It was the eighth month of the lunar calendar, the height of autumn harvest season. Outside Hangzhou, the rice fields untouched by the fighting had already turned a solid gold, with farmers, soldiers, and displaced people busy in waves throughout the day; even at night, the lively bustle around the city’s outskirts never quite settled into rest. Troops camped out among the fields in batches, keeping watch and patrolling.

These nearly-ready fields had long since been divided up among the various forces that had taken the city; in name, the grain and rice belonged collectively to the righteous army, but in practice, the division naturally still followed the strength of each faction — as long as Fang La’s fledgling court took the largest share, the rest was simply carved up according to whoever had the bigger fists. As for the fields that were supposed to still belong to certain law-abiding local residents of Hangzhou, by this point, most of those had already found their way into other hands as well.

If the goal were simply to bring in the harvest, the more hands the better, of course — but since this was really about carving up spoils, more participants wasn’t necessarily a good thing. Friction and clashes among these groups were common during the day, and at night there were frequent cases of one side rushing to harvest, under cover of darkness, crops that another army or the common people had already claimed. Whenever this happened, torches would spread across the paddies and field paths, and the sound of shouting and fighting would shake the night — scattered points of chaos dotting the outer ring of Hangzhou, sleepless through the night.

Outside the city there was its own order and its own division of spoils; inside, everyone had their own affairs to attend to. With the Saintly Duke’s enthronement drawing near, the streets and alleys within the city had grown lively, and the worst of the bloodshed and chaos had passed. A new order was gradually taking on some rough shape, and anyone with connections was busy pursuing their own interests.

Some shops had reopened their doors. The jianghu men who had once wandered the roads or robbed travelers on the highways were now holding “gatherings of heroes”; taverns and teahouses often saw people of every background and temperament mingling together, each sizing up and boasting to the others. Those with connections or skill found minor official posts under one general or another; scholars who knew their letters and had once felt their talents unrecognized began cautiously sending in their calling cards, seeking patronage or some small position.

There were always plenty of people. Some had no confidence in Fang La’s prospects, of course, but there were also those with ambitions of a title and a fief, willing to take the gamble. That’s simply how society works — once there’s exchange, once a certain momentum sets in, a framework naturally takes shape on its own. Fang La’s little society was, piece by piece, cobbling together its own framework and rough outline in just this way. For a moment, both inside and outside the city, there really did seem to be a genuine air of bustling activity.

Wenlie Academy had, over these past few days, remained relatively calm. It was now late morning; the light of late autumn’s sun filtered down through gaps in the trees, mixed with the lazy drone of cicadas, and the academy was in the middle of its lessons. Ning Yi closed the copy of the Records of the Grand Historian in his hands, put it away in his desk, and prepared to leave.

At this point the academy still had far more teachers than students; though divided into four classes — First, Second, Third, and Fourth — the total student count came to fewer than a hundred, while the roster of nominal teachers ran to thirty or forty. Even accounting for the fact that some of these were part of the privileged class and never actually showed up, the number of teachers was still wildly excessive. Ning Yi taught the Records of the Grand Historian to Class Three for half an hour each morning, after which he collected a portion of rice from the headmaster and went home to be with Xiao Chan.

The headmaster of Wenlie Academy at present was surnamed Feng, given name Yongli. It was a rather common name, but he was a decent man. It was said that in his youth he had done some studying, but his family had been poor, and he’d never taken the imperial examinations. His scholarship, naturally, wasn’t especially deep, but he had joined Fang La’s forces from the very start of the uprising and so carried considerable seniority.

There were also a few capable civil officials in Fang La’s army — Zu Shiyuan was one, and there was also a man named Lou Minzhong. Feng Yongli had once served under Lou Minzhong, copying out proclamations and official letters; once Hangzhou fell, he had become headmaster of this academy. The Feng family, outside the academy, naturally had their own affairs of plunder and profit-seeking underway, but within the academy at least, Feng Yongli genuinely treated the scholars rather well. Thanks to his oversight, the academy had remained relatively harmonious of late.

At this hour, the teachers’ lounge had seven people gathered together — mostly instructors who had finished their classes for the day. Some sipped tea while poring over classical texts, others chatted quietly off to one side. All of them were men who had only taken shelter at the academy after Hangzhou’s fall, and there was a certain fellow-feeling among them as a result. A few were now discussing the fighting at Jiaxing.

“I hear the fighting up north has stalled into a stalemate. The imperial court sent General Tong Guan south with troops, and Fang Qifo has Jiaxing surrounded, but he can’t take it — hard to say who’ll come out on top.”

“They say Commissioner Tong is a brilliant tactician. Everyone thought he’d march north against the Liao, but this time… heh, this time the Saintly Duke’s momentum was so great it drew him here instead. This battle won’t be easy to win, I’d wager.”

“Hard to say. Uprisings are breaking out everywhere these days, north and south — Song Jiang at Liangshan Marsh, Wang Qing in Huaixi, Tian Hu in Hebei — all of them already quite troublesome. And especially since the Saintly Duke took Hangzhou, uprisings nearby have kept springing up over this past month or so. Tong Guan may have marched south, but our side… well, our momentum is running high too.”

“Still, I can’t help but feel this business of declaring himself emperor is a bit hasty. Drawing out a general of Tong Guan’s caliber…”

“There you’re mistaken, Brother Tian. It was Hangzhou itself that drew Tong Guan here, not the enthronement. Once Hangzhou fell, the court was always going to keep its eyes fixed on this place, emperor or no emperor. That’s precisely why the enthronement has become a necessity for the Saintly Duke’s side — only by formally establishing his legitimacy can he draw in more support to join him, and only then will he stand a real chance against Tong Guan.”

The men kept their voices somewhat low, though not excessively cautious — the general atmosphere had remained fairly relaxed of late. Ning Yi hadn’t had much contact with these men over the past few days, but everyone already knew he too had only arrived after the city’s fall. What they were discussing now touched on matters of real, personal interest on one hand, but on the other, scholars can never quite resist the urge to hold forth on the affairs of the realm — huddled here in a corner discussing things privately gave them some sense of being men who truly understood the direction of this chaotic age. As Ning Yi finished gathering his things to leave, one of the men spoke up to him.

“Leaving already, Liheng?”

“Yes, Master Liu.”

“No need to stand on ceremony. We’re all colleagues here now. If you have the time, Liheng, why not stay a while and chat with us? These are hard times, but at least there’s tea.”

“There’s someone at home waiting for me — I shouldn’t stay long. When I have the leisure another day, I’ll be sure to seek your guidance, gentlemen. My apologies for now.”

“No trouble at all…”

The middle-aged man who’d tried to keep Ning Yi behind was named Liu Xiyang, originally a renowned Confucian scholar from Hangzhou itself. Here at the academy, he and another great scholar named Wang Zhizhen were the two most respected in terms of learning, though Wang Zhizhen was rather rigid by comparison, while Liu Xiyang was better at adapting to circumstance. Ordinarily, these local Hangzhou scholars weren’t held in much regard — if any of the scholars who’d arrived with Fang La’s army had been present, they might have mocked them freely without fear of reply — but Liu Xiyang was formidable enough to be an exception.

Among his students was the son of Liu Zan, one of Fang La’s Eight Cavalry Commanders. The boy himself wasn’t particularly fond of his teacher, but Liu Zan hoped his son would grow into a man of letters. A few days earlier, Liu Zan had come by, and Liu Xiyang had mentioned in passing that the boy showed real talent in understanding the Four Books. Liu Zan had made inquiries about Liu Xiyang’s reputation and learned he was a genuinely accomplished scholar and, as it happened, shared the same surname — so he’d promptly had his son address Liu Xiyang as “uncle.” It was for this reason that Liu Xiyang had been the first to bring up the news from the north today — otherwise, the others likely wouldn’t have dared to speak up at all.

Just as this was said, Ning Yi took his leave and was about to walk out — and at that very moment, a scholar in his thirties, dressed in fine, expensive clothes, walked in through the door, his face dark with displeasure as he swept his gaze across the room. The moment he entered, the talk of the war in the lounge fell silent. His eyes settled on Ning Yi for a moment before he asked: “Which of you is Ning Liheng?”

Ning Yi looked at him and cupped his hands in greeting: “That would be me.”

“This one is Qu Weiqing.” The man cupped his hands in return, chin lifted. Ning Yi actually already knew this name — he was one of the scholars who’d come into the city with Fang La’s army, originally an advisor under Wen Keran’s command; once inside the city, he’d taken a nominal post at the academy, though he was under no obligation to actually teach. He dropped by perhaps once every few days, and because his own scholarship wasn’t especially strong, he tended to look down on the Hangzhou scholars sheltering here, occasionally seeking someone out just to mock and belittle them with cutting remarks. A few days earlier, Liu Xiyang had taken Liu Zan’s son as a nominal nephew, and friction had arisen between him and Qu Weiqing over it — as a result, Liu Xiyang had since become something of a figurehead for the Hangzhou faction within the academy.

Everyone had assumed Qu Weiqing had come looking to cause trouble for Liu Xiyang; no one had expected he’d come for Ning Yi instead, and for a moment the room was thrown off balance. Qu Weiqing went on: “You teach the Records of the Grand Historian? Why not have the students memorize passages properly, instead of prattling on with vulgar slang every class? The ‘Annals of the Five Emperors,’ the opening chapter of the Records, is a work of such solemn grandeur — and you treat it like a storyteller’s tale in a teahouse, showing not the slightest respect. Does your conscience not trouble you?”

Ning Yi blinked, his brow furrowing slightly.

“The words of the sages are profound beyond measure — read a text a thousand times, and its meaning will finally reveal itself. As teachers, our duty is to guide our students toward genuine study and understanding, not to hand them shallow, ready-made interpretations. You’re young — I doubt you’ve even finished the Four Books and Five Classics yourself — and yet you pander to children’s love of amusement, turning the classroom into nothing more than a teahouse storytelling session. Others may tolerate this from you, but I was entrusted by General Wen, and I won’t simply turn a blind eye. Let me ask you this: ‘The tiller pays one part in ten; officials receive hereditary stipends; markets are inspected but not taxed; the fish-weirs of the marshes are not forbidden; the guilty man’s family is not punished with him’ — where does this passage come from, and what does it mean?”

Ning Yi rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know.”

Hearing Ning Yi answer so plainly, Qu Weiqing was momentarily taken aback — he’d expected the man to at least manage this one question. But whether Ning Yi answered or not, he had further remarks prepared either way. After a brief hesitation, he asked a few more questions, then launched into a lengthy discourse on how teaching ought to be conducted and what it meant to serve as a proper role model for students. Having gone on at considerable length, he finally concluded: “Our new Yongle dynasty is only just beginning, and talented men are sorely needed. You’re young — if you apply yourself with humility, there’s no reason you couldn’t accomplish something worthwhile. I’m not the headmaster, so I won’t punish you, but if you dare teach in this manner again, I won’t tolerate it either — I’ll see to it you’re removed from this academy. Think carefully about your conduct.”

Throughout this whole speech, Ning Yi’s expression remained calm; he offered no rebuttal. When Qu Weiqing finished, he simply cupped his hands respectfully, took his leave, and walked off just like that. Qu Weiqing stood there stunned for a moment, glanced around at the others in the room, and then turned and left as well. Once he was gone, the remaining men began murmuring quietly among themselves — the subject, naturally, was Ning Yi.

Ordinarily, when Qu Weiqing cornered someone to mock, he didn’t usually go quite this far. And though none of the scholars present had spoken up in Ning Yi’s defense, their faces betrayed a certain quiet disapproval all the same. A man has to keep some pride, even if he swallows it most of the time — but today Ning Yi hadn’t known a single answer, and had said as much so directly, that the others couldn’t help feeling it was a genuine loss of face for men of letters everywhere. In truth, several of them had already noticed something about Ning Yi’s teaching style over the past few days.

“I hear he tells stories in class — the children seem to love it…”

“Deliberately currying favor with the students like that — where’s the dignity of a teacher in that?”

“Doesn’t even know a line from Mencius…”

“To think Brother Liu even invited him to stay and talk — not that he’d have had anything of substance to say anyway…”

“Ah well. We’re all Hangzhou men here. In times like these, we ought to stick together.”

So said Liu Xiyang. Before long, as more teachers finished their classes, word of the incident spread further, and most who heard of Ning Yi spoke of him with some contempt. In truth, no one really knew much about this young man — these past few days he’d been practically invisible around the academy, and no one had paid him much mind. Besides, a young man with no beard to speak of surely couldn’t have much learning either — and today’s incident seemed only to confirm as much. Just then, someone spoke up with a puzzled look: “From what you’re describing, it sounds like this Ning Liheng was making a fool of him. Why would you all conclude he doesn’t know the Four Books…”

This was the one man who had greeted Ning Yi a few days earlier — a man named Yan Deming, fairly well regarded for his learning in Hangzhou. Hearing him say this, Liu Xiyang asked: “What do you mean by that, Deming?”

Yan Deming replied: “Before the Hangzhou earthquake, at the Start of Autumn poetry gathering, this Ning Liheng composed a ci-poem that stunned everyone present — though with all the chaos that followed, word of it never really got around. It opened with the lines: ‘Southeast’s finest scenery, the great metropolis of the Three Wu, Qiantang has been prosperous since ancient times…’” Yan Deming took up paper and brush and wrote out the poem — “Watching the Tide” — line by line. Liu Xiyang and the others read it and were left utterly stunned. Yan Deming went on: “A man capable of composing a work like this — how could he possibly be what you’ve been describing? This Ning Yi was, in fact, once regarded as the foremost talent of Jiangning. How could such a man not know the Four Books and Five Classics? He probably simply didn’t want to make trouble, and holds Qu Weiqing in such contempt that he did this deliberately.”

Hearing this, the others were half-convinced, then gradually came to understand. Of course, this gave them a somewhat new impression of Ning Yi, though not one they found especially remarkable. Hangzhou had already fallen, after all — scholarship here no longer counted for all that much. Whether he was the foremost talent of Jiangning or the foremost talent of Hangzhou, in the end he was just another ordinary man trapped here like the rest of them, sheltering at the academy same as anyone. Thinking back on how low-key Ning Yi had kept himself these past few days, it seemed likely he too had simply run into hardship of his own, no different from the rest of them. For the time being, that became the general understanding of him among the academy’s staff.

It wasn’t until two or three days later, when a series of events unfolded, that everyone finally came to understand just how different Ning Yi’s actual circumstances were from what they had imagined…

…

Meanwhile, as for Qu Weiqing — the reason he had suddenly come looking for trouble with Ning Yi wasn’t really for any particularly high-minded reason.

Among the scholars who’d entered the city with Fang La’s righteous army, some, like him, didn’t take their positions at the academy especially seriously; others preferred to curry favor with the young family members of the various generals. Take his acquaintance Guo Peiying, for instance — also formerly an advisor, who, once given a nominal post at the academy, had thrown himself wholeheartedly into teaching. Guo Peiying had his eye on longer-term gains: once the Yongle dynasty truly took root, these children would very likely become imperial relatives down the line, and becoming their teacher now was, in truth, a rather excellent position to be in.

Qu Weiqing understood this too, but rather than becoming a teacher to future imperial relatives, he would much prefer to become an imperial relative himself directly. The court’s power structure hadn’t yet solidified, and working under Wen Keran gave him plenty of prospects — there was no reason he might not carve out a real career of his own down the line.

But of course, there was no need to put all his eggs in one basket, so he still occasionally dropped by the academy, if only to mock the resident great scholars for his own amusement. He didn’t feel much of anything toward these scholars personally. Having learning didn’t mean one could tame this particular crop of students — most of them country boys, some who’d already seen bloodshed with their own eyes. The old methods of disciplining students had no purchase here, because among these students, some were already fourteen or fifteen, big and sturdily built, some had even killed a man with their own hands. They hadn’t grown up as proper pampered young masters; their families sent them to study, told them it would lead somewhere — they didn’t dare refuse to come, but as for actual respect for their teachers, they had none to spare.

If anything, the more learned the scholar, the less able they tended to be to adapt to this. Having spent so long steeped in the old order of Heaven, ruler, parents, and teacher, they genuinely believed in it, and would never lower themselves to flatter their students. By contrast, someone like Guo Peiying, even without especially deep learning, at least knew not to put on airs when teaching, and found it easier to win the students’ favor. The reason Qu Weiqing had suddenly come looking for Ning Yi today was that Guo Peiying had happened to overhear some talk among the students and had mentioned it to him.

The talk, more or less, concerned this newly arrived “Teacher Ning.” In just a few days, students were already saying his lessons were interesting, engaging, far more entertaining than any other teacher at the academy. The two of them had called in some students to ask more carefully, and learned that this young Teacher Ning apparently had no scruples whatsoever — by all accounts, he’d won the students’ favor by carrying on like a professional storyteller rather than a proper teacher.

Of course, had Qu Weiqing bothered to actually sit in on a lesson himself, he might have realized Ning Yi’s teaching wasn’t quite what it had been made out to be. Having taught for so long in Jiangning, Ning Yi’s lessons, though wide-ranging and unconventional, still hit all the essential points for the examinations. But to men like Qu Weiqing, there was naturally no need to take a young man like this too seriously — once an impression had formed, that was simply how it was.

There was no real personal grudge between them, but the sudden appearance of someone like this — leaving the rest of them looking so much less “likeable” as teachers by comparison — left them feeling as though someone had reached into their own basket and stolen an egg. Guo Peiying, being a more measured man, held back, but Qu Weiqing simply went straight over and berated Ning Yi. The next day, on a whim, he also asked the headmaster a few questions — and the answer, as it turned out, was rather interesting: this Ning Liheng was, in fact, a prisoner.

The headmaster himself didn’t know a great deal about the matter — there were certain things Feng Yongli had no way of inquiring about further up the chain — but he did know that Ning Yi lived behind the academy, that there was even a maidservant with him, and that both of them were under some form of watch, their eventual fate still undecided. Learning this, Qu Weiqing felt rather more emboldened. That morning, he dragged Guo Peiying along to go listen in on Ning Yi’s class. He reasoned that, given Ning Yi’s status as a captive, yesterday’s attitude toward him had been altogether too disrespectful — and if the man didn’t change his tune today, he’d make sure he regretted it.

The two of them went over to stand near the classroom and listened in for a while. Sure enough, inside, Ning Liheng was still telling a story, apparently nearing its conclusion. During a brief pause, Qu Weiqing was about to storm in — but at that moment, some student inside stood up to ask a question, his voice thick and nasal.

“Hey, Teacher Ning. I asked my dad about it when I got home yesterday, and he said you helped the government troops beat several thousand of us at Huzhou. Is that true?”

Both Qu Weiqing and Guo Peiying froze in place. The classroom, too, fell briefly quiet before someone shouted: “You’re a bad guy!?”

Then another child spoke up: “I asked too — I said Teacher Ning’s name, and my uncle said Teacher Ning led a broken remnant force at Huzhou and beat five whole armies under An Xifu. All by himself, he beat General Lu Qiao, General Yao Yi, and General Xue Dounan’s three forces — and he killed General Yao and General Xue himself! General Yao was always at odds with my uncle, and my uncle said good riddance to him. My uncle also said Teacher Ning knows kung fu, that he’s really strong, that people in the jianghu call him the Bloodhanded Butcher. Teacher, would you dare fight Qi Dazhuang? He’s always saying he’s the best in the world, bullying the rest of us…”

Qu Weiqing, standing at the front by now, had practically reached the threshold ready to burst in — but hearing the terrifying nickname “Bloodhanded Butcher,” he found himself instinctively shrinking back a step…