Chapter Thirteen: The Five Surnames and Seven Distinguished Clans

Eastern Capital Luoyang, girded by the Luo River, is divided into north and south. The Imperial City, known as the Purple Micro City, lies in the northwest, occupying a quarter of Luoyang’s expanse. Its wards and markets are orderly, its systems complete, rivaling even Chang’an.

The Magistrate of Luoyang stands among the foremost local officials, second only to the Intendant of Jingzhao in Chang’an. This post is held by Wei Yuan-zhong of Song Prefecture, a man past fifty whose career has been steep and uneven—he once administered criminal justice on the remote southern borders, and at his zenith briefly served as Prime Minister in the capital. His most illustrious moment came when, alongside Li Xiao-yi of the imperial clan, he quelled the rebellion of Xu Jing-ye in Yangzhou, earning abundant honors. Yet time has passed; in merely four years, the fates of these two heroes have diverged drastically. Li Xiao-yi, a threat in the eyes of the powerful Wu family, was repeatedly exiled, ending up in far-flung Qiongzhou, where he died with resentment. Wei Yuan-zhong, for all his rises and falls, remains unbowed.

For this reason, many loyal to the Li family harbor dissatisfaction with Wei Yuan-zhong, among them Quan Yi.

Upon arriving in Luoyang, Quan Yi was received by the local office, his family settled, and after some rest, he donned his official robes to pay respects to his superior.

Wei Yuan-zhong treated him with courtesy, meeting him in the main hall. After a few polite exchanges, he inquired about Quan Yi’s family: “I have heard your eldest son, General Quan Ce, is gifted in both letters and wisdom, yet he did not accompany you?”

“My son bears an imperial commission and has another itinerary. He is but a young boy, fortunate by chance; your praise is too generous,” Quan Yi replied, his brows slightly furrowed. He never cared much for this old man, and found it rude that their first meeting was spent prying about his family.

Wei Yuan-zhong waved his hand repeatedly, “Ah, Prince Consort, you are too modest. The world is shallow, delighting only in the tunes of willow branches. Yet to my mind, those two Buddhist verses are the true essence of wisdom. I am acquainted with Sima Chengzhen, the revered master of Daoism, who likewise hopes to meet your eldest son.”

Quan Yi’s expression grew awkward. This was the Luoyang magistrate’s office, and he himself was Deputy Magistrate, yet the old man insisted on calling him Prince Consort—was this deliberate or accidental? Forcing a smile, he replied, “If so, when he arrives in the Eastern Capital, I shall command him to pay his respects. But I fear my son’s talents are limited to wordplay, ignorant of the people’s needs and official matters, which may disappoint you. I am new here and unfamiliar with the office’s affairs; I hope you will guide me.”

Wei Yuan-zhong’s smile faded, his eyelids drooping. “There is no hurry. You come bearing imperial orders; though a subordinate, you must shoulder important matters. When the main official from the court arrives, we shall discuss the long-term plan.”

“I will obey,” Quan Yi replied. The conversation held no spark; having fulfilled the formalities, he took his leave, boarded his carriage, glanced back at the black-lacquered gate, and snorted coldly, “This old man neglects his proper duties, his stance ambiguous, yet he clings tightly to power.”

His first steps proved inauspicious. Returning home, Quan Yi went straight to his study. On his maiden official venture, he had brought several aides, among them a middle-aged man skilled in criminal law named Xiao Song. Xiao Song, of the Lanling Xiao clan, served as a retainer but was actually an attendant from Li Zhuan’s household—the Duke of Huangguo—placed with Quan Yi both to gain status and maintain connections.

Xiao Song entered the study. “Prince Consort—”

Quan Yi, displeased, interrupted, “Call me Deputy Magistrate.”

“Yes, Deputy Magistrate. A letter has arrived from the capital,” Xiao Song corrected himself, handing over a stack of soft yellow slips of poor quality, each bearing a single large character. The paper absorbed ink, distorting the script; the handwriting was unrecognizable.

“You stand guard outside,” Quan Yi ordered, pushing aside his books. He laid the slips on the desk, arranging them to form sentences, his thick brows knit tightly, deep lines appearing on his gaunt cheeks. With a sigh, he burned each slip one by one.

Suddenly, hurried footsteps sounded at the door.

“Master, something strange has happened. All the newly purchased poultry in the kitchen—those that could make noise—are dead.”

Quan Yi’s hand trembled, a blister forming from the flame. He slapped the table in anger. “Do not panic! Get some fierce dogs to guard the estate. This place has long been uninhabited; wild beasts roam, nothing unusual. Get out!”

Xingyang is famed as the home of the Zheng clan, with the saying, ‘the Zhengs of the world come from Xingyang.’ As one of the Five Surnames and Seven Great Clans, their lineage stretches to the Zhou dynasty, their surname born of feudal grants, making them indisputably descendants of the Ji clan.

For thousands of years, they have passed down their legacy with poetry and ritual, leading the gentry. Their offspring multiply, their halls divided north and south, with the northern hall holding precedence. Of the seven branches in the north, the fifth and sixth are the most illustrious.

Traveling from Chang’an to Luoyang does not pass through Xingyang, yet Quan Ce detoured there for his twelve vacant posts in the Thousand Oxen Guard. He had petitioned the Empress Wu to appoint local sons—not those of Luoyang, but of the lands east of Mount Xiao, radiating from the Eastern Capital. And ‘local sons’ meant not just anyone; from the start, his target was the Five Surnames and Seven Great Clans.

“Please inform your master that my master, eldest son of the Princess Yiyang’s household, Lieutenant in the Thousand Oxen Guard, Quan Ce, seeks an audience with the Lord of Xingyang,” announced Quan Xiang, steward to Quan Ce and son of the old housekeeper Quan Fu. All household staff had gone ahead to settle in Luoyang; only Quan Xiang remained, having shown himself, after several days’ observation, to be a shrewd and circumspect man.

The Zhengs of Xingyang, a noble house of grey walls and black tiles, boasted high walls and vast courtyards, their gates heavily guarded. Seven or eight men stood at the gate, courteous and polite. One quickly entered to report, while another stepped forward, “Salutations, General. Please come inside for tea.”

Quan Ce dismounted, glanced back at his hundred-plus followers, and shook his head, “No need.”

Soon, the gatekeeper returned, carrying a long lacquered tray laden with brush, ink, paper, and inkstone. “General, our master is absent. The eldest son instructed that, as we had not received your visiting card, our preparations were lacking. We fear that receiving you so abruptly might place you in a position of impropriety. We have therefore prepared the writing tools, and ask that you grace us with a literary masterpiece, so we may properly prepare to welcome you.”

The words were tactful, but the posture lofty. The guards behind Quan Ce bristled, ready to rage, “Outrageous! Our general comes to visit, not to beg favors!”

Quan Ce raised his arm to stop them, smiling. He had expected as much—the doors of these proud gentry would not open easily. They cared nothing for the Emperor Taizong, nor would they marry royal princesses. To them, a mere lieutenant was insignificant; that they offered him a chance to demonstrate his talents was already courteous.

“Has the Lord of Xingyang set a theme?” he asked. He did not believe in such coincidences—the eldest son was always the one to receive guests; this was merely an excuse.

“Er, the master said that near Xingyang, Taoist priests have fled and Buddhist monks have gathered. Would you, General, comment on this matter?” The gatekeeper hesitated, but answered honestly.

Malicious intent? Or merely unthinking?

Quan Ce’s muscles instantly tensed, his gaze deepened. The conflict between Buddhist and Daoist was but an extension of the rivalry between the Li and Wu clans, rooted in the grand palace. For them to ask his opinion—were they trying to dig a pit for him?

His mind raced, but his lips curled in a smile. He took up the purple-haired brush and wrote boldly on the gold-speckled paper.

The gatekeeper, literate, read aloud as he watched, his voice loud enough for those inside the gate to hear, “Why make much of the Buddhist-Daoist dispute? The sages have never had divided hearts.”

The gatekeeper bowed deeply, “May I ask, General, what heart is this?”

“The heart that guides people toward goodness,” Quan Ce replied with a smile.

As soon as he spoke, the broad gate swung open with a resounding creak. Inside, shadows stood solemnly, led by an elder in scholar’s cap and cloak, possessing the air of a sage.

Quan Ce stepped forward swiftly to greet him, “Greetings, Lord of Xingyang.”

He could not help but smile inwardly—so many people, all listening behind the gate just now?

A thousand-year-old family, and still they retain a childlike delight.