Volume 5, Chapter 107 – Scholarly Interpretation

Zhang Xianzhi entered the hall once more, and the first thing he did was kneel and bow before the sovereign.

From the entrance of the great hall to the furthest point his rank was permitted to reach, the so-called “ten paces before the throne,” he bowed a total of nine times. Each bow was performed with the utmost solemnity, every movement and every aspect of his bearing exact to the last detail.

Bai Xiang said nothing. She merely watched as he walked and bowed, all the way until he reached the ten-pace mark, and only then did she ask, “So, I take it Master Liu must have disappointed you.”

“That is not the case.” Zhang Xianzhi took out an item and presented it to Bai Xiang.

It was a letter.

Sword Three stepped forward to take it. She pulled down her mask, sniffed the letter, even stuck out her tongue to lick the ink. Only after confirming there was no problem did she present it to Bai Xiang.

Bai Xiang took the letter. At first glance, it looked like an ordinary private letter, the kind a master would write to a disciple.

It was from Liu Haoran to Zhang Xianzhi.

On the surface, the wording was utterly ordinary. It was simply a master showing concern for his disciple, warning Zhang Xianzhi not to overwork himself with government affairs, telling him that while handling matters he must not neglect his cultivation either. Only then could he ensure good health, prolong his life, and gain more time to realize his ambitions.

But after scanning it once with the Jade Spirit, Bai Xiang saw that it contained a second layer of encryption. Its true message was a warning to Zhang Xianzhi: if something happened to him, he was not to try to save him, nor was he to stake his own future to guarantee him.

“Oh…” Bai Xiang set the letter down. “Now that is strange. You only just received this letter, correct?”

“Yes!” Zhang Xianzhi replied. “I have failed my teacher’s name and failed Your Majesty’s grace all the more. This subject asks only for death.”

“It is not that dramatic.” Bai Xiang lifted her teacup and took a sip. “I can more or less understand what Master Liu is thinking. And I can tell you very clearly that in some matters, he is worrying far too much.”

In truth, Bai Xiang did not like using terms like “feudalism” or “the feudal era” to describe this kind of Huaxia-style dynastic system. In her view, whether in the world of her previous life before transmigration or in the main world after transmigration, across the countless histories of past and present, at the very least when comparing the collisions and contrasts between Eastern and Western civilizations, the results produced by the two sides’ feudal systems at their fullest development were far too different.

In clashes and contests between one feudal age and another, the East was obviously superior to the West. The advantage was so enormous that some experts and scholars believed the Eastern dynastic system ought to be separated from feudalism altogether and renamed “feudal capitalism.”

Of course, what particular “-ism” it was was not the point. The point was that under this political model, communication between ruler and minister was still terribly inefficient.

Rites, laws, and scholarship did indeed restrain both ruler and minister to a certain degree, allowing them to debate and clash within a broad framework handed down by their predecessors.

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If they saw eye to eye and discovered they shared the same ambitions, then it became a fine tale of ruler and minister.

If they did not see eye to eye, and one found, oh, so you are a tyrant, or, oh, so you are a traitor, then trouble would begin.

But Bai Xiang felt that in many cases, both sides actually held huge misunderstandings and misjudgments about the other.

It was like beating a wolf with a reed pole: both ends were afraid.

The ruler feared the minister was a rebel, and the minister feared the ruler would misunderstand him.

Unless one side had the temperament of a complete fool, or one side’s power had already grown so great that there was no need to conceal its true intentions, then in most situations both parties had to probe carefully. Every word had to be veiled. Some phrases were impossible to understand at all if you did not know the ancient texts and classical canons.

Liu Haoran’s actions this time were much the same. First of all, Bai Xiang was certain he had not betrayed her. That much could be seen from the fact that he had sent a letter to Zhang Xianzhi. He understood some things very clearly.

At the very least, he understood that betraying Bai Xiang offered no future whatsoever. It could only be called courting death.

But at the same time, a very practical problem lay before them. Liu Haoran still possessed considerable prestige, but as more and more officials of the Liu faction had climbed to high office over the past ten years and become corrupted and degenerate, his control over the entire Liu faction was no longer as strong as it once had been.

Perhaps he had already foreseen that one day in the future, the entire faction might slip out of his control and commit acts so rebellious and outrageous that they would warrant confiscation of property and extermination of the clan.

So, to prevent that day from truly arriving, and to preserve some of the disciples he thought well of, he chose to sacrifice his own reputation and life. He meant to use some of the Liu faction officials, himself included, as the price to stop this train that was gradually speeding toward a loss of control.

Then why would he do that?

Because he feared Bai Xiang.

The series of political decrees Bai Xiang had issued after her return, together with her hardline attitude toward those who defied her, had all given Liu Haoran a sense of crisis. He realized that the mild reform he had once applied to the Liu faction had only been suitable during Bai Zhuqing’s period of rule. To preserve the promising seeds he valued, he had to make a decision now.

History had already proven that no ruler would allow a faction to keep growing and expanding like this. Even if the Liu faction did nothing wrong from now on, it would still inevitably be eradicated.

In that case, compared with some uncontrollable and unforeseeable charge, perhaps in Liu Haoran’s eyes, a charge of “inaction” was the more merciful one…

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At least it would not lead to the extermination of nine degrees of kin.

At least some of their relatives might survive.

“He fears Us because he does not understand Us.”

Bai Xiang set down her teacup.

At her side, Sword Three’s eyelid twitched.

She had noticed it. In an exceedingly rare move, Bai Xiang had changed the pronoun she used for herself.

“We have heard that ever since We returned, Master Liu has shut himself up at home, interpreting the Xiaxuan canon just like many other scholars.”

This included Fang Xiaochun.

Fang Xiaochun was also engaged in interpreting the Xiaxuan canon.

“In truth, it is unnecessary.” Bai Xiang shook her head. “We do not fear misunderstanding.”

What was scholarly interpretation?

Put as plainly as possible, it meant reinterpreting the ancient classics so that the meaning of those classics would accord with the style and ideals of the current ruler.

And how was that done?

This touched on a rather obscure piece of knowledge: many classical books that had been passed down from antiquity to the present day originally had no punctuation.

And they were all highly “condensed,” extremely sparing in their choice of words and phrasing. Often, a very short sentence could be interpreted into a long stretch of meaning.

Well… even elementary school students knew this. Take a dense block of text, change a few punctuation marks, alter the sentence breaks, and the overall meaning and flavor could change dramatically.

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So at times, scholarly interpretation was the art of sentence division.

As long as your divisions were smooth, your reasoning sound, and your interpretation matched the philosophy of the current age’s governance, then congratulations: you had founded a school of your own and could be called a great scholar.

Rulers throughout the ages, even ones like those of the former Yu dynasty who held truly transcendent martial power in their own hands, had basically all relied heavily on this sort of scholarship.

Because it truly was useful.

It truly could make their rule far more convenient and effective.

But Bai Xiang did not care about such things.

Just as she had said in a few words to Bai Zhuqing when she took her to observe the streets before the northern campaign, Bai Xiang had always believed that such rule was fragile.

She did not care about, nor did she fear, the misunderstandings of others.

Liu Haoran’s wariness and speculation toward her had never needed to exist from the very beginning, because she would only continue growing stronger.

She would not weaken. She would not fail. Naturally, she had no need to sit in restless unease like the weak did, racking her brains to test and suspect her own ministers.

“Your Majesty…”

Zhang Xianzhi was left speechless.

He was not sure whether Bai Xiang meant what he thought she meant.

And here again was the mutual suspicion between ruler and minister: Zhang Xianzhi was afraid he had understood her wrongly, so he did not dare say anything at all.

“Master Liu was right. You truly ought to cultivate your qi arts properly.”

Bai Xiang rose to her feet. Her shadow lengthened, gradually spreading over Zhang Xianzhi.

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“Only then will you be able to wield greater power.”

“And only when you possess power will you understand why We are saying these words to you.”

With that, Bai Xiang stepped forward.

A moment earlier, she had still been in the main hall of Listening-to-Rain Tower. The next moment, she had crossed through the void and stepped into a narrow little courtyard residence.

Within the residence was a small but exquisitely arranged pond. An old man in green robes was fishing by the pond, while beside him stood another old man in black robes, apparently trying to persuade him of something.

“Hm?”

Bai Xiang’s arrival was silent, but the old man in green seemed to sense something and turned his head. The instant he saw her, his eyes widened.

“You will not regret your choice… What are you looking at?”

The black-robed old man beside him also looked over reflexively.

Then his eyes widened as well, and his face filled with extreme terror.

“There is no need for you to do this.”

Bai Xiang acted as though she had not seen him. Her golden pupils were fixed on the old man in green.

“With Us here,”

“there is no one under Heaven who can coerce you.”

“You have also underestimated the breadth of Our magnanimity.”