Chapter 335: Hold Ten Thousand with One, Erect a Monument and Record a Legacy

Outside Qufu County.

In the main hall of the Buddhist temple, all eyes were fixed.

Outside the temple, a crowd of rioters pressed forward, necks craned to peer inside; inside, several key figures wore varied expressions, exchanging glances.

Their gazes converged on He Xinyin and Ge Cheng, standing in silent opposition.

Since Ge Cheng stepped forward to confront He Xinyin, neither had moved for a long while.

He Xinyin remained silent, for he suddenly realized he had misjudged this rebel leader.

This rebel leader’s words moments ago bore no resemblance to a gentry lackey or a landlord’s hound—he sounded like a hero of Liangshan!

Earlier, those few key figures kept repeating that the court was seizing hidden household taxes and spreading rumors that land surveys aimed to increase peasant levies.

They clearly knew the truth but deliberately muddied the waters with nonsense.

In contrast, this rebel leader Ge Cheng’s words struck straight at the real pain.

Where do taxes come from? The court claims to survey land and register households among the gentry, but can common folk truly remain untouched?

Of course not.

Investigating tax sources inevitably interferes with people’s livelihoods!

Whether gentry or commoners, all depend on farmland for survival—like weeds and grain, both grow from the soil.

With millions of hectares being turned over, officials across the two capitals and thirteen provinces wielding hoes unevenly, how could such a massive project possibly distinguish weeds from crops?

Greedy officials, countless and unstoppable, seized this perfect opportunity to plunder the people’s flesh and blood without restraint.

Even upright officials could not escape the pressure to overachieve, treating gentry and peasants alike, exhausting themselves to record land and expand cultivation, all to make their achievements look impressive.

Added to this, the gentry who had lost their tax base could not bear to shed their extravagant python robes.

To maintain household income, they could only tear away the last shred of warmth they showed the people, revealing bloody fangs to tenant farmers, squeezing them harder day by day.

Can common folk hope to stay out of this? When their homes are destroyed, families shattered, children sold—how many will suffer?

Had this not truly touched the people’s lives, the Shandong unrest would never have ignited so easily.

He Xinyin knew all this.

In past years, when he wandered among the people teaching, he would have spoken eloquently, clearly exposing every abuse of the land survey.

But now, He Xinyin was no longer that grassroots leader who criticized government policies.

On the contrary, this time he stood with the court—in identity, he was a tax soldier of the land survey office; in principle, he wished to witness the emperor’s reform saving the nation; on the path, he sought to personally participate in the court’s practice.

Elevated by the emperor’s vision, He Xinyin could not help but view matters from the standpoint of the empire’s grand scheme.

Even though he understood these abuses perfectly, he had no reason not to support the land survey!

Must he wait until the realm is utterly ruined, until a new dynasty rises, and only then calmly register households and survey land amid exhausted people and unformed clans?

Then what use were these Confucian knights in saving the nation and people?

They might as well just wait to become relics of the fallen dynasty.

Yet these ideas, though noble-sounding, were fundamentally opposed to the stance of these common folk before him.

He pitied the suffering of the commoners, yet understood the empire’s necessity; great righteousness clashed with great righteousness, and he was left speechless, caught between retreat and advance by Ge Cheng’s question.

How could He Xinyin respond to Ge Cheng?

A flippant “sacrifice the few for the greater good”? A shameless “if misfortune strikes, start again”? Or worse, coldly say, “Tenants must think for the court—who else should bear the burden?”

He Xinyin could not utter these words.

His heart churned with turmoil, his face silent; outsiders saw only long silence within the temple.

Then Ge Cheng suddenly sneered.

Seeing He Xinyin’s silence, the rebel leader’s face grew slightly smug: “Does Great Hero He think that if you simply descend like a divine warrior and reveal your identity, we’ll suddenly awaken, turn our weapons, kneel, and thank you?”

He Xinyin opened his mouth to reply, then closed it, still silent.

Ge Cheng took this as tacit agreement and said bluntly: “So though I respect Great Hero He, I despise this nonsense of ‘speaking for the people.’”

“Whenever writings mention us poor folk, they endlessly repeat the same words—pitiful, miserable, suffering, tragic; the same face—tears unshed, numb, resentful, as if no one could ever smile.”

“Writing it is bad enough, but encountering it is worse.”

“When poor folk complain, they’re called ignorant, deceived; when they cry injustice, they’re accused of being manipulated to count money for others.”

“When the Zhu family founded the dynasty, the realm followed, abandoning Yuan for Han—not because we poor folk understood reason, but because the Zhu family’s virtue moved the ignorant. When the court ceased benevolence and we turned away, suddenly we’re the ones deceived, failing to understand the court’s hardships.”

“In short, in the eyes of ‘Confucian gentlemen,’ satisfying their own transcendent moral feelings is enough; as for us poor folk, we’re not entitled to our own thoughts.”

As soon as he finished, laughter erupted outside the temple.

Mocking self-deprecation, bitter shakes of the head, awkward agreement.

As he spoke, Ge Cheng stepped over the threshold and stood on the temple courtyard’s edge, his gaze sweeping over the dark sea of commoners before him.

His words were full of accusation, his meaning unmistakable.

Negotiating with the court is what everyone hopes for—but only if these lofty masters like He Xinyin realize that poor folk are human beings—with their own demands, motives, and thoughts!

Some among this crowd were tenant farmers from across the river; years ago, to evade household taxes, they voluntarily became slaves to their landlords; now, fearing exposure during the land survey, the landlords simply threw them out.

Others were mill workers; recently, as major estates halted farming, their mills lost business and only kept long-term laborers, dismissing all temporary workers.

Unregistered clients, because of the survey, were forced to register their land; those who had reclaimed wasteland to evade taxes now had to pay levies again; even those harassed by corrupt clerks…

The court always assumes these people are mindless beasts, endlessly posting proclamations and sending scribes to speak vague, hollow words.

It’s like scratching through a boot.

Discontent with state policy is the roaring fire behind this unrest!

He Xinyin’s assumption—that persuading Ge Cheng alone would make the masses obey—is equally treating commoners as mindless beasts.

To be blunt, what is Ge Cheng?

Even if Ge Cheng raised his banner, rebelled, and died in defeat, these poor folk would simply drop their weapons and return home to carry on.

As long as He Xinyin today cannot face these commoners directly, no matter how noble or righteous his words, this unrest will not end!

He Xinyin followed Ge Cheng, slowly stepping over the threshold.

He followed Ge Cheng’s gaze, sweeping over the dark sea of commoners before him.

Though Ge Cheng had pointed his finger and cursed him, He Xinyin felt no anger.

Instead, he felt dazed.

When debating the emperor, mocked mercilessly by him—he had been told: without lofty vision, you have no right to point fingers at court affairs.

Now, trying to persuade commoners, he was scorned by Ge Cheng, accused of speaking for the people merely to satisfy his own hollow moral self-indulgence.

With martial defiance and literary disruption, he had truly become the universally despised “Confucian knight.”

For decades he had clung to classical doctrines; suddenly thrown into practice, he was lost and uncertain.

He Xinyin stood beside Ge Cheng, silent for a long while.

After a long pause, He Xinyin sighed inwardly and accepted every rebuke.

Eyes not gazing at heaven, feet not touching earth—the path is long and obstructed, but walking will bring you there.

After gathering himself, He Xinyin finally moved.

He leaned close to Ge Cheng, lips barely moving, voice a whisper: “May I ask, General Ge, which path do you follow?”

The voice murmured faintly by Ge Cheng’s ear, causing him to frown slightly.

Ge Cheng turned to glance at He Xinyin, wondering whether this Great Hero had understood his meaning at all—why suddenly speak of underworld ties?

“Path” referred to the outlaw world.

The path was lined with rough underworld figures, yet also synonymous with righteous heroes.

He Xinyin was, of course, a well-known figure in the underworld.

For years he had “changed names repeatedly, lurking in the underworld, roaming the four seas as a knight,” and because he discarded his origins, despised power and favor, and showed special affection for commoners, he was long admired by underworld heroes.

As Wang Shizhen wrote in his history: He Xinyin and Shao Chuxiu were both great knights.

Ge Cheng paused, then turned and waved his hand, signaling the key figures not to approach.

Ignoring the resentful glares behind him, Ge Cheng turned to He Xinyin with a blank expression: “I’m a stranger here, an unknown face—I’m just a water porter, have been drifting along the Ji River for years.”

“The folks here have entrusted me with the burden for today’s matter.”

Since He Xinyin asked about his underworld origins, Ge Cheng naturally replied in underworld slang.

“Hu Jin Jia.” He Xinyin stepped half a pace closer, nearly touching Ge Cheng.

It was his real surname, the underworld code for “Liang”—Ge Cheng, as a man of the path, knew it well.

This was clearly an exchange of identities.

Ge Cheng hesitated, then grunted: “Too many aliases—I won’t list them.”

He Xinyin glanced at Ge Cheng in surprise—this meant too many false names; clearly, “Ge Cheng” was also an alias.

“Crossed the chains?”

Underworld figures valued reputation; unless they had crimes, they wouldn’t change identities so often.

Ge Cheng’s face remained blank: “I’ve failed a few times; last time I took on a big one, even my friends couldn’t clean it up.”

“Taken the God of Wealth?”

“Demanding justice.”

He Xinyin pondered.

Underworld figures spread across the land, each on their own path; clashes with fellow outlaws were inevitable.

To avoid killing each other and breaking brotherhood, they long ago developed a set of underworld rules.

Before conflict, both sides exchange coded phrases, performing the “honoring heroes with heroes” ritual, probing each other’s origins—this is the “Lian Dian,” combining southern spring and northern code.

If both sides respond correctly, they show mutual respect and follow underworld rules; if not, no mercy remains—they harden their hearts.

As the saying goes: All roots under heaven are kin; all eight styles are one family. Say the right words, and no matter how far you travel, you’ll find your way.

According to underworld jargon, escorting goods is called “holding a line,” while guarding a household is called “holding a tower”; outlaws are referred to as “friends.”

The two had just been exchanging questions and answers, speaking in the language of friends.

For instance, when referring to origins, “to the face” means east, “sun-facing” means south; similarly, “traversing chains” means imprisonment, “receiving the God of Wealth” means kidnapping for ransom, and “demanding justice” means settling underworld grudges.

Such examples are countless.

As the two exchanged questions and answers, they still appeared to be establishing kinship and building rapport.

But then He Xinyin suddenly lifted his head, fixing his gaze tightly on Ge Cheng: “Old man can offer a sincere response regarding the land survey, but General Ge—do you truly wish to hear it?”

Ge Cheng turned his head in surprise.

He Xinyin gave Ge Cheng no time to think, reaching out to seize his wrist.

The older man lowered his voice, teeth clenched tightly: “General Ge, according to underworld rules, give me a clear answer!”

No wonder He Xinyin invoked underworld rules to assert his seniority.

He couldn’t fathom Ge Cheng’s intentions; faced with his ambiguous demeanor, he chose to cut straight to the point.

What does “truly wish to hear” mean?

Are you acting out of righteous indignation, defending the common folk—or are you acting on someone’s orders, deliberately obstructing the land survey?

Are you, as you claim, genuinely concerned for the suffering masses, seeking a way forward with sincere negotiation even at the cost of your life—or are you merely stirring up chaos, using this negotiation to boost your prestige and break free from the control of your few key followers?

This directly determines He Xinyin’s response—whether to follow Ge Cheng’s rhythm and sincerely analyze the merits and flaws of state policy for the people, or to seize back initiative and wield the art of intimidation and bribery, like a Confucian hero.

Of course, underworld rules may not carry legal weight, but getting close and observing his reaction makes deception difficult.

He Xinyin stared intently at Ge Cheng, studying every wrinkle on his face for signs of emotion.

Ge Cheng showed no fear, meeting He Xinyin’s gaze directly.

At this moment, the two stood shoulder to shoulder, heads close, whispering—to outsiders, this looked deeply suspicious.

The followers below assumed He Xinyin had lost his wits, preparing to coerce their leader.

The core members inside the Buddha hall, already anxious from watching their leader engage in intimate talk with an outsider, feared collusion and the violation of their master’s orders.

Now, finally, an opportunity arose; several seized the moment and hurried forward from the hall.

One of them, a core member with a sunken nose, forcibly squeezed between the two, turning to Ge Cheng with a stiff smile: “General Ge, the public agreement reached just now by both sides is being watched by all our brothers. Whatever you have to say, speak openly—let everyone hear and discuss it together.”

One of the sewer-nosed bone leaders forcibly squeezed between the two, turned to Ge Cheng, and forced out a stiff smile: “General Ge, the public agreement reached just now by both sides is being watched by all our brothers—anything you have to say should be spoken openly, so we can all hear and discuss it together.”

“That’s right. Since He Xinyin has become the court’s hound, General, you’d better keep your distance—lest he suddenly attack.”

“Isn’t that so? What can’t our own brothers hear? Whispering secrets like this only erodes mutual trust.”

One after another, they spoke, swiftly isolating He Xinyin and surrounding Ge Cheng in the center.

He Xinyin helplessly had his grip on Ge Cheng’s wrist pried loose; he could only stare past the core members, burning with intensity at Ge Cheng.

He Xinyin helplessly had his grip on Ge Cheng pried apart, and could only fix his burning gaze past these bone leaders straight at Ge Cheng.

Clap! Clap! Clap!

Three sharp claps rang out.

All heads turned.

They saw Ge Cheng raising both hands, slowly and deliberately slamming them together.

“Master He just kept asking me—why did I take on this matter? Is it to seek amnesty through murder and arson, or to rebel with audacious ambition? What do I stand to gain?”

As his hands clapped, his voice boomed through the hall.

His thick arms crossed over his chest; with a lithe, tiger-backed motion, he shoved aside a core member blocking his path and stepped once more into the center of attention.

His bold demeanor, startling words, and effortless grace—purely the bearing of a bandit chief.

Ge Cheng scanned the crowd: “Negotiation demands sincerity.”

“I asked first, so it’s your duty, Master He, to answer properly, address our grievances, and demonstrate true sincerity—if we’re to proceed.”

“But since I’m a man of the underworld, and before officials, heroes, and elders, you insist on taking the upper hand and turning guest into host—I have no choice but to accept.”

“Since I’m a man of the road, when faced with officials, great heroes, or elders, I’m forced to put on airs and turn guest into host—I have no choice but to accept it.” “If that’s the case, I’ll first show my sincerity.”

A series of practiced, effortless movements revealed his decades of underworld experience.

In an instant, he reclaimed the initiative.

The clamor outside the hall faded; the core members were rendered invisible, and the followers’ gazes, filled with conviction, fixed on him.

“Master He asked why I stepped forward—it’s simple.”

“I’ve always stood against the authorities.”

As he spoke, Ge Cheng pushed aside several core members and sat heavily on the threshold.

“I’ve roamed the underworld for years, witnessed countless disputes between officials and commoners, and left countless lives in my wake.”

“A few years ago, in Zhejiang, a prefect named Zhuang Ji, after leaving office, seized salt fields from local farmers. The farmers came to me—I saw injustice, took the prefect to sea, sliced him into hundreds of pieces, and salted him in the very fields he stole.”

“Earlier still, a censor surnamed Yang, because his servant was a clumsy boy, threw him into the snow to freeze to death. When I heard of it, I seized an opportunity and stabbed him to death in a brothel.”

“Oh, this year, Hangzhou unearthed another old injustice: a man vanished for years working away; the authorities assumed he was murdered, found a scapegoat, and had him flayed alive. Now the ‘dead man’ has returned home—but the authorities still refuse to overturn the verdict.”

“I couldn’t bear it. During our guild’s spring cargo run, I went to Hangzhou and kidnapped the investigating constable Nie. But the fool only confessed to attacking Pangu at the dawn of creation before he died—his confession still hangs in this temple.”

Ge Cheng turned, raised his hand, and pointed toward the Buddha statue.

He spread his hands, looking earnestly at He Xinyin: “I’m unlike you, Master He. I have no ties to the high officials of court, no grasp of power games. I walk the underworld, doing only one simple thing: uprooting the strong, aiding the weak!”

“This time, it’s the same.”

His words were earnest, his tone sincere.

He Xinyin listened in silence, moved despite himself.

Especially upon hearing “uprooting the strong, aiding the weak,” he pressed his lips and gave a slight nod.

Seeing this, Ge Cheng exhaled in relief and smiled.

He truly feared He Xinyin would misunderstand him—as a scheming, double-dealing man, driven only by gold, silver, or the desire for amnesty and office.

Ge Cheng spilled out these old cases simply to make He Xinyin understand: he was a true man of the underworld.

A man of the underworld shares traits with tales: forming gangs, fighting, killing.

But unlike the romanticized notion of “stepping away from politics, self-proclaimed sovereign,” such figures rarely escape political entanglement.

Or rather, whether one participates in politics has always been the standard of a “hero.”

The famed heroes of legend all imposed their will upon court affairs.

Lan Daohang schemed against Yan Song; Shao Chuxiu plotted Gao Gong’s return to power during Longqing; Wang Zhi declared himself king to secure trade—all did the same.

As for influential figures within a province, they typically founded gangs, set up checkpoints to collect taxes, and intertwined with local gentry and officials.

Take, for example, the Zhang family of Taicang, who recruited outlaws—or Ge Cheng’s own guild, the Caobang , which he joined through the Zhangs’ connections—both embody this reality.

The worst off are the lone wanderers, untouched by power.

They fight alone, mouth righteousness, yet rob the rich to aid the poor—Ge Cheng is one such man.

Though this Shandong affair was secretly instigated by the Taicang Zhangs, he himself truly chose to step forward.

But this time is different—he met He Xinyin, a hero of the underworld whose stance stands in direct opposition to his own.

The more obscure the hero, the more he reveres those who manipulate the tides of fate and shake the foundations of power.

Ge Cheng has always revered He Xinyin.

Killing corrupt officials, resisting oppressive taxes, scheming against Yan Song, traveling the land to teach, submitting memorials to the Emperor—he was a living legend.

When a legend stands across from you, it’s no pleasant experience.

It once made Ge Cheng doubt himself.

Had He Xinyin betrayed the way of the underworld—or had he, Ge Cheng, gone astray?

He Xinyin’s suspicion stemmed precisely from this.

Because even Ge Cheng himself was uncertain.

He only wished to clarify before this living hero: who was wrong?

Ge Cheng sat on the threshold, speaking words that could cost him his head, as if no one else were present.

“I am not afraid to raise the banner of rebellion.”

At this moment, the crowd was stunned.

Not only did the core members behind Ge Cheng turn pale, but the common folk in the courtyard collectively flinched, shrinking back.

Ge Cheng ignored them, raising his voice further: “In the thirty-second year of Jiajing, Shi Shangzhao led merely three hundred starving peasants in rebellion. Within months, he commanded tens of thousands, fought across three provinces, captured dozens of prefectures, states, and counties, and slaughtered ten thousand imperial troops. My abilities may not surpass Shi Shangzhao’s—but before I die, I can still earn a name.”

“But back then, it was natural disaster—countless peasants starved to death; the granaries left by the founding emperor stood empty; relief silver became the jewelry of corrupt officials; the people had no way to live.”

“Now, it is man-made disaster—the court battles the gentry, forcing us to halt farming and trade, pay back taxes, return land. Though ruin looms, the path to survival hasn’t been fully sealed.”

Ge Cheng paused, his gaze sweeping over the core members and He Xinyin.

He rose slowly from the threshold, turned to face the guild members, and declared with iron resolve and deep meaning: “I seek no wealth, no office—I simply refuse to let my fellow villagers become ants crushed beneath the feet of gods fighting their battles!”

“Here, I give you my word: if the lords offer the poor a path to survival, I will sell my worthless life!”

…

As this scene was written—

He Xinyin was filled with emotion, his pen pausing.

In the dim interior of a peasant’s house, a kerosene lamp glowed.

Writing a biography is no quick task; compiling the day’s observations into an appendix is equally essential.

Yet as an eyewitness, the immersion was overwhelming—every sentence He Xinyin wrote brought back the scene vividly before his eyes.

He Xinyin took a deep breath, preparing to dispel his lingering emotions and continue writing.

At that moment—

He suddenly stopped, slowly lifting his head to gaze outside.

Creation often forbids interruption, but any rustle would break one’s train of thought; He Xinyin’s reaction clearly indicated a visitor had arrived outside.

As expected.

A respectful greeting, accompanied by a knock, entered the room: “Master, the county yamen has sent word.”

He Xinyin’s thoughts snapped back to reality; he set down his brush, rose, and took three quick steps to the door.

He opened the door, and under the thin moonlight outside, he recognized the visitor’s face and smiled: “Ah, Zhonghao—come in.”

Feng Congwu followed He Xinyin into the house without hesitation.

Country homes, unlike those in the city, were humble but not cramped; the two stood side by side with ample space.

He Xinyin sat back at his desk and looked at this composed student, unable to help but sigh: “Others find country life cold and bitter, unwilling to set foot here—only Zhonghao finds peace in it.”

The “others” here naturally referred to his other disciples.

Compared to the rest, this student named Feng Congwu, though he had studied under him the shortest time, was the one who most truly absorbed his teachings.

Feng Congwu bowed humbly, yet did not forget his purpose: “Master, Minister Shen and Provincial Governor Yu are going to the Kong family estate tomorrow; they’ve written to invite you to join them.”

He Xinyin paused: “Minister Yu is going to the Kong estate?”

Qufu County had been in turmoil for days, yet Governor Yu had vanished—now that things seemed settled, why stir up trouble with the Kong family again?

Seeing his confusion, Feng Congwu explained carefully: “According to the yamen, the Grand Secretary passed through Shandong the other day, saw widespread unrest, and was deeply displeased—he ‘mobilized’ the local officials in Jining before continuing north.”

Hearing this, He Xinyin learned the truth and understood at last.

No wonder unrest had quickly subsided across all counties of Yanzhou, not just Qufu—Zhang Juzheng had applied pressure.

Most local magistrates were like monks ringing bells—asking them to risk their lives and personally calm the rioters was too much to expect.

Without a superior forcing their hand, they’d likely just “remote-control” things until the unrest faded on its own.

He Xinyin couldn’t help but remark: “Even authoritarianism has its uses.”

In his youth, he had debated Dao with Zhang Juzheng; though he disliked the man’s obsession with power, he could not deny his capability and resolve.

Shen Li, as an outsider, lacked such prestige; regional officials like Yin Shidan and Yu Youding always held back, leaving three-tenths of their strength unused.

Only someone like Zhang Juzheng could act and see immediate results.

Feng Congwu, though only twenty-four, came from a distinguished family and held his own views on court affairs: “The Grand Secretary’s pressure has forced local officials into crude methods. Still, none match your benevolence and care for the people—like spring rain nurturing all.”

In the Yanzhou unrest, Qufu remained the most peaceful.

Elsewhere, the old routine still held: kill some, arrest some, release some—hardly benevolent governance.

He Xinyin shook his head; in the past, he would have thought the same.

But since his last debate with the Emperor, he had gained a slightly new perspective.

The court lacked the finesse to govern so precisely, nor could it send another He Xinyin—often, one could only choose between the worse and the less bad.

The Yanzhou unrest could not wait for He Xinyin to go county by county, nurturing peace like spring rain; if it wasn’t swiftly cut down, Yanzhou might remain in chaos longer.

Now that they must visit the Kong estate, it could only mean the unrest had fully subsided—and the land survey must resume.

He wondered whether the thousand-year-old clan would now submit its neck to the blade.

Thinking of this, He Xinyin grew serious: “There are only a few hidden households left in the village—I’ll finish recording them tomorrow morning, then report to the yamen.”

Feng Congwu, having received the news, bowed to take his leave.

But He Xinyin did not immediately let him go.

He waved his hand, stopping him: “No rush—since you’ve come, help me with the ink and brush.”

Saying this, he rubbed his eyes and pulled Feng Congwu to the desk.

At his age, he no longer had the means to bore through walls for light; even dimness made reading and writing difficult—having a disciple assist him in writing was a teacher’s customary practice.

Feng Congwu, pulled to the desk, looked uncertain.

Holding the brush and ink was usually an intimate duty reserved for the direct heir.

Feng Congwu came from a renowned family, raised with strict family teachings; his study under He Xinyin was merely to synthesize various schools—he was, at best, a nominal disciple.

Now, He Xinyin’s familiar demeanor left him unsure how to respond appropriately.

Yet despite this, after a brief hesitation, Feng Congwu bowed and sat down at the desk.

He Xinyin tidied the desk for Feng Congwu, muttering as he did so.

“Zhonghao, your father was a renowned master of Guan Learning, with deep family tradition—you learned its essentials from childhood, then went to Chang’an to study, first under Xiao Jiuling, then under Shen Zhi.”

“Since entering the Imperial Academy, you’ve sought learning from Gu Assistant County Magistrate, pursued Dao under Xu Fuyuan, and studied the new doctrines of several Grand Masters.”

“You’ve absorbed teachings from all schools, mastered countless principles—now, having practiced worldly affairs under me, do you have any new insights?”

This was a daily examination.

Feng Congwu picked up the brush, pausing mid-air: “Master, I have no great new insight—only a deeper understanding of the Sage’s teachings.”

He Xinyin pressed the paper flat and watched his student’s youthful face, eagerly awaiting more.

Feng Congwu lowered his head: “Awaken the people, enact the Dao.”

He Xinyin froze, then clapped his hands and laughed heartily.

“Excellent, Zhonghao!”

This was a weighty compliment, revealing He Xinyin’s deep satisfaction with this disciple.

Yet the praise did not bring a smile to Feng Congwu’s face—he stared silently at the desk.

A moment passed.

Feng Congwu looked at the manuscript and subtly changed the subject: “Is this your own experience, Master? Should I transcribe it as you dictate, or copy it neatly?”

The manuscript was nearly complete, with many revisions.

Dictating meant writing as spoken; copying meant carefully transcribing for woodblock printing.

Seeing Feng Congwu avoid the topic, He Xinyin sighed inwardly.

He was sixty-four now; bluntly speaking, he had few years left.

Among his direct disciples, Hu Shizhong excelled in poetry and verse, renowned in his region; Lu Guangwu combined literary and martial talent, cultivated prestige and formed societies—both were outstanding.

Yet for the transmission of Confucian classics, no one could yet be entrusted.

His disciples were not radical enough—they still clung to the old notion of “winning the ruler’s ear to enact the Dao.” Only Feng Congwu, the latecomer, had already walked the path of “awakening the people to enact the Dao,” truly embodying his true teachings.

Yet though he wished to pass on his legacy, he could not force it.

Well, long-term matters cannot be rushed.

He Xinyin shook his head, set aside his thoughts, and returned to the matter at hand: “I’ll dictate—please help me polish it slightly.”

Feng Congwu sat upright, brush in hand, listening respectfully.

He Xinyin paused, gathered his thoughts, then began to speak slowly: “At that time, Ge Cheng insisted firmly that he sought to carve out a path to survival for the suffering common people...”

In the dim lamplight, spoken words became text, written into book.

The scene of that time and place continued to unfold.

(End of Chapter)