Compared to democracy, perhaps the greatest advantage of raw power lies in how many matters it allows to be settled within a very small, contained scope. With the rebel army now occupying Hangzhou, this was precisely the moment when such power stood at its peak — and so, although the events that afternoon at Wenlie Academy had drawn a fair number of onlookers, once Chen Fan appeared and the standoff finally came to an end, the gathered crowd dispersed as the sun set, and in the end, remarkably few people ever learned what had actually happened. Even those who had passed by and witnessed the standoff at the time simply assumed it was just another one of the common clashes that had become routine around the city lately, and quietly went around it without much further comment.
The academy currently held classes only for half the day, and by afternoon all the teachers had already left. As for who actually lived in the surrounding area, it was, in truth, the main force of the Liu clan’s Overlord Blade Camp. This incident had, on one side, involved a number of mid-ranking commanders — Zhang Daoyuan, Li Tianyou, Xu Bai, Yuan Xing, and others — and if it were purely a matter of self-interest, some might have taken a real interest in the outcome. But this sort of clash was, in fact, common enough in present-day Hangzhou.
But when the other party involved turned out to be the Overlord Blade Camp and the madman Chen Fan, interest in the matter dropped off almost entirely, because getting entangled with that particular crowd brought no benefit and no fun whatsoever — it was, essentially, like kicking a slab of iron. Li Tianyou and the others were, one could say, kicking that iron slab — credit to them for having the strength, the muscle, even a certain swagger about it — but watching the whole affair unfold under the setting sun for half a day amounted, in the end, to nothing more than one thought: “Huh, look at that fellow, kicking an iron slab.”
People like these weren’t really part of the truly dominant, untouchable faction within the army, nor were they lawless enough that offending them guaranteed a fatal reprisal. Compared to men who bore grudges as readily as Bao Daoyi or Si Xingfang, they weren’t especially frightening — most people didn’t even really know what they got up to on an ordinary day. In the past, plenty of people had crossed them, and the worst that usually happened was a chaotic sword fight in front of the Saintly Duke himself; some ended up dead, some didn’t, but in the end you’d find that tangling with this crowd never really got you anywhere — win or lose, there was nothing to be gained either way.
In short, this was the impression Liu Xigua, Chen Fan, and the rest left on more than half the mid-level commanders; as for the other half, most of them didn’t even know who these two people were. The rebel army was going through heavy turnover these days, with new commanders constantly joining who’d only ever heard the names Fang La and Fang Qifo. A man like Chen Fan occupied an awkward middle rank, neither prominent nor negligible, and as for Liu Xigua’s Overlord Blade Camp — apart from occasionally serving as shock troops in a major battle, they had no particularly glorious record of accomplishments to speak of, and kept a fairly low profile on ordinary days.
And so, once darkness fell, the area around the academy simply settled back into its everyday appearance. Light traced the quiet outline of the courtyard; insects chirped in the trees; the occasional passerby or cart went by outside the courtyard gate. By the time Ning Yi returned from the one general store nearby with a bag of salt, Xiao Chan had already finished cooking dinner and sat waiting for him on the steps by the courtyard gate, chin resting in her hands.
“Master, let’s find a chance and run away,” the girl said, in a tone of great secrecy, the moment Ning Yi came near.
“Er, why…” Ning Yi blinked, momentarily thrown off, not sure what had prompted this.
The watch that A’Chang, A’Ming, and the others kept on him had always seemed rather loose, but he knew that wasn’t really the case — and after this afternoon, he understood it even better now. Here in this stretch of street and alley, though it now looked warmly lit and sparsely populated, much like any ordinary residential lane, the actual arrangement in place was likely every bit as tight as a proper military camp. It seemed that once the Overlord Blade Camp had entered Hangzhou, they’d claimed this surrounding area for themselves, and most of the people living nearby now were veteran elite soldiers.
Like the stern old man across the street who ran the general store, currently sipping yellow wine and chatting with a neighbor — earlier that afternoon, from the rooftop, Ning Yi had seen him casually pick up an iron door bar and stand at his doorway with it, looking for all the world like some grizzled mercenary boss straight out of a film, towering and imposing.
“Because they haven’t locked us up.”
“Wouldn’t it be better if they did?” Ning Yi laughed as he walked inside; Xiao Chan got up and trotted along after him.
“But master’s so capable! I mean, it’s better this way for now, but when I think about it, I feel like they must really look down on us — hmph, these people have no idea what they’re dealing with. Just wait until master and I run off, then they’ll be crying about it.”
Hearing this, Ning Yi naturally understood she was joking. Ever since that stormy night, the girl had grown noticeably more composed — not that she’d been especially flighty before, but ever since that night, she’d gradually taken on something of the demeanor of a young wife. Where she used to sit on the stool watching him read, her eyes flickering with all the thoughts she seemed eager but unsure how to voice, now she’d mostly just watch and think quietly, no longer trying so hard to express herself the way a young girl might. A small smile on her face, and it seemed, somehow, enough to settle her heart. This bit of teasing now was probably meant, at least in part, to mask some other feeling underneath.
Once dinner was ready and she began carrying it outside, Xiao Chan finally spoke up, head lowered: “Master… did something happen around here this afternoon?”
“Hm? No, nothing.”
“But… but this afternoon I saw master on the rooftop talking with someone. Grandpa Liu had me over brewing medicine at the time, so I didn’t know anything about it — but when I came out afterward, I saw a wounded general talking to someone, saying something had happened here just now, and he looked like he meant real trouble. So I went out to look, but I didn’t see anything.” She set the food down, crouched there looking up at him, and pressed her lips together. “So I hurried back, and when I saw master here, I quietly went back again — but on my way back, Grandpa Liu… gave me this look, and I thought maybe something really had happened, master…”
The girl furrowed her brow in an imitation of an old man’s thoughtful, searching gaze — rather endearing, though what showed through most was her quiet, unspoken worry. Xiao Chan was clever, sharper than most people, and though she hadn’t seen the full picture of what had happened, she’d pieced together from other people’s stray words that something must be wrong here. Her earlier talk of running away had seemed like a joke, but it likely carried some real worry underneath after all. Living entirely at the mercy of others, any sudden stirring of trouble was enough to leave the girl anxious over her own man’s safety. Now she asked, carefully, cautiously.
Ning Yi looked at her for a moment, then, after a pause, told her what had happened that afternoon — though naturally he glossed over the tense standoff itself, saying only that someone had come to talk to him, that he’d answered a few questions, and it had seemed to go over well enough. Hearing this, Xiao Chan finally relaxed.
Under the warm glow of the firelight, the two of them ate dinner together beneath the small eaves.
That same night, elsewhere in the city, Qu Weiqing and the others who had taken notice of Ning Yi that day hadn’t exactly been idle either. The little corner of the world that was the academy might have seemed detached from the wider world’s affairs, but it always had its own web of interests all the same. Having learned that morning of Ning Yi’s status as a captive, Qu Weiqing had gone that afternoon to find Wen Keran, but Wen Keran had been out of the city and didn’t return until evening, when he hosted a small family dinner with several of his advisors. At the table, Qu Weiqing brought up the matter of the academy — a captured scholar currying favor with the students using vulgar tales, pandering shamelessly to a room full of children. Someone remarked, “That’s not a bad way to keep himself alive, I suppose.” Another said, “If it were me, I’d have beaten him to death on the spot.”
Qu Weiqing had brought the matter up in a joking tone, and Wen Keran, hearing it, nodded along with an amused smile, not thinking much of it. In the month since the army had taken the city, they’d captured plenty of people; those killed or released had, for the most part, been dealt with quickly and decisively, though there were always a few whose fate remained undecided for a while, left scattered about doing odd work in the meantime — a common enough arrangement. Wen Keran didn’t hold ordinary scholars in especially high regard to begin with. “What’s this man’s name? Tell Master Qu and Feng Yongli to have him beaten and thrown out. If he causes too much trouble, killing him wouldn’t be any great loss either.”
“Marshal Wen speaks wisely. His surname is Ning, given name Liheng. I hear he does have some talent and skill — probably why, after being captured, out of fear, he’s decided to…”
“Ning Liheng?” Just as Qu Weiqing was speaking, Wen Keran’s brow furrowed. After a long pause, he asked, “This man is at Wenlie Academy?”
Qu Weiqing froze, thinking he’d struck some kind of sore spot: “Does Marshal Wen know this man?”
“I’ve heard the name. If it’s really him… you needn’t bother with him at all.”
Hearing Wen Keran say this, the other advisors grew curious as well. “Does this man have some kind of backing, then?”
“Could he be some great scholar of the Jiangsu-Zhejiang region we simply haven’t heard of?”
Wen Keran shook his head, seeming unconcerned. “I don’t know all that much myself. He doesn’t really have any particular backing, as far as I know — no need for any of you to make too much of it. There are, naturally, a few people looking out for him, but there are also plenty who’d like to see him dealt with. Best to just leave him be.”
Wen Keran made it sound simple enough, but having moved in these circles for as long as they had, men like Qu Weiqing could hardly fail to catch the deeper implication. Wen Keran himself clearly didn’t fully understand the matter of Ning Liheng either — but whatever it was, it evidently belonged to an entirely different sphere, one that wasn’t theirs to touch or decide upon. Turning it over in his mind, combining this with what the students had said about Huzhou and the nickname “Bloodhanded Butcher,” it began to seem this man, captive though he was, might well already hold a status comparable to someone like Fang Qifo. The thought of that mild-mannered, soft-spoken young scholar in his early twenties left Qu Weiqing with a distinct chill of unease.
Having learned this, he abandoned the idea of driving Ning Yi out of the academy. The next day he passed the news along to Guo Peiying, who seemed rather indifferent about it; Qu Weiqing didn’t bother pressing the point further. The next time he saw Ning Yi, Ning Yi nodded to him as usual, and Qu Weiqing, suppressing his own feelings, nodded back — inwardly, he now felt something like the thrill of dealing with a great and powerful figure, even if that figure happened to be a prisoner. He observed Ning Yi’s conduct and manner of speech in secret from then on and found himself thinking that the man’s every gesture carried a certain deep, immovable weight to it, entirely consistent with the image of the “Bloodhanded Butcher” — outwardly calm and mild, while quietly capable of having people dragged off and killed.
Meanwhile, children could never keep a secret for long, and once the academy staff had all seen Ning Yi’s poem, the story of what had happened at Huzhou gradually began to spread among them as well, piece by piece, by word of mouth. Before long, the other scholars looked at Ning Yi with an expression that was hard to describe. Ning Yi, of course, understood all of this perfectly well; he simply kept teaching quietly, waiting for the matter to settle down on its own.
As for the class he taught, the number of students had doubled within a few days, and the questions they asked grew increasingly strange — some asking about the Battle of Huzhou, others asking how he commanded troops, turning what was meant to be a lesson on the Records of the Grand Historian into something more like a class on military strategy. But Ning Yi held firm control of the lessons; the first half could still cover the actual text, and it was only in the latter portion, when he let them discuss freely, that things tended to devolve into this.
By the third day, some students had even brought knives, intending to attack him. The one who led the charge was subdued by Ning Yi with barely any effort, but the others ended up brawling with several students from the class. Both sides squared off against each other — some siding with the three generals who’d died at Huzhou, while those who wanted to study under Ning Yi had mostly come to see him as a master strategist originally belonging to the imperial court’s side; their family elders were, likewise, military commanders themselves, and now that Ning Yi was teaching here, they hoped to “recruit” him properly, so to speak, and learn from him directly.
To these children, a young teacher like Ning Yi — originally on the “orthodox” side and evidently possessed of real skill — held far more appeal than the bandit-like uncles they usually saw around them.
At first, a few students suggested having their uncles and elders come to the academy to meet Ning Yi, and perhaps formally recruit him to their side — but when they raised the idea at home, hardly anyone actually came. As mid-level commanders, most of the adults maintained a policy of steering well clear of the matter entirely. A few did encourage their children to learn what they could from this “Bloodhanded Butcher” Ning Liheng. On the other side, the students who wanted to make trouble for Ning Yi went home and stirred things up too, but no one actually showed up leading troops to kill him either — though, likewise, their families encouraged them to handle the matter on their own.
And so, from that day forward, the clashes at Wenlie Academy, both large and small, kept escalating in one form or another. These children, already somewhat divided into factions based on their families’ allegiances, only grew more intense in their rivalries as time went on — until, before long, this academy meant for the study of the sages’ teachings had, in effect, become a miniature military academy.
Ning Yi found the whole situation rather surprising at first. But before long, he began deliberately guiding it in a particular direction…