Chapter 51: The Daughter of the Marquis of Xichang

Zong Ce swept his wide sleeves: “No matter. Only three people heard this today. Each repeats it once, and no one will betray us...”

Liu Zhao cast him a sidelong glance, expression plainly saying, “Are you joking?”

Zong Ce, energized, ignored Liu Zhao, eyes gleaming with eager fire, cried: “I’ll go first! He who steals a hook is put to death; he who steals a state becomes a marquis!” He turned to the male servant.

The servant obediently repeated it. Zong Ce turned to Liu Zhao.

“I won’t say it! This is pure nonsense!” Liu Zhao snapped angrily.

Zong Ce laughed heartily and said to Wang Yang: “Don’t worry. Liu the Scholar won’t betray us—rest easy, go on.”

Wang Yang privately regretted his slip, but he had merely quoted Zhuangzi—no hidden meaning was intended. Could one really be ruined over a single line? Besides, did textual purges even exist yet?

Still, caution was never wrong. Wang Yang silently reminded himself to be careful, then concluded:

“He who knows his own folly is not utterly foolish; he who knows his own confusion is not utterly confused.

The utterly confused remain confused their whole lives!

The utterly foolish remain dull their whole lives!

Zhuangzi grieved for the world’s folly, mourned its confusion, pitied its misfortune, lamented its passivity.

His eyes were cold; his heart, burning hot.

His eyes were cold, so he ignored right and wrong.

His heart burned hot, so he sighed with endless sorrow.

Though he knew it was useless, he could not forget his feelings—his warm heart remained entangled.

Though he could not forget his feelings, he never acted—his cold eyes had seen through it all!”

When Wang Yang finished, Zong Ce and Liu Zhao seemed petrified, frozen in place.

This argument was Wang Yang’s synthesis of insights from several historical scholars and his own reading reflections, ending with a direct quote from the Qing-era scholar Hu Wenyin’s brilliant commentary.

For Zong Ce and Liu Zhao, living in an era where Zhuangzi studies were still in their infancy, this spiritual shock was self-evident.

“Zhiyan, you... you understand metaphysics?”

Liu Zhao exhaled in disbelief, finally voicing the question he had long wanted to ask.

At the time, the Laozi, the Yijing, and the Zhuangzi were collectively called the “Three Mysteries.” Metaphysics was the study of these three.

Since the Wei and Jin dynasties, metaphysics had flourished, nearly rivaling Confucianism. Thus, scholars mastering metaphysics was not surprising. But the problem was: Wang Yang’s mastery of the Minister was so profound—he was clearly a pure Confucian classicist! And he was so young. How could he possibly understand metaphysics so deeply?

In terms of depth, Wang Yang ranked Zhuangzi first, Laozi second, and the Zhouyi third. Especially the Zhouyi: though he had taken a specialized course on it and earned top marks in his department, just as he had in every other course, he dared not claim to “understand” it.

For one thing, if asked to recite all possible divination methods from the Zhouyi without any reference texts, he couldn’t even perform one correctly. How could he claim to understand it?

Wang Yang bowed and said: “I dare not claim to understand—only a little.”

“If you only know a little, then I must be an idiot!” Zong Ce snapped back to himself, grabbing Wang Yang’s hand: “Come on, come on, Wang younger brother, come with me somewhere!”

“Where?”

Wang Yang was uneasy with Zong Ce’s habit of grabbing hands. Though he knew that in pre-Tang texts, “holding hands” often referred to gestures among male friends.

Liu Zhao seized the moment and asked: “What about Wang Yang’s household registration...?”

“Leave it to me! But Wang younger brother, you must help me first! Mingyang, go back—I’m leaving with Wang younger brother!”

In a quiet chamber, windows open, a small garden path fragrant with blossoms.

Two young maidens sat facing each other, sipping tea.

One wore a white silk green gauze dress, her waist slender as willow, her collarbones delicate. She pushed a teacup toward her companion.

Her pale wrist extended, sleeve slipping back to reveal skin as fine and white as ivory—this was Xie Si, the famed fourth daughter of the Xie family—Xie Xinghan.

The woman opposite her wore a black-gold silk nishang robe, gold-thread trim, hem trailing to the ground.

The gown clung to her graceful curves, and with her face—undoubtedly a beauty that could topple cities—she radiated a strange beauty: dignified and noble, yet seductive and alluring.

This was the most mysterious of the “Three Beauties of the Imperial Capital”—the daughter of the Marquis of Xichang—Xiao Baoyue.

If Xie Xinghan’s aura was like snow—calm, yet betraying a clever, playful charm—then Xiao Baoyue was pure, intoxicating grace, every frown and smile concealing a natural allure that stole the heart.

She took a small sip of tea, her long eyelids half-closing:

“The foam sinks, the essence floats, gleaming like piled snow. Sister’s tea has grown ever more refined. It seems Master Hui Xu taught you well. But Hui Xu learned tea from the Sichuan Chan Master Xuan Chang, who favored Sichuan style—adding sandalwood leaves and soapberry. You replaced them with lotus seeds and calamus. Your intent is kind, but it clashes with the Ba Dong tea tradition—what a pity.”

Xie Xinghan smiled gently:

“Sister, you’re the female Zhuge Liang, seven openings of wisdom. You’ve never slept well. If you drank authentic Ba Dong tea, wouldn’t you sleep even less? You’ve just arrived in Jingzhou and already know I studied tea with Master Hui Xu—clearly you observe everything, overtaxing your mind. I substituted calamus for sandalwood out of kindness.”

Xiao Baoyue laughed: “You little thing, your tongue never yields. I say one thing about your tea, and you accuse me of overthinking. Blame yourself—you’re too famous. The young men of Jingzhou lie awake dreaming of you; every move you make is watched.”

Xie Xinghan’s face hardened: “What ‘lie awake dreaming’? Sister, don’t speak nonsense!”

Xiao Baoyue’s beautiful eyes flashed: “Still hiding from me? ‘Wandering the rivers and lakes, wine in hand, slender waist light as palm.’ That ‘light as palm’ slender waist—aren’t you describing our little Xinghan?”

Xie Xinghan’s face flushed crimson. Thinking of Wang Yang, she clenched her fist and gritted her teeth: “That lecher...”

Xiao Baoyue set down her teacup: “Enough. The world is full of lustful fools. Those with a touch of literary flair rush to write—mostly idiots with no real talent. You can’t possibly take them all to task.”

Xie Xinghan’s star-like eyes blinked: “What about Xu San? His learning is vast, his knowledge broad. Even my father says he has ‘the talent of a good historian.’ He began his career as Assistant Compiler—his future is limitless. Isn’t that real talent?”

“Xu Kuang? Merely a bookworm.” Xiao Baoyue sneered, turning to Xie Xinghan: “Why bring him up?”

Xie Xinghan paused, then said:

“They say your family will ally with the Eastern Sea Xu clan. They say Xu Kuang is deeply in love with you, and you favor him. Even Uncle Xiao calls him ‘a talent of the state.’”

Xiao Baoyue yawned lazily: “Even you’ve heard.”

Xie Xinghan gasped: “Is this true?!”

——————————

Note: ① At the time, “sister” was called “zǐ,” but whether alone as “zǐ” or as “āzǐ,” modern readers lack the cultural context to feel it as accurately as “sister.” To avoid breaking immersion, “sister” is used.

② The practice of placing tea leaves in a cup and pouring boiling water over them arose in the late Tang; it had not yet appeared in the Southern Dynasties. The distinctive features of tea culture at the time will be mentioned later.

③ Some plot details and clues are forgotten—no matter. The iceberg has only revealed its tip; later passages will repeatedly deepen the depiction until the full picture is clearly revealed.

④ Biquni Zhuan: “At that time, Chan Master Xuan Chang came down from Sichuan to Jingzhou; Hui Xu studied Chan under him and mastered it thoroughly.”