Just as spring returned once more to the land of the Central Plains, in the mountain forests of the southwest, a riot of color had already been in bloom for some time.

In Xiaoliang Mountains, where it was spring all year round, winter’s passing left little impression on anyone. Compared to the heavy snows that had once sealed off the mountains at Xiaocang River, or the barren poverty of the northwest, here winter was little more than a name applied to a stretch of the calendar—it carried no real weight of its own.

Naturally, there had been a grand celebration at the turn of the year, and before long, the third month had arrived almost without anyone noticing. Rice seedlings had gone into the paddies; every morning, looking out across the land, the high peaks and low ridges were thick with lush trees, grass, and flowers. Aside from the difficulty of the roads, the area around Jishan was very nearly a paradise on earth.

On the mountain east of the city, all the trees had long since been cleared away, terraced fields carved out, roads laid, houses built—a sight pleasing to the eye, in its own way, for this particular age.

This area was home to members of the Black Banner’s inner circle.

He Wen rose early every day; before dawn had fully broken, he was already up to exercise, then to read through a text, preparing carefully for his lessons. By the time the sky had only just begun to lighten, the paths in front of and behind the houses were already alive with people moving about. The craftsmen of the workshops and the Institute of Natural Philosophy lived mixed in among the schoolteachers here, and every so often the sound of greetings and casual chatter would drift over.

In Wu Dynasty society, the caste hierarchy of scholar, farmer, artisan, and merchant had, in practice, already begun to fix itself in place. Between the status of a craftsman and that of a scholar lay a gulf as wide as heaven from earth. But across the more than ten years from the days of Zhuji to the founding of the Chinese Army, the craftsmen under Ning Yi’s command had gradually trained themselves, gradually formed a system of their own, and many had since learned to read and write as well. By now, there was hardly much of a barrier left between them and men of letters. Naturally, He Wen had his own opinions about this latter development, though there was little use voicing them—for the moment, his position here was, on the one hand, that of a teacher, and on the other, that of a prisoner.

He Wen came originally from a great clan family in the Jiangzhe region, a scholar-knight equally skilled in letters and in arms. Years before, when war broke out in the north, he had gone to the Central Plains hoping to do his part, and through a chain of circumstance had found his way into the Black Banner army, forming genuine bonds with more than a few of its members. The year before, when Ning Yi had returned and begun purging spies from within the ranks, He Wen had been arrested for his contacts with the outside world. Yet after his capture, Ning Yi had made no particular trouble for him—simply keeping him at Jishan to teach Confucian studies for half a year, with an agreement that once that time was up, he would be set free.

Being a man skilled in both letters and arms, and proud by nature, once the agreement had been struck, he set about teaching in earnest. In the classroom, before a group of young students, he analyzed the vast breadth of Confucian learning, and picked apart the potential problems the Chinese Army might yet run into. At first he had been met with resistance, but by now he had won the genuine respect of a good number of students—a respect earned through learning alone. In these past few months, members of the Black Banner had also taken to coming by to “debate” with him, and He Wen, no dusty old pedant himself, but a scholar-knight in his thirties with broad learning and a sharp mind, had time and again managed to argue his opponents down.

The time for his departure was drawing steadily nearer now.

He Wen had no doubts about the promise Ning Yi had made him back then. Counting everything, including these six months, he had now spent, all told, three years within the Black Banner. During his time at Hedeng, he had been treated with considerable respect; later, once discovered as a spy, it was no longer suitable for him to keep teaching there, so he had been transferred to Jishan—but even then, he had not been subjected to any excessive harassment.

Zhuo Xiaofeng, in charge of security at Jishan county, had grown familiar with him; the man had founded the Yongle Youth League, and was someone deeply devoted to ideas of equality and the Great Unity, often bringing up unorthodox notions to debate with He Wen. Among those responsible for commerce at Jishan was a young man named Qin Shaoyu, originally a nephew of Qin Siyuan; during the chaos in which Qin Siyuan had been killed, Qin Shaoyu had been badly wounded by Lin Zongwu and had been confined to a wheelchair ever since. He Wen deeply admired the name of Qin Siyuan, and admired the old man’s annotated commentary on the Four Books as well, and often sought Qin Shaoyu out for conversation. Qin Shaoyu’s own grasp of Confucian learning was not especially deep, but he spoke honestly of many things concerning Qin Siyuan—including the old man’s dealings with Ning Yi, and how he himself, once a dissolute young wastrel, had been shaped under Ning Yi’s influence into the man he was today. All of this left a deep impression on He Wen.

Because of the Black Banner’s history of regicide, there were not many Confucian disciples within its ranks, and truly learned scholars were fewer still—but the Black Banner’s leadership treated even these few with courtesy. Men like He Wen, kept for a time and then released, were not without precedent, and so He Wen felt no real fear that they might turn on him with violence.

Through these three years in the Chinese Army, he had spent most of his time on guard, wary. Now, with his departure drawing near, looking back, he found himself struck by the realization that this place, set against the outside world, was practically another world entirely. This world held much that was plain and uniform, but also a great deal of chaos, confusing enough that it was hard to make sense of.

Centered on Hedeng, there was the propagation of the “Four Peoples” concept; among the radical young followers of the Yongle line within Overlord Blade Battalion, the most fervent preaching of “equality for all”; within the Institute of Natural Philosophy, the promotion of “logic,” and the Mohist-inflected thinking that some young people pursued, seeking connections between all things; and at Jishan county, preaching of a “spirit of contract,” alongside frank talk of greed and laziness. All of these lay at the heart of this confusing jumble.

The Chinese Army was, after all, a military organization. Over its years of growth, its fighting strength had become formidable enough to shake the whole realm—but the entire system numbered no more than two hundred thousand or so people, caught in a difficult bind, and it was simply not possible for it to have developed a fully systematic culture of its own. Most of these ideas and doctrines came from Ning Yi and his disciples, and many of them remained little more than slogans, or still only in their earliest, sprouting stages. Discussions among a hundred or so people could hardly be called a proper “school of thought,” and a scholar like He Wen could easily see contradictions running through some of these ideas even as they stood. And yet there was something puzzling, something worth pondering, in Ning Yi’s approach to it all.

By comparison, slogans like “the rise and fall of the nation is every commoner’s responsibility” were, in fact, simpler and more mature.

Of course, all of this gave him much to think about. But there were other matters troubling him besides.

After his morning exercises came the crowing of roosters, and not long after that, footsteps sounded outside; someone opened the fence gate and came in. Through the window, a woman’s figure crossed the small courtyard, then went into the kitchen to light the stove and prepare breakfast.

He Wen read his texts aloud in a clear voice, then prepared the lesson he would give that day. By the time he had finished and stepped outside, the morning porridge was already ready, and the woman in her plain, coarse-cloth robe had already left, her head lowered.

The woman’s name was Lin Jingmei—she was, herself, one of the things troubling him.

To speak fairly, even though the Chinese Army had fought and clawed its way here through seas of blood, that did not mean the army valued only martial skill. Even in this age, and even somewhat diminished, men of letters were still admired and looked up to. He Wen was thirty-eight this year, skilled equally in letters and arms, striking in appearance, at precisely the age when a man’s learning and bearing had settled into their finest form. When he had first entered the Black Banner army, he had claimed that his wife, concubines, and children had all been killed by the Jurchens; and once he had grown familiar with life in the Black Banner, he naturally caught the affections of quite a few women, Lin Jingmei among them.

When He Wen had first entered the Black Banner army, he had done so with a kind of tragic, heroic resolve—having thrown himself into this den of devils, he had already set aside all thought of life or death. This girl, Lin Jingmei, was nineteen years old, fully twelve years his junior, but in this day and age, that hardly counted as anything unusual. She was the daughter of a Chinese Army martyr; delicate in appearance but unyielding at heart, and once she had taken a liking to him, she looked after him with great care, with a whole circle of brothers and elders egging her on besides. He Wen, though he claimed his heart was wounded, could hardly keep up such a pose forever as time wore on, and in the end, the girl came to wash his clothes and cook his meals; to outside eyes, they were already, in effect, a couple who would surely marry before too long.

In truth, in an age when male dominance still prevailed, He Wen, born to a family of scholars, had never taken to kitchen work even after learning martial arts, and had always kept his distance from it. Lin Jingmei’s care did genuinely make his life much easier. He had never taken advantage of the girl’s innocence directly—that restraint was something he had held onto, later, once he had grown familiar with the people of the Black Banner.

Then, half a year ago, the news came out that He Wen had been a spy all along. Those who watched over Lin Jingmei had perhaps been given some warning, and did not go out of their way to make trouble for him. But Lin Jingmei herself was heartbroken, and vanished for quite a while. Then, this past winter, she had been transferred to Jishan after all, and came every day to wash his clothes and cook his meals just as before—only now, she no longer spoke to him at all. No one lacking in feeling could witness such devotion and remain unmoved by it, and this attitude of hers only left He Wen more troubled than ever.

After breakfast, he cleared away the dishes and set off for the Chinese Army’s children’s school not far up the mountainside. The relatively advanced Confucian teachings required a certain foundation, so He Wen did not teach young children at the beginner level, but mostly taught teenagers of fourteen or fifteen. Ning Yi, in fact, placed considerable importance on Confucian scholarship, and some of the children sent to He Wen’s classroom had received Ning Yi’s own direct instruction at times; many of them had lively minds, and questions came up now and then in class.

Today several more students had joined; among the young people seated toward the back of the classroom was, unmistakably, Ning Xi, Ning Yi’s eldest son—He Wen had seen him before, and so he understood that Ning Yi must have come to Jishan county himself.

This particular lesson did not go smoothly either. He Wen’s lecture had gotten to the “Liyun” chapter of the Book of Rites, tying it together with the ideas of Confucius and Laozi concerning the Great Unity and the Age of Modest Prosperity—content that could hardly avoid stirring up debate within the Chinese Army. As the lesson was nearing its end, several of the boys who had come with Ning Xi stood up with questions. The questions themselves were fairly shallow, but they had no shortage of youthful persistence, and He Wen sat there addressing each point one by one. Eventually the discussion turned to the Chinese Army’s own strategic plans, and he held forth at some length on the disorder inherent in the kind of world the Chinese Army meant to build. The class ran well past noon before it finally stopped, with Ning Xi eventually unable to resist joining the debate himself—only to be thoroughly outmatched by He Wen just the same.

It was a mark of the Chinese Army that, however lively and open to questions the classroom atmosphere was, respect for one’s teacher remained a matter of strict discipline—otherwise a man as sharp-tongued as He Wen would surely have found himself set upon and denounced as a reactionary before long.

After the lesson ended, he returned to his courtyard. The food had gone somewhat cold; Lin Jingmei sat waiting for him in the room, her eyes rimmed faintly red, as though she had been crying. As He Wen entered, she rose to leave, murmuring quietly, “This afternoon—mind what you say.”

He Wen sat down, and only after Lin Jingmei had left the house did he stand again. “These past months—my thanks for your care, Miss Lin. I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry.”

Lin Jingmei hurried away, seemingly in tears.

In the afternoon, He Wen went to the school as usual, tidying his papers, quietly preparing his lesson. Around three in the afternoon, a girl with a scar on her face, much like his own, came to find him, saying Ning Yi wished to see him. The girl’s eyes were cold, her tone unfriendly—she was the Seventh Young Miss of the Su family, a close friend of Lin Jingmei’s. Since his capture, He Wen had crossed paths with her a few times, never receiving a warm reception, which was, naturally enough, only to be expected.

He Wen followed the Seventh Miss out, leaving the school behind, down along the road toward a marketplace not far off. As he walked, taking in the buildings around him, a wave of feeling stirred in him. Along the way, he passed a small figure shouting loudly, handing out pamphlets to passersby: “…Everyone in this world is equal. Those great men have hands and heads and feet, and so do you and I—there’s no real difference between one person and another…”

This was one of the Overlord Blade Battalion’s people—followers of Liu Xigua, one of Ning Yi’s wives. They carried on the legacy of the Yongle line, holding equality above all else, and had even instituted “democratic voting” within their battalion, pushing their demands for equality even further than Ning Yi’s own “Four Peoples” concept. They held forth regularly at Jishan, with a gathering held once each day, and even some of the merchants who came from outside the mountains had been drawn in by curiosity to go and watch in the evenings. But to He Wen, all of this was among the most bewildering things of all. The commercial system at Jishan, for instance, openly extolled greed, spoke of “pursuing profit through proper means”; the Institute of Natural Philosophy, meanwhile, extolled wisdom and efficient laziness besides—these systems, in the end, inevitably sorted people into ranks of one kind or another, and ideas so at odds with one another would surely tear the whole thing apart from within, one day.

He could not quite make sense of this eccentric streak in Ning Yi’s thinking, but he found it remarkably easy to use these same contradictions to run circles around Ning Xi and the other children.

In the past, He Wen had regarded all this preaching with deep suspicion and no small amount of disdain; now, though, he found himself feeling a faint pang of nostalgia for it already. This atmosphere of “heretical, deviant nonsense” simply did not exist anywhere beyond these mountains.

He had not walked much further, not yet reaching the busy part of the market, when he was brought instead to the Chinese Army’s office, where Ning Yi was waiting for him. The compound was rather heavily guarded; next door, he could see Ning Xi and his companions bent over their desks, copying out lines of text. When He Wen arrived, Ning Yi was just seeing off a merchant from Dali, and then, his expression perfectly ordinary, invited He Wen to sit, and poured him a cup of tea.

Most of the time, when Ning Yi met people, his face carried a smile—it had been the same the last time he’d met He Wen, and even knowing He Wen was a spy, Ning Yi had never made things difficult for him. But this time, the man whose very stamp of the foot could shake the realm sat with a grave expression, silent for a moment in the chair across from him.

“This morning, I had a talk with Jingmei.”

“Ah.” Only then did He Wen understand why Lin Jingmei’s eyes had been red at midday.

Ning Yi thought for a while longer, sighed, and finally spoke, choosing his words carefully.

“Jingmei’s father was named Lin Nian. Over ten years ago, he carried a rather famous nickname—the Five Phoenix Blade. Back in those days, I was still running the Zhuji trading house, and had ties to the Secret Investigation Bureau besides. Some men of the martial world came to kill me; others came to join me. Lin Nian came in that latter group. He was a true hero—formidable in skill, but never one to bully the weak. I remember when he first arrived, he was gaunt from hunger, and Jingmei even more so. She was frail and sickly from birth, hardly any hair on her head—a real scrap of a thing. It was pitiful just to look at her…”

Ning Yi’s voice was low and unhurried, half lost in memory as he told the story. “Later, when the Jurchens came, I led men out to help the Chancellor’s household carry out a scorched-earth defense. After one great battle, our whole force was routed, and I led men back toward Qi County to burn the grain stores there. Master Lin Nian died on that very road. He fought the Jurchens until there was nothing left of him, and when he died, his one and only wish was that we would look after his daughter.”

“And then?” He Wen’s gaze remained calm, betraying little emotion.

“I took Jingmei in as my own daughter.” Ning Yi looked at him. “You’re twelve years her senior—old enough to be her father. When she first took a liking to you, I was against it. But she’s soft outside and unbending within, and I thought, well, you’re a good man after all—no one else seemed to mind, so I let it be. Later… the first time your identity came to light, it was a month before we were meant to act against you. By the time I knew, it was already too late.”

He Wen quirked the corner of his mouth. “I assumed Mr. Ning had called me here either to let me go, or to discuss affairs of state, or perhaps to settle a score, since I humiliated your son in the classroom this morning. I never expected you’d want to talk to me about matters of the heart instead.”

He had already braced himself, unmoved by the man’s words. But Ning Yi paid no mind to his barbed reply either. He sat there, leaning forward, rubbing a hand over his face. “There’s nothing in this world that can’t be discussed with anyone. I’m only asking, as a private matter, that you consider staying—for Jingmei’s sake. It would make her happy.”

“And Mr. Ning finds this the more important matter?”

Ning Yi looked at him. “Is there anything more important than this?”

“I see no hope here. Why would I stay?”

“Isn’t the chance to defeat the Jurchens hope enough?”

“A doctrine that can’t hold up to scrutiny offers no hope at all.”

He Wen met him blow for blow. Ning Yi fell silent for a moment, then leaned back in his chair and nodded. “I understand. Whether you decide to stay or leave today, this was the conversation I wanted to have with you regardless.”

He Wen laughed. “Mr. Ning is refreshingly direct.”

“It’s not that I’m being direct. I only wanted to see how you truly feel about Jingmei. The fact that you avoided the subject tells me there’s something there, at least.”

He Wen fell silent at that. Ning Yi glanced toward the door. “What you really want to know, Mr. He, is how the realm ought to be governed in the future. But I’d rather talk about a problem—one in your own way of thinking, in the thinking of Confucian scholars generally, in the thinking of a great many people.”

“Mr. Ning has already said a good deal on that subject before.” He Wen spoke without the deliberate hostility of before.

“…When I was young, my thoughts were much like anyone else’s. I was clever enough as a child, quick-witted. A person who’s quick-witted inevitably thinks rather highly of himself, and I was no exception—I had plenty of confidence in myself. You, Mr. He, like so many Confucian scholars, might not go so far as to say you’d save the world, but you’d surely feel that if it were you doing the work, things would turn out differently—that where others failed, you would succeed. The simplest example: if I held office, of course I wouldn’t be a corrupt official. What does Mr. He make of that? Did you think this way as a boy?”

He Wen looked at him. “Even now, I would never become a corrupt official.”

Ning Yi’s smile grew complicated. “Yes, that’s how it felt to me too, back then. Was money really so important? Was power really so important? Could the road of honest poverty, the right path, truly be impossible to walk? It wasn’t until one day, quite suddenly, that I realized something—those corrupt officials, those villains, those hopeless, scheming wretches, they were clever too. Many of them, in fact, cleverer than I was… Once I truly understood that, there was one question that changed the whole course of my life. What I mean is, my entire worldview—everything I understood about the world—turned upside down.”

Ning Yi’s gaze turned cold as he looked at He Wen. “Why did Mr. He fail?”

He Wen tilted his head back. “Hm?”

“A man as outstanding as He Wen—why did he become a corrupt official? A man as outstanding as Qin Siyuan—why did he fail? Among the countless, innumerable outstanding men this world has produced, what necessary reason is there that so many of them became corrupt officials, unable to hold onto the upright ideals they started with? Mr. He, the resolve never to become a corrupt official, no matter what—do you think that belongs only to you? Or only to me? The truth is, it belongs to everyone, nearly everyone. No one wants to do evil, to become corrupt—and among them, countless clever men. So whatever it is they run into, it must be something more terrifying, and more reasonable, than death itself.”

“What kind of circumstance is it, that leads a man to fail, gradually and inevitably? It was after this question that I truly began to understand this world…”

Ning Yi sighed, and stood, his expression somewhat complicated.