He’d braced himself to witness the darkness of the world, only to find that the very first thing he encountered upon reaching Dai Mengwei’s territory was clean, well-ordered law — unscrupulous traffickers severely punished. Though this might well have been an isolated case, the sight left Ning Ji somewhat thrown off balance.
The Five Pedantic Scholars, having been received personally by the magistrate, were rather invigorated by the whole affair.
Ever since leaving the southwest, their mood had remained conflicted — on one hand awed by the southwest’s development, on the other tangled up over the Huaxia Army’s rebellious break with tradition, unable to reconcile it with their own scholarly identity. Especially after passing through Bazhong and witnessing the vast gap in order and capability between the two sides, it had become difficult for them to keep pretending otherwise.
Who would have thought that, entering Dai Mengwei’s territory, they’d find something rather different.
Though resources here appeared scarce, the governance of the populace showed real method and order, a clear hierarchy of superior and subordinate maintained throughout. Even if it couldn’t yet match the flourishing, expansive atmosphere of the southwest, one had to consider that Dai Mengwei had only taken over a little more than a year ago, and that his subjects had originally been a disorganized rabble.
The southwest represented an unproven “new method” that happened to be working for the moment, but here under Dai Mengwei, one found what could rightly be called the time-honored “old method.” This “old method” wasn’t outdated at all — it was the ideal state that the Confucian tradition had contemplated for over a thousand years: ruler as ruler, minister as minister, father as father, son as son; scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants each in their proper place. As long as everyone lived according to the prescribed order, farmers farming at home, artisans crafting needed tools, merchants circulating goods appropriately, and scholars overseeing everything — naturally no great upheaval would occur.
Put into practice: scholars managing broad state policy, virtuous local gentry cooperating with mid-level officials to instruct and guide the masses, while the common people at the bottom stayed content in their place, following orders from above. Then even amid some turbulence, as long as the whole populace remained united in heart, they’d naturally weather it.
Of course, this was the theory of the old method — in actual practice, various deviations inevitably crept in. For instance, over the Wu Dynasty’s two-hundred-plus years, commerce flourished to the point that the lower classes largely developed greedy, selfish hearts, and this trend reshaped how mid- and low-level officials governed, such that when foreign invasion came, the whole realm couldn’t unite as one. And ultimately, it was precisely this flourishing of commerce that gave birth to the Heart Demon — a monster that valued only profit, recognized only paperwork, and cared nothing for morality.
Dai Mengwei, without question, was a man who’d taken the old method’s principles to their absolute extreme. In just a year, he’d organized his subjects with impeccable order — truly worthy of the phrase “governing a great state is like cooking a small fish.” What’s more, his family members all treated the worthy with respect and courtesy.
That Magistrate Dai Zhen, though the highest authority in the county, upon learning that some of the arrested had been innocent traveling scholars, had personally escorted several of them to the back hall, explained the circumstances of the case, and even conversed and exchanged scholarly views with them one by one. If even a random nephew of Dai Mengwei’s carried such virtue, then the reputation that had spread to the southwest — calling Dai Mengwei a sage of the present age — finally made a great deal more sense to them, and they felt it all the more keenly.
…
Having gone through this whole affair and come to appreciate Dai Mengwei’s greatness a little better, the road still had to continue.
By now the caravan leader had been beheaded, and the rest of the members were essentially locked up in prison. After making inquiries, the Five Pedantic Scholars learned that while Dai Mengwei’s territory imposed numerous regulations on commoners, it didn’t prohibit traveling merchants — only strictly regulated which roads they could travel. As long as one registered in advance and stayed on the main roads during travel, there wouldn’t be too much trouble. And having now made the acquaintance of Magistrate Dai Zhen, with a letter of authorization from him in hand, the trip to Ankang would go smoothly enough.
Only Dai Zhen had one thing to warn them about: right now, both Dai and Liu were concentrating their troops, preparing to cross the river north and reclaim Bianliang. If the group headed to Ankang now to catch a boat, the eastbound merchant ships might well be affected by troop deployments, with tickets in short supply — so they should be prepared to wait several days once they arrived.
Having come this far under the spirit of “read ten thousand books, travel ten thousand miles,” the scholars, upon hearing there’d be a major troop deployment to witness, decided not to wait for a convenient caravan after all. After consulting with their attending page boys, servants, and the ever-adorable Ning Ji, they set off north at once.
Wang Xiuniang and her father, who usually gravitated toward Lu Wenke and Ning Ji, came along as well. This father-daughter pair had spent years performing in the martial world for a living and were seasoned travelers. This time, though, Wang Xiuniang had her eye on Lu Wenke — well-read and reasonably well-off — hoping to settle down; she’d taken to displaying her youthful vitality now and then through playful teasing with Ning Ji. Over the past month or so, Lu Wenke had shown some signs of reciprocating her interest, though having toured the southwest and broadened his horizons considerably, he was now poised to make something grand of himself back home — carrying on with a woman who performed for a living in the streets was hardly what he’d envisioned, even if he wasn’t above a flirtation with a courtesan. This particular entanglement would clearly take a while yet to resolve itself.
As for Ning Ji, he’d grown somewhat weary of the Five Pedantic Scholars’ newfound enthusiasm for praising Dai Mengwei, but at fifteen, he had no intention of striking out alone and inviting unnecessary trouble either. So he simply endured the fools’ constant chatter and the lovesick young woman’s teasing, while redirecting his attention toward the possible Hero Gathering awaiting him in Jiangning.
Along the rugged road to Ankang, they passed more villages under strict control, more blank-eyed residents within them… checkpoints and soldiers along the way became a familiar sight too, though after checking the travel permit bearing Magistrate Dai Zhen’s seal, the group wasn’t subjected to much questioning.
The sun was bright that day as the group crossed hills and mountains, the scholars still discussing what they’d observed in Dai Mengwei’s territory as they walked. Having by now let Dai Mengwei’s “distinctive qualities” override whatever heart-demon doubts the southwest had planted in them, they could now discuss the state of the realm with what felt to them like greater “objectivity.” Someone brought up how the Fair Party might be rising to prominence; someone else said Wu Qimei wasn’t entirely without merit either; someone mentioned the new emperor’s revival efforts in the southeast.
Fan Heng, the eldest and most admiring of Dai Mengwei among them, kept sighing periodically. “If a figure like Duke Dai had emerged back in the Jinghan era, the Wu Dynasty’s great and beautiful realm wouldn’t have come to such disaster today. What a shame…”
“There’s still much he could accomplish,” Lu Wenke said. “Duke Dai’s territory now is much smaller and easier to govern than the whole of the old Wu realm. He’s certainly capable, but how he’d fare governing on a larger scale remains to be seen.”
Fan Heng shook his head. “Not so. Back in the day, the Wu court was bloated from top to bottom, with the Seven Tigers dominating the court, each carving out their own faction. That’s precisely why men of true integrity and ability, like Duke Dai, were blocked from rising, unable to achieve anything even if given the chance. Our great Wu Dynasty — if not for scoundrels like Cai Jing, Tong Guan, Qin Siyuan, and their factional strife dragging on year after year — how could it possibly have come to this state of collapse and suffering… cough, cough, cough…”
The group often chatted about the state of the world, occasionally growing worked up over some particular figure or event, even cursing them out. But this time, as Fan Heng spoke of the past, his mood clearly wasn’t rising but sinking — his eyes reddened, even filled with tears, and he began muttering to himself. Lu Wenke, sensing something was wrong, quickly called for the others to rest by the roadside.
They were now only a day’s journey from Ankang. Sunlight fell around them as they sat beneath trees in the open countryside, and in the distance they could see fields of ripened rice stretching through the mountain gaps. Fan Heng was already past forty, with some grey at his temples, but he was normally the most fastidious of the scholars about appearance and manner, fond of lecturing Ning Ji on rites of worship and the proper conduct of a gentleman — never before had he lost composure in front of the group like this. Now, for some reason, sitting under the tree by the road, he muttered on for a while before burying his head in his hands and breaking down in tears.
The middle-aged man’s sobbing rose and fell, sometimes low, sometimes sharp, even trailing snot — thoroughly unpleasant to hear.
Lu Wenke and the others came forward to comfort him, catching fragments like “dead, they’re all dead…” Sometimes he wept, “My poor little girl…” Once he’d cried himself out a bit, his words grew clearer, and they heard him say quietly: “…During the Jingping upheaval, I fled south from the Central Plains, and my children died along the road… my child, only a little younger than Little Long… we got separated…”
This sudden outpouring left everyone silent. Ning Ji, who’d been off to the side looking at the scenery, thought it over. “So he’d be about the same age as Lu Wenke by now.” No one else could find words; the old scholar’s choked sobbing echoed alone along the mountain road.
In truth, in all these years of the realm’s collapse, which household hadn’t experienced some tragedy of its own? A group of scholars discussing the affairs of the world with grand passion, all sorts of grief buried down beneath the surface — Fan Heng’s sudden breakdown was something everyone couldn’t help but feel for, in their own way.
As for Ning Ji, having grown up within the Huaxia Army, how many people who’d managed to survive there had never broken down themselves? Some had wives and daughters violated, some had families massacred or starved to death, and some — even more tragically — spoke of children back home who might have been eaten by others during the famine… He’d witnessed plenty of such grief-stricken weeping, growing up.
Only, he’d never seen the prosperous, flourishing Wu Dynasty firsthand, never seen Bianliang bustling with visitors from every direction, never witnessed the old dream-woven splendor of the Qinhuai River. Hearing these things discussed now, he found he had little corresponding feeling for them, and didn’t feel any particular need to offer the old man much sympathy. Back in the Huaxia Army, if something like this happened and someone’s mood turned sour, their comrades would take turns putting them through the ring, beating them black and blue, sometimes bloody — and once the wounds healed, they’d usually manage to hold themselves together for a while after that.
Such emotions had already had one round of release when the southwestern campaign ended, but for the most part, real peace would only come once they eventually swept through the northern territories. But according to his father, some things — once you’d lived through them — probably could never truly find peace again, no matter how much comfort others offered.
The middle-aged scholar’s breakdown eventually passed, and calm returned; the group continued on their way. As they drew closer to Ankang, fields of golden, ripe rice grew more common, some already being harvested, with soldiers standing guard around the villagers cutting the grain. Because of Fan Heng’s earlier emotional outburst, the group’s mood remained somewhat subdued, without much conversation — until, watching this scene stretch on into evening, the normally quiet but sharp-tongued Chen Junsheng finally spoke. “So tell me — once this rice is harvested, does it go to the army, or to the villagers?”
His words brought another round of silence over the group. Chen Junsheng continued, “After the Jin dogs left, the land along both banks of the Han River was handed to Duke Dai. There’s more mountain here than farmland — this region was never really suited to sustained habitation. And now, before he’s even fully secured his footing, Duke Dai and Duke Liu are rushing to strike back toward Bianliang, wanting to use the fertile plains of the Central Plains to escape this place… but before the troops move, the provisions must go first. This autumn and winter, quite a few people here might well starve.”
The group considered this in silence for a while. Someone said, “Duke Dai has no other choice, surely…”
Lu Wenke said, “Perhaps Duke Dai… has already accounted for this, and will leave the local people some grain to survive on…”
Fan Heng, who’d always spoken up in Dai Mengwei’s defense before, said nothing this time — perhaps still shaken from his earlier outburst.
The group rested that night at a roadside post station, and by noon the next day entered Ankang, the ancient city on the banks of the Han River.
This city had suffered the ravages of war when the Jurchen western army came through, with half the city burned down. But after the Jurchens withdrew and Dai Mengwei took power, a large population had been resettled here, and the gathering crowds gave the place a sense of recovery and renewal already underway. As the group entered the city, they could faintly make out signs of large troop encampments, and the grim atmosphere of impending war had already begun to seep into the place.
Just as the scenery along the road had suggested: the army’s movements were waiting on the completion of the rice harvest in the rear.
Some things needed little further investigation — to sustain this coming campaign northward, Dai Mengwei’s forces, already short on grain, would inevitably have to requisition a large portion of the rice the local people had grown. The only real question was how much he’d be willing to leave behind for those staying in the region. Such figures were, of course, hard to pin down without proper investigation, and even with newfound courage after their travels through the southwest, the five scholars weren’t foolish enough to go poking into that particular matter under these circumstances — they had no wish to die.
Entering the city through the south gate, and following directions from a minor clerk at the gate, they made their way north through the city. Ankang itself was a mix of old and new — clusters of shacks housing large numbers of displaced people, alongside streets that had been well rebuilt after the authorities cracked down hard on disorder. But everywhere, a fishy smell lingered in the air, with foul, fish-scented wastewater flooding many streets — likely a lingering effect of Dai Mengwei’s policy encouraging fishing as a livelihood.
Though the shadow of war hung over the city, commerce in Ankang hadn’t been banned; along the banks of the Han River, all sorts of boats continued sailing eastward with the current — many of them merchant vessels departing from Hanzhong. Because of the earlier agreement between the Huaxia Army and Dai Mengwei and Liu Guangshi, trade routes from Huaxia Army territory outward were not to be obstructed, and to ensure this was actually honored, the Huaxia Army had even stationed groups of representatives along the trade routes at various points. So even as Dai Mengwei and Liu Guangshi prepared for war on one hand, merchant boats continued sailing the Han River day after day between Hanzhong and elsewhere on the other — something even Dai Mengwei didn’t dare interrupt. Both sides carried on their business, each pretending everything remained “business as usual.”
Of course, with the grim atmosphere pervading Dai Mengwei’s territory, no one knew when he might fly into some fit of madness, so a number of merchant boats that might otherwise have docked at Ankang had now cancelled their plans, and eastbound merchant and passenger vessels had grown scarce. Just as Magistrate Dai Zhen had warned, the group would need to queue for several days before they could hope to secure passage. For now, they settled into an inn called Tongwen Pavilion in the city’s northeastern district.
This inn was bustling, filled mostly with travelers stranded from north and south, plus a good number of scholars passing through to broaden their horizons or seek their fortunes. After just one night settled in, amid the noisy chatter of the inn’s main hall, the group picked up a good deal of interesting news.
Word had it that although Dai and Liu’s forces hadn’t fully crossed the river yet, the “battle” on the far side of the Yangtze had already begun. Envoys sent by both Dai and Liu had gone to places like Nanyang to campaign vigorously, trying to persuade members of the Zou Xu-Yin Zong alliance, who held Luoyang, Bianliang, and other territories, to surrender to their side. Even quite a few scholars who fancied themselves well-connected in the Central Plains or skilled in the art of persuasion had rushed over to Dai and Liu’s side to volunteer their strategic advice, hoping to contribute to the recovery of Bianliang. Not a few of the scholars gathered in the city were here seeking official rank and fame.
With the realm in chaos, the thing on everyone’s lips, naturally, was various schemes for securing rank and fortune. Among the scholars, literati, noble clans, and local gentry, Dai Mengwei and Liu Guangshi had already raised their banner — and at the same time, another banner had suddenly risen in the eyes of the realm’s wandering adventurers: the Hero Gathering soon to be held in Jiangning.
The Fair Party, this time following the Huaxia Army’s model, was determined to hold its own grand gathering in Jiangning, sparing no expense, sending invitation scrolls to every notable hero across the land, drawing out many long-established, legendary figures from seclusion. Among the discussions, it was said that even Lin Zongwu, once regarded as the greatest fighter under heaven, might well appear in Jiangning this time, presiding over the gathering, testing every hero the realm had to offer.
Night fell, and the old, weathered inn called Tongwen Pavilion had its candles flickering in the main hall. None of the scholars and merchants gathered there let such an opportunity for conversation slip by, loudly sharing whatever knowledge they had. Amid this noisy scene, Ning Ji finally found something that interested him, cupping his hands and slipping into a nearby circle of conversation with a smile. “Uncle, uncle, is that Lin Zongwu really going to Jiangning? Is he really that formidable? Have you met him?”
The middle-aged scholar spraying spittle across the table looked at him — a fair-featured, friendly-faced boy — and slapped the table with enthusiasm. “He’s a genuine hero of the martial world, that one. I’ve only seen him from a distance myself, mostly heard about him from others… I have a friend, nicknamed the Sabre of Heshuo, who’s had dealings with him — apparently that ‘Forest-Piercing Northern Leg’ Lin Zongwu is most formidable with his legwork…”
To think that even this far from the Huaxia Army, he’d still run into southwestern jokes like this — Ning Ji’s face immediately fell flat…
“But regardless, this time in Jiangning, they say this greatest fighter under heaven is likely, probably, maybe, almost certainly going to show up…”
“But isn’t Lin Zongwu supposed to be a fat man?”
“Come now, that Lin Zongwu’s nickname is ‘Forest-Piercing Northern Leg’ — how could he possibly be fat! You young folks really haven’t seen much of the world!”
“Right, right, nicknames are never wrong, even if the person’s real name might be…”
The group of scholars, trading various bits of lore that had drifted out of the southwest, thoroughly mocked “Proud Dragon of Heaven,” who let out a sigh, feeling even more bewildered than ever at the very start of this journey.
And it was on the second night after arriving here that he witnessed an assassination attempt…