Chapter 14: Unexpected Discovery in the Library

In hosting this book gathering, the Zhou family not only wished to display their library but also likely intended for Zhou Mingyuan to meet local scholars, making him the natural centerpiece.

Soon, several men beside the reading desks rose without decorum, flatteringly approaching Zhou Mingyuan to strike up conversation.

The young man merely nodded slightly at the flattery; his gaze swept over the reading desks, pausing nowhere on the patched clothing of some, yet his lips twitched almost imperceptibly when he heard someone mention that one attendee had never attended the county school and still studied in a private tutor’s home to join this gathering.

As the gates opened, Lu Beigu entered the library with the crowd; this three-story building held an abundant collection, and Lu Guangyu exclaimed, “This trip was worth it!”

On every floor, bookshelves bore inscribed sandalwood plaques labeling their categories.

For Lu Beigu, the books he most needed were the annotated commentaries on the Spring and Autumn Annals and the Book of Rites.

After a brief glance, he headed straight for the “Classics Section,” his fingers brushing past several annotated editions of the Book of Rites before suddenly halting.

“What’s this?”

Lu Beigu had not expected such an unexpected discovery.

In a corner of the shelf lay half a tattered volume of the Guliang Supplemental Annotations.

The Guliang school of the Spring and Autumn Annals was initially the faintest among the Three Commentaries; only after Emperor Xuan of Han’s Shiqu Conference, which compared the Gongyang and Guliang interpretations and established Guliang as an official doctoral position, did the Guliang school gain widespread prominence.

Yet after Han and Wei, the current-text classics declined, and great masters with family lineages of transmission vanished entirely; apart from Fan Ning’s Collected Annotations from the Jin and Yang Shixun’s Commentary from the Tang, no other notable Guliang scholars emerged.

Precisely because the corpus was so scarce, Song Confucians studying the Spring and Autumn Annals, though a few incorporated Guliang interpretations, produced not a single renowned master.

Although the ink-essay examinations no longer tested the original texts of the Three Commentaries, candidates still needed to understand their historical evolution.

After all, if the fill-in-the-blank “text-copying” questions offered little distinction among candidates, the ink-essays had always been the “score-differentiating” section, frequently featuring high-difficulty questions.

If one had never studied the commentaries of the relevant school, encountering such questions would inevitably lead to wildly off-topic answers.

Lu Beigu carefully lifted the yellowed pages and found them densely covered with marginal notes; some vermilion-script miniature regular script insights were truly exquisite.

He briefly examined other books and indeed found many rare volumes unavailable on the market, even several high-quality notes by earlier scholars, but the rest were far too voluminous.

For him at this moment, the easiest to transcribe and take away was this one, so he picked up the half-volume of the Guliang Supplemental Annotations and descended the stairs.

On the reading desks lay the Four Treasures of the Study; although the library’s books could not be removed, attendees were permitted to recite or copy them on the spot, and Lu Beigu immediately bent over to transcribe.

For many, this gathering was merely a pretext for socializing, so most were chatting; few even read seriously, let alone someone quietly copying like him.

Yet prolonged conversation was tiring.

After walking several miles of mountain paths and conversing for half the day, Lu Guangyu’s stomach growled loudly, yet he saw Lu Beigu still bent over writing, a stack of rice paper beside him as high as a fingernail.

“I’m hungry,” Lu Guangyu asked plainly. “Brother Lu, did you bring any food?”

Lu Beigu, one hand still writing, reached into his satchel and pulled out the locust-flower cakes his sister-in-law had prepared, breaking off half and handing it to him.

The cakes were still warm; biting into them released the sweet fragrance of locust blossoms mingled with the aroma of coarse grain, causing several nearby students to swallow involuntarily.

At that moment, Zhou Mingyuan strolled over, flicking his folding fan: “Brother, you may endure hunger for now—the noon banquet’s dishes are exquisite; you’ll eat until your belly is round and full.”

Before Lu Beigu could reply, a soft laugh came from behind the rockery.

“Brother Zhou, that’s odd—food and sex are the great human desires; why endure hunger?”

A teenage boy stepped out from behind the rockery, wearing a loose sky-blue lan shirt, a jade belt around his waist bearing a wine gourd.

Zhou Mingyuan’s expression changed slightly: “Young Master Ji, you jest.”

The boy ignored him, walking straight to Lu Beigu’s desk and suddenly leaning down to sniff: “Locust-flower cakes? May I have a bite?”

Without waiting for an answer, he pinched the remaining half and shoved it into his mouth, mumbling, “A bit less sugar… but better than their pastries.”

He then unfastened his wine gourd and set it on the desk: “Trade it for your cake—fair deal?”

Lu Beigu looked up at the brazen boy, his peripheral vision catching Zhou Mingyuan’s knuckles whitening as he gripped his fan—certainly not aimed at him, since he hadn’t spoken a word!

Lu Beigu then understood.

These two were likely feuding behind the scenes, and he was merely collateral damage.

That was none of his concern.

Seeing Lu Beigu pay them no attention and continue his quiet transcription, the two found it difficult to escalate further.

“Do you know who that is?”

After they left, Lu Guangyu whispered: “That’s Ji Yun, the son of the Ji family, the great book merchant of Zizhou Road—famous for his brilliance. The Ji family are genuine wealthy merchants, a tier above the Zhou family, who profit from the Anle Creek wine monopoly, and they have strong ties to the academic officials of Zizhou Road.”

Here’s a lesser-known fact: the term “Sichuan” did not exist before Emperor Zhenzong of Song.

At the founding of the Song, the empire established Xichuan Road and Xiáxi Road in Bashu, collectively called “Chuan-Xia Two Roads”; later merged into Chuan-Xia Road, and during Emperor Zhenzong’s Xianping era, it was divided into four roads: Yizhou, Zizhou, Lizhou, and Kuizhou, collectively known as the “Four Chuan-Xia Roads,” hence the later shorthand “Sichuan.”

For modern readers, the Four Chuan-Xia Roads are easy to understand: Lizhou corresponds to Hanzhong, Kuizhou to Chongqing, Yizhou to the western half of the basin, and Zizhou to the eastern half.

“Oh.”

Lu Beigu had no interest in the squabbles of young aristocrats; he lifted his brush and resumed transcribing.

To him, such matters were utterly trivial; what mattered now was finishing the transcription of this half-volume of the Guliang Supplemental Annotations and deepening his understanding of Guliang interpretations for the ink-essays.

When Lu Beigu finally finished copying, the banquet was about to begin.

Inside the flower pavilion, sandalwood incense curled through the air; twelve mother-of-pearl screens filtered the afternoon sunlight into hazy golden shards.

As Lu Beigu joined the others at their seats, he noticed the tables arranged in two concentric rings: the inner circle held carved redwood tables for retired officials and wealthy merchants, while the students sat cross-legged on the outer ring’s qingtan long tables, many having discarded their footrests entirely.

The host, Squire Zhou, introduced those in the inner circle, among whom the Ji family’s great book merchant from Zizhou Road was clearly present.

Finally, Squire Zhou announced the banquet’s theme.

“—Today’s literary banquet’s theme is ‘wine.’”

(End of Chapter)