The words Ji Kun spoke after that brief pause gave Wenren Buer a rough sense of how the others regarded Ning Yi.

Back at the Overlord Blade Camp, whatever Ning Yi and Liu Dabiao had put together had, naturally, involved all sorts of calculation. After the fall of the city, Wenren Buer had gathered together every scrap of material and sent it all to Bian Liang—partly because, after investigating, he’d learned that this Liu Xigua, however reckless she seemed, was in fact an extremely sharp woman; deceiving her, even for someone like Ning Yi, would not have been easy.

As for whatever deeper meaning lay within the material Ning Yi had produced, Wenren Buer himself had never bothered to look closely. He had simply assumed that if his teacher or those around his teacher were meant to see through the situation, they would find whatever clues there were to find—but he had never imagined that what had truly caught his teacher’s attention wasn’t the poems Ning Yi had once written for Liu Dabiao, nor the record of his words and actions at the Overlord Blade Camp, but rather these pages on the desk—texts that, though directed by Ning Yi, were mostly not written in his own hand.

Back at the Overlord Blade Camp, Ning Yi had rounded up a great many scholars living in fear after the city’s fall, assigning them the task of writing essays, which they could then exchange for food. This measure had ultimately preserved a great number of scholars, and even their families had survived because of it. And yet, even by Wenren Buer’s own judgment, the essays these men turned in had genuinely been of poor quality. As he saw it, a great man of letters like Ning Yi surely knew this perfectly well—he’d collected the essays batch after batch, and though he’d sometimes scolded the writers and withheld their food, it was truly only because some of them had gone too far in their carelessness.

At the time, most of the scholars in Hangzhou had felt that Ning Yi was helping a tyrant do evil, becoming a lackey of the Overlord Blade Camp. But to Wenren Buer’s eyes, Ning Yi had endured great humiliation and hardship to shelter so many people, at a time when even preserving himself was no easy task—truly the bearing of a sage. By contrast, these scholars, for all their literary talent, had turned in essays that were nothing but careless, halfhearted work. Liu Xigua was no fool—if blame had come down for it, the pressure would naturally have fallen on Ning Yi.

Given the choice, Wenren Buer would have preferred that, after the city fell, these scholars come to recognize the debt of life they owed to Ning Yi. But in the end, all of this had had to remain hidden in the shadows, unspoken. As for the essays these scholars had written, they were no secret at all—Ning Yi had, at the time, sent them straight to the school at the Overlord Blade Camp for the students to read aloud and pick apart for flaws, and many copies had been made. Though the conclusions in these essays diverged somewhat from mainstream thought of the day, their foundation still rested on the teachings of Confucius and Mencius; they weren’t seditious in any real sense. Wenren Buer had simply gathered and forwarded them as a matter of course—only here had they suddenly caught Qin Siyuan’s serious attention.

“The people are of highest importance, the altars of soil and grain come next, the ruler is of least weight… every man can become a sage-king, or as the Book of Changes says of the hexagram Qian, ‘seeing the flock of dragons without a head—auspicious’… Placed in the mouth of a rebel, these might seem like nothing more than idle grumbling. But think it through carefully, and it’s quite extraordinary,” Yao Zunian said. “The sages of old governed the realm through virtue. But what does governance through virtue truly mean? The sages taught and transformed the people, and the people, in following that teaching, would not pick up what was dropped on the road, nor need to bolt their doors at night. Now the laws grow ever more elaborate, yet the world only grows worse. Men like Lü Jifang failed precisely because the villagers had never truly been transformed by teaching. But how to transform them—and how to make that transformation actually effective—that is the truly difficult question…”

“What Elder Yao means is…” Wenren Buer thought it over, looking at the essays on the table. “That these might actually work?”

“My teacher and the rest of us believe that, on a small scale, they truly might work,” Yao Zunian said, nodding. “As for whether it could work across the whole realm—that’s something even the sages themselves could never achieve, so how could we presume to see that far ahead… Of course, these essays really are a bit too crude and playful. But the direction may well not be wrong. Consider what he did at the Overlord Blade Camp—selecting men of talent and virtue, seemingly in jest, and yet he deliberately allowed those at the top to cheat, even seeming to provoke public outrage on purpose. What mattered wasn’t really finding talented men at all—it was making people understand that within any given circle, if you want something, you must first reach out and take it, or you will end up with nothing at all. That kind of self-awareness is the rarest thing of all…”

He paused. “And if this were merely a small matter, it would only prove that this Master Ning has a gift for manipulating people’s hearts—a skill he’s already demonstrated fully enough elsewhere. But these essays here prove that what he wants to touch is no longer merely people’s hearts, but something greater. Wenren, a man capable of thinking this far ahead is already fit to sit and debate the great questions with anyone alive. Because only ideas like these can carry the transmission of the Way forward—this is human nature itself, not merely the workings of an individual heart. What this Master Ning did at the Overlord Blade Camp may look, on the surface, like a bit of playful mischief, but the interlocking logic behind it is not something one man could work out in a year or two of thought… This Master Ning is truly one of our own kind.”

Wenren Buer hesitated. “But… along the way, we did talk about this sort of thing, and he seemed rather dismissive of it…”

“Teacher said the same.” Yao Zunian laughed. “Back in Jiangning, apparently this young man came across as somewhat lazy and indifferent, showing no regard for Confucian orthodoxy at all—but looking back now, I think we misjudged him. The more one understands, the more one realizes how hard the path truly is—especially the ideal of Great Unity. It is no easy thing. Since ancient times, countless men have begun with burning enthusiasm, only to grow disheartened once they witnessed the ways of the world, retreating into the mountains and forests. My own late teacher, Master Hushan, was the same—worn down by the intrigues of officialdom and the mediocrity of the world, he resigned his post and withdrew from worldly affairs entirely, never involving himself again.”

“This Master Ning is said to have been dull and unremarkable as a boy, with nothing notable about him at all—until, upon reaching adulthood, he suddenly became a matrilocal son-in-law, marrying into a merchant family. Wenren, short of some great upheaval of the heart, who would ever make such a choice?”

Wenren Buer rubbed his nose. “Hmm, I’ve wondered about that myself…”

“After marrying in, his temperament grew markedly more free and unrestrained—clearly he had let go of whatever had once weighed on him. And yet, ever since, whenever the subject of Confucianism or the transmission of the Way comes up, he either claims ignorance or shows open disdain, as if trying to draw a clean line between himself and it. Wenren, this Ning family is said to have long been a household of scholars, and he himself studied diligently from childhood—right up until he married in, he was still, by all accounts, a proper Confucian scholar. And yet the moment he married in, he suddenly claimed to have nothing whatsoever to do with that identity. He says he lost his memory, but a man who has spent over a decade studying, who has had the Four Books and Five Classics at his side since childhood—how could he simply cast all that aside in an instant? The whole realm studies Confucius and Mencius today—why would he need to draw such a sharp line for himself?”

Wenren Buer nodded slowly. “…You think he’s putting it on?”

“He’ll never admit as much to our faces, and there’s no real need for us to press him on it. I have seen men who lost their memory before—it does happen, occasionally, that a man once dull suddenly seems to awaken. But even then, there is usually some traceable pattern to it, before and after. This Master Ning’s case is genuinely strange—suddenly awakened, composing poetry and prose with effortless ease, and yet claiming unfamiliarity with Confucian learning. Before and after, he seems almost like two entirely different men. It looks less like an awakening and more like a man who has suddenly worked something through and reached clarity. We are not yet close enough to him to know for certain—this is simply how we’ve come to understand it.”

“If marrying in was, to him, something like taking monastic vows, that would certainly make sense.” Wenren Buer frowned, thinking it over, then nodded, looking around at the others. “Watching how Ning Liheng conducts himself—bold, holding nothing back—that’s certainly the manner of a man who has truly let go of something. Put that way, Elder Yao, it really does seem possible. He chose to marry in, and in doing so, set down whatever had once burdened him—only afterward did he begin looking at the world anew. But as for whatever had troubled him before, he simply never touches it again… if it hadn’t been for what happened in Hangzhou…”

“If it hadn’t been for Hangzhou, I doubt he’d have brought any of this out again,” Yao Zunian said, picking up the thread with a smile. “Looking at his poetry, the pieces he wrote himself are bold and free, tossed off without effort, and yet he himself doesn’t seem to hold poetry in particularly high regard. Even the pieces he wrote for Liu Xigua—some grand and sweeping, some tender and lingering—every single one is a genuine masterpiece. If the facts weren’t laid out plainly before me, I would never have believed it. For a man to produce so much, so effortlessly, one can only call it heaven-given genius—and precisely because he writes so well without trying, he seems not to care about it at all. Perhaps that’s exactly why what has occupied his thoughts since childhood could only be something far more demanding than that. Aside from the ideal of Great Unity, what else could keep a man like this appearing dull and withdrawn, day after day?”

“What a pity, though—he never had a teacher of matching learning at his side, and he missed the best years for it, which only drove him further into his own private obsession. The older he grew, the more he must have felt the difficulty of the world, and perhaps unable to work his way through it, he chose to marry in, and using the excuse of lost memory, became someone else entirely…”

Yao Zunian’s rather wistful words formed, in the end, a theory about Ning Yi. Honestly speaking, that a young man in his twenties should think so deeply about the transmission of the Way as to abandon everything for it was a rather astonishing thing to suppose. And yet, with the poems and prose Ning Yi had produced laid out before them, and his accomplishments far surpassing those of his peers, it began to seem all the more plausible.

The capital was never short of talented men, and even among the talented, true prodigies were not unheard of. Of those present, aside from Ji Kun and Wenren Buer, the other three had each, at one point or another, been called a heaven-given genius themselves. That Ning Yi could sketch out even the rough shape of something as vast as “Great Unity” was astonishing, certainly, but not beyond comprehension. And so, even the habitually cynical Cheng Zhouhai found himself rather intrigued by this Ning Liheng.

Outside, the rain fell softly as evening drew near. The men chatted on, waiting for Qin Siyuan to return. Before long, a steward came in to say that the master had already heard of Wenren Buer’s arrival, but that he had some business to attend to and would be back later—the others should go ahead and eat without him.

Qin Siyuan had gone to the Ministry of Finance that afternoon on some matter, and should ordinarily have returned by now. The room held only his closest advisors, and Monk Jueming laughed. “Could it be Tang Qinsou dragged him off to some banquet?”

The steward, familiar enough with the men present, replied with a smile. “From what the messenger reported, he’s headed to Little Candle House.”

At this, the group fell into a brief, stunned silence. The three most famous pleasure houses in Bian Liang at present were Alum Tower, Listening Geese Lodge, and Little Candle House. Qin Siyuan had, of course, been something of a romantic literary figure in his younger days, and even now, as Right Chancellor, occasional entertaining or attending banquets without the company of courtesans was simply not realistic. But he himself had not personally frequented such places in a long while—unless it were some major literary gathering or matter of real importance, a chancellor of the realm was not likely to be seen at a pleasure house again. After a pause, Yao Zunian asked quietly, “Who’s hosting?”

The steward said, “It seems Young Master Sixteen is there.”

“Ah, I see.” Yao Zunian understood at once, shaking his head with a wry laugh.

…

The rain kept falling, and the sky darkened earlier than usual. At Little Candle House, one of the capital’s three great pleasure houses, lanterns were now lighting up one by one, like scattered points of light rising slowly to the surface of a vast gray-green sea.

Situated in a stretch of Bian Liang that, though central, was not especially bustling, Little Candle House occupied considerable grounds, with several nearby gardens all belonging to the establishment—a favored retreat for literary gatherings and relaxation. Most of the capital’s finest pleasure houses were built this way, capable of being lively or serene, refined or coarse, as the occasion demanded—after all, those who came here and spent their silver weren’t all simply seeking release.

With evening drawing near, one or two literary gatherings were already underway in the courtyards within. At the entrance, guests came and went now and then, some in fine, wealthy dress, others carrying feather fans with silk headscarves, attended by servant boys or maids holding umbrellas over them, occasionally exchanging greetings—most displaying a fair degree of refinement. Whatever beasts they might be once inside, most still took care to dress properly once out on the street.

A carriage now sat quietly parked along the street outside Little Candle House. Amid the curtain of rain, the driver sat perfectly upright, like a rooted pine, soaked through by the downpour yet utterly still, his sharp gaze watching everything around him. The carriage curtains hung thick and drawn, and a few attendants waited nearby, one of whom, after receiving instructions, had already gone in through the pleasure house’s main gate. The capital held no shortage of powerful and wealthy men, and this carriage’s display was hardly the grandest—parked there in the rain, it drew little particular notice, though the lovely madam at the entrance, true to her habit of never overlooking anyone, came over to greet and inquire, only to be waved away.

Within Little Candle House, the various courtyards and pavilions remained relatively harmonious—men discussing poetry and prose, debating philosophy, or listening to talented women sing while sharing their recent troubles. But today, past the curtain of rain, in the largest and most opulently decorated courtyard of them all, a rather crude game was underway with considerable enthusiasm. Amid the lantern light, one voice stood out above the rest—even through the din behind the closed doors, it managed to carry out through the cracks and past the rain, unmistakable in its distinctiveness.

That fellow was laughing and shouting at the same time.

“…Little rooster~~~ little~ rooster~~~ Beauty! My little rooster’s gone missing… let’s see if it’s hiding in your skirt, hah hah hah hah hah… where do you think you’re running off to, you must have hidden my little rooster somewhere…”

There was an indescribable lewdness in that voice, one that somehow fit perfectly with the tone in which it was delivered.

Inside the room, a half-undressed woman scrambled to dodge away in a panic. A young man in fine but disheveled robes lunged after her with a leering grin…

The room was full of men and women, many of the women already half-undressed, held in someone’s arms or pinned beneath them. These were, of course, all courtesans of the pleasure house, but even in a setting like this, more than a few of the women still wore expressions of awkwardness and reluctance. Little Candle House prided itself on being a somewhat more refined establishment, and its higher-priced women tended to cultivate the image of accomplished ladies of talent—not that they’d never slept with anyone, but in most cases they were still treated with a degree of respect. This particular group of young masters, though, was not one they could afford to offend, and these men cared nothing for anyone’s reserve, so a small number of the women did feel genuinely humiliated. Of course, none of them were pushed to the point of being unable to bear it.

The young masters who had come along each had their own particular temperament. Some had simply pinned the women down beneath them, groping and leering. Others still left the women’s clothing largely intact, content merely to hold them close, cop a feel, and tease them a little—that was more their style of amusement.

At this moment, off to one side of the room, a young man in his early twenties sat with a woman in his arms, his head bowed as he indulged himself, his hand already slipped beneath the hem of her skirt. The woman could only laugh and offer a token show of resistance. Beside them, a man with a rather unsavory face turned his head. “Heh heh, look, look… he’s always the wildest one when things get going, this Philandering Star. Well, Brother Shaoyu, your elder brother here didn’t steer you wrong, did he? I’ll introduce you two properly when there’s a chance…”

Even as he spoke, the lewd man they called the Philandering Star had already, laughing loudly, torn half the woman’s skirt away. However things stood, being left fully exposed in front of so many people was still more than the woman could easily bear, and she clutched at her skirt in a tug-of-war, her voice on the edge of tears, which only excited the man further, making him laugh all the louder. The man they called Shaoyu nodded along with a smile, though his hand showed no sign of leaving the beauty beside him. Just then, someone knocked on the door outside.

The knocking continued for a while. The man tearing at the skirt turned back and jabbed a finger toward the door. “No opening the door! Hah hah hah hah… nobody comes in! I’m looking for my little rooster right now—if you open the door, what if it runs off—”

But the door was pushed open anyway. The man startled, as if suddenly on guard, glancing toward the doorway several times before planting his hands on his hips. “Lu—Qian! I said no opening the door! Did you see that! Did you! My little rooster! It’s run off now—who the hell is this, anyway, what’s their business here! My father is Gao Qiu—”

He kept shouting with his hands on his hips, while behind him, the woman hurriedly pulled her skirt back up and clutched her chest, scrambling to find the rest of her clothes. A sword-bearing man in a court attendant’s uniform stepped through the doorway, head lowered, and another attendant in black gave the room a cupped-hand bow. Before either of them had even fully entered, Qin Shaoyu gave a visible start, released the woman beside him, and jumped to his feet, waving his hands. “It’s mine—he’s mine—” he said, scrambling toward the door.

“Yours? Who are you, anyway! Hey, does anyone know who this is? My father is Gao Qiu—let’s see if I can get away with—”

“The Right Chancellor’s nephew…” Lu Qian murmured close to his ear as he walked over.

“Uh… Old man Qin? My father said he’s supposedly even more formidable than Li Gang… so, not someone to mess with? Never mind then…”

He stood there, hands on hips, looking rather deflated. At the doorway, after a few words with the attendant, Qin Shaoyu turned back with an apologetic, careful expression, saying he had to leave at once, and quickly followed the attendant out. Once he was gone, the Philandering Star pointed after him and cursed. “Spineless coward! Don’t bring him next time… Lu Qian, get out of here already! Shut the door—”

Then he turned back, rubbing his hands together eagerly at the woman behind him, who was still tearfully gathering up her clothes. “Heh heh, little~ rooster~ what were you trying to do, huh? Trying to hide my little rooster again, weren’t you? I do love that look on you when you’re about to cry, hah hah hah hah… go on, cry for me already…”

The voice gradually faded, the rain still falling steadily outside. Qin Shaoyu rushed out of Little Candle House’s main gate in a panic, not even bothering with an umbrella, and stood shivering before the carriage curtain for a moment before hearing a voice from within say, “Come in.” Only then did he dare lift the curtain and climb inside.

Inside the fairly spacious carriage was a small table, with Qin Siyuan and one of his attending advisors seated on either side, documents piled up around them. Qin Siyuan, his hair half-gray now, finished reading one document with narrowed eyes, frowned, jotted a few words on it, and set it aside. Only then did Qin Shaoyu venture, in a trembling voice, “Uncle…”

“The northbound fleet arrived in Bian Liang this afternoon.”

Qin Siyuan glanced at him, tapped the carriage wall, and the vehicle began to move. Amid the gentle swaying, the old man’s tone was flat, not at all scolding, but Qin Shaoyu was already flustered. “Uh, Uncle, I, I… I thought with the heavy rain…” He trailed off, unable to think of an excuse.

“I know.” Qin Siyuan nodded. “Your sworn-brother Wenren has already reached the residence—when you see him tonight or tomorrow, show him proper respect, and seek his guidance where you can. As for your other sworn-brother, Ning Yi, he should already be settled in at Wenhui Tower. I had hoped you’d meet them right away—getting to know a truly capable man is worth a hundred times more than knowing all those idle young masters. If you can learn even a little from him, it will do you a great deal of good in whatever you do from now on. It’s not too late in the evening, and it’s on our way, so I’ll take you to meet him now.”

Qin Shaoyu’s whole body jolted, and he stammered, “How, how could I possibly let you go pay him a visit yourself, Uncle—it, it was my fault, but given your standing, how could you go to see him first? I, I’ll go to Wenhui Tower right now, apologize to Brother Ning myself, Uncle…”

Qin Siyuan, consumed daily with the affairs of state, had never had much time to properly discipline his own family. Since coming to the capital, Qin Shaoyu had certainly felt his uncle’s authority, but what he’d felt far more strongly was the sheer power of the Right Chancellor’s household—Qin Siyuan’s occasional words of correction had never carried much real weight with him before. But now, for the first time, Qin Shaoyu found himself genuinely alarmed, instinctively assuming his uncle’s visit to Ning Yi must somehow be on his account. He wanted badly to jump out of the carriage and rush ahead to Wenhui Tower, but he didn’t dare simply run off in front of Qin Siyuan. Only then did a faint smile cross the old man’s face, and he waved a hand.

“Enough. I know what I’m doing. Proper courtesy matters, but there’s no need to overdo it either. This young friend and I address each other as equals—given what he’s accomplished, it wouldn’t be excessive for you to treat him as a teacher. When we reach Wenhui Tower, go in and invite him to sit with me in the carriage a while—I’ll simply say I was passing by, that’s all. Be gracious to those around him, and see to his comfort properly these next few days. If you can win his regard, that will be good fortune for your future.”

Qin Shaoyu nodded quickly. Though he still felt it was somehow wrong for his uncle to go visit Ning Yi in person, what struck him more was the realization that this uncle of his, chancellor though he was, truly did think of his own relatives despite his overwhelming responsibilities. Having said his piece, the old man picked up another document to read. Qin Shaoyu sat turning the matter over in his mind. After a moment, the old man set down the folder, and before picking up the next, said to him, “As for Gao Muen and that crowd—try to keep your distance from them, as much as you can.”

Qin Shaoyu nodded quickly again. The rain was thinning now, and the city’s lights were coming on in patches. The carriage rolled on through the crowds, turned a street corner, and drew steadily nearer to the brightly lit Wenhui Tower…