Chapter Thirteen: Possessing the Spirit of Zhang Zi from Years Past

In late October, in the Guanzhong region, Fusu stood by the newly constructed canal, sleepless through the night, waiting for Fusheng—the one who had taken his notes—to return here.

Guanzhong must have officially entered winter; otherwise, the northwest winds wouldn’t be so biting cold.

Seeing the young lord frown and gaze at the sky, Tian An, standing nearby, said, “My lord, it looks like it’s going to snow.”

Fusu asked, “What makes you say that?”

“In past years, it has always been this way: when the northwest wind is at its strongest and the Guanzhong sky is clear, it surely snows that night.”

Tian An shared this simple wisdom born from decades of observing the Qin climate.

A group of riders soon galloped up—their leader was Meng Tian.

Since General Meng Wu’s return, Meng Tian had appeared and vanished intermittently.

Now that the venerable General Meng Wu was stepping down, this year-end period would likely be the busiest time for Meng Tian.

The rider approached and dismounted with a graceful bow. “My lord, His Majesty summons you.”

Fusu took a deep breath, slightly raising his head, then boarded the carriage prepared by Tian An. Under Meng Tian’s escort, they headed westward toward the Wei River.

The carriage moved swiftly. Tian An urged the horses onward, cracking his whip repeatedly to keep pace with Meng Tian’s warhorse.

Fusu wondered silently: could those two Confucian scholars have shown my notes to the Emperor?

But then he thought better of it—surely not. The notes only recorded mundane matters about the livelihood of the people; the greatest impression they might leave was that Lord Fusu cared for agriculture.

If it were Li You’s volumes...

Fusu’s expression darkened with concern, blaming himself for poor judgment in friendships, a self-reproach.

Since the carriage sped along, the curtains billowed in the wind, revealing glimpses of the scenery flanking the straight road.

Even if Li You had shown the books to the Emperor, the worst that could happen was to invoke the venerable Xunzi, Fusu’s own revered teacher, the best ally who would surely defend and explain.

Fusu could roughly imagine some episodes from the Emperor’s childhood, and the upheavals that later unfolded in the Xianyang Palace.

These experiences had hardened the Emperor’s heart, creating a chill and distance in family relations.

The Xianyang Palace was vast. As the eldest son of the First Emperor, Fusu rarely saw his father.

Nor did the Emperor’s other children appear particularly lively or prominent before him.

Before this, during the reigns of the Qin kings, after King Zhaoxiang’s passing, King Xiaowen ruled only three days, and King Zhuangxiang three years. That chaotic era saw Qin Shi Huang’s ascent to the throne.

Perhaps the Emperor’s inner strength was immense, enabling him to wage war against the six states, depose Lü Buwei, seize supreme power, pacify royal clans, and unify the realm—such achievements demanded unparalleled might.

Fusu could only speculate thus, pondering how to face his father and the interrogation that awaited.

The carriage reached the banks of the Wei River. Fusu had already prepared both his worst fears and best plans.

Calm and composed, he stepped down to find the ceremonial guards.

Several thousand soldiers stood watch, and by the riverbank, many palace maids and eunuchs were gathered.

Tian An remained quietly by the carriage, still as a wooden statue swaying in the wind.

Fusu followed Meng Tian to a large wooden fishing platform, capable of holding dozens.

As he ascended the wooden steps, the boards creaked beneath his feet.

Approaching the Emperor, Fusu bowed. “Father.”

Ying Zheng munched on jujubes, one hand pressed to his temple, eyes half-closed, breathing quietly.

When the wind blew, the Emperor’s temples fluttered like silk.

At the front of the platform, more than ten eunuchs held fishing rods, assisting the Emperor.

“I hear you like fish?”

“Your son has eaten less meat recently, favoring fish instead.”

Ying Zheng slightly opened his eyes, glanced at his son, waved the wide sleeves of his robe, resting one hand on the railing. “You’ve grown taller.”

“You have caused your father to worry.”

The Emperor inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly through his nostrils, closed his eyes, and spoke gravely, “Have you met those two Qin scholars?”

“Yes, I have.”

“That day...” He paused, swallowing saliva, then continued in a deep voice, “Chunyu Yue said at Zhangtai Palace that you are a Qin prince. A prince requires a teacher’s guidance; you cannot heed only Li Si’s words.”

At this, Fusu instinctively glanced around but saw no teacher present.

“What do you think of Chunyu Yue’s words?”

“Your son’s knowledge of the various schools is shallow; I cannot judge others’ scholarship. My teacher is the Chancellor. I once thought, if Han Fei were alive, he would be my teacher.”

Ying Zheng sat composed with eyes closed, breathing evenly.

Fusu continued, “But now I believe in the inheritance of teachings—whether Chancellor or Han Fei—beyond them there is still Master Xunzi. Human knowledge is finite, and so is what I can learn.”

“I can avoid listening to one side only, but I cannot blindly follow others’ words. Just as when Qin was to expand eastward.”

Ying Zheng slowly opened his eyes, looking at his son.

“In the past, Qin Hui King, if he had heeded the old tutor and clung to tradition without adopting Shang Yang’s reforms, how could Qin have risen later? How could we have the great Qin today?”

His words struck with weight, leaving the Emperor momentarily speechless.

Seeing his father’s composed expression, Fusu bowed respectfully.

General Meng Wu nearby sighed quietly. The young lord’s words echoed the Emperor’s own thoughts. Many praised Qin for conquering vast lands, but governing that land invited endless debate, which grew tiresome.

Now the young lord spoke the Emperor’s heart plainly. Henceforth, whether Fusu learns from whom, or which school he studies, the Emperor would not intervene.

Indeed, what else was there to ask? This young prince of Qin was wise, discerning, and prudent—that was enough.

After this year, the young lord would be sixteen.

Ying Zheng said, “You should have taken Zhang Yi as your teacher—unfortunately, a century too late.”

All present on the fishing platform heard the Emperor’s words, a subtle compliment likening Fusu’s defense to Zhang Yi’s style.

Looking once more at his son, Ying Zheng said solemnly, “No need to bow.”

Relieved, Fusu lowered his hands and asked, “Father, did Zhang Yi really fight Hui Zi?”

Meng Wu smiled knowingly.

Ying Zheng glanced at Meng Wu, who almost laughed, but maintained a stern face. “Back then, Zhang Yi nearly killed Hui Zi.”

Fusu nodded in understanding.

It was a casual question, born from discrepancies between palace records and his own knowledge.

Gazing at the western Wei River, Ying Zheng said softly, “I wish to build a bridge here. Li Si said he could arrange it. Later I asked if my son was capable. Li Si intended for you to meet more scholars from the six states, but I thought your canal was well done, so this bridge shall be your project.”

Fusu looked up; this spot roughly corresponded to the future site of the Xianyang Bridge. He recalled the Wei River’s breadth was then vast—likely the Yellow River’s bed had not yet risen as in later times.

“I accept the order.”

“Good. You may return.”

Fusu bowed again, took the token offered by General Meng Wu, and descended from the platform.

The token was made of bronze, inscribed with the words “Grand Stable.”

“Shouldn’t the Grand Stable Minister oversee horse affairs?”

Fusu frowned, returning to his carriage, holding the token silently for a long moment.

Being swayed by others’ intentions felt unpleasant—especially regarding who would instruct him. Before the Emperor, Fusu was no longer the same as before.

As for his studies, he had learned for many years—indeed, countless years. His breadth of knowledge and the points he had mastered were too numerous to count.

Perhaps when encountering certain problems, he would recall prior knowledge, reexamine, and apply what he had learned. That was the way.

Seeing the young lord’s troubled face, Tian An wondered if the conversation with the Emperor had gone poorly.

He hastily bent low, ready to obey any command.

Yet this conversation had been pleasant, indeed very agreeable.

Fusu had even been entrusted with the grand task of building Xianyang Bridge over the Wei River.

“Return to the palace.”

Hearing the lord’s voice from the carriage, Tian An hurried back to the reins, cracking his whip to urge the horses.

Over the next several days, Fusu did not encounter Li You or Wang Ben again. As for Fusheng and Shusun Tong, they remained unseen. The old man likely forgot he had borrowed a volume from Lord Fusu, yet to be returned.

Qin remained busy; Fusu had not seen his teacher for a long time—since the autumn rains brought disasters, the teacher had not visited Gaoquan Palace.

And General Wang Jian had yet to return to Guanzhong.

The Emperor seemed indifferent to the old general’s absence, as if saying, “Come back if you want.”

Of course, the Emperor would never say that outright.

If Wang Jian truly returned, he would be received with great honors.

The construction of Xianyang Bridge was not a matter of mere wish; manpower and supplies were lacking.

The token given by the Emperor bore the inscription “Grand Stable,” a rank among the Nine Ministers.

“My lord, His Majesty has not yet appointed the Grand Stable Minister.”

Fusu gazed at the towering bookshelves, uncertain how extensive the Xianyang Palace’s records on horse affairs were.

With countless matters to address, Fusu placed the token aside and picked up a bundle of bamboo slips, recording previously borrowed grain.

Though he maintained three thousand household servants, the grain had been borrowed from Meng Tian and others.

Fusu wrote the amounts to return on two slips, issuing the order: “Return the grain to each household.”

Tian An took the slips and quickly left to dispatch the order.

After months of association, Fusu had come to understand those around him.

All had grown up in Guanzhong, but their experiences differed.

Li You had transported many dead in Hedong—likely the most harrowing memory of his life.

Wang Ben, of similar age to Meng Tian, was equally loyal but more forthright and bold in conversation.

Wang Ben’s disdain for life and death likely stemmed from years of battlefield service by his mid-teens.

What troubled Li You meant little to Wang Ben.

When Li You drunkenly wept recalling the Hedong plague, Wang Ben merely laughed it off.

First and foremost a Qin military commander, Wang Ben’s manner and conduct epitomized the Qin army.

To know a Qin general, one only needed to look at Wang Ben.

Fusu felt Li You was, after all, his peer—fifteen or sixteen, an age of deep feelings and pure hearts.

Naturally, they grew close, becoming confidants.

That drunken night, Li You had opened his heart.

It was hard to imagine a man as shrewd as the Chancellor having such a pure son.

Zhang Han was also simple-minded—simpler than Li You even—focusing on tasks and completing them on time.

...

Five days ago, Tian An predicted snow in Guanzhong, but it did not come.

On the sixth day, winter finally brought the first snow to Guanzhong.

The people of Qin praised the current prince as wise. His fields yielded bountifully; after taxation, he offered sixty percent of the surplus grain to the Qin army.

Some said he wished every soldier to be well-fed, reflecting his kindness and wisdom.

Others believed his tribute was to demonstrate loyalty to the First Emperor. After all, Shangyanshan had three thousand servants and thirty thousand prisoners; hoarding grain might invite accusations of rebellion.

Thus, offering grain was a clever move.

Some even said the prince was winning hearts.

Yet under Chancellor Li Si’s control, such rumors quickly vanished from public discourse in Xianyang.

After snow, Shangyanshan lay blanketed in white—a beautiful sight.

This year in Xianyang was both busy and tranquil. After winter’s arrival, the vast Guanzhong plains grew quiet, with few venturing out, most staying home for the season.

Shangyanshan was briefly forgotten.

Fusu enjoyed this obscurity, building a small library beneath the mountain and constructing a fish pond.

He planned to move all the palace books there, to read endlessly and fish at leisure—life would be enough.

If only this winter could pass peacefully so.

But that was merely a hope.

Today, Fusu intended to read all day and return to the palace at night, but fate intervened—someone disrupted his mood.

He looked at Li You, his dark-circled eyes revealing sleepless nights, and wondered if the poor boy’s mind was troubled.