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A few elaborative carriages were parked beside the pavilion. The winds were cold and harsh in the countryside. The distant mountains were swathes of brown against the blue sky.

The sun was high in the sky, providing the much-needed warmth in the early winter days.

Ziyang’s Layman of the White Deer Academy was leaving the city for an official post.

It was great news for the academy—especially when it had been losing clout in the courts.

The mentors drummed out a rhythm and sang while the students danced merrily. The air was filled with excitement as each and everyone looked forward to a day they would be on the receiving end of such a celebration.

In the pavilion sat three elders who were drinking tea. The man with a long, white beard dressed in a purple robe was the guest of honor.

The man was Yang Gong—courtesy name, Ziqian, art name, Ziyang’s Layman. In Yuanjing Year 14, he was the top scorer in the imperial examination. However, he retired from his post just after one year of service and went back to the White Deer Academy. He spent 22 years there learning and teaching—he had students from all over the world and became an established Confucian scholar.

Nevertheless, he should have had a better future. Not long after he entered the political arena, he suddenly departed from the courts. There had been many rumors when that happened. Some said he offended the Emperor, and thus was ejected from the courts.

Others said he offended the Grand Secretary of that time who was known for using cruel tactics, therefore he packed up and left.

Regardless of what happened in the past, Yang Gong was back in the courts after 22 years. He was elected as Qingzhou’s provincial administration commissioner.

He was a high-ranking official of the border.

The two other men beside him were also noteworthy. They were well-known even beyond the White Deer Academy and their fame was on par with Ziyang’s Layman.

Li Mubai was the man with the goatee in a grey robe. He once had the art name, Chess Master. Five years ago, he lost a three-round chess game with Wei Yuan and flipped the chess table. Since then, he no longer played chess.

The one in a blue robe was Zhang Zhen—a military strategist. He was the author of the Six Swords of War, a compulsory reading for Dafeng’s military officials.

He was the only military strategist in Dafeng who could stand toe-to-toe with Wei Yuan.

Outside the pavilion stood a group of students who were there for the send-off. They were the cream of the crop that was the White Deer Academy.

Xu Xinnian was among them.

“Mentor Ziyang is finally given an administration role. If we can impress him, surely it’ll be good for our future in the courts.” A friendly peer asked, “Cijiu, have you prepared a poem?”

‘My brother gave me a poem, technically half a seven-character octave.’ Xu Xinnian stared at the pavilion and said, “I have an incomplete draft. Yong Shu, you’ve outdone yourself.”

The seven-character octave had a strict format. The number of characters had to be uniform for all eight sentences. Two sentences formed a line, making four lines in one stanza.

The poem Xu Qian recited only had two lines, half a stanza. After breakfast, Xu Xinnian had tried to pry the remaining half of the poem from his cousin but the man avoided the topic.

“No. Knowledge is as vast as the ocean, one has to put in the effort to make a boat, just as how we need to impress our elders for a better future,” the friend said. Knowing Xu Xinnian was not well-versed in poetry, he refrained from asking more.

“Yong Shu is right. Corruption is common in the courts these days. The low-level officials cooperate with the high-level officials to milk the commoners even with the increasing frequency of disasters. To make changes, one has to adapt to the ways.” Another student chimed in.

Yong Shu nodded and turned to Xu Xinnian. “You’ve always looked down on poetry but it is the one thing that can last centuries. Your essays will be forgotten after a decade or two.”

‘Poetry is a minor subject. It can’t be used for governance nor can it improve the lives of the common. It is merely a stylistic art form.’ Xu Xinnian swallowed his words as he was about to use said stylistic art form to impress an elder. He gave them an incoherent response.

Yong Shu was surprised to find no retaliation from Xu Xinnian.

The national chess player, Li Mubai, said, “Brother Yang, if you had half their wits, you wouldn’t have wasted 20-odd years of your life.”

Ziyang’s Layman smiled.

“That’s incorrect.” The military strategist, Zhang Zhen, said after taking a sip of his tea, “Brother Yang was ambitious and he followed fate’s plan.”

At that, Ziyang’s Layman spoke, “In the end, I was pushed out of the courts.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Those from the Imperial College were always dead-set against the White Deer Academy.”

“The empire is ruined within 200 years because of those power-hungry bastards who only know how to please the top and squash the bottom.”

The statement had to do with an interesting piece of history.

The source of Confucianism was the sage, Confucius. The White Deer Academy was founded by the sage’s disciple, a proper linkage to Confucius himself.

200 years ago, due to a power struggle in the courts, the White Deer Academy was hated by the then emperor.

At that time, the White Deer Academy had a traitor in their midst—according to those who hailed from the White Deer Academy.

The traitor was once a mentor in the academy and he took this opportunity to set up his own faction. He pleased the then emperor with his plan to ‘stay true to heaven’s wish and exterminate mankind’s sin’. With the emperor’s support, he created the Imperial College and became its first generation scholar.

The Imperial College took over the role of the White Deer Academy as the main delivery organization for the imperial courts.

Thus, the Confucians have been fighting for legitimacy in the past two centuries.

Ziyang’s Layman said in a low voice, “My journey to Qingzhou will be the first in many years. I will lay the groundwork in the courts and revitalize the academy but I cannot work alone. The academy requires assistance from my peers and the talented young.”

Li Mubai and Zhang Zhen exchanged a smile. Zhang Zhen scanned the crowd of students. “Does anyone wish to recite poetry for the guest of honor, Ziyang’s Layman?”

“A poetry recital must have a prize, else there is little meaning.” Ziyang’s Layman retrieved a purple jade from his waist and said, “The winner will get this piece of jade accessory.”

The purple jade was a rare find.

The students congregating outside the pavilion were enchanted by the jade accessory. The accessory was blessed with the scholar’s luck and wisdom—the person who received it would undoubtedly be blessed with good luck.

The gift had another meaning.

An elder’s personal accessory was only given to his juniors and students. Whoever received the purple jade would be considered Yang Gong’s student.

“I volunteer to recite a poem for Ziyang’s Layman,” said a man dressed in a green Confucian shirt. The jade accessories glimmered around his waist as he walked out of the crowd. He folded his sleeves in greeting.

Li Mubai smiled. “This is my student, Zhu Tuizi. He has some poetry skills.”

Ziyang’s Layman smiled and gestured for the student to begin.

When the student named Zhu Tuizi was done, a satisfied smile was on Ziyang’s Layman’s face.

“Good,” said the military strategist. He refrained from saying anything more as the two other scholars were much better at poetry than him.

A good start did not guarantee a good end. The subsequent poems were a far cry from good.

The difference was stark. The poems that came after the first student’s were barely passing the standard.

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Li Mubai said with a sigh, “Ever since the Imperial College prioritized the writings of the sages, the students have all been clinging tightly onto the essays and scriptures. ‘Stay true to heaven’s wish and exterminate mankind’s sin.’ Sooner or later, we will descend into a world of shackled and unimaginative poetry. Literature will no longer capture a person’s soul.”

The words were tinged with sadness.

It was the reason behind the diminishing powers of Confucianism. 200 years ago, the Confucian’s famous quote was, “Buddhism is great, Taoism is great, sorcery is great. Wizardry and witchcraft are amazing too. Well, martial artists are not among the civilized ranks. They can leave with the monsters and non-humankind. Now, I say to all of you seated, you’re all trash!”

Yes, the Confucianism of 200 years earlier was that conceited.

Fast forward 200 years, every other discipline treated Confucianism as an annoying little sibling.

The Confucians were understandably unhappy about the turn of events.

Ziyang’s Laymen sighed. “Let us move on from this topic. Any student who wishes to recite their poem, stand up.”

There was silence.

Zhu Tuizi stared at the purple jade. At this stage, he was confident it would be his.

“I have a poem.” Xu Xiannian stood and approached the pavilion.

He had bided his time as he was a low-profile scholar who did not wish to upstage his fellow peers. It most definitely had nothing to do with the fact that he and Zhu Tuizi had once engaged in a heated argument.

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