Chapter 113: The Fence-Sitters Die First!

Outside the Hanlin Academy, unlike the quiet of other government offices, this place seemed somewhat unusual.

Wave after wave of barely suppressed quarreling faintly drifted out from within the compound walls, like boiling water muffled beneath a thick pot lid, a dull, rumbling noise.

Two officials passing by could not help slowing their steps.

The younger of the two, listening to the commotion inside, said in a low voice to the colleague beside him, "You hear that? Those lofty Hanlin scholars are at it again, squabbling over the teachings of the Cheng-Zhu and Lu-Wang schools. It's been two days already — have they still not reached a conclusion?"

The other man, somewhat older, merely cast an indifferent glance at the high compound wall.

He slowly shook his head. "Scholarship? This is hardly about scholarship."

The young official was taken aback. "Then what are they discussing?"

A deeply meaningful, cold smile tugged at the corner of the older man's mouth. "His Majesty asks about Master Zhu, about Yangming, about Confucius and Mencius, about the changes in classical learning past and present. It seems he asks about scholarship, but in truth he is asking about the realm under Heaven today!"

He sighed slowly, his gaze growing distant.

"Let us go. This matter has nothing to do with us. Rather than pay attention to this, we would do better to go back and read Xue the capital's essays once more."

"I suspect... this wind will soon no longer be confined to those few new policies in the capital."

"Within the Six Ministries, who knows when, they too will all have to push this damned 'statecraft official writing.'"

The young official nodded, and the two were about to leave.

"Creak—"

The tightly shut door was suddenly yanked open from within, and the quarreling that had been only faint before instantly burst forth like a flood breaching a dike, surging out with a wave of hot air, its volume abruptly rising several times over.

A figure rushed out with the hot wind — none other than Ni Yuanlu, Junior Compiler of the Hanlin Academy.

His face was flushed red, his temples beaded with fine sweat, and his usually immaculate topknot had come loose in several strands, hanging by his ears and quivering slightly with his rapid breathing.

Those two officials had been gossiping about others behind their backs, and now, caught red-handed, their faces could not help showing some embarrassment. They hurriedly bowed in salute. "Greetings, Junior Compiler Ni."

Ni Yuanlu was vexed and agitated at the moment, yet he still forced himself to restrain it and solemnly returned the salute.

Only, he himself did not notice that his black gauze cap was somewhat askew, which, paired with his crimson face, gave him a somewhat comical appearance.

The two officials, having paid their respects, hastily departed.

Watching the two officials' backs as they hurried away, Ni Yuanlu stood still in place, closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths in succession, as if trying to expel the stifled frustration from his chest.

He paced back and forth, muttering to himself.

"Different paths lead to the same end; they share a common origin... Why can't they be reasoned with?"

"Principle is the rule; the mind is the motive force. Rule and motive force — neither can be lacking... Yes, neither can be lacking!"

Ni Yuanlu suddenly clapped his hands, as if he had finally grasped a crucial link, and light rekindled in his eyes.

He no longer hesitated, abruptly turned around, straightened his somewhat disheveled robes, and charged once more toward that room which resembled a battlefield.

Just as he reached the doorway, the door curtain was lifted, and Reader-in-Waiting Wang Zuoyuan came out with a dark face.

The two collided squarely into each other.

"Hmph!"

"Hmph!"

Almost simultaneously, both let out a heavy snort from their noses, neither looking at the other, and brushed past.

Ni Yuanlu could not even be bothered to call out "Academician Wang." He directly lifted the curtain and strode in with great sweeping steps, like a general about to return to the front lines.

The scene inside the room was even more chaotic than when he had left it moments before.

The floor was strewn with discarded drafts crumpled into balls, and the teacups on the desks lay toppled every which way, long since drained of tea.

The thirty-odd Hanlin officials had largely split into two factions, as sharply divided as the Jing and Wei rivers. Every one of them was red-faced and spraying spittle — where was even a trace of their usual refined and cultivated Hanlin demeanor?

The champion of the School of Principle faction, Junior Compiler Zhu Jizuo, had taken over Wang Zuoyuan's position. His voice stern and his countenance severe, he spoke with impassioned eloquence. Behind him, Ma Zhiqi, Shi Yazhu, and the others all wore expressions of righteous conviction, united in common hatred.

"... Therefore, it is not that the Cheng brothers and Zhu Xi deliberately chose Principle; rather, the Confucian orthodox tradition, in developing to this day, necessarily culminates in Principle! This is the great synthesis of the orthodox tradition!"

Zhu Jizuo flicked his sleeve, delivering a summation, then immediately shifted his attack, aiming the spearhead directly at Sui Shi, Fu Guan, and the others of the School of Mind faction.

"In contrast, look at the Lu-Wang school! They pilfer the doctrines of Buddhism and Daoism. Instead of outwardly investigating things to exhaust Principle, they turn inward, prattling on about how 'the mind is Principle.' How utterly absurd!"

"'The mind' is changeable, unfathomable. If one takes 'the mind' as the foundation, then every man can consider himself a sage. Where then would the bonds of ethics and morality remain? Would the world not fall into great chaos? This is a deviation from the orthodox tradition — a heretical doctrine!"

Hearing this, Sui Shi, the Expositor-in-Waiting of the School of Mind faction, immediately gave a cold laugh, pushed through the crowd, and stepped forward.

"Junior Compiler Zhu has quite the grand tone! 'Orthodox tradition' this, 'orthodox tradition' that — yet you do not realize you have long since sought the distant at the expense of the near, running counter to the true intent of Confucius and Mencius!"

He swept his gaze around the room and declared loudly, "Why did Confucius establish benevolence? 'Benevolence' is nothing other than the wellspring of 'innate moral knowledge'!"

"The Sage Confucius was the first to discover this innate moral power — that is the very origin of the School of Mind! And what do you do? You sever the human mind from Heavenly Principle, refusing to trust your own original mind, and instead seek an objective 'Heavenly Principle' externally. How laughable!"

Fu Guan immediately followed, stepping forward, his words even more vehement: "Empty talk harms the state; idle discourse misleads the sovereign! I ask you only this, Junior Compiler Zhu: the Great Ming is beset by troubles within and without, and the literati have made empty talk a prevailing custom. If we do not use the potent medicine of 'the unity of knowledge and action' to sweep away entrenched abuses and temper men's hearts, how are we to achieve great deeds? How are we to salvage this perilous situation?"

He pointed beyond the door, his voice stern and his expression severe. "Can this 'Heavenly Principle' you keep invoking fill the bellies of famine victims? Can it sweep away the Jianzhou barbarians beyond the passes?"

"When Master Yangming quelled the rebellion of the Prince of Ning, did he rely on your 'Heavenly Principle,' or on that sincere heart of 'extending innate moral knowledge' within his own breast?"

"Forced sophistry!" Ma Zhiqi, the Reader-in-Waiting of the School of Principle faction, was so furious his face turned purple. "This is a debate over the orthodox tradition — how can it be conflated with momentary achievements!"

"Why did the Old Text classical learning of the Han dynasty supplant the New Text classical learning? Precisely to bring order out of chaos, to discard the false and preserve the true, to safeguard the purity of the orthodox tradition! If we allow your School of Mind to run rampant today, we shall be tearing down our own defenses!"

"Not so, not so!"

"Academician Ma's words precisely demonstrate that the classics are not immutable; their principles require later generations to elucidate and adjudicate them with their own minds!"

Wang Tingyuan of the School of Mind faction immediately retorted, "Without the adjudication of one's original mind, clinging to a pile of old papers — what difference is there from a pedantic scholar? His Majesty's question is precisely meant to have us break down sectarian barriers and seek strategies for statecraft and practical use. Yet you remain here, clinging to outdated conventions, ignorant of the need to adapt!"

Just as the two factions were quarreling more and more fiercely, on the verge of coming to blows, Ni Yuanlu's resonant voice cut in.

"A dispute over the great Dao is originally a matter of seeking common ground while reserving differences. Regrettably, a dispute among men's hearts is a fight to the death."

Having just grasped the crux of the matter outside, he was now in a moment of high, spirited confidence.

He walked to the center between the two factions, made a full bow to all around, and declared loudly, "Colleagues, hear me out!"

The room fell instantly silent for a moment, all eyes converging on him.

Ni Yuanlu cleared his throat and assumed an air of impartiality and fairness.

"In my humble view, whether the Cheng-Zhu school takes Principle or the Lu-Wang school takes Mind, each responds to the needs of its time. Different paths lead to the same end."

"When Confucius established benevolence, he made it the wellspring of all virtues, the very root of Confucian learning. The School of Principle and the School of Mind are merely different branches growing from that same great tree."

He paused, then continued: "In the Song dynasty, the moral order needed rebuilding, so the Cheng brothers and Zhu Xi emphasized 'Heavenly Principle' to set standards. Their method was from the outside in — through investigating things and extending knowledge, they guided scholars to find the norms of conduct."

"Our dynasty's accumulated ills run deep, and men's hearts stir with discontent, so Master Wang Yangming emphasized the School of Mind, seeking to rouse them to action. His method was from the inside out — through the extension of innate knowledge, he put morality into practice in practical achievement."

"'Renewing the people' and 'loving the people' — one is transforming the masses through instruction, the other is awakening inner reflection. They are two sides of a single whole. Your Majesty, in your sagacious wisdom, if you employ the strengths of both, it will be a grand undertaking of good governance!"

Having finished his speech, he thought he had grasped the crux of the matter — he had reconciled the contradictions and flattered the Emperor. It was, he believed, a perfectly foolproof strategy.

Yet the moment his words fell, what greeted him was the shared fury of both factions.

"Fence-sitter!" Sui Shi was the first to attack. Without the slightest courtesy, he pointed at Ni Yuanlu. "Junior Compiler Ni, at a time like this, you're still playing your games of reconciliation!"

"What His Majesty wants is a policy to govern the realm, a remedy to save the age — not some bland, perfectly balanced essay! The School of Mind and the School of Principle — one is good medicine, the other empty talk. How can you lump them together!"

Zhu Jizuo also glared at him furiously: "Ni Yuanlu! You cannot tell right from wrong, black from white! The School of Mind is a heterodox heresy, a deviation from the orthodox transmission — how dare you mention it in the same breath as Master Zhu's true path!"

"By speaking thus, do you mean to lead His Majesty down a crooked road? What are your intentions!"

"I..." Ni Yuanlu was instantly dumbfounded.

No matter how he turned it over in his mind, he could not understand how his "fair words" had become "fence-sitting" that pleased neither side.

"You what, you! Weathervane!"

"The village worthy is the thief of virtue!"

In an instant, the two factions that had just been at each other's throats now trained their guns in unison, pouring all their fire onto Ni Yuanlu.

Just as the room filled with clamor, the din of argument threatening to lift the roof.

In a corner no one noticed, Qi Xinxiao sat perfectly composed.

The books and scrolls around him were stacked in neat order, utterly incongruous with the chaos of the room, as if an invisible wall shut out all the noise.

Those fierce debates were, to him, no more than the irritating drone of cicadas outside the window. At this moment, he was focused solely on the ancient text in his hands.

A tickle he could not suppress rose from his throat. He turned aside, covered his mouth with his sleeve, and let out a string of low, muffled coughs.

A sickly flush stained his already pallid cheeks, and his thin shoulders quivered slightly with each cough.

When the coughing subsided, he finally raised his head and looked out at the faces in the hall, twisted with agitation. A sardonic sneer slowly curled at the corner of his mouth.

Ridiculous. And pitiable.

His Majesty had asked "why," yet these people did not dare to speak of "why" at all.

They argued and argued — ostensibly answering "why," but in truth, still debating "right and wrong."

Did they truly fail to see the crux of the matter, or did they simply not dare to speak it plainly?

The mockery in Qi Xinxiao's eyes gradually faded, replaced by a burning intensity.

So be it.

Whether you cannot see it, or dare not speak it.

Let me do it instead.

A matter of such magnitude — I, Qi Xinxiao, shall undertake it myself!

Once this thought arose, it was like a wildfire sweeping the plains, impossible to contain.

With a crisp snap, Qi Xinxiao decisively shut the book in his hands.

He no longer looked at his colleagues, still locked in their futile quarrels. As if no one else were present, he rose to his feet and spread out a sheet of pure white paper.

He ground the ink. He set brush to paper.

The tip of the brush, heavily laden with thick ink, flew across the page in swift, urgent strokes.

The wind blew in through the lattice window, brushing past his back as he wrote furiously, and stirring the book he had just closed at his side.

The pages fluttered open with a rustle, then slowly fell back, repeating this several times before finally coming to rest.

It stopped exactly on the cover.

A few large characters in austere clerical script, under the bright, clear light, were revealed distinctly —

History of Song, Biographies, Volume Eighty-Six.