Chapter Thirty-Four: The Clarity Amid the Storm

At dawn, a gentle drizzle began to fall.

Mist rose across the open fields in drifting patches, both real and illusory. As the sky lightened, farmers were already busy among the ridges, wearing straw cloaks and hats, moving with a carefree ease through this landscape that seemed almost otherworldly. Their bright, resonant songs echoed beneath the heavens, while distant emerald hills shimmered faintly, lending the scene an extraordinary charm.

“In a few days, it will be the Festival of Clear Brightness,” said Zheng Shian, sitting in the carriage with Zheng Yanqing, his arm around him, one leg dangling to the side as he gazed at the poetic scenery.

He wore a straw cloak and hat, giving him the look of a recluse. The night’s rough journey had eased much of the resentment in his heart. At dawn, drawn out from beneath the oilcloth by Zheng Yanqing, he found himself enveloped in the delicate rain.

The cloak and hat had been gifted by Zheng Weishan.

Yanqing found Zheng Weishan increasingly remarkable. Now, he and his grandfather were, to put it kindly, being escorted back to Xingyang; to put it bluntly, they were being taken back like prisoners. Yet Zheng Weishan’s attitude toward Zheng Shian remained impeccably respectful, showing no hint of neglect despite the change in his status. Moreover, it was only thanks to Zheng Weishan’s men notifying Li Ji last night that Dou Wei was able to testify on Yanqing’s behalf, clearing him of false charges. That debt alone made Yanqing look at Zheng Weishan in a new light.

Whatever his motivations, this was a man worth befriending.

Hearing the grandfather and grandson converse, Zheng Weishan, riding beside the carriage, was stirred. He urged his horse forward, riding alongside the carriage, and said with a smile, “Yanqing, with such scenery, why not compose a poem to match the moment?”

Yanqing laughed at the suggestion.

He looked at the gentle rain and the world blurred within its haze, silently pondering. After a moment, he softly recited:

“At the Festival of Clear Brightness, peach and plum trees smile,
Wild fields and lonely graves breed sorrow.
Thunder shakes heaven and earth, dragons and serpents stir,
Rain brings tenderness to grass and woods on the outskirts.
Some beg for offerings, flaunting wives and concubines,
Some scholars accept burning, refuse unjust noble titles.
Wise and foolish, who can tell across a thousand years?
All become wild grass, sharing a single mound.”

Having left Luoyang, Yanqing felt his worries lighten.

After reciting, he exhaled deeply and looked at Zheng Weishan. “Uncle Zheng, what do you think of this poem?”

Zheng Weishan’s expression changed, his gaze complex and lingering. “Some beg for offerings, flaunting wives and concubines; some scholars accept burning, refuse unjust noble titles…” That line alone revealed Yanqing’s uprightness and pride—truly a man of character.

During the Festival of Clear Brightness, spring thunder awakens all things. The steady rain brings lush grass to the earth, peach and plum trees bloom. Yet beyond the fields, among wild and deserted places, lie the graves of the dead. The departed sleep beneath the earth, making the living mourn all the more. The first four lines perfectly capture the festival’s theme.

In ancient times, a man from Qi used to sneak food from offerings at graves, returning home with greasy lips and bragging shamelessly; yet there were others, like Jie Zitui in the Spring and Autumn period, who helped the Duke of Jin build his state but refused high office, preferring to live in seclusion—even when the duke burned the mountain in search of him, he would not bow his head.

No matter one's wisdom or status, in the end, everyone shares a mound of wild grass. But while alive, one must have dignity.

With this poem, Yanqing made his position clear: better a dignified death than a base life.

Zheng Weishan knew Yanqing was talented; his request for a poem was merely a spur-of-the-moment idea to break the monotony of the journey.

Who could have guessed Yanqing would not only compose a poem, but one so fitting to the scene and his own circumstances?

Though but a household servant, he wished to live with dignity and would never grovel to anyone; even in death, he would not bow.

Having just endured false accusations, Yanqing’s poem expressed his current state of mind.

So young, and yet so principled?

Unable to restrain himself, Zheng Weishan applauded from horseback. “Yanqing’s talent is comparable only to Cao Zhi.”

Cao Zhi, son of Cao Cao, along with his father and brother Cao Pi, formed the celebrated “Three Caos,” pioneers of the Jian’an literary style.

Zheng Weishan comparing Yanqing to Cao Zhi carried deeper meaning.

Poet Xie Lingyun from the Southern Dynasties once said: “All the talent under heaven makes up one measure; Cao Zhi alone possesses eight-tenths, I have one-tenth, and the rest of the world shares the last.”

In other words, Yanqing, with this poem, already rivals Cao Zhi and will surely stand out as a leader in the literary world. Though a military man, Zheng Weishan was born into the Zheng family and had a discerning eye. Such praise revealed the high regard he held for Yanqing.

Yanqing did not quite grasp the full meaning of Zheng Weishan’s words, merely smiling faintly.

Yet his smile, in Zheng Weishan’s eyes, became even more enigmatic, the mark of a true scholar—confidence incarnate.

“Yanqing, ahead lies Mount Wan’an. We’ll soon see the beauty of Wan’an’s Stone Forest. If memory serves, there’s a tavern on the mountain with unique charm… Why not let me play host and invite you and the steward to rest for a while?” Zheng Weishan’s shift from addressing Yanqing by name to calling him “young master” signified a change in attitude.

Zheng Shian looked at Yanqing with pride and held him tighter. “If so, you’ll be putting yourself out for us, Weishan!”

“Young master, I have one more humble request.”

“Uncle Zheng, please speak.”

“When we rest at the tavern, could you copy down the poem you just recited for me?”

Yanqing glanced at Zheng Shian, then nodded. “As long as Uncle Zheng doesn’t mind my poor handwriting, I’ll write it out.”

“Haha, young master, if you call your writing poor, then there’s no one left in the world fit to pick up a brush.”

With that, Zheng Weishan ordered his attendants, “Turn onto Mount Wan’an. I’ll treat everyone to wine, and we’ll resume our journey when the rain stops.”

The attendants did not know why Zheng Weishan was so courteous to Zheng Shian and his grandson. But since he was both an expert and a member of the Zheng family, they were happy to accept the offer of wine and responded in unison.

The oilcloth-covered carriage veered abruptly at the bend in the official road, speeding toward rain-shrouded Mount Wan’an…

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Yan Shigu, accompanied by Xu Shiji and Zheng Hongyi, had gone in pursuit of Zheng Yanqing and his grandfather.

Zheng Renji, however, could not calm himself, sitting in his study staring at the unfinished manuscript on his desk, silent for a long time.

Madam Cui was terrified, but dared not speak. She could only hold her daughter and sit beside Zheng Renji, keeping him company.

She had thought killing a servant would be a simple matter, but who could have foreseen so many complications? That servant—was he still a servant?

“What a pity!” Zheng Renji looked at Yanqing’s draft, shaking his head repeatedly.

Madam Cui asked, unable to restrain herself, “Master, what do you mean by pity?”

“This article was never finished. Otherwise, it would surely become the foundation of calligraphy for all the world. Since the emergence of the Eight Principles of Yong, no one has systematically written such a piece. Such fine calligraphy, such fine writing… A pity, truly a pity!”

The thought that he himself had ruined such a fine piece made Zheng Renji deeply regretful.

Not knowing what else to say, he finally murmured, “Madam, go and have someone see Cui Daolin and his son off.”

“Ah?” Madam Cui gasped, blurting out, “Why?”

“If they don’t die, you may not escape implication.”

“Do you really have to kill them?”

Zheng Renji’s face was cold. “If they live, then you must return to Zhengzhou.”

In other words, if you wish to protect Cui Daolin and his son, I will have no choice but to divorce you and send you back to your family in Zhengzhou. Madam Cui felt a chill in her heart and drew a sharp breath, never expecting things to come to this.

“Someone must suffer. The choice is yours.”

Madam Cui dared not ask further. She placed her daughter beside Zheng Renji and rose. “I will go see them off now.”

Zheng Renji closed his eyes, showing signs of fatigue.

How was this matter to be resolved?

He knew, whether or not he liked Zheng Shian, he would now have to bring him back and restore him to his position as steward. But the problem was, would Zheng Shian agree? If he refused, Zheng Renji was powerless. For Zheng Shian was no longer just a steward of the Zheng family; his adopted grandson had drawn the attention of even the crown prince…

So, he would have to act quickly, killing Cui Daolin and his son to appease Zheng Shian’s anger.

As for Cui Daolin and his son—they were but household servants!

Even if they were loyal to Zheng Renji, he had no other choice.

If he did not kill Cui Daolin and his son, would he have to divorce his wife? Madam Cui had stood by him for years, and it was hard for Zheng Renji to decide to cast her off. Besides, divorce was not so easily done, given that her family was the powerful Cui clan of Qinghe. Zheng Renji was reluctant to offend them.

The rain dripped from the eaves, pattering softly.

As Zheng Renji pondered how to placate Zheng Shian and his grandson, a group of carriages and horses arrived outside the Zheng residence.

The gatekeeper, worn out from a tumultuous night, peered curiously outside, only to see dozens of guards surround a central carriage. The curtain was lifted, and an elderly man with white hair and beard, full of vigor, stepped down.

“Master!” The gatekeeper, recognizing the old man, was startled.

What day was this, that the master should arrive?

The man stepping from the carriage was none other than Zheng Dashih, head of Anyuan Hall. His face was radiant, and after alighting, he did not hurry inside. Behind him, two more descended from the carriage: one elderly, one middle-aged.

The elder smiled as he stepped down. “After a night of turmoil, I am quite worn out. Zheng, you truly are robust, worthy of being the master of Anyuan Hall. Though you are ten years my senior, I cannot match your vigor.”

Zheng Dashih chuckled and cupped his hands. “Young master, you flatter me!”

With that, he and the elder entered the gate arm in arm, while the middle-aged man followed with a relaxed expression.

He wore a blue robe and black boots, though they looked somewhat worn. His head was covered, his waist girded with jade, and his features were unusual—handsome, with an air of transcendence, a gentle smile on his face.

At that moment, Zheng Renji received word.

Upon hearing that Zheng Dashih had arrived, he was alarmed: Why had his father come at this hour, without prior notice?

Most importantly, Zheng Shian was not in Luoyang!

If his father learned of last night’s events, there would surely be trouble.

He dared not delay, hurriedly straightening his attire and rushing out to greet them. By the time he reached the front hall, Zheng Dashih and his guests were already seated.

“Renji, come greet your Uncle Pei.”

Zheng Renji, recognizing the man beside Zheng Dashih, was startled.

He hurried forward, bowing deeply. “Your nephew greets Uncle.”

He knew this elder—a native of Wenxi in Hedong, surnamed Pei, named Shiju, styled Hongda, the current patriarch of the Wenxi Pei clan, one of the four great surnames of Hedong. Pei Shiju had accompanied Crown Prince Yang Guang in the campaign to pacify Chen, and later led three thousand troops to assist Lady Xian of Qiao in subduing Lingnan, earning praise from Emperor Wen of Sui. He now served as Assistant Minister of Internal Affairs and was the Count of Wenxi.

A clan chief whose background rivaled that of the Zhengs, and a powerful minister favored by both emperor and crown prince.

Though Pei Shiju’s rank fell short of Yang Su’s and his power was less, compared to Zheng Renji, the difference was vast. Even Yang Su would not wish to offend him.

Why had this old fox come as well?

Pei Shiju smiled amiably. “No need for formality, nephew. I heard the Zheng family produced a remarkable talent, so I came uninvited.”

Zheng Renji’s heart sank, but before he could respond, Zheng Dashih pointed to the middle-aged man. “This is Yuan Shoucheng, a renowned scholar from Chengdu, recently studying Taoism in Jurong. He brings a letter from Master Zhang Jixun, and also, at the request of Master Sun Simiao, has come to visit Yanqing.”

Yuan Shoucheng bowed and smiled.

“I am a fellow Daoist of Sun Simiao. He sent word from Luoyang to Jurong, saying he had befriended a promising young man and asked me to visit him. Coincidentally, Master Zhang asked me to deliver a letter to Xingyang, and it turned out Sun’s request was for the same matter.

I am about to travel to Sichuan to meet Sun Simiao, so I joined General Zheng and Lord Pei along the way. Please forgive the disturbance.”

Zheng Renji’s mind buzzed.

The very thing he feared had come to pass… Who would have thought that guests would suddenly arrive, all for the same matter?

“Renji, send for Shian and Yanqing at once. Do not neglect proper courtesy.”

Zheng Dashih smiled, but the words in Zheng Renji’s ears were like thunder, leaving him at a loss…

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Note: The poem “Qingming” is by Huang Tingjian.

Also, recent updates have been awkward. I can’t stay up late anymore, so from tomorrow there will be a change: the midnight update is cancelled. Updates will be at noon, five o’clock, and eight o’clock. This is just to inform everyone.