Chapter 49

The courtyard was deep, the bamboo lush and dense.

Wang Yang and Liu Zhao walked along a bamboo path, guided ahead by a neatly dressed young servant.

Liu Zhao admired the bamboo grove, feeling his spirit expand and refresh: “Your master really knows how to pick a place—such a vast bamboo grove within the city is rare indeed.”

The servant said: “Master says this grove is the rebirth of the Bamboo Grove of the Seven Sages.”

Liu Zhao laughed: “Only he could say something like that.” Then he whispered to Wang Yang:

“My friend is a good man, but his nature is eccentric—he’s often called ‘possessing the spirit of Ruan Ji.’ If he accidentally offends you, please don’t take it personally!”

The master of this estate was Zong Ce, styled Jingwei, a renowned scholar of Jingzhou City. He was wild and unrestrained, long famed for his lofty character.

When Prince of Yuzhang governed Jingzhou, he once offered Zong Ce a prestigious post as Counselor with lavish gifts, but Zong Ce refused.

Five years ago, when the Prince of Luling served as Inspector of Jingzhou, he summoned Zong Ce with the honors of a woven carriage and silk bundles—yet Zong Ce refused.

Even a prince’s face was not spared; his temper was plainly immense.

In the Southern Dynasties, local administration followed a three-tier system: county, commandery, province. Jingzhou City belonged to Jiangling County, hence also called “Jiangling City”; Jiangling County fell under Nanchun Commandery, and since Jiangling City was also the capital of Nanchun Commandery, it bore the alternate name “Nanchun City”; Nanchun City was the seat of the entire Jingzhou province (akin to a provincial capital), hence the name “Jingzhou City.”

This is how the “three names for one city” came to be.

Zong Ce’s son, Zong Rui, currently serves as Deputy Commandant of Nanchun Commandery—a role akin to a provincial secretary-general, responsible for household registration, among other duties. That is why Liu Zhao brought Wang Yang here to visit Zong Ce: it was about household registration.

Since he was seeking a favor, Wang Yang had no grounds to be offended. Moreover, this man embodied the spirit of Wei-Jin scholars, which stirred Wang Yang’s curiosity—he longed to witness this so-called “scholarly grace.”

The three emerged from the bamboo grove to find a small lake before them.

On the grass beside the lake lay seven flat, mirror-like stones arranged in an arc.

Upon one stone sat a man in a loose white robe, eyes closed, humming softly, chest bare, lying at ease.

As the three approached, they heard him chant: “I am sent far to the capital, yet turn back northward. Crossing the Yellow River in a boat, I pass by the old home of Shanyang...”

Wang Yang recognized it as lines from Xiang Xiu’s “Ode to the Past,” written in mourning for Ji Kang and other old friends among the Seven Sages.

Liu Zhao stepped forward: “Jingwei, are you planning another outing?”

Zong Ce kept his eyes closed: “I just bought this house—I won’t leave it. This is spiritual travel.”

He continued chanting: “Gazing at the vast, desolate fields, I halt my carriage at the city’s edge. Treading the traces of those two, I pass through empty, abandoned lanes...”

Liu Zhao was long accustomed to Zong Ce’s temperament; he did not take offense at the lack of eye contact, and teased:

“Xiang Ziqi composed the ‘Ode to the Past’ to mourn his old friends. Now your old friends stand before you—why not even glance?”

Zong Ce rolled over, turning his back to Liu Zhao and Wang Yang: “I invited you yesterday with a note, and you didn’t come. Now my interest is gone—what’s there to see?”

“I was busy! I told you—I’m collating a strange book, critiquing the Book of Documents—”

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Don’t you dare bring me your Confucian nonsense!”

Liu Zhao had hoped to smoothly introduce Wang Yang through this topic, but after just one sentence he was cut off—he sighed inwardly: “Well, if a guest has come, at least offer him a seat.”

Zong Ce finally sat up, turned around, opened his eyes—but looked neither at Liu Zhao nor Wang Yang. Instead, he stared at the six stones beside him, muttering:

“This one won’t do, this one won’t do either, this one is even less possible...”

Liu Zhao asked: “What are you doing?”

Zong Ce finally looked at Liu Zhao, excitedly: “Mingyang, look at these seven stones—don’t they resemble seven seats?”

“They do...”

“These stones lie just beyond the bamboo grove—isn’t that fate?”

Seeing Liu Zhao still didn’t understand, Zong Ce grew more animated:

“These are the very seats of the Seven Sages! After two or three hundred years, they remain so similar—what else could this be but a once-in-a-millennium coincidence?

The former owner said these stones had stood here for ages, naturally formed as seats. Sometimes at night, he claimed he heard seven voices speaking! He thought it was ghosts!

That’s why I bought this house at such a high price—for these seven stone seats!

Last night I waited all night and heard no voices. I suppose the Seven Sages don’t come every day. But now the house is mine—I’ll wait until they do. Then I’ll spend my mornings delighting in Laozi and Zhuangzi, and my evenings as friends with the Seven Sages—what joy! Hahaha!”

Liu Zhao glanced at Wang Yang, his expression resigned.

Wang Yang didn’t mock Zong Ce—he felt that during his own most self-indulgent phase, he hadn’t been much better.

Liu Zhao chuckled: “Maybe the former owner found these stones on purpose and invented the story to sell you the house.”

Zong Ce froze instantly.

Liu Zhao hurriedly added: “I’m joking.”

Wang Yang thought this joke might well be the truth.

“Irrelevant!” Zong Ce waved his hand. “Even if true, the former owner arranged these seven seats for me—his intent was sincere! This is fate, destiny, destined for me, Zong Ce, to revive the Bamboo Grove gathering!”

He pointed to each stone in turn, enthusiastically explaining to Liu Zhao: “See—this is Ji Kang’s seat, this is Ruan Ji’s, this is Shan Tao’s, this is Xiang Xiu’s, Wang Rong’s, Ruan Xian’s. I sit in Xiang Xiu’s seat.”

Wang Yang found this amusing. Liu Zhao asked curiously: “Why don’t you sit in Ruan Ji’s seat? Aren’t you the most admiring of Ruan Ji?”

Zong Ce looked shocked: “How could I possibly have the right to sit in Ruan Sizong’s seat?! I am unworthy to sit in the seats of Ruan Ji, Ji Kang, and Shan Tao; Wang Rong is not of my kind—I disdain his seat—”

Liu Zhao, hearing Zong Ce belittle Wang Rong, glanced nervously at Wang Yang. Wang Rong was an ancestor of the Langya Wang clan—if Wang Yang descended from that line, this could be dangerous. Seeing Wang Yang’s expression unchanged, Liu Zhao relaxed.

Zong Ce continued his odd pronouncements: “Liu Ling and Ruan Xian are inferior to me—sitting in their seats would be meaningless. As for Xiang Xiu—he’s much like me, so I can sit there.”

Zong Ce turned to Liu Zhao: “Come, Mingyang, sit here—in Liu Ling’s seat.”

Liu Zhao: (-__-)b

You just said Liu Ling is inferior to you, and now you want me to sit in his seat—isn’t that plainly saying I’m inferior to you?!

He didn’t hold a grudge. If he took offense at every such thing, he and Zong Ce would have ceased being friends long ago.

Liu Zhao did not sit, but introduced Wang Yang: “This is the gifted youth I told you about—Wang Yang, styled Zhiyan.”

Wang Yang bowed modestly: “I dare not. I am Wang Yang, respectfully meeting Master Zong.”

Zong Ce gave Wang Yang a massive side-eye: “When there are no heroes, upstarts become famous! Now anyone dares call themselves gifted!”

Liu Zhao rebuked: “Jingwei, you’re going too far—Zhiyan is my honored guest—”

Zong Ce gave no quarter: “Then let him return to your commandery school to sit! These seven seats are not for just anyone. Or perhaps he should sit inside the house?”

Liu Zhao had no recourse against Zong Ce, and could only offer Wang Yang an apologetic look.

Wang Yang was not offended; instead, he found Zong Ce unpretentious, expressing likes and dislikes purely from his heart, without concealment—a rare authenticity. History records Ruan Ji’s famed “green and white eyes.” When encountering vulgar men, he would show them the white eye. Zong Ce’s earlier glance bore a faint echo of Ruan Ji’s legacy.