Great Zhou Wensheng

Chapter 252 The Heart of a Scholar! The Way of the Sage!
The night was as dark as ink, enveloping the Wei residence. Only the lamp in the study stubbornly tore through the heavy darkness, becoming the only pulsating light in this desolate world.

The air in the study was so still it felt as if you could feel its weight.

The finest sandalwood and the refreshing aroma of tea intertwined, yet failed to dispel the melancholy and awe that permeated everyone's brows and hearts.

The earth-shattering scene outside the Hall of Literary Brilliance during the day still reverberates violently in this small area, impacting the minds of everyone present.

Minister Wei Min leaned back in the wide rosewood chair in the main seat, having shed his solemn court robes that symbolized his power, and wearing only a loose black casual dress with dark patterns, which made him appear even more profound and tired.

His fingertips unconsciously tapped lightly on the smooth, cool handrail, producing a regular, muffled "tap, tap" sound, like a water clock measuring the unbearable night.

The trusted disciples and advisors seated at the lower end of the table all held their breath, their faces solemn, and none of them dared to easily break the chilling silence.

Finally, a student, around forty years old with a refined appearance, took a deep breath and spoke first, his voice filled with lingering excitement and disbelief:

“Dear teacher, your student… your student is still deeply shaken, as if in a dream.”

Jiang Xingzhou was only seventeen years old, the perfect age to be dressed in fine clothes, riding a spirited horse, and indulging in poetry and wine!

Ordinary talented young men of this age, even with extraordinary talent, can only express lofty ambitions and romantic notions in their writing. Even if they occasionally utter lines expressing compassion for farmers and the people, it is still nothing more than a forced attempt to express sorrow.

But he... how could he!

How could one possibly compose a poem like "My Thatched Hut Is Broken by the Autumn Wind"... a poem so poignant, so full of sorrow, where every word is written in tears?

His speech slowed, as if each word was painstakingly retrieved from the depths of his memory, and a chilling glint appeared in his eyes as he recited:
“‘The quilt is as cold as iron after many years, and the spoiled child’s bad sleeping habits have torn it.’... How could someone who has lived a life of luxury imagine such details out of thin air?”

The cold, hard touch of the quilt, the cracking sound caused by the child's ignorant kicking—these were clearly observations of the hardships of life!
There's also the line, "The roof leaks above my bed, and the rain falls like a never-ending stream." The despair and helplessness of this long, rainy night cannot be understood through mere theoretical discussion!

Such profound sorrow can only be truly understood by those who have experienced the trials and tribulations of life and tasted the bitterness of human existence.
After reading it, the student felt a chill rise from his spine, penetrating to his very core!

No sooner had he finished speaking than a piercing-eyed retainer with a neatly trimmed goatee clapped his hands in response, his tone filled with admiration and amazement:

"Indeed!"
However, the most amazing part of this poem is the sudden and dramatic change in its artistic conception!
If the entire piece merely depicts the author's own predicament and sorrow, even with meticulous detail, it would at most be a fine work from a prominent prefecture or town.

However, the writing style suddenly shifts—"If only I had ten thousand mansions, I could shelter all the poor scholars of the world and make them smile!"

Unshaken by wind and rain, as firm as a mountain!

His voice suddenly rose, filled with barely suppressed excitement, as if he had personally witnessed the magnificent mansion of his dreams:

"This sentence is like a thunderclap in the dark night, splitting the gloom, and like the rising sun, shining brightly!"

In an instant, one's own personal pain is sublimated into the realm of a sage who has compassion for all living beings and a heart that embraces the world!
Especially the ending line, "Even if my hut is broken and I freeze to death, it will be enough!"... What a spirit of sacrifice!

What a magnanimous spirit!
He has transcended personal gains and losses, reaching the supreme realm of a 'literary sage'!

He turned to Wei Min, his expression becoming extremely solemn:
“My dear teacher, the value of this poem has long surpassed the skill of poetry itself.”

It precisely struck the softest and most sublime ideal in the hearts of the poor and needy across the world!
It vividly portrays their current predicament and, more importantly, outlines the spiritual home they yearn for!
Tell me, which scholar in the world doesn't yearn for a spacious house to live in?
Who doesn't yearn for a peaceful and prosperous world where everyone is happy?

When Jiang Xingzhou eloquently voiced their pent-up feelings of a thousand years and was willing to sacrifice his own interests for it, what a tremendous force the resonance and support it would evoke!

Lu Mingde's questioning of "scholars and scholars throughout the land being satisfied" was originally a sure way to defeat his opponent.

However, this man used their strength against them, and with a brilliant and open scheme, he won over the hearts of all the poor scholars in the world!
This plan... is righteous and honorable, yet its momentum is unstoppable!

The study fell silent again, with only the occasional soft crackling of the lamp wick.

Everyone was shocked by this penetrating analysis, as if they were witnessing an invisible, overwhelming force gathering and taking shape in the sky above Luoyang.

After a long while, Wei Min, who was at the head of the table, slowly raised his eyelids, which had been slightly closed. The turbulent waves of the daytime were no longer visible in his deep eyes; only a calm and solemn stillness remained, like that of an ancient well with a cold pool.

He stopped tapping the armrest and slowly crossed his hands in front of his abdomen.

“What you have said is all to the point and sees right through me.”

Wei Min's voice was low and slow, carrying the authority honed by his long years in the center of power, as well as a hint of weariness that was hard to conceal. "Jiang Xingzhou's talent, after these three tests, is as bright as the moon in the sky, beyond doubt."

His calligraphy, painting, and poetry have all reached a level of excellence that will be passed down through generations. Furthermore, he possesses a keen insight into people's hearts and a broad mind that encompasses the world.

His exceptional talent, unwavering resolve, and magnanimous vision... not only are none of his peers able to match him, but even throughout history, those who have achieved such accomplishments at such a young age are extremely rare.

His tone suddenly shifted, becoming as cold and hard as metal:

"However, it is precisely because it is so stunning and almost perfect that it makes this old man... feel a sense of unease and have lingering worries."

The expressions of everyone present suddenly tightened, and even their breathing became lighter, as their eyes all focused on Wei Min's face.

Wei Min's gaze slowly swept over each tense face, his voice lowered as if afraid of disturbing the night lurking outside the window:
"A tree that stands out in the forest will be felled by the wind; a mound that rises above the bank will be eroded by the current; a person who excels above others will be criticized by the masses."

This is an eternal truth.

Jiang Xingzhou's reputation is now at its zenith, his momentum is unstoppable.

His Majesty's trust in him has deepened day by day, and scholars throughout the land wholeheartedly support him. His brilliance has not only overshadowed his peers but has also directly threatened the foundation we have built over decades.

He sighed softly, a sigh filled with complex emotions:

"The way of the court lies in checks and balances."

A single pillar supporting the sky is by no means a blessing for the nation.

Now, with his unparalleled achievements and immense prestige, Jiang Xingzhou's promotion to Grand Secretary of the Hall of Fame is a foregone conclusion.

At that time, he will be the youngest cabinet minister since the founding of our Great Zhou Dynasty, holding the reins of power and enjoying unparalleled imperial favor… Have you all considered the profound impact this young man will have on the Wei family, on Chancellor Chen and Chancellor Guo, and on the court structure that has been painstakingly maintained to this day, once he enters the Hall of State Affairs?

A younger aide tentatively asked:

"My mentor is worried that Jiang Xingzhou, having achieved early success and suddenly risen to a high position, might act impulsively and be difficult to control."

Could this lead to an imbalance in the political situation?

Wei Min slowly shook his head, his gaze sharp as a knife, as if trying to cut through the layers of fog before him:
"It is not because I am worried about his youth and impetuousness."

The intelligence and shrewdness displayed by this young man indicate that he is by no means a reckless person.

What worries me is that its momentum has already been established!
The trend of the times is like a river flowing to the sea; those who follow it may not prosper, but those who go against it will surely perish!
When he enters the core of power, carrying the earnest expectations of scholars across the land and the unparalleled favor of His Majesty, how many people in the court and the country will dare to challenge his policies and the officials he recommends?
How much can they stop its momentum?

He paused briefly, as if the air in the study had frozen, before continuing, his voice barely audible, yet each word carrying immense weight:

"More importantly... Your Majesty is in the prime of life and has ambitions for a thousand years to come."

Now that we have obtained this unparalleled sharp weapon, who knows if we won't use this opportunity to cleanse the accumulated ills of the court and the country, or even... reshape the order of the universe?
If that's the case, how should we, the remnants of the previous dynasty, conduct ourselves?

Where is a place to settle down and make a living?

His words were like a bucket of ice water poured over someone's head in the dead of winter, sending chills down everyone's spines and instantly soaking their inner shirts with cold sweat.

Only now did they realize that their mentor's concerns had long surpassed the gains and losses of a written examination during the day, but were profound and far-sighted concerns about the future of the court and the change of power over the next ten or even several decades!

Jiang Xingzhou's rise is not just the sudden emergence of a genius, but a huge variable that could sweep everything away!

"Then... Master, what should we do now?"

Another guest lowered his voice, his tone tinged with bewilderment.

Wei Min remained silent for a long time, the candlelight casting flickering shadows on his face, making his expression even more unfathomable.

Finally, he let out a long sigh, filled with endless caution and helplessness:

"well--!"

A long sigh perfectly encapsulates the precarious nature of navigating the treacherous path of power struggles.

"This is difficult... Let's wait and see what happens, and then act when the opportunity arises."

Jiang Xingzhou is a man whose sharpness and intimidating presence are too great.

Given the current situation, we can only be friends, and absolutely must not be enemies.

At the very least, we must never confront them directly.

As for the undercurrents beneath the surface... let's see how Prime Minister Chen and Prime Minister Guo respond.

This grand game, concerning the fate of the nation and the destiny of each individual... has just seen the first move made.

He waved wearily, signaling that the discussion for the night was over.

Everyone bowed in unison and silently withdrew.

Everyone's steps were heavy, as if a huge boulder was pressing on their hearts, making it hard to breathe.

They knew that after this one night, the world in Luoyang had changed.

A young giant, capable of stirring up the world, has risen with unstoppable momentum.

The future imperial court will surely be stirred up by his presence, with storms raging and waves crashing.

The study door was gently closed, isolating it from the outside world.

Wei Min sat alone under the dim lamplight, gazing at the flickering candlelight on the table. The shimmering light reflected in his deep eyes mirrored the turbulent emotions in his heart.

His lips moved slightly, and a whispered murmur escaped into the deep night:

"Jiang Xingzhou... are you the pillar of our Great Zhou's future, or... the prelude to a monstrous upheaval?"

The night outside the window grew ever deeper and more oppressive.

...

The students and guests bowed and took their leave, their steps heavy as they withdrew from the Wei family study, their movements tinged with an unprecedented stagnation.

The heavy nanmu door slowly closed behind them, isolating the suffocatingly heavy atmosphere in the study, but also seemingly exposing the turmoil in their hearts to the cold night sky.

The night wind outside the study carried the chill of late autumn, blowing in their faces, but it could not dispel the heavy, poignant, and burning resonance in their hearts, forcibly stirred by Jiang Xingzhou's poem "My Thatched Hut Is Broken by the Autumn Wind."

The verses were like barbed thorns, piercing my heart, and a single touch would evoke threads of unpleasant memories and the hardships of the present.

On the surface, they remained trusted confidants of Minister Wei, and figures in Luoyang who might be addressed as "Sir" or "Master," maintaining the dignity of the scholar-officials and the integrity of the literati.

But at this moment, the cracks deep within everyone's heart, carefully concealed by the glitz and glamour of officialdom, the upbringing of aristocratic families, and the pretense and deceit of daily life, were ruthlessly pried open by the poem, word by word, like the most precise chisel, revealing the little-known hardships and bitterness of the "poor scholar" in their true nature.

While Wei Gong's concerns about the overall situation of the court and the balance of power were certainly far-sighted, they seemed somewhat ethereal at this moment.
The "cold as iron" quilt and the "no dry place" leaking roof described in the poem are the very real lives that many of them have experienced or are experiencing.

They bowed to each other in farewell, whispering "take care" to one another. Their words lacked the usual formality and instead conveyed a tacit understanding of shared misfortune. Then they turned and silently embarked on their journeys home.

As night fell, the lights of thousands of homes in Luoyang City lit up one after another, outlining the bustling outline of the capital, dazzling and mesmerizing, like a fairyland.

But beneath this glitz and glamour, how much hardship and struggle lies hidden in the shadows, in places where similar circumstances exist?

...

A middle-aged student surnamed Wang, dressed in a slightly worn, faded sixth-rank official robe with quail-patterned insignia, untied the equally thin old horse that was tied to the horse post at the side gate of the Wei residence and slowly climbed onto it.

The old horse seemed to sense its master's mood, and with small, quick steps, it slowly made its way back to the house. The horse's hooves tapped on the bluestone pavement, making a monotonous "clattering" sound, which added to the loneliness.

He involuntarily looked up at the distant mansions with their vermilion gates, high eaves, and intricate brackets, the stone lions in front of them appearing majestic and indifferent under the lantern light.

Then, he subconsciously lowered his head, dusted off the dust on his official robe, and as his fingertips touched the rough fabric, a bitter self-mockery crept onto his lips.

"If only I had ten thousand mansions, to shelter all the poor and needy, so they could all smile with joy... and stand firm as a mountain against wind and rain..."

He unconsciously murmured the poem over and over again, his heart filled with mixed emotions.

He studied diligently for over twenty years, burning the midnight oil and turning his youthful hair white. Finally, he passed the imperial examination with flying colors and rose to the sixth rank. In his hometown, a small county, he was already a remarkable figure, enough to bring glory to his family.

But in Luoyang, the capital city teeming with hidden talents and high-ranking officials, what was he?
He was just a minor official, as insignificant as an ant, a rusty cog in this massive bureaucratic machine that could be replaced at any time.

After deducting the necessary official social obligations and interactions with colleagues, and sending part of his meager salary back to his hometown to support his elderly parents, how much is left?
To this day, he still lives with his wife and children in a rented courtyard in a remote alley in the southern part of the city. There are only two low-lying tile-roofed houses, one of which serves as a bedroom and living room, and the other is where his wife and children, whom he brought from his hometown, live. The houses are cramped and narrow.

In summer, it's sweltering like a sauna, with mosquitoes swarming everywhere; in winter, the walls let in drafts, so you have to be extremely careful with the amount of charcoal you burn.

The courtyard walls are low, and even a decent, quiet study room is a luxury.

He often made excuses to decline banquets and drinking parties with his colleagues, not because he was unwilling to make friends, but because he was short of money and could not afford to give a decent amount of money.

What he feared even more was that after drinking too much, his colleagues would urge him to go home, only to find his home shabby and all the dignity he had painstakingly maintained would vanish.

"Lord Jiang's poem... truly... truly speaks to our hearts, every word pierces the soul..."

The official surnamed Wang let out a long sigh as he faced the night wind; his sigh was filled with a sense of powerlessness.

How could he not yearn day and night for a sturdy and spacious "mansion" that could truly shelter his family from the wind and rain, and allow him to study and discuss politics in peace?
Living in Luoyang is extremely difficult; the saying that "every inch of land is worth its weight in gold" is no exaggeration.

Let alone buying a decent house, which is a pipe dream for him, even renting a slightly more spacious house in a better location would be a huge expense that would leave him struggling to make ends meet.

There are thousands, if not tens of thousands, of officials of his rank in Luoyang. Most of them, like him, are overwhelmed by the invisible mountain of housing prices, struggling to breathe amidst the huge gap between their ideals and reality.

...

Another young retainer, Zhang Sheng, from an even poorer family, didn't even have a skinny horse to ride on. He could only wrap his worn-out cotton robe tighter around himself and walk back to his rented tenement in the west of the city along the dimly lit streets.

The courtyard was a melting pot of people, housing no fewer than seven or eight households, including peddlers, laborers, and people from all walks of life.

He rented a small, dark side room in the corner of the courtyard, which could only fit a hard bed, a dilapidated desk, and a crooked wooden chair—that was all his belongings.

When he was studying late into the night or drafting documents for Wei Gong, he was often interrupted by the crying of a neighbor's baby, arguments between couples, or even the shouting of drunkards. He could only endure it with a bitter smile.

He was once a renowned scholar in his hometown, harboring the dream of "mastering both literary and martial arts to serve the emperor." He traveled thousands of miles to the capital, believing that once he passed the imperial examinations or met a benefactor, he could change his fate and bring glory to his family.

The reality is that even though he has been fortunate enough to become a staff member in the Wei family and his income is slightly better than that of ordinary scholars who are still waiting for opportunities in inns, it is still a distant dream for him to own a piece of land and a place that truly belongs to him in the prosperous capital of Luoyang.

Most of the meager tuition fees were sent back to the hometown to help support the family, with the remainder barely enough to maintain basic survival.

"The quilt is as cold as iron after many years... My spoiled child sleeps badly and tears it... The roof leaks above the bed and there is no dry place; the rain falls like a never-ending stream..."

Zhang Sheng stumbled along the uneven alley, feeling the biting night wind seep into his collar and cuffs. He couldn't help but shiver, feeling as if Jiang Xingzhou's poem wasn't written with ink, but rather etched into his heart with icicles, cold and piercing.

He vividly recalled that cold winter night last year, when the roof was in disrepair and the north wind blew freezing rain into the house.

He frantically tried to catch water with basins and bowls, the dripping sound incessant. The cold air seeped into his bones, and wrapped in a damp, cold blanket, he tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep.
The next day, he caught a cold and had a persistent high fever. He was bedridden for several days. The bitterness, helplessness and despair of "the long nights soaked with sweat" are something that one cannot truly understand or remember unless one has experienced it firsthand.
"Lord Jiang is only seventeen years old. It is said that he was born an orphan and lived in the Xue family when he was young."

I have never heard of him having any experience of hardship and destitution like ours. How could he... how could he write about the suffering of a poor scholar so vividly and empathetically?
It was as if he had once lived in this dilapidated house of mine!

A surge of immense admiration welled up in Zhang Sheng's heart, mixed with unspeakable doubts, but even more so, a tremendous sense of comfort and excitement—an unprecedented feeling of being deeply understood and having his voice spoken for—and his eyes even welled up with tears.

He said what we had kept in our hearts for years, what we wanted to say but dared not say, and what we could not say!

This is true advocacy for the people!

...

Tonight, the lower-ranking officials and impoverished retainers who came out of the Wei residence, on their respective journeys home and in their humble abodes, all realized that the "balance of the court," "power structure," and "division of influence" that Lord Wei had just pondered in his study were indeed important military and national matters that those in high positions of power had to weigh.

But for these "poor scholars" who have to worry about firewood, rice, oil, salt, rent, and charcoal every day, and who have to face the expectant yet guilty gazes of their wives and children, Jiang Xingzhou's poem touches on more fundamental and visceral issues of survival and spiritual belonging!

An official who can so accurately empathize with the plight of the people, deeply understand their suffering, and elevate this understanding to a level of compassion for all living beings is the kind of "parent official" and spiritual leader they truly yearn for deep in their hearts.

Jiang Xingzhou's ability to write such poems at least proves that he cares about the people and understands their hardships. His breadth of vision and character are worlds apart from those aristocratic nobles who are high and mighty all day long, only concerned with vying for power and profit, and oblivious to the cost of living!
Unbeknownst to them, a subtle emotional balance began to tip in their hearts. Although they still appreciated Wei Gong's kindness in recognizing their talent, still needed to follow the explicit and implicit rules of officialdom, and still offered advice for the benefit of the Wei family, a seed called "identification" or even "yearning" had been quietly planted deep in their hearts by Jiang Xingzhou's "My Thatched Hut Is Broken by the Autumn Wind," a song that struck a chord with them and voiced their pent-up emotions of a thousand years.

They began to have a faint hope that if Jiang Xingzhou, a man who understood the hardships of ordinary people and cared for the poor scholars of the world, were to one day hold great power and become a high-ranking official, would he actually do something for the desperately high housing prices and for the dream of a peaceful home for countless poor scholars like themselves who were struggling to survive in the capital?
Will this bring about some different changes that are closer to the expectations of these "poor scholars"?

That night, in Luoyang, countless lower-ranking officials and impoverished scholars, whose circumstances were similar to those of Wang Guan and Zhang Menke, were in their humble dwellings, noisy courtyards, or quiet guesthouses, under the lamplight—or perhaps they couldn't even afford to keep the lamp on for a moment longer—reciting and pondering every word and phrase of "My Thatched Hut Is Broken by the Autumn Wind," their hearts surging with emotion, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep.

The name Jiang Xingzhou, along with his grand ambition and compassion—"If only I could have ten thousand mansions, I could shelter all the poor and make them smile"—has been deeply engraved in their hearts like a brand.

This intangible yet immensely powerful force of public sentiment is quietly gathering and flowing in the deep darkness of the night, silently altering the very foundation and underlying nature of the power structure in Luoyang and even the entire Great Zhou Dynasty.

Jiang Xingzhou, who was perhaps resting somewhere at that moment, probably did not fully expect that his poem "My Thatched Hut Is Broken by the Autumn Wind," written with utmost sincerity and concern for the country and its people, would not only achieve another brilliant literary success and spread throughout the world, but also, in the turbulent and unpredictable world of power struggles, silently win him a foundation of support from the people and the public that is far more solid and precious than any high-ranking official position.

...

The wind in the northern frontier is sharp and serrated.

All year round, rough, yellow sand swirls across this barren land, howling and swallowing up the last bit of warmth and gentleness between heaven and earth.

In this forgotten, bitterly cold corner, the only place that can be called a "city" is the county town of Hanxian, which is haphazardly built from low adobe bricks.

The walls are dilapidated, with the collapsed sections barely plugged with thorns and broken wood, like scars left after long periods of war and sandstorms, silently telling of the depletion of the local finances and the decline of the people's livelihood.

The county government office was so shabby it was heartbreaking.

Several gray tiled houses were huddled together. The plaque above the door, which read "Hanxian Zhengtang," had long since lost its paint, revealing the withered, rotten wood underneath. It swayed slightly in the wind, emitting a creaking sound.

This place is adjacent to the border, and scattered barbarian tribes often cross the border like ghosts to plunder. The people live in constant fear, and taxes are naturally delayed year after year. It is common for rats to run in the government treasury.

In the back hall of the county government office, a dim oil lamp flickered, barely dispelling the darkness in a corner.

In the dilapidated charcoal brazier, the few remaining pieces of inferior charcoal barely managed to emit faint sparks, and the chill, like a persistent ailment, seeped in from every crack and crevice.

The newly appointed county magistrate, Gu Zhimian, was frowning and staring intently at a household registration book with its edges worn and tattered.

He was about twenty years old, but his face had already been etched with the rough marks of the frontier's hardships, his skin was dark, and his lips were chapped.

His brows still faintly revealed the refined features left by a scholar, but more than that, they showed weariness and melancholy worn down by complicated government affairs and heavy pressure.

The official robe he wore, adorned with the embroidered mandarin duck pattern, had been starched until it was almost white, and the marks of careful stitching with the same colored fabric at the elbows were faintly visible under the lamplight.

"Your Excellency," said the county magistrate's assistant, an elderly official with white hair recruited locally, carefully offering a bowl of slightly steaming coarse tea, his voice hoarse with the local characteristics.

He hesitated for a moment, his cloudy eyes darting around, but he couldn't help but lower his voice and ask tentatively, "I heard... that you and that famous and powerful Lord Jiang Xingzhou from Luojing City were... from the same hometown?"
Were they classmates?

Gu Zhimian's hand holding the brush suddenly paused, and a drop of thick black ink unexpectedly dripped onto the yellowed book, quickly spreading into a glaring stain.

He stared at the ink stain, remaining silent for several breaths, as if the ink stain was spreading his complex and unspeakable thoughts.

Finally, he slowly placed the brush on the inkstone, making a soft "tap" sound. Then he picked up the bowl of lukewarm water, which had almost no tea flavor and was only slightly colored, and took a sip, using this action to conceal the turmoil in his heart.

"Ah."

He responded softly, his voice unusually hoarse from dryness and suppressed emotion, "We're from the same hometown, and also... from the same department."

His tone revealed no trace of pride or joy, but rather a deliberate air of distance and a deep-seated, unspoken embarrassment.

Since he was "exiled" to this harsh and cold northern region to serve as a county magistrate by a document from the Ministry of Personnel, he has rarely mentioned his background or his classmates.

Especially when the name of his former classmate streaked across the sky like a dazzling comet, shaking the world's scholars, he intentionally or unintentionally avoided it all, as if that dazzling glory would burn away his current humility.

Looking back, at Jiangyin Academy, with its ancient books and lamps, he and Jiang Xingzhou rose at dawn together, studied diligently together, and together went to the capital for the imperial examinations, carrying the dream of serving the world.

His passing the imperial examination with top honors was a great honor worthy of being recorded in the family genealogy, enough to comfort his ancestors.

However, ranking in the imperial examinations was merely a stepping stone.

The fates of those who passed the imperial examinations varied drastically due to differences in family background, social standing, and mentorship.

He came from a humble background, and his ancestors for three generations were all minor officials. In the invisible battlefield of the Ministry of Personnel's selection process, the lucrative and desirable positions in the Jiangnan water towns and the prominent official posts near the capital had long been divided up, either openly or secretly, by his classmates with powerful backgrounds.

Ultimately, the position of magistrate of this remote and unpopular county in the northern frontier, which everyone avoided like the plague and was frequently invaded by demons and barbarians, fell to him, an "honest man" with no connections and no talent for scheming.

And what about Jiang Xingzhou?
A six-time top scholar, a feat unparalleled throughout history!
Upon entering the Hanlin Academy, he was appointed as a compiler of unparalleled prestige, which won the emperor's favor. Now, he has soared to new heights, and the position of Grand Secretary of the Hall of Literary Glory is already within his grasp. The position of Minister of Revenue is also within his reach. He has become a giant in the court and a pillar of the country!
The difference between the two is like heaven and earth: one is the bright moon high in the sky, and the other is a tiny speck of dust mired in the mud.

"oops!

That's so true!

Upon hearing this, the old county magistrate's dim eyes suddenly shone with an almost worshipful light, his face filled with envy and even a hint of flattery, his wrinkles smoothing out, "With such a classmate who has connections to the heavens, Lord Gu is sure to rise to great heights and have a bright future!"

"All it takes is a letter, reminiscing about our school days, and asking Lord Jiang to put in a good word for me before the Ministry of Personnel or His Majesty. A transfer from this harsh and dangerous place, a promotion back to the capital, or a transfer to a prosperous prefecture or county—wouldn't that be just a matter of time?"

Upon hearing this, Gu Zhimian couldn't help but let out an extremely bitter smile, a smile that was more painful than crying.

He slowly shook his head, his gaze falling to the ink stain on the table, as if looking at his own inescapable predicament:

“County Magistrate Li, don’t think that way.”

Brother Jiang... He has lofty aspirations and cares for all the people. What he is doing now is for the sage's grand wish of "to have thousands of mansions to shelter all the poor and make them happy".

We...we, living in this remote corner, are doing our utmost to guard this border for the people of this county, to spare them from the suffering of being slaughtered by demons and barbarians, and to ensure that they have food to eat and warm clothes to cover their bodies in this barren land. We have done our best to fulfill our duty.

How could I dare to bother him for my own selfish gain?

"Write a letter, curry favor, and ask for an official position?"

He paused, his voice laced with self-mockery, "It only adds to... laughter."

As he spoke, his gaze involuntarily drifted to the gray, sand-shrouded sky outside the window, and to the distant, undulating border mountains that, in the twilight, resembled the spine of a ferocious beast.

An indescribable pang of sorrow welled up in my nose, and my eyes involuntarily became slightly warm and moist.

He also received news from Luoyang and read Jiang Xingzhou's poem "My Thatched Hut Is Broken by the Autumn Wind," which shocked the court and moved countless poor scholars to tears.

"If only I had ten thousand mansions, I could shelter all the poor scholars of the world and make them all smile with joy!"

Unshaken by wind and rain, as firm as a mountain!

Whenever he silently recited this phrase in his heart, he felt his blood surging in his chest.

What a magnanimous spirit and boldness this is!

What ideals and responsibilities!

In contrast, he was stuck in this poor and impoverished border county, worrying about a few bushels of uncollected taxes, a few trivial civil disputes, and guarding against small groups of elusive demons, and was so stressed that he could hardly sleep day and night.

The once spirited young man in the academy, who aspired to emulate the sages in governing the country and bringing peace to the world, seems to have had his sharp edges worn away by the daily pressures and mundane realities of life, leaving only a weary desire for stability and preservation.

"Brother Jiang..."

He silently recited it in his heart, his emotions complex and difficult to discern.

There was a genuine sense of joy and pride in seeing my classmate achieve such an immortal feat, but also an indescribable sense of self-deprecation and a profound sense of loneliness that grew wildly like weeds.

"You have already reached for the moon and plucked stars in the heavens, your name resounding throughout the world; while I... am still struggling to survive in this muddy thorny thicket, unknown and obscure."

Perhaps, the greatest glory in my life, Gu Zhimian, is simply the time I spent studying with you.

He took a deep breath of the cold, earthy air, forcibly suppressing the soreness in his nose and the wetness in his eyes. He picked up the slightly worn calligraphy brush again and focused intently on the densely packed household registers in front of him.

Here, there are still hundreds of people struggling to make ends meet waiting for him to register them and implement the government's meager but crucial relief; there are also border outposts dozens of miles away that he needs to personally inspect and supervise tomorrow to prevent the barbarians from taking advantage of the situation; and there are also grain seeds and farming tools that will affect the livelihood of the entire county after the spring, which he needs to rack his brains to raise and strive for...

These specific, even trivial, matters are Gu Zhimian's inescapable responsibilities as the magistrate of Han County, and the foundation of his livelihood.

The bustling prosperity of Luoyang and the illustrious achievements of his classmates were, to him, a distant world that was unattainable and irrelevant to him.

All he could do, and all he should do, was to protect this barren but real land beneath his feet, to be worthy of the meager salary issued by the imperial court, and to be worthy of the simple, honest people of this county who entrusted their lives to him, and perhaps even more so, the numb people.

As for achieving great success and holding a high position in the imperial court?
He no longer dared to, nor could he, hope for such a thing.

If I can save up some salary soon, I can bring my elderly mother from my hometown to live with me. Although I cannot live a life of luxury, I hope to be able to take care of her and relieve her of any worries.
If his lowly position as a seventh-rank county magistrate could bring some glory to the Gu family's family genealogy, Gu Zhimian would be... completely satisfied.

The wind from beyond the Great Wall never tires, whipping up sand and gravel, and violently battering the creaking windows of the dilapidated county government office. It sobs and groans as if it is singing a desolate elegy for the loneliness, desolation, and unyielding sense of responsibility of this seventh-rank official who is steadfastly guarding the very edge of the empire. It is a mournful lament that no one will listen to.

Meanwhile, the dazzling lights and grand celebrations of Luoyang, a thousand miles away, and the bright moonlight that shines even more brilliantly as boats sail on the river, seem to have no effect on the boundless darkness and desolation of this bitterly cold border town in the north.

...

Luoyang, the Holy City.

The night was still and quiet.

Only in the study of the great Confucian scholar Dong Xian was a single, solitary light still shining.

He showed no signs of sleepiness, sitting alone at his large rosewood desk like a contemplative statue.

On the desk, a celadon oil lamp with an ancient shape flickered slightly, casting a dim and warm glow onto the scroll of "My Thatched Hut Is Broken by the Autumn Wind" in his hand, the ink still fresh and seemingly carrying the atmosphere of the Wenhua Hall of Luoshui.

His thin, trembling fingers unconsciously traced the powerful words on the paper, as if trying to reach the writer's warm and compassionate heart through the cold paper.

His brows were furrowed into a deep frown, and his profound eyes held a mixture of shock, confusion, and a sharp, almost scrutinizing light.

Outside the window, the moonlight, cold and frosty, silently spilled onto the withered branches in the courtyard.

Inside, the only sounds were the occasional crackling of the lamp wick and the old man's heavy, long breaths, as if they carried the weight of countless classic texts.

"In August, the autumn wind howls fiercely, tearing away the thatch from my roof..."

"The quilt has been cold as iron for many years, and my spoiled child's unruly sleep has torn it..."

"The roof leaks above my bed, leaving no dry spot; the rain falls like a never-ending stream..."

He murmured softly, his voice hoarse and slow.

Each line of poetry was like a silver needle tempered with ice, piercing with unparalleled precision into the most vulnerable and tender corner of the heart of this great Confucian scholar who had spent his life studying classics and experiencing the ups and downs of officialdom. It stirred up an indescribable resonance that made his soul tremble, and... a deeper, immense bewilderment stemming from the subversion of his understanding.

He knew Jiang Xingzhou's background better than most people.

This son was from Jiangyin. His father, Jiang Yan, was a scholar with considerable talent but unfortunate circumstances. He and Xue Chonghu, the Duke of Xue, were kindred spirits and became sworn brothers.

However, Jiang Yan was short-lived and died young in the northern frontier. When Jiang Xingzhou was only eleven years old, his mother seemed to lose heart and entrusted her only son to Xue Chonghu, who had been granted the title of Duke of Xue and was very powerful. After that, she disappeared without a trace.

In other words, Jiang Xingzhou's growth trajectory was almost entirely under the protection of the Duke Xue's mansion!

What kind of social standing does the Duke of Xue's family have?
That was a top noble family in the Great Zhou Dynasty, with generations of officials, enjoying a life of luxury and having countless servants!
Even though Jiang Xingzhou was an adopted son living under someone else's roof, given Xue Chonghu's generous, righteous, and trustworthy character, as well as the Xue family's reputation for valuing its prestige, there was absolutely no way he would be treated poorly in terms of food, clothing, housing, living expenses, or upbringing.

He should have lived a life of luxury, riding in fine clothes and riding spirited horses, in contact with the highest echelons of nobility and power, and witnessed the splendor of Jiangnan in the Great Zhou Dynasty.

His world should have been filled with crystal goblets, coral trees, poetry and wine, and a bright future.

Then, this unavoidable and extremely pointed question arises—

"How...how did he come to understand such...such profound poverty and desolation, etched into his very soul?"

Dong Xian put down his poetry scroll, leaned back in his chair, and murmured to himself into the void, his voice filled with the bewilderment that his knowledge could not explain in reality.

"The poem depicts the panic of a thatched hut swaying precariously in the autumn wind, the helplessness of being wrapped in an old, cold quilt, and hearing one's children kicking the quilt to shreds in their dreams because of the cold."

And then there's the endless night, the misfortunes never coming singly, the despair of having nowhere to hide... all these details, this exquisite insight into the struggles of the poor at the bottom of society, their near-suffocation from hunger and cold...

This is something that a young man raised in the luxurious world of the Duke's mansion, pampered and spoiled, could never achieve through mere imagination and flowery language!

This kind of experience requires truly going through the pain of living in a destitute house with the cold wind biting into your bones through the cracks!
You need to have seen it with your own eyes, or even endured it yourself, those long, dark nights when you can't get help from anyone!
It takes the cruel tempering of time and the relentless refinement of suffering to integrate this feeling into one's blood and transform it into such a real and terrifying power in one's writing!
But Jiang Xingzhou was only seventeen years old!
His life story is so clear that it is almost entirely devoid of the word "poverty"!
"Could it be..."

An idea that seemed almost absurd and inconceivable, yet was the only one that could be barely explained after all other possibilities had been ruled out, suddenly struck Dong Xian's mind like a lightning bolt in the dark.

Even this renowned scholar, known for his composure, felt a pang of fear and a chill run down his spine. "Could it be that in this vast world there truly are... those who are 'born with knowledge'?"
Like Confucius?

"Those who are born with knowledge!"
These five words carry immense weight!
It is a description of ancient sages in ancient books and classics!

It means that without learning or experience, one is born with a profound understanding of the principles of the universe and possesses the most essential and core insight into the workings of all things in the world and the joys and sorrows of human life!

It's a talent that goes straight to the source!

Could Jiang Xingzhou be such an anomaly?
His literary talent is not merely a remarkable achievement that can be summarized by diligent study and practice, but rather an innate "sacred heart" that reaches the source and naturally resonates with the suffering of all beings.
Therefore, he did not need to huddle in a leaky thatched hut and shiver to be able to perceive the cries and desires of the poor scholars of the world with boundless compassion.

Without having to endure the pain of cold and hunger, one can use extreme empathy to depict the bone-chilling cold and boundless helplessness that can bring tears to the eyes of listeners.
This bold conjecture left Dong Xian with a profound sense of powerlessness and a sense of awe at the unknown.

He couldn't help but recall his turbulent yet arduous life of exploration.

He studied diligently for centuries, burning the midnight oil, and tirelessly pursuing the true meaning of literature and the Way, hoping one day to touch the threshold of the legendary sacred path and glimpse a ray of the brilliance of the "Way".

Having experienced the ups and downs of officialdom and witnessed the fickleness of human nature, he believed he had gained a profound understanding and insight into human suffering and worldly affairs.

However, he could never cross that final step, that chasm between a "great Confucian scholar" and a "half-sage".

I always feel that there is an invisible and tough barrier between us, making it difficult to truly integrate the vast amount of "knowledge" I have accumulated with the invisible "principles" that exist in the world, and to reach the supreme harmonious state of "compassion for humanity and coexistence with the Tao".

But now, when he glanced back, he was shocked to find that the young man who was only seventeen years old, the one he had been examining as an examiner in the Wenhua Hall just a few days ago, had such firm and swift steps, and his figure was far ahead of him, and even many of the older generation like him!
What flows from his pen has long transcended the realm of ornate language and exquisite technique; it speaks directly to the heart, contains the principles of heaven and human relationships, and evokes a resonance with the universe... the aura of a sage!
The elegant and transcendent style of the "Preface to the Poems Composed at the Orchid Pavilion" transcends the self and the external world;
The ideal paradise described in "The Peach Blossom Spring" resonates with the hearts of the people.
Then there's the compassionate aspirations and selflessness embodied in "The Song of the Thatched Hut"... These masterpieces, destined to be celebrated throughout the world, are all manifestations of the "Way" of sages in the mortal realm!

"Ugh……"

A long, complex sigh, filled with endless emotion, echoed slowly in the study, where only the sound of a heartbeat could be heard.

This sigh contained an unbelievable shock at the sudden emergence of a genius, a complex sense of satisfaction at the promising future of the younger generation and the passing down of literary traditions, and a subtle excitement at the manifestation of the sacred way.

Even more so... a deep-seated sense of loss, a sense of loss that he himself was ashamed to face, yet which truly existed, and even a faint trace of jealousy.

The highest realm, which one has spent a lifetime searching for with all one's heart and soul but has never been able to reach, has seen such a clear and dazzling glimmer of hope in a young boy.

For him, a great Confucian scholar who was proud of his talent, famous throughout the world, and revered by countless scholars as a towering figure, this was undoubtedly a subversive shock and a test of his lifelong beliefs.

He gently put down the heavy scroll of poems in his hands, slowly stood up, and walked with slightly unsteady steps to the window, where he pushed open the tightly closed window.

A cool night breeze immediately rushed in, blowing his gray hair and wide robe sleeves, bringing a chill, but also a sense of clarity.

He looked up at the lonely, cold moon in the night sky, his heart churning with a thousand thoughts crashing against the shore of his soul.

"Jiang Xingzhou, Jiang Xingzhou... just who are you?"
Is your sudden emergence a once-in-a-millennium blessing or an unpredictable variable for the great Zhou culture?

For you personally… can such extraordinary, almost monstrous talent and innate saintly heart preserve your brilliance and remain untainted in this turbulent and unpredictable world, ultimately… overcoming all obstacles and truly embarking on the sacred path that countless sages aspired to?

Dong Xian knew clearly that after these three tests, Jiang Xingzhou was no longer simply a "rising star" or a "genius boy".

He is a torrent that has already gathered and taken shape, a strange peak that has suddenly risen, and the biggest variable that will profoundly influence and even change the future pattern of the entire Zhou Dynasty's culture and culture.

And what role will these senior Confucian scholars and learned elders play in this upcoming era that is caused by them?
It will become a source of strength and a cornerstone for his progress, allowing him to witness the rise of a new generation with great satisfaction.

Or... will they eventually become old rocks relentlessly battered on the shore by the tides of history, due to their beliefs, paths, or the enormous gap between them?

The cool moonlight flowed quietly across Dong Xian's wrinkled yet still wise face.

He stood there by the window for a long time, like an ancient pine tree, lost in deep thought about the past, present and future.

This night was destined to be sleepless for the great Confucian scholar Dong Xian.

(End of this chapter)