhang Qian was taken aback. Who would have thought to meet a linguist in the Tang dynasty!

Just as Zhang Qian was racking his brains for a way to muddle through, Elder Ji exposed Elder Shi’s ploy. “Come now, if you want to indulge your interest in languages, just say so. He only wants you to say a few words in Qin dialect for his own collection and study.”

‘So that’s it!’ Zhang Qian breathed a sigh of relief, his heart settling back into his chest. He was just about to spout a few lines of modern Chinese to indulge Elder Shi’s hobby, when Imperial Physician Sun Anzu, smiling broadly, parted the crowd and approached.

“Thirteenth Young Master, allow me to make an introduction,” he said, seeing how well the conversation was going and wishing to expand Zhang Qian’s network. “This is my good friend, Military Registrar of Gunzhou, surnamed Zhang, given name Ruoxu, style name Shi Fu. All his life, his greatest passion has been studying languages far and wide. Thirteenth Young Master—what’s wrong? Why are you shaking like that?”

“Senior, senior, you mean Zhang Ruoxu?!” Zhang Qian could no longer hear the rest of Sun Anzu’s words, nor care for manners. He trembled all over, lightheaded and weak-kneed, his voice barely a whisper.

A great master—a true great master!

Perhaps the name Zhang Ruoxu was not resounding in the Tang dynasty, but during the reign of Emperor Zhongzong, there was only one Military Registrar of Gunzhou named Zhang Ruoxu.

His name might not have been prominent in his own time, but in the twenty-first century, anyone who does not know of him is unworthy of calling themselves a literary youth!

‘I’m meeting a living legend—should I kneel on my left or right knee first? This is urgent!’ If there were a social network in the Tang dynasty, Zhang Qian would have pulled out his phone and begged his friends for advice.