Chapter Sixty-Seven: The Elder Scholar

Stepping out of Yellow Mud Alley, a gust of cold wind rushed at him, raising goosebumps all over his body and making him instantly aware that it had been snowing heavily in Chang’an for a long time.

He Chang’an glanced back with lingering fear, gazing at the alley sheltered by the Confucian formation, warm as spring, and shook his head with a bitter smile.

What absurdity was this!

That courtyard was one he had rented himself, was it not? For heaven’s sake, did these people have no sense of reason?

Alan’s father—much like He Chang’an’s own—came from a military background, had served as a border soldier in the northern frontiers, and fought in wars. The man was a scoundrel, venting his drunken rage, and what’s more, he was a seventh-rank martial artist…

He Chang’an was no match for him.

Especially that Ajiu—wielding a bamboo sword like a toy, yet her sword aura was as fine as silk, cold and piercing to the bone. Before they even crossed swords, He Chang’an already understood…he was no match.

And to top it off, she was a woman…

He Chang’an stole another glance behind him, only feeling somewhat at ease after confirming Ajiu hadn’t come after him.

A woman disguised as a man, freeloading meals was one thing, but her slovenly appearance, looking like a little Buddhist nun, was beyond doubt—it was a blatant betrayal of trust!

…

To have a home you cannot return to—perhaps that is what it truly means.

With deep sighs, He Chang’an wandered near the entrance of Yellow Mud Alley and found a small tavern. He ordered a few pounds of mutton, a dish of vinegar-soaked peanuts, and a jar of wine, intending to steady his nerves.

He could no longer make his way in this Great Tang.

His rented house had been taken over, and the friend he’d finally made had, in the blink of an eye, turned out to be a woman.

‘A woman is fine—even if it’s beyond doubt, I could have endured it, but the problem is, I can’t beat her…’

He took a sip of wine, sighed, and soon felt a little tipsy.

In a corner deeper inside the tavern, someone let out a long sigh and recited, “Within the four seas, all are brothers—why should a gentleman fear having no brothers?”

“May I share a bowl of this murky wine with you?”

It was an old, down-and-out scholar with snow-white hair. Before him sat a dish of peanuts and a dish of pickled radish, with seven or eight empty bowls scattered by his side.

The elderly scholar wore a faded gray cotton robe, his eyes clouded by inebriation, his frame thin and frail, his beard salt-and-pepper, and his appearance utterly unremarkable—he looked far less scholarly than the likes of Li Yishan, Du Thirteen, or Wen Taiyuan.

He glanced at He Chang’an, rubbed his hands together a little nervously, and said in an embarrassed voice, “Forgive me for disturbing your drink.”

He Chang’an was taken aback, then smiled.

At last, he’d met a normal scholar.

Though the old man’s eyes were glazed with drink, He Chang’an felt an unmistakable clarity and warmth from him. His old cotton robe was clean, though the left elbow and cuffs were badly worn—clearly a true man of letters.

“Sir, are you addressing me?” He Chang’an smiled, pointing to himself.

The old scholar did not answer but simply smiled shyly, raised a bowl of wine in salute to He Chang’an, and drank in one gulp.

Unthinkingly, He Chang’an activated his spiritual sight, confirming the man’s soul was untroubled. He broke into a broad smile, picked up the wine jar and half a plate of mutton, and walked over.

“Sir, come, let us drink together.”

The old scholar lifted his bowl and downed it in one go, quite heartily.

He scrutinized He Chang’an from head to toe, nodded slightly, his expression relaxing, and asked with a smile, “You are He Chang’an, are you not?”

“Sir, you know me?” He Chang’an was startled, suddenly wary.

“I am the schoolteacher at the academy in Yellow Mud Alley.” The old scholar smiled gently, picked up a peanut and chewed it slowly. “My teacher’s surname is Kong, from the Jixia Academy.”

He Chang’an’s mind was full of doubts: ‘A scholar surnamed Kong seems to be formidable in any world…

As for this Jixia Academy—never heard of it.’

He Chang’an was not well-read and had no idea what the Confucian legacy was like in this Great Tang. All he knew was that Master Kong, the Most Sage, was the model for all teachers for ten thousand generations…

Yet the old scholar only mentioned his own teacher’s surname without giving his own name. Meeting for the first time, it seemed improper to ask.

“Come, sir, let’s drink.” He Chang’an raised his bowl, continuing to offer wine.

The old scholar drank, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and looked at He Chang’an. “I heard you wrote two poems, thrashed the academy scholars soundly, hurled a few insults, and then they all broke through their bottlenecks?”

He Chang’an’s face grew warm, thankfully hidden by wine. He managed a sheepish laugh. “Both poems were just made up, copied and cobbled together…”

“I’ve read your poems—they make good sense.” The old scholar said this with great seriousness.

“Er…Sir, let’s just keep drinking.” When it came to poetry, He Chang’an truly lacked confidence and could only urge another round.

“A poem that makes sense is a good poem,” the old scholar continued. “Zhao Zheng studies rigorously but knows only exegesis—he’s a blockhead!

As for Du Thirteen and Wen Taiyuan, their poetry is better than mine—their diction, ideas, and use of allusion all far surpass me.

The problem is, none of them know how to reason. In that, they fall short of me, and are even less than you.

Take Du Thirteen’s ‘Pity the old country, three thousand li, hollow songs fill the six palaces’—the poetic sentiment is there, but aside from deepening one’s melancholy, what use is it?

Unlike your poem, ‘Three calls summon the sun from Fusang, sweeping away the last stars and the pale moon’—it is clear and bright, the reasoning laid plain. I like it very much.”

The old scholar spoke at length, and He Chang’an listened in a daze, unable to get a word in, only staring in awestruck admiration.

See how cultured he was—remarkable indeed. A simple point could be expounded at length, and yet those listening never felt bored or fatigued…

“That poem—never mind, let’s drink.” He Chang’an hesitated, then let it go.

So what if it was copied? Among scholars, is that even called plagiarism…

“I heard you live in Yellow Mud Alley. I looked for you twice, but you weren’t home, so I didn’t go again.” The old scholar, a little awkward, raised his bowl and smiled. “It’s best we met today. In the future, if you wish to study, come to the academy and find me. I’ll always keep a seat for you.”

“Thank you, sir.” He Chang’an stood and bowed deeply before sitting down again.

The old scholar made no pretense—he sat upright and accepted He Chang’an’s bow graciously. He then drew two books from his robe and handed them over with a smile.

“The school in Yellow Mud Alley has only just started. Most of the students are children from poor families, so our lessons focus on writing. Here is a copy of the ‘Three Cang’ and one of the ‘Forest of Characters,’ which I prepared just for you.

That ‘Forest of Characters’ was written by me—you can flip through a few pages when you have time. Learning a few more characters is always good.”

He Chang’an was at a loss, subconsciously wiping his hands clean against his robe several times before accepting the two books with both hands, breathing in the faint fragrance of paper, his heart heavy.

The ‘Three Cang’ sounded like some profound martial arts manual, but was really just a primer; as for the ‘Forest of Characters,’ it was surely another kind of dictionary…

In both his lives, he had only enjoyed swinging a staff, listening to songs in brothels, and reading illustrated Water Margin or Flowery Tales of the Golden Vase. To sit quietly and study words was a stretch for him.

But seeing the old scholar’s eager eyes, he could not bear to say so, and carefully bundled up the two books for safekeeping.

Watching He Chang’an solemnly put the books away, the old scholar seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, lines of smile creasing his face.

“My teacher’s surname is Kong, and mine is Lü.

In the future, if you ever run into trouble, just say your teacher’s surname is Lü—tell them, reason with them, just say your teacher is Lü.”