Chapter Twenty-Six: The Shame of Scholars

Mr. Ma Dai’s announcement that he would accept a disciple on behalf of his own teacher quickly spread. As for the potentially serious consequences this might provoke, it was not something the scholars troubled themselves over.

They gathered stubbornly at the entrance to the academy’s lecture hall, refusing to leave unless Chang’an He demonstrated his abilities.

Otherwise, they would not acknowledge this so-called junior brother!

‘Aren’t they just forcing me to show off before everyone? Is that really a good idea? And Meng Haoran’s poetry… I really can’t recite it all!’ Chang’an He sat there, sipping tea and leafing through a book, his expression calm and unruffled, as if brimming with confidence. This demeanor brought Mr. Ma Dai a fleeting sense of relief.

He had previously had a deep conversation with Chang’an He. The truth was, the fellow was a complete illiterate, unable even to name the works of the Sages; he was entirely ignorant about the Sages, the Sub-Sage, the seventy-two direct disciples, the three thousand six hundred followers—he knew nothing at all. As for the high arts of poetry, rhyme, and antithesis, he was utterly clueless!

So, here was the question: Where did this “junior brother’s” aura of righteousness come from? Could it truly be that Meng Xiangyang’s poetic spirit had chosen a new master? But that was a story Mr. Ma Dai had made up on the spot…

“Junior brother, tell me honestly—how did you come by this righteous energy?” Mr. Ma Dai pressed once more.

“I’ve already said, I got into a fight with the old fellow Haoran, and somehow, I ended up with it,” Chang’an He replied, perfectly serious.

How could he possibly tell the truth? Say that there was a little black rod in his dantian’s spirit sea that nearly drained Old Uncle Hao dry? Wouldn’t that be the cruel trick of some demon or monster? If that wasn’t a sign of going mad from cultivation, what was? He had no desire to be dragged off by the Demon-Slaying Bureau for “tea.”

“Did Master Haoran leave you with any words?” Mr. Ma Dai pursued doggedly.

“A few, yes, but…” Chang’an He frowned, as if he had some unspeakable misgiving. “The old fellow’s words—there’s no logic to them, and they’re not exactly reasonable…”

“What did Master Meng of Xiangyang say?” Mr. Ma Dai’s eyes lit with fervor as he personally brewed a pot of tea for his “junior.” “Come, junior brother, tell your senior.”

“How to put it… Old Haoran was a man of few words and a sharp tongue. What he said was vulgar in the extreme.” Chang’an He offered a sheepish smile.

“No matter, no matter! Great poets are allowed a few coarse words—why, the teacher belches and passes wind in class all the time…” Mr. Ma Dai laughed heartily, delighted.

He had been stuck at the scholarly realm for over a decade, a source of deep frustration. To suddenly hear what might be the last words of a great scholar from the previous dynasty was enough to fill him with joy.

“He said, ‘They’re all damned idiots—thinking they can cultivate just by staring at portraits of the Sages and clutching their works. They might as well go drown themselves in a brothel…’

He said, ‘Always digging, citing, and researching—why not go smash your head into a pair of buns at the brothel instead?’

He said, ‘Trifling tricks—that’s what those sour scholars outside are up to. Poverty-stricken, shameless, and they still call themselves men of learning!’

He said, ‘You’re driving this old man to his grave, you’re driving this old man to his grave…’”

...

“That’s all?” Mr. Ma Dai listened in utter confusion, his face turning ashen.

This “Master Haoran” seemed to do nothing but hurl vulgar insults at scholars. It sounded suspiciously like this ignorant “junior brother” was just making things up. Yet, some of the terms he used were so specialized that only a true scholar would understand them.

That in itself was peculiar…

Mr. Ma Dai sat, sipping his tea with a slow, dejected air.

Chang’an He drank his tea in silence. The words attributed to “Uncle Hao” were, in truth, exactly what the old man had said. It was plain that the old fellow had nothing but contempt for scholars of the present age.

“Li Yishan spoke of a broken lineage—could it be…”

“Dean, let the junior show us his talent—let him recite a verse or two,” someone proposed.

“Yes, to become a scholar on the strength of a few drops of righteous energy alone is far too hasty!” The scholars outside the hall began clamoring again.

...

“Junior brother, let’s do this—you go out there and show off a little, drive away those sour scholars. Their endless chatter is a headache!” Mr. Ma Dai waved him off.

“Uh… show off? Senior, what do you mean?” Chang’an He was taken aback.

To think that even Tang scholars knew how to “show off.”

“Ahem, well, you’re new to our company, so you might not be familiar with such crude expressions,” Mr. Ma Dai said, blushing. “Go out, make a display before the crowd, and send those fools packing.”

‘Fine, so it’s showing off and putting on a display… I admit, I’ve lost all the dignity of a transmigrator,’ Chang’an He thought ruefully. This Tang dynasty made no sense at all. Thank goodness he hadn’t relied on the usual trick of plagiarizing poetry or striking a pose…

Since they insisted on having him display his talent in public, how could he back down?

“Zhang Hengqu’s Four Teachings—does that exist in this world? And what about Yuanqu or drum lyrics? Without knowing how deep the waters run, it’s unwise to reveal those… All right, I’ll just repeat a few of ‘Uncle Hao’s’ coarse remarks—there shouldn’t be any holes in that plan…”

If worst came to worst, he’d follow “Uncle Hao’s” lead—say nothing, and if anyone talked too much nonsense, pin them to the ground and rub their face in the dirt. That would surely make a stronger impression than reciting a few poems.

Yes, that’s it—a gentleman acts, not talks!

He was only worried he might not be able to handle the higher-ranked scholars outside…

Shaking out his robes, Chang’an He rose with measured dignity and strode out the lecture hall doors.

The scholars outside were making a noisy scene. At the sight of Chang’an He in his constable’s uniform, their disdain was palpable.

“Tch, just a lowly constable in black—he calls himself a scholar?”

“Shameful! A disgrace to scholars everywhere!”

“That’s right. We have read so much, if not five cartloads, then at least three—how could we stand alongside such a crude brute in this academy?”

...

Chang’an He kept silent, gazing at these white-robed, fine-featured scholars. In his heart, a thrill stirred.

‘Damn, it’s been seven or eight days since I transmigrated—if I wasn’t being tormented by ghosts, I was tormenting them. I thought I’d never get my moment in the sun.

And now, at last, the time to show off and slap faces has arrived?

Recite a few famous quatrains, win renown across the land? Inscribe Zhang Hengqu’s Four Teachings and send a surge of pure energy soaring to the heavens, stunning all the scholars of the world?’

Too cliché.

Since Heaven had granted him this chance to show off and put people in their place, he shouldn’t follow in the footsteps of every other transmigrator, plagiarizing poetry or striking a pose. In this Tang dynasty…

He’d probably end up beaten to death.

So what kind of “face-slapping” did this Tang dynasty require? In other words, what did the scholars here lack most?

Integrity? Moral backbone? Magnanimity? Courage?

From Mr. Ma Dai, Li Yishan, and others, Chang’an He could see clearly that they lacked none of these qualities or virtues.

They were even willing to face monsters and ghosts head-on—what more could they possibly lack?

...

“Chang’an He, are you going to speak or not? Why, do you lose your nerve in front of real scholars?”

“Haha! Chang’an He, can you recite the Four Books and Five Classics? Can you explicate ancient texts?”

“A disgrace, a disgrace to scholars everywhere…”

Suddenly, Chang’an He saw the light.

He smiled, fixing his gaze on the most handsome and talkative scholar in the crowd, and stepped forward.