Chapter Fifteen: The Rebel Heir of the Prestigious Family (Part Two)

Gubai Crossing lay fifty li from Xingyang, a ferry upon the Yellow River. To the west, it bordered Tiger Gate Pass; to the east, Peach Blossom Ravine. South of the ferry, the fields stretched broad and open, withered grass swaying in the wind; to the north, the Yellow River, a thousand miles locked in ice. The ancient road of yellow earth wound its way to the water's edge, flanked on either side by venerable cypress trees that stayed green throughout the year, lending a touch of vitality to the desolate landscape.

Zheng Jingsi and Quan Ce shared a carriage. Throughout the journey, Zheng had been quietly studying his companion: a young man with fresh features and a refined, composed bearing. Yet, curiously, a melancholy and tragic air clung to him. This was a man of imperial blood, a general at such a tender age—what could weigh so heavily upon him? What cause had he for such sorrow?

Quan Ce gazed steadily out the carriage window, letting the scenery sweep past, his eyes unfocused. The loss of a single painting had shattered his brief joy at escaping the prison of Chang’an. It mattered little to him, personally—the painting’s disappearance could be seen as a grave offense, or else simply laughed off. It did not touch upon matters of principle, and in the open atmosphere of the Great Tang, it should not be a matter of life or death. But his father weighed on his mind. After all the effort he had expended, he still could not escape constant surveillance—what of his father? Would he unwittingly betray himself?

Zheng Jingsi, two years his senior and already married, had enjoyed careful upbringing and discipline since childhood, giving him a composure beyond his years. Yet now, even he could not contain his curiosity. “General Quan, forgive my boldness, but why did you admit your clan uncle to the Imperial Guard?”

“And why not?” Quan Ce withdrew his gaze, countering with calm indifference.

That tranquil air only served to unsettle Zheng Jingsi, who pressed on, his voice rising, “Your clan uncle’s line is distant, his bloodline thin. The seventh branch is weak—what support can you gain from him? By admitting your uncle, you invite the scorn of the Zheng clan—how then will any of them serve you wholeheartedly?”

Quan Ce replied in a low, quiet voice, “Master Zheng, what kind of men do you think I seek for my Imperial Guard? Is it the idle scions of powerful families, or those who would betray their own kin for personal gain?”

Zheng Jingsi’s cheeks flushed red in an instant. Naturally, he was included among those Quan Ce criticized as heartless. “Then, do you seek rebellious sons who defy their families and have no respect for tradition?”

Quan Ce looked at him in silence. One’s position shapes one’s thoughts; different perspectives yield different views. The doctrine of self-restraint and ritual had always been the eternal theme of feudal society. Why? Because true ritual never truly existed—only its form and externalities evolved over the centuries. If the Spring and Autumn era truly revered family ritual, then Zheng Jingsi’s own ancestor, Duke Zhuang of Zheng, should never have defied his king and exchanged hostages with the Son of Heaven. Likewise, had Duke Zhuang’s sons adhered strictly to ritual, they would not have fought for power, nor would their state have declined so swiftly, becoming the first to fall among the feudal lords.

Why did the Spring and Autumn age require lofty, veiled rhetoric? Because once matters were laid bare, everyone would be forced to slap their own faces. These were thoughts to be pondered, not spoken aloud.

His inscrutable silence only deepened Zheng Jingsi’s frustration. After a moment, Zheng stilled his emotions, closed his eyes, and ignored him.

When they reached Gubai Crossing, the group gathered together. Zheng Jingsi had changed his mind. “It is said that General Quan is famed for his painting, but from what I saw yesterday, that is far from the truth. ‘A sage’s heart never wavers’—that phrase captures the essence of all three schools of thought. Today, let us do the opposite: we will not trouble the general to paint, but rather ask you to name the works we create.”

Most of their companions were scions of great families from Xingyang—proud and unwilling to yield. The group grew noisy, some opposing, some supporting the suggestion, the matter unresolved.

Quan Ce laughed heartily. “There is no need to argue, my friends. Naming a painting should be a matter of collective inspiration. Allow me to offer a humble proposal: confronted with such majestic mountains and rivers, how can I resist painting? I simply cannot help myself.”

The crowd burst into laughter. Many gathered around Quan Ce, eager to witness his singular skill with the brush.

Quan Ce had come prepared, carrying his drawing board and charcoal. He set up his easel on the right bank, measuring nothing, pondering not at all, but moving his hand with a swift, flying rhythm. In less than half an hour, a vivid landscape sketch emerged upon the paper.

“Amazing! What skill!” those around him cried out in astonishment. More people pressed forward, pointing out features in the painting and comparing them to the real scene—there was not the slightest discrepancy. In an age that prized expressive resemblance over exactness, his style stood out as truly unique.

“Remarkable, indeed!” A middle-aged man jostled through the crowd, unable to take his eyes off the painting. “General, your work is exquisite. What will you name it?”

Quan Ce clasped his hands in thanks, a flush of pride in his heart. Half a lifetime of effort, unappreciated in the future world, now found admiration in the Tang—it was worth it. He took up his brush and wrote six bold characters at the head of the scroll: “So Beautiful Is This Land.”

“What a name! General, your brushwork and artistic talent are unmatched—an example for us all.” The middle-aged man was the first to praise him, wanting to say he was a master of both painting and calligraphy, but out of propriety did not comment on Quan Ce’s merely passable calligraphy. He changed tack, “General, might you part with this painting? Or perhaps take me as your student?”

Startled, Quan Ce quickly stopped him from bowing.

“Uncle, what are you doing? Speaking of apprenticeship—what of the Lu family’s reputation?” Quan Ce and the older man quarreled, until Zheng Jingsi could stand it no longer. Forgetting all decorum, he stepped forward to intervene.

Lu Zhaoyin was unfazed. He bowed deeply to Quan Ce. “I seek only to learn from a master—what has that to do with family? Master Quan, I am Lu Zhaoyin of Fanyang, and I wish to pay you a student’s respects.”

“Please, there’s no need for such ceremony,” Quan Ce protested, trying to forestall him. The Lu clan of Fanyang was a unique breed among the aristocracy, embracing all three teachings—Confucian, Daoist, and Buddhist. The Sixth Patriarch, Master Huineng, was a Lu, now spreading the faith in Lingnan. “I hold the Lu family in great esteem. But let us not speak of apprenticeship. I reside in Luoyang—should you not mind the distance, you are welcome to come and discuss painting with me at any time.”

“Distance is no matter. I would gladly accompany Master Quan to Luoyang,” Lu Zhaoyin replied, giving up his insistence on ceremony, though he continued to use the respectful title. After a moment’s thought, he said, “I hear you are recruiting for the Imperial Guard. I am too old for such service, but my eldest son, Lu Jiong, is seventeen and ready for experience. Will you consider him?”

Quan Ce smiled and nodded, but made no promise. He would have to meet the young man first.

“Congratulations, General! Congratulations, Brother Lu!” the others exclaimed. Zheng Jingsi, angry and frustrated, swept away in a huff. The group’s spirits, however, remained high. Quan Ce painted and named works, delighting all. He borrowed famous lines from the future, bestowing a grandly heroic painting with the title, “Iron Horses and Frozen Rivers Fill My Dreams,” winning universal acclaim. His honest and open responses, and his tolerance far beyond his years, left many deeply impressed.

Not long after returning to the Zheng family’s guest house, visitors began arriving in an endless stream.

“General, I have a kinsman—brave and chivalrous—I’d like to introduce him to you.”

“Haha, I may not be trained in martial arts, but I am strong and thick-skinned. Permit me to recommend myself.”

Quan Ce, inwardly, was delighted.

Chang’an, Xianju Hall.

Empress Wu was reading a stack of memorials. Before her stood a woman, her face veiled in white gauze, a plum blossom ornament upon her brow.

“Hmph, such an ungrateful wolf!” Empress Wu flung down the documents, her phoenix eyes flashing with anger. “Let him be. I want to see just how bold he dares be in my Eastern Capital.”

She picked up another file—this one a detailed record of Quan Ce’s movements, times, places, and associates. After a while, she suddenly chuckled, “He’s gathering the sons of the Five Great Surnames and Seven Illustrious Clans into his Imperial Guard. This son is more dutiful than his father.”

Her gaze turned sharp. “Has any advisor been seen at his side?”

“Your Majesty, absolutely not,” the woman replied hoarsely and with certainty.

No? Empress Wu pondered the Imperial Guard that Quan Ce was assembling in the Eastern Capital, surprised. The sons of lesser gentry and Shandong’s cavalry—these were the very forces she relied upon at court.

“This boy is thoughtful indeed,” she murmured after a long silence.

She flipped to the last page. “What is this?”

“It is a painting by Quan Ce, Your Majesty. It concerns you, so I had it brought here.”

“You may go.”

Alone, Empress Wu examined the painting. The woman depicted was clearly herself, though the clothing and figure did not match. She laughed coldly, “He puts on such a respectful face in audience, but he is bolder than he appears.”

She measured her waist and chest with her hands, muttering, “This golden phoenix robe is certainly splendid and striking, but it’s a bit too tight… My waist has grown thicker, and my chest is not as firm as it once was. No, this won’t do—I must see to my health… Attendants, summon the imperial physician.”