Xie Yunwan continued to lift the thick stack of manuscripts, turned, and walked to the long rosewood couch in the side hall to sit down.
She spread the opening of "On the Mechanics of Qi Induction" flat across her knees, her right index finger tracing the characters line by line downward.
Her page-turning was extremely gentle, as if afraid to tear the fragile paper’s immense weight.
And Xu Zijin was not idle either.
He pulled over a purple sandalwood armchair, sat upright after settling in, and stared straight ahead.
At the main desk, Xu Zijin drew out a sheet of fine Huizhou raw paper.
With both hands, he lightly pinched the top two corners of the paper and gave it a sharp shake.
The paper spread flat across the desk, then he placed two green stone paperweights on the upper left and lower right corners, pulling the surface taut and smooth.
He was about to draft a polemical essay to counter Lu Huaijin’s "Ridicule of Water," a piece mocking him.
The mocking built from ornate phrases by those pedantic scholars in the Imperial Academy had to be paid back with compounded interest, using the most orthodox eight-legged essay style.
Xu Zijin reached out to the brush rack and took down a large wolf-hair brush.
The brush tip dipped into the inkstone, soaking up the slightly dried leftover ink from the previous night.
He lifted the brush handle, suspending it in midair.
Xie Yunwan’s earlier words lingered in the room: "Use the shells of the 'Book of Changes' and the 'Book of Rites' to hide the blade of new learning."
The Imperial examinations of the Great Qian Dynasty emphasized structure — introduction, development, shift, and conclusion — and the opening had to speak on behalf of the sages.
In the past, writing such essays only required plucking phrases from the Confucian classics and histories, piecing together ornate pieces on yin-yang and the Mandate of Heaven.
Now it was entirely different.
Xu Qinghuan’s doctrines emphasized empirical evidence and the iron laws governing the operation of all things.
Forcing these unadorned truths into the old framework of heavenly mandate and yin-yang was precarious. The slightest misstep would make the work appear neither fish nor fowl, even risking accusations of heresy or sedition from censors and imperial inspectors.
He needed to find a perfect entry point — one that would allow the old Confucians of the Imperial Academy to find no fault, while firmly embedding the core idea of "principles lie in facts" into the essay’s structure.
Every paragraph of the essay had to become a vessel for the new learning.
Xu Zijin turned his head to look at the carved window lattice on the side.
The weather outside was fine, an ordinary summer scene.
In the past, Xu Zijin would have written something insipid like "Summer heat swelters, the warm breeze soothes, and all things feel Heaven’s grace and grow."
Now, however, his mind replayed the natural principle of water evaporating with heat, the interplay of yin and yang producing wind — the constant way of the world.
Every matter had its inherent iron laws of operation, never something that could be summed up by vague notions of fate.
Xu Zijin withdrew his gaze.
He rested the wolf-hair brush on the edge of the brush washer, letting the residual ink stain the clear water.
His right hand picked up a piece of aged pine-soot ink stick; he poured half a spoonful of clean water into the inkstone, which was already half-dry.
The bottom of the ink stick rubbed against the inkstone’s surface, grinding slowly in the direction of the grain.
The study was stifling hot, reliant entirely on the open window for a breath of fresh air.
The water in the inkstone evaporated rapidly under repeated grinding. The initially thin ink gradually thickened, its surface shimmering with a faint purple gleam.
He ground slowly.
Circle after circle, he crushed and kneaded together all the Four Books and Five Classics he had read before, along with Xu Qinghuan’s straightforward conclusions.
Official learning generally followed the idea that one must first rectify the mind before investigating things, though there was no definitive conclusion.
Xu Qinghuan’s new learning, in contrast, held that one must first investigate the constant ways of all things before rectifying the mind.
The two were diametrically opposed, yet they could be seamlessly combined in outward appearance.
Xu Zijin stopped grinding and placed the half-used ink stick on the purple sandalwood tray.
He looked again at the blank sheet of Huizhou raw paper before him.
The paper’s surface was covered with fine fibers from plant material, empty of any character.
Xu Zijin picked up the wolf-hair brush again, scraping the tip against the edge of the inkstone to remove excess ink and smooth the split bristles.
His arm suspended in the air, the brush tip landed steadily on the paper, slightly above center.
Horizontal and vertical strokes were straight; the curves and flicks were natural.
Five characters were written.
"Ge Wu Zheng Xin Lun" — On Investigating Things to Rectify the Mind.
These five characters broke from his usual graceful, rounded calligraphic style, carrying instead a fierce, killing intent.
Particularly the character "Wu" (things), last stroke was drawn exceedingly long, nearly tearing the paper, revealing a ruthlessness bent on dismantling and reconstructing all laws of the world.
After writing these five characters, Xu Zijin paused.
Xu Qinghuan’s actions at Songzhu Bookshop came unbidden into his mind.
It had been a rainy day.
Standing in the rear courtyard pavilion of the bookshop, Xu Qinghuan held a piece of the cheapest, broken ink stick.
Instead of using the pure rainwater the maid had prepared, she bent down directly, dipped a handkerchief in the muddy water from a bluestone puddle outside the pavilion, and squeezed the water into an inkstone.
At the time, Xu Zijin stood beside her, reminding her that the soil and grit in the water would ruin the fine inkstone.
Xu Qinghuan paid no attention. She simply ground the broken ink stick in the muddy rainwater with force.
The ink produced was jet-black and glossy.
Using that half-inkstone of murky ink, she drew a blueprint unlike any he’d seen — rough, stark lines without any unnecessary embellishment.
Xu Zijin stared at the characters "Ge Wu" on the paper.
Principles lie in facts.
True learning was never found in the pristine rainwater of grand halls and temples, but in the mud and grit of everyday life.
Xu Qinghuan had already shown him this truth through action, but back then, his head was full of romance and flowery essays — he hadn’t understood the weight of that half-inkstone of turbid ink.
Xie Yunwan stood up, carefully placed the manuscript on the long couch, and used a paperweight to press down its corners.
She walked around the carved screen, stopping at the side of Xu Zijin’s desk.
Her eyes fell on the five large characters at the top of the paper.
Xu Zijin raised his brush.
The tip of the wolf-hair brush hovered half an inch below the final character "Lun" (On).
The ink, heavily saturated, could not bear its own weight; the liquid gathered steadily along the bristles, slowly accumulating.
A round, glossy bead of ink formed at the very tip, dangling precariously.
Xie Yunwan stared at those five characters for a long moment, then leaned forward slightly.
"These five characters — what do they explain?"
Xu Zijin did not answer.
That bead of ink at the brush’s tip finally condensed fully, broke free from the bristles’ grip, and fell suddenly.
"Pat."
The ink drop splattered onto the plain white paper, blooming instantly into a stark, spreading blot.
Xu Zijin’s brush remained suspended in midair, unmoving.
