Chapter Twenty: The Old Qin Man

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Tian An stood outside the Censorate Mansion, waiting for the young master to come out. The sunlight today was quite pleasant. Tian An looked up at the sun; with its warmth, the chill had lessened considerably. The snow that had accumulated over the past few days was now melting, forming curtains of water beneath the eaves.

Young Master Fusu truly remained inside the Censorate Mansion, patiently reviewing the official documents that had arrived from various officials. Even minor clerks’ paperwork, including those from county magistrates, he would scrutinize over and over again.

Cheng Miao had fallen asleep at some unknown time. When he awoke again, the young master was no longer at the Censorate Mansion.

He stood up, supporting his lower back with one hand, and noticing dusk approaching, he planned to leave. Then he remembered the young master’s letter, picked up a nearby bamboo slip, and glanced again—only to find the calligraphy copy that had been on the desk was missing.

“Most likely, the young master took it with him.”

With this thought, Cheng Miao left the Xianyang Palace before nightfall.

The next day, the court was in recess until the following spring, so deliberations would not resume immediately. However, the Censorate Mansion could not be left unattended; incoming and outgoing documents still required oversight.

At dawn, Cheng Miao arrived early at the Censorate Mansion to continue writing. The First Emperor had praised his clerical script, so he persisted in practicing.

Occasionally, a few officials passed through, delivering documents from various regions. Some whispered among themselves: “Why did Zhang Cang visit the Chancellor’s residence so late at night? Why did the young master return to the palace and remain silent all night?”

Cheng Miao listened quietly, holding his brush.

He recalled the young master’s cake from yesterday—so delicious he wished he could taste it again in this lifetime.

The Xīwèi River lay south of Xianyang. Fusu walked along its banks, still pondering the Xianyang Bridge. Both sides of the river remained desolate.

From a geographical standpoint, building a bridge here would save travelers from both sides several miles of journey.

“Word is the young master went to the Censorate Mansion yesterday?” a voice said.

It was the teacher.

Fusu saw his teacher descend from the carriage and stepped forward respectfully. “Teacher.”

Li Si approached the riverbank, gazing at the Xīwèi River before saying, “Last night I saw the letter you sent to Zhang Cang. Zhang Cang was deeply moved and visited me late at night. I offered some guidance.”

Then Li Si took out a scroll and handed it over with both hands. “This is Zhang Cang’s reply.”

Fusu received the bamboo slip but did not open it immediately. Instead, he passed it to Tian An beside him.

Li Si stood quietly at the young master’s side, speaking little today.

“I shall take my leave,” he said.

Fusu looked out over the Xīwèi River, then brought himself back to the present. “Tian An, see the teacher off.”

Tian An smiled. “This old servant will escort the Chancellor.”

As Li Si was about to climb back into his carriage, he glanced back at the young master’s retreating figure. He vaguely sensed the young master’s mind was heavy with worries, yet he refused to confide even in his teacher.

Once seated inside the carriage, Li Si glanced sideways out the window.

The coachman urged the horses onward, and Li Si took another look at the smile on Tian An’s face.

The carriage gradually disappeared into the distance, but Fusu continued gazing at the Xīwèi River.

Tian An stood behind the young master, wondering if Fusu was craving fish and whether he should send someone to catch some from the river.

Yesterday, while at the Censorate Mansion reviewing documents from various regions, Fusu had not gained nothing.

Among the papers was one advocating the restoration of the feudal enfeoffments of the Six States, placating the old nobility, and reducing land taxes. Such measures, it claimed, would stabilize the realm and pacify the populace.

At first glance, the proposal seemed aimed at securing peace and order. But upon closer examination, it was riddled with selfish intent.

Firstly, it called for restoring feudal enfeoffments. Secondly, it sought to appease the old nobility of the Six States. Thirdly, it proposed reducing land taxes.

However, if feudal enfeoffments were restored, vast tracts of land would return to the hands of princes and nobles, leaving the common folk still with little land to cultivate. The few acres they possessed would scarcely be affected by tax reductions.

If the proposal were truly implemented, the land tax relief would benefit the princes and nobles who controlled much of the land, rather than the common people.

Thus, what purported to be a measure for stabilizing the realm and easing taxes would, in fact, enrich a small minority.

Therefore, after returning from the Censorate Mansion yesterday, Fusu threw that document into the fire, burning it completely.

It became clear that not all officials of the Qin dynasty were as admirable as Zhang Cang, Cheng Miao, or Zhang Han, nor as loyal as Meng Tian or Wang Ben.

Among Qin’s officials, there were still villains.

“Tian An—”

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“I am here,” Tian An replied.

Fusu spoke slowly, “Do you think people all wish to live better lives?”

“That is certain,” Tian An answered softly.

“After Shang Yang’s reforms, did the Qin people live well?”

“Master, indeed they did.” Tian An paused briefly, then continued, “But before Shang Yang came to Qin, the old Qin people suffered greatly. They rose step by step from the brink of ruin. When I was young, I still remember vast numbers of old Qin people going to pay respects to Duke Xiao of Qin.”

“When I was a child, my elders often said the old Qin people suffered terribly. They endured immense hardship. The Qin we have now was built step by step from those times. My elders told me never to forget the hardships of those old Qin people.”

Fusu looked at the thin ice still floating on the river, then toward the distant sky, heavy with dark clouds and no wind.

Yesterday was bright and clear, but now the weather in Guanzhong seemed poised to snow again.

Fusu planned to return to the palace. Before leaving, he stopped by Mount Shangyan and saw Shusun Tong riding a donkey, holding a scroll.

Shusun Tong rode atop the donkey, reciting aloud while followed by a large group of children.

Each time he read a line, the children repeated after him.

Fusu did not stop his carriage but passed by Mount Shangyan and returned to Xianyang, seeing along the road the diligent people digging vertical wells.

He also saw General Zhang Han standing at a major crossroads, dutifully on guard.

Seeing these sights, Fusu’s mood lightened considerably.

Back in the palace, Fusu read Zhang Cang’s reply, then wrote another essay with questions, instructing Tian An to send it to him.

The cold winter began snowing heavily again, with days of continuous snowfall.

Cheng Miao stood before the Censorate Mansion, idle, hands tucked into his sleeves, watching the heavy snow under the eaves.

The snow was indeed heavy—so thick the road ahead was barely visible.

The young master had not come here for three days. Cheng Miao sighed in the cold wind, fearing he might never taste such delicious cakes again in his life.

Just then, he heard footsteps crunching in the snow. Turning, he saw a tall, thin figure—Tian An—and behind him, the young master Fusu carrying a food box.

“I am Cheng Miao, paying respects to the young master.”

“No need for formalities,” Fusu said, entering the Censorate Mansion. “I hear your calligraphy is excellent.”

Speaking of writing, Cheng Miao regained confidence. “If the young master likes, I can write more characters.”

Fusu waved him off, “Let’s eat.”

Cheng Miao bowed deeply again, took the cake the young master offered, and with a smile, chewed slowly, feeling content in this life.

Tian An cleared the fragmented ice from the inkstone, ground the ink, and placed it before the young master.

While Cheng Miao ate, Fusu sat nearby and began writing. This time, the essay and questions were again to be delivered to Zhang Cang by Cheng Miao.

“Master, Zhang Cang usually keeps to himself, much like me.”

Fusu wrote the essay and instructed, “Please deliver this to my teacher Zhang Cang.”

Cheng Miao was quite satisfied, placing the bamboo slip into his sleeve, then waiting by Fusu’s side for further instructions.

As before, the young master watched the documents carefully, speaking not a word.

The stove burned brightly, warming the mansion and keeping it quiet. Having just eaten warm food, sleepiness crept upon Cheng Miao, who dozed off again.

When he awoke, the young master was gone, and dusk was approaching.

For several days, Fusu’s routine remained the same: most of his time spent at the Censorate Mansion, exchanging knowledge through letters with Zhang Cang, his teacher.

Though having met only once, Fusu felt their teacher-student relationship was nearly that of pen pals.

Cheng Miao was the vital link transmitting their correspondence.

The snowfall continued intermittently for five days. Winters in Guanzhong were long, often bringing rain and snow even until March of the following year.

Fusu sat in his chambers, penning the stories of the old Qin people. Tian An, being one of those old Qin folk, knew many such tales.

Listening to these stories of hardship and perseverance, a force awakened deep within Fusu’s heart.

It was a memory buried deep in the soul, never to be erased—the blood and fire of history flashing vividly in his mind.

History often repeats itself: backwardness leads to defeat, which is why one must strengthen the nation and military and endure hardship.

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Long ago, Shang Yang wrote of the Qin people eating grass—they had to dig up grass to fill their stomachs to protect their homeland because they knew that if they failed, their wives and children would be sold into slavery.

Fusu’s brush continued moving. People must not forget those hard times. The old Qin people sought a strong and prosperous nation through reform.

Even if many vested interests were harmed or an entire class vanished during the reforms, and though the process was brutal and merciless, they had to grit their teeth and persevere.

As Xunzi once said, “The ruler is the boat; the people are the water.”

Now, it seemed Qin was undergoing a second wave of reforms.

The next day, as usual, Cheng Miao stood at the gate of the Censorate Mansion, waiting for Young Master Fusu.

Through wind and snow, Fusu was always punctual in arriving.

Cheng Miao bowed. “Young master.”

Fusu looked surprised. “How come it’s always you guarding here?”

Cheng Miao explained, “Originally, several of us took turns, but some have family troubles. The Vice Chancellor Feng appointed me to stand guard since there’s nothing pressing at my home.”

Fusu handed him a food box.

Tian An placed a small box of bamboo slips on the desk, instructing, “These are to be delivered to Censor Zhang. Thank you for your efforts.”

Cheng Miao devoured a bowl of noodle soup, nodding repeatedly.

Fusu resumed perusing the documents.

No matter how fierce the wind or snow, Young Master Fusu came to review documents day after day.

When the storm finally ceased, the year drew to a close.

In January of the new year, Guanzhong remained gloomy. This was the twenty-fifth year of Qin King Zheng’s reign and the second year since the fall of the Chu Kingdom, which had lasted over eight centuries.

Zhang Cang arrived at the foot of Mount Shangyan carrying a bundle. He looked up at the newly built village, paused, and scanned the surroundings, searching for someone he wanted to see.

Not finding the person, he entered the village.

After a few steps, a Qin military officer hurried over and blocked his way. “Who goes there?”

Zhang Cang showed his official token. “I am here to see Master Shusun Tong.”

Seeing the token, the officer stepped aside and said, “Follow me.”

Zhang Cang adjusted the heavy bundle on his shoulder and soon arrived at a house, where several children ran out.

At the same time, General Zhang Han also came to the place.

Zhang Cang turned to see the general arrive, and a pack of small black dogs charged toward the tall figure like a canine army assaulting its target.

Along the way, some puppies tumbled but quickly scrambled up and circled around Zhang Han, trying to climb up.

Zhang Han kicked the dogs aside and, after hearing the officer’s report, said in a low voice, “Prepare some ginger soup for the young master’s teacher to ward off the cold.”

Zhang Cang bowed in thanks and entered Shusun Tong’s house.

Inside, Shusun Tong saw him and said, “Zhang Cang? A disciple of Xunzi, friend of Chancellor Li Si, and now the young master Fusu’s teacher.”

Zhang Cang entered without speaking, setting down his bundle.

The bundle thudded heavily on the desk, the bamboo slips clattering distinctly.

“I have been in Qin for only half a year, yet I have a good memory—I never forget a face after one meeting,” Shusun Tong said.

He continued, “Young Master Fusu and Chancellor Li Si are truly clever. They used the relocation of people to guard the borders to send some scholars from Qi and Lu northward. The young master gave me three hundred disciples, but it is actually a ploy to keep me away from the court sessions. This scheme, one after the other, is truly well devised.”

At this, Shusun Tong sighed, “Ah… Li Si is indeed formidable. Only now do I realize we have all fallen into the trap set by Young Master Fusu and Li Si.”

As he spoke, Shusun Tong moved to a corner and sat down, starting to grind beans. “Mount Shangyan has a delicacy called soy milk. It is truly delicious, but making a single cup is exhausting. Hmm…”

He turned the grinder so hard that his chin whiskers trembled.

Zhang Cang said, “Beans are food to fill the belly—why make such a fuss?”

Shusun Tong, struggling to turn the mill, leaned on his waist and asked, “Censor Zhang, what brings you here?”

Zhang Cang explained, “The young master asked me to bring these books, hoping you could teach the children here. They were all written by the young master himself.”