In October, Chazhou was cloaked in continuous drizzle. Sitting behind drawn curtains, one could hear the rain striking the banana leaves outside. Luo Mu wore no official robe, instead dressed in a Taoist garment, seated at the lower end of the hall. Surveying the room, he found it packed with people from all corners, many in straw sandals and feathered raincoats.
By midday, the incense by the window had burned down. Luo Mu heard movement and straightened to look toward the door. A paper-oil umbrella swayed slightly, revealing beneath it a dark-colored robe. Large sleeves draped to the knees, and a small cat rested within; the exposed wrist bone was delicate, highlighting long, strong fingers.
Yao Wenyu leaned forward in the four-wheeled carriage, speaking earnestly: “Honored seniors, thank you for your patience.”
The carriage wheels creaked on the wooden boards as Qiao Tianya pushed Yao Wenyu inside. A murmur spread through the teahouse. Those who had not yet removed their leaf hats did so, and countless eyes turned toward Yao Wenyu.
He stopped by the round window.
“Today we gather here at the invitation of young Yuan Zhuo for philosophical discourse,” said the smoking Elder Mei from Qinzhou, tapping his pipe, “It’s been a year—young friend, your bearing surpasses your past self.”
Tea had already been served at the table, and incense was lit once more.
So-called philosophical discourse—or qing tan—was purely verbal. Hosts and guests faced each other, never touching politics or civil affairs, discussing only lofty and profound matters. Luo Mu had deliberately foregone official robes to participate. The dialogue required not just knowledge but also elegance of speech.
Yao Wenyu excelled at visiting scenic landscapes and could summon attention with ease; in Chazhou, he had arranged this gathering. His earlier discourse had been innovative and original; though born to a prominent family, he had never entered official service, earning far more respect among recluses than Hai Liangyi.
Elder Mei had been seated for half an hour already. After brief pleasantries, he spoke: “I notice a change in you.”
Yao Wenyu replied, “This body is not mine, this change is not mine.”
Elder Mei set aside his pipe, saying, “I see with my own eyes. If you haven’t changed, then why not rise?”
Yao Wenyu placed the duster he had been holding down and replied, “A year ago, when I discoursed with you in Qinzhou, did I stand?”
“Of course you did,” Elder Mei said.
“So I am still standing,” Yao Wenyu answered.
Luo Mu had once participated in philosophical discourse during his studies in Dengzhou, but those had been discussions among classmates, while Kong Ling had a talent for subtle argumentation. Today, however, Kong Ling was absent for reasons unknown. The discourse continued, the steady rain outside adding a meditative rhythm.
Qiao Tianya leaned against the door, watching droplets flick from the eaves, the distant mountains shrouded in a faint haze. Yao Wenyu’s voice was clear, measured, as if each word were a chess piece dropped in a quiet rain.
Li Jianting, seated, asked Xue Xiuzhuo, “If such discourse can gather the learned, why doesn’t the Imperial Academy hold such meetings?”
Xue Xiuzhuo closed his book, countering, “Who is permitted to participate?”
“Scholars from across the realm,” Li Jianting replied.
“Wrong,” Xue Xiuzhuo said, staring at him, “only those who live free from want and worry.”
Xue Xiuzhuo had attended philosophical discourses rarely. To him and ministers like Jiang Qingshan, it was empty talk—never discussing state affairs or civil matters. In the thirteen western cities, qing tan was most popular; next came the eight cities of Qudu. The Pan and Lan families revered Yao Wenyu because he rarely engaged in politics, a rarity. Yet such rarity required material security. Since the Salted Virtue years in Zhongbo, discourse had vanished—not from lack of scholars, but from lack of those free from worry.
Li Jianting considered, then asked, “Then what purpose does inviting the realm’s free and affluent serve?”
Xue Xiuzhuo fell silent, his gaze on the swaying banana leaves outside, the rain pouring as it did the day he played chess with Yao Wenyu.
Dusk fell outside the teahouse, yet the discourse continued. Elder Mei, tired, had been seated a long while. He debated “change and constancy” with Yao Wenyu, sipping tea to soothe his throat.
Clearing his voice, Elder Mei said, “The change I speak of is in the body before me. Not only have you changed, but time has changed, the world has changed. You are no longer who you were a moment ago, nor a year ago.”
All eyes turned to Yao Wenyu, awaiting his reply. He slowly lowered his sleeves, bowing from his carriage to Elder Mei: “You are correct, sir.”
A murmur swept the room. The debate was clearly unfinished, yet Yao Wenyu conceded on his own, surprising the attendees.
“The grandeur of the Yongyi era is gone; the Great Zhou wanes. Now, with northeastern enemies strong and southwestern officials colluding with merchants, how many places remain where one can freely discuss the universe’s mysteries?”
This statement provoked an uproar. Elder Mei, flustered, threw down his pipe, covering his nose and mouth, shouting: “Odious! Odious! Odious! Odious! How can Yao Yuan Zhuo become Hai Ren Shi!”
The teahouse buzzed; some stood. Luo Mu quickly rose to intervene, but Yao Wenyu at the window laughed, louder and louder: “The plundering of farmland across the eight cities is severe; encountering starving corpses is no longer a dream. I have changed, and so has the world. How long can a gentleman like you maintain your constancy amid this?”
Elder Mei had wanted to leave, but now exclaimed: “All things perish with time. Change and constancy have their arrangement. You abandon your path, fall into worldly nets, and yet wish to emulate Qi Huilian and Hai Liangyi as a gentleman?!”
Yao Wenyu’s expression sobered: “It was neither others nor fate that changed me today; it was you, sir, and the world.”
Elder Mei, flustered, gripped the tea table: “Wu wei governance, natural way! What did Qi Huilian change? What did Hai Liangyi change? Following their path, Yuan Zhuo… Yuan Zhuo, it is futile!”
Yao Wenyu said, “If the natural way dictates, then let the heavens change, let the world descend into chaos. Sir may continue to stand aside; I have abandoned my original path to enter this tumultuous age.”
Elder Mei stamped his foot like a child: “No, you must return! You must return!”
Xue Xiuzhuo believed that in a just world one should die for the Way, in an unjust one, die with the Way. Both Qi Taifu and Elder Hai believed similarly—but Yao Wenyu did not. Today, he had explicitly renounced his former passivity, embracing the mortal world.
Raindrops rolled down, striking puddles near Qiao Tianya, sending ripples outward. A small fish leapt, caught briefly by Kong Ling at the pond, then released.
Fei Sheng held an umbrella while Kong Ling and Shen Zechuan, wearing bamboo hats, fished by the pond.
Kong Ling cast his line again: “From today, all aspiring men should flock to Chizhou.”
Shen Zechuan held his rod: “If all aspiring men were this capable, what missteps would we have suffered?”
Kong Ling smiled, not answering directly: “Yuan Zhuo’s action is both a ‘change of path’ and a ‘continuation of the path,’ demonstrating that Elder Hai’s legacy persists in Chizhou. He is no longer who he once was.”
“The prestige of his writings is in place,” Shen Zechuan said, “whether Yuan Zhuo’s reputation among students recovers depends on this expression.”
Yao Wenyu had initially been attacked at the Imperial Academy for his aloofness, yet now he diverged from Elder Mei and others. With the compelling prose of Gao Zhongxiong, his crippled leg became a symbol of purpose. Further questions would naturally arise: why was he in Chizhou? If guilty, why hadn’t the court arrested him? Following this line of thought reveals a fractured Zhongbo.
“Emperor Tianchen has died; the spring examination was canceled. Elder Hai’s admonishment followed by the Academy’s siege of impoverished officials led many to resign. Qudu must maintain threefold stability this winter,” Shen Zechuan waved his rod. “Xue Xiuzhuo now has one foot in the Cabinet, so the Empress Dowager must curb him. His promises to the Academy remain unfulfilled. Yuan Zhuo, now under my command, has old ties with him. Moreover, the Li family’s failures are public, and Wing King of Fanzhou remains undefeated. Those who emulate them emerge constantly. Xue Xiuzhuo wishes to retaliate but lacks capacity. This winter, by any measure, he can only endure.”
“The aristocracy’s blunders are immense,” Kong Ling said, shaking his rod. “The Empress Dowager won’t relinquish power, the Cabinet’s morale is lost, Xue Xiuzhuo’s wings are incomplete. The eight-city land seizure will not resolve. The longer it drags, the more favorable it is for our lord.”
As they spoke, Gao Zhongxiong’s essay circulated in a few days. Elder Hai’s influence persisted; sincere words provoked reflection. Yao Wenyu’s discourse in Chazhou became secondary. Even unlettered students had to confront one fact:
In just six months, Qudu had utterly lost its ability to maintain stability. Yao Wenyu had allied with Shen Zechuan, who six months prior was a traitor alongside Xiao Chiye. Yet they not only avoided punishment—they were rising.
The Empress Dowager could not command the Eastern Defense Army; Han Cheng returned, requesting the Eight Camps to march against Shen Zechuan in Chizhou. But the Ministry of War, citing Qudu’s lack of generals, declined. Talks were unfruitful, and with the year’s end approaching, the three powers’ tensions escalated.
When snow fell, the flow of refugees into Chizhou and Chazhou increased. Tan Taihu recruited defensive troops in Duzhou, while the Imperial Secret Guards recruited anew. Shen Zechuan planned to coordinate Hairegu and the Secret Guards. By the time he regained his focus, it was already December, just as he prepared the year-end gifts, when Libei was struck by unprecedented snowfall.