Chapter Forty-Four: A Gentleman Does Not Stand Beneath a Crumbling Wall

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Zhong Ming remembered Mr. Guo’s words of caution before his departure: do not inquire, do not meddle, do not step beyond your door, and above all, do not stir up trouble amid the coming storm.
But sometimes, even if you wish to avoid trouble, trouble finds you nonetheless.

The following morning, within the Zhong family’s fenced courtyard—

Zhong Ming watched as Fei Dacheng and the others shouldered their hoes and headed for the fields east of town, making sure that gang of unruly youths wouldn’t be causing him trouble. Then he saw Liang Yu ride off into town to train at the Commandant’s office.

Only then did Zhong Ming relax, returning to the courtyard to practice with his saber.

Halfway through his drills, Old Sun entered the yard, hands tucked into his sleeves. He said nothing, settling casually onto a stone bench to watch the young man practice.

When Zhong Ming finished a sweeping move that sent wild grass flying across the lawn, Old Sun finally chuckled, “Xiao Zhong, I see your saberwork has improved these days. You’ve far surpassed this old man.”

“Not at all, Uncle Sun, you flatter me,” Zhong Ming replied with a modest smile, though pride warmed his heart. Indeed, his saber practice had gone well of late; with just that “Sweeping Sand” maneuver alone, he could now match Old Sun, especially after practicing so long that he could sense that elusive thing—perhaps it was what they called saber intent.

The force behind Sweeping Sand was meant to be robust and fierce; the young man now grasped six or seven tenths of its essence.

Everything depends on talent, and in some respects, Zhong Ming’s was exceptional—not just because he was clever, but because he came from a later age and could approach problems from angles others couldn’t even imagine. In this, not even the geniuses of this era could compare.

He laid his saber across the stone table, poured himself a cup of tea, and offered one to Old Sun as well. “Uncle Sun, what brings you here today?”

Old Sun was not one to visit for no reason. After sipping his tea twice, he said, “It’s nothing major. Tomorrow is the Qingming Festival, and I was thinking of going to the wild hills to pay respects. Just letting you know.”

Zhong Ming smiled. “You can handle such things on your own, Uncle Sun. No need to inform me.”

Old Sun shook his head. “That won’t do. You’re the village record-keeper; such rituals are important and must be reported to you. Besides, tomorrow you have a duty to perform.”

Zhong Ming frowned slightly. He hadn’t heard of any duty regarding the ritual and asked, “What am I supposed to do?”

Old Sun replied, “Someone has to recite the ritual verse. I thought it over; in all Yu Ni Village, only you are fit for the task. No one else will do.”

Still a bit puzzled, Zhong Ming asked, “But in terms of seniority, I’m just a youngster. Shouldn’t you be the one reciting the verse?”

Old Sun coughed and drank some tea to mask his embarrassment. “I’ve never recited such verses, and none of the elders can recall a word of it. I figured you know so much, Xiao Zhong, you might know how it should be done.”

After a moment, Zhong Ming understood—Old Sun didn’t know what to say and had come to seek his help.

It wasn’t proper by ritual for Zhong Ming to conduct the ceremony, so after a brief thought, he said, “Uncle Sun, I think your plan isn’t quite right. According to tradition, my age isn’t sufficient. How about this: I’ll compose a poem for the ceremony, and you can recite it.”

“Excellent idea!”

Seeing Old Sun’s delighted smile, Zhong Ming realized that had been his intent all along.

Composing such a verse was simple enough. Zhong Ming told Old Sun to wait, fetched brush and ink from the house, and, back in the courtyard, swiftly wrote several lines in bold calligraphy. When he finished, he blew the ink dry and handed the sheet to Old Sun.

Old Sun took the paper, stared at it for a while, then scratched his head sheepishly. “Well, Xiao Zhong, you’ve written it, but I can’t read a word!”

Zhong Ming smiled, spread the paper on the stone table, and taught him: “I offer what I have: the oxen, the sheep, all are under Heaven’s watchful gaze. The rites follow the example of King Tang, bringing peace to the land. The great King Tang is honored with offerings. May we, day and night, revere Heaven’s power and preserve these times.”

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After teaching Old Sun to recite it several times, and confirming that he remembered, Zhong Ming smiled and said, “This was originally recited by the founding emperor of the previous Chen dynasty at the Heaven Sacrifice. I’ve made a few changes; I think it suits our ceremony. In essence, it’s a prayer for fair weather and lasting peace.”

Muttering the words of the “I Offer” poem with satisfaction, Old Sun clutched the paper, utterly pleased with himself, and left without even a word of farewell to the young man.

Watching Old Sun, childlike in his delight at learning a new poem, Zhong Ming smiled at the old man’s retreating figure.

Just as he was about to turn back to the house, a carriage appeared in the distance—two chestnut horses harnessed to a pearwood coach, colorful streamers fluttering, a large “Tian” character embroidered on the curtain.

Old Sun’s request for a ceremony verse had been no trouble at all; this carriage arriving now was the real trouble.

Driving the carriage was a girl of seventeen or eighteen, clad in fine silk, but her face was dark and sullen, as if the whole world owed her a fortune.

Zhong Ming recognized her. She was Xiaoxiao, Tian Xingjian’s personal maid—her name meant “Smiling,” yet her countenance was anything but.

The eldest son of the Tian family, wealthy and influential, had many servants, but he favored this one above all; whenever he went out, he brought her along.

Thus, Tian Xingjian’s visit today was unlikely to be for troublemaking.

When he came looking for a fight, Tian Xingjian never brought his maid, only his senior from Jade Capital, Li Que.

While Zhong Ming pondered this, the carriage pulled up at the gate. Xiaoxiao reined in the horses and said quietly, “Young Master, we’ve arrived.”

From within, Tian Xingjian’s lazy voice replied. He drew back the curtain, glanced at Zhong Ming’s small courtyard, and pinched his nose. “Zhong Ming, you still live in this wretched place, among all this riffraff.”

Zhong Ming smiled. “It’s just a chicken coop and duck pen, yet it’s an honor to receive the grand young master Tian. You must be suffering.”

No sooner do they meet than the barbs begin. Zhong Ming wanted nothing to do with such trouble, while Tian Xingjian, deep down, looked down on the poor of Yu Ni Village. He believed people were born into ranks, and someone as noble as himself should never associate with those who struggled in the mud.

Even a glance from these peasants was, to him, an insult.

Yet fate is curious. Somehow, Tian Xingjian had come to know Zhong Ming—a young man who seemed outwardly humble but possessed a mind of gold.

If not for Zhong Ming, Tian Xingjian would never have set foot in a place like Yu Ni Village his entire life.

Tian Xingjian pinched his nose as he got down from the carriage, followed by Li Que in blue, who stood on one foot atop Tian Xingjian’s shoulder, staring silently at Zhong Ming with eyes as deep and still as a well. Zhong Ming could not guess his thoughts.

For Tian Xingjian to travel with both his maid Xiaoxiao and his senior Li Que meant only one thing: he had come to challenge Zhong Ming.

But not a challenge of blades—it was a battle of wits over the chessboard.

Last winter, when heavy snow blocked the mountains and Yu Ni Village was short on food, Zhong Ming had taken Liang Heizi to the Tian estate to barter for grain. Gold and jewels failed to interest young master Tian, but Zhong Ming had heard he enjoyed novel amusements, so he brought a flute that could not be played and a set of chess pieces he had carved himself.

The novelty was bait, and though Tian Xingjian knew it was a trap, he walked right in with a grin.

Zhong Ming got the grain he needed, but promised Tian Xingjian nine games of chess.

In the three months since, they had played eight games. It was through these matches that Zhong Ming had met Tian Xingjian at the yamen.

This final game had been delayed for some time. Ever since Liu Chengyin’s uproar in the border town, Tian Xingjian had been hiding at home, not even visiting his beloved Hongxiang Pavilion.

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Who knew what fancy possessed young master Tian today, that he would personally come to Yu Ni Village to play the last game?

Pinching his nose, Tian Xingjian said, “Zhong Ming, do you remember our unfinished game? You still owe me one match.”

“Of course I remember. I never forget a promise I’ve made,” Zhong Ming nodded, making a gesture of invitation for Tian Xingjian to enter the courtyard.

Xiaoxiao, the maid, fetched the chessboard from the carriage and skillfully set it on the stone table. Tian Xingjian and Zhong Ming both sat down. Tian Xingjian picked up the general piece and said, “Of our nine-game agreement, after eight matches I have lost seven and drawn one. I’ve studied hard lately and think I have a seventy percent chance to win, so I came to find you.”

Tian Xingjian was no fool—he’d earned his “young qilin” reputation for a reason. He was a master at games of skill, particularly the literati’s favorite, Go, played on a nineteen-by-nineteen grid with black and white stones.

Tian Xingjian had long been called a prodigy. His skill in Go was such that even against the famed “Kirin Child,” Tian Yizheng, he could fight hundreds of rounds, slay dragons, and turn the tide. After age thirteen, even the Kirin Child would sometimes lose to him.

Now, the chess they played was not Go, but a new game—chess as Zhong Ming had invented it to barter for food. The rules were different, the pieces fewer, but the variations endless. They had played eight games; Tian Xingjian had lost seven. In the eighth, as dusk fell and Zhong Ming hurried home for supper, he had given up a chariot and cannon, allowing Tian Xingjian to eke out a draw.

He was not resigned.

Praised as a genius for over a decade, Tian Xingjian could not accept losing every game at chess to a rustic scholar like Zhong Ming.

Hearing Tian Xingjian’s less-than-certain claim of seventy percent confidence, Zhong Ming teased, “Only seventy percent? You underestimate me. I suggest you go back and study some more. Wait until you’re at least ninety percent sure, lest you waste this last chance.”

Tian Xingjian sighed. “If I weren’t afraid of losing my chance to play you, I wouldn’t have come so hurriedly. I, Tian Xingjian, cannot lose to a mere country scholar.”

Zhong Ming caught the double meaning and asked, “Are you leaving? Are you leaving the borderlands?”

“A wise man does not stand beneath a crumbling wall,” Tian Xingjian replied, his expression melancholy.

Li Que, still perched on his shoulder, frowned and spoke coldly, “Enough talk, junior. Finish the match quickly.”

The odd behavior of these two made Zhong Ming ponder deeply.

It seemed Mr. Guo had been right—the borderlands were about to change. Even Tian Xingjian was leaving.

The sky was truly shifting, perhaps bringing a storm more violent than any before.