Chapter 44: Where Duty Calls, One Cannot Refuse

The next morning, just as the sun began to peek over the horizon, Cai Cong was pulled from his warm bed by two eager maidservants. Eyes barely open and mind still foggy with sleep, he let them bustle about, bathing and dressing him, their lively chatter leaving him too weary even to muster annoyance. Bidding farewell to his cozy nest, he got up to prepare the gifts needed for the day's visits.

"Young master, is it true that our household is going to open an academy? I heard that only the most learned scholars are qualified to found such a place!" Dongzhu asked innocently as she attended to Cai Cong’s breakfast. Throughout history, the founders of private schools were often those who had failed in officialdom, but establishing an academy was another matter entirely—without some reputation in the scholarly world, not only would you have no students, you might even find yourself challenged by others.

Don’t think only martial schools faced challengers; when it came to “challenging the academy,” scholars were far more ruthless. Lose, and not only was your reputation ruined—some would even immortalize your defeat in writing, crafting anecdotes that would shame you for generations.

“Am I not a capable scholar?” Cai Cong replied boastfully. After all, he was a transmigrator—the only one in all of Great Tang. With a casual borrowing of poems and essays, who could rival his literary talent?

“It’s not that, young master! It’s just… those who found academies are usually white-haired grandfathers, and you’re still so young—you really don’t look the part.” Dongzhu stuck out her tongue, embarrassed. Cai Cong was left speechless; indeed, he still lost out to those bearded old men. It would take him another ten years or so to grow up. The thought brought a shadow of melancholy, though at least there was no need for him to play the adorable child—he would have found that unbearable.

“Young master, the carriage is ready. We can set off at any time,” Qiu Yue said, trotting in with excitement. She was nearly bursting with joy—they’d even been assigned their own carriage, an unheard-of privilege for servants. Usually, only the most favored maids could ride inside with their master; others had to make do with the driver’s seat.

“Let’s go, then! Have all the gifts been loaded?” Cai Cong wiped his mouth, tucked the papers he'd written last night into his robe, and walked out with measured steps.

Master Wei’s home wasn’t far; otherwise, Cai Gang wouldn’t have mistakenly thought Cai Cong was seeking him as a teacher. The carriage left the village and, after half an hour, arrived at a large nearby village. It was said that Master Wei had once received great kindness here in his youth, which was why he chose to teach in this place.

They arrived rather early; Master Wei was still in the midst of a lesson. Through the courtyard wall, one could hear the rhythmic voices of students reciting. Cai Cong, not wishing to disturb, waited quietly outside—an unannounced visit was already presumptuous, and to interrupt a class would be unforgivable.

He was soon relieved to hear instructions for students to copy scriptures—apparently, the lesson was finished and it was time for practice.

Only then did Cai Cong step forward to knock. The gatekeeper, a man of solid features, opened the door and politely inquired, “May I ask what brings you here?”

“Would you be so kind as to announce me? I, Cai Cong, a humble junior, seek an audience with Master Wei to discuss urgent matters.”

“Please wait a moment. I will inform him.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.”

Shortly, the gatekeeper returned. “Young master, the master has invited you in. Please follow me.”

“My thanks. Unload the gifts quietly and don’t disturb the students,” Cai Cong instructed, then followed the gatekeeper inside. The private school was modest—a large central courtyard, a portrait of Confucius at the front, beneath which twenty or so students were diligently writing. To the left was the chess room, to the right the music room. Passing through the corridor, they entered the rear garden, where an old man was brewing tea in a pavilion.

“Greetings, Master,” Cai Cong said, stepping forward with a bow.

“Hahaha! The name of the prodigy Cai Cong precedes you. I have met your esteemed father. Come, try the tea I’ve just brewed,” the old man said. His beard was long, his face gaunt, his posture upright—rising to greet them, he seemed younger than his years.

“Then I shall not stand on ceremony.” Cai Cong entered the pavilion, sat across from Master Wei, took a cup, and sipped.

“Well?” Master Wei asked expectantly.

Cai Cong’s face twisted; the taste was indescribable—ginger, scallion, spices, beef tallow—there was nothing of tea left. The greasy, pungent, complex flavor hit him like a blow.

Fortunately, he’d only taken a sip. Forcing a smile, he said, “Master, your tastes are most refined. I fear my palate is unworthy; I can only appreciate the brewing, not the drinking.”

“Even you can’t stomach it? I don’t know how my son-in-law manages—he claims it’s the latest fashion in Chang’an. Take it away,” Master Wei said, looking satisfied, as if reassured that his tastes were not too out of step with the world.

“Master, you jest. Tastes differ as much as faces; not everyone must love the same flavor. It’s not as if it were silver, after all,” Cai Cong laughed, sensing how highly Master Wei thought of his son-in-law.

“You have opened my eyes today. Thank you for your insight,” Master Wei replied warmly, looking at Cai Cong with newfound approval. Clearly, the boy’s reputation for talent was no exaggeration.

“You are too kind. I have come today to seek your help with something,” Cai Cong said, returning the courtesy.

“Oh? What could I, a country scholar, do for a family of such high rank? Your mother already holds a fourth-rank title—what need have you of my assistance?”

“It’s this: my mother believes that knowledge changes fate and wishes to found a private school for the education of the community, all expenses borne by our family. It’s a noble idea, but such an undertaking may draw hundreds of students and soon become an academy. Building it is not difficult, but finding worthy teachers is another matter. You are a man of virtue and wide connections, so I have come to ask for your help.”

Cai Cong kept his words concise. Master Wei listened, frowning deeply, silent for a long moment.

“I fear I have been presumptuous. If you find it difficult, there is no need to trouble yourself,” Cai Cong said, disheartened by Master Wei’s hesitation.

“Do you realize that what you propose is buying the hearts of scholars? If the authorities get wind of it, it could spell trouble for you,” Master Wei said sternly. Founding an academy to educate was one thing, but doing it free of charge, at your own expense? What was your aim? If those students later entered government, to whom would their loyalty lie?

“Haha, thank you for your concern, Master. The craftsmen building the academy are those sent by Her Majesty to renovate my mother’s residence—I’ll ask her to let them stay and help with the academy. As for the authorities, I plan to ask the Emperor for sponsorship.”

“Sponsorship?”

“Yes, essentially a grant. My family funds the academy to give the people a path to a better life. In the end, those who master civil and martial arts will serve the imperial house, so I’ll ask His Majesty to reward the top students each year. That is what I mean by sponsorship.”

Cai Cong smiled. These were not real obstacles; the key lay in Master Wei’s ability to recruit teachers.

“The Emperor and Empress would agree to this?” Master Wei was incredulous, but Cai Cong’s confidence was unshakable.

“Their Majesties are most fond of me; such a small favor is easily granted. What I wish to ask is that you find learned and virtuous scholars to teach—not just Confucian classics, but music, chess, calligraphy, painting, mathematics, astrology, military strategy, and more.”

Master Wei was silent for a long time. “You have grand ambitions, I see—this is like reviving the Jixia Academy! Very well, I’ll pay for the academy myself if you can find those scholars,” he said at last, rolling his eyes like an old rogue. Cai Cong was dumbfounded. He was only trying to replicate the model of a modern primary school—what had it to do with Jixia?

“Master, you jest. I’ve heard from my uncle that dignitaries visit you every festival—who but you could find such people?” Cai Cong replied with a smile.

“Easy for you to say! Those you want are all holding high office; if you dare summon them, the Emperor would be the first to have your head,” Master Wei retorted. “You want scholars of every school and discipline—never mind whether they’d come to blows, do you really think you have that much influence?”

“Surely not all are in government service? There must be recluses and hidden talents,” Cai Cong pressed.

“You don’t even have a single tile to your academy—why would they emerge for your sake?” Master Wei was nearly at his wit’s end; this boy seemed to take everything for granted.

“With these few pages, perhaps I can move a few hearts.” Cai Cong took out the papers he had brought and handed them over. Master Wei glanced at him curiously—what could be so valuable?

Reading the opening lines, Master Wei’s eyes grew glued to the text, murmuring the words of the “Three Character Classic.” When he finished, he turned to the multiplication table, then peered at the pinyin—though he could not decipher the phonetic symbols, the first two pages alone struck him like thunder from a clear sky.

Cai Cong knew firsthand the power of the multiplication table. Whenever he went to the market, he would name the total cost at a glance and have Cai Gang pay up, leaving vendors staring at him as if he were a fool. They would then carefully tally with counting rods, and upon realizing he was correct, would be left in awe.

As for the “Three Character Classic,” its simplicity and elegance, its inclusion of ancient wisdom and famous examples in just over a thousand words, rendered it the very model of enlightenment literature—worthy, indeed, of being called a “classic.” Master Wei thought to himself, this alone would attract many scholars.

“You wrote all this?” Master Wei asked in disbelief, his gaze now tinged with genuine respect.

“Does it meet with your approval? I am also planning to write a comprehensive history, from the Western Zhou to our Great Tang, organized year by year—a monumental project to be completed in ten years. Would you be willing to assist me?”

Cai Cong smiled. Master Wei was right—without sufficient inducement, no one would come out of seclusion. A universal history would certainly draw every school to participate: if, in the end, one’s teachings were misrepresented, who could bear the consequences?

Anyone with a mind would see that such a work, once completed, would rival the “Records of the Grand Historian” itself. In fact, Cai Cong was planning to compile the “Comprehensive Mirror to Aid in Government,” which in Chinese history stands shoulder to shoulder with Sima Qian’s masterpiece.

If other schools sent scholars to contribute and one’s own did not, there was every risk of being written out—or written off as fools.

“Today, I have truly seen that there is always someone greater. Your ambition is admirable, and I salute you. I will write to my old friends—none will refuse to join such a grand undertaking,” Master Wei said, rising to bow.

“Thank you, Master. My heart aches for the tragedies of Chinese civilization—the fall at the end of the Han, the severing during the Northern and Southern Dynasties, when our people were driven to the brink. Had it not been for the call to resist, perhaps we would have been wiped out. I only hope to record our history so that future generations may know how, through adversity, we became stronger, and that our spirit was never extinguished.”

Cai Cong’s words were not for flattery. The Northern and Southern Dynasties were perhaps the darkest period in Chinese civilization. The Five Barbarians ravaged the land; the Han people lived in terror. The Jie even practiced cannibalism, marching without rations, consuming the people as they went. The Murong Xianbei captured tens of thousands of young women, eating all but eight thousand on their return, then drowned the rest in the Yi River.

From the end of Jin to the unification under Sui, spanning over a century and a half, there were only two decades without war—one can only imagine the suffering of the Han people.

“Driven in fear like stray dogs, fleeing in desperation, as fragile as blades of grass, lives hanging by a thread. The thought alone rends my heart,” Master Wei wept, grief-stricken at Cai Cong’s words. The pain of history was never far from the minds of the Chinese.

“Where duty calls, one cannot refuse. Go now, Dr. Cai—I must write my letters. The academy will have its teachers, and your history will have many hands to aid you. I am too troubled to keep you longer,” Master Wei said, his face contorted with emotion. If his old friends would not come, he would sever all ties.

Cai Cong offered a few words of comfort, but Master Wei would not hear them, so he took his leave. He was a latecomer to this world, and though his sense of national pride burned strong, he was not moved to tears like the venerable scholar before him.

He returned late; thank you all for your recommendations. I will set up a character thread soon—leave a comment if you wish to see a character added.

(End of chapter)