Soon, Xu Zijin changed into a blue homespun robe.
It was the old garment he had worn during the provincial examination for the xiucai degree.
Now his waist had thinned a full circle, so the robe hung somewhat loosely on him.
He did not take the official carriage of the ChengYi Bo residence. Instead, he settled into the small blue sedan chair Xu Zhong had prepared.
When the sedan chair swayed to a halt, Xu Zijin lifted the curtain and stepped out. Looking up, he saw the side gate of the Grand Secretary’s residence.
This side gate was naturally three parts more extravagant than the main gate of the ChengYi Bo estate.
Xu Zhong was already waiting inside the gate; seeing him arrive, he merely nodded and turned to lead the way inward.
The two passed through two courtyards, and along the way, it was strangely quiet.
The vast courtyard had not a single servant sweeping. Only an old yellow dog lay at the base of the wall.
Hearing their footsteps, the old dog barely lifted its drooping eyelids for a glance. It did not even wag its tail before closing its eyes again to nap.
This silent pressure was more suffocating than any heavily guarded mansion.
The study door was half open.
Xu Jie sat in a somewhat worn armchair, the master’s seat.
The room was filled with aloeswood incense—its aroma was not heavy, yet it clung thickly in one's nostrils, refusing to dissipate.
On the broad desk was spread the very oil-stained, incomplete draft that Ah Fu had sold. Beside the draft lay a sheet of freshly cut bamboo paper and a Hu brush.
"You’ve arrived," Xu Jie said flatly.
Xu Zijin quickly stepped forward and performed a formal bow. Only after completing the rites did his tense back relax slightly.
"Your essay—this incomplete draft is missing pieces. I cannot read it fully."
Xu Jie pointed a finger at the bamboo paper on the desk.
"Write a complete version for me. The brush, ink, and paper are right there. Do not hold back. If you write poorly, simply replace the sheet. It does not cost much for paper."
The final word "paper" carried a slight emphasis.
A chill ran up Xu Zijin’s spine.
Hidden within that remark was a dig—no doubt a jab at his absurdity of selling his masterpiece for three coppers as if it were wastepaper.
He walked to the desk and picked up the Hu brush.
The weight of the brush handle in his hand was far heavier than what he usually used at the Xu residence.
This was an old brush steeped in age; its tip had been worn down until most of its sharpness was gone.
A brush like this naturally made the strokes converge and restrained them.
He understood at once that the Grand Secretary had set a trap even with the choice of brush. Someone used to a sharp, pointed brush would find his hand constrained with such an old tool. The unrestrained spirit in his writing would be ground down by this mild, sluggish implement.
The Grand Secretary was testing his backbone.
Xu Zijin did not put the brush down, nor did he ask for a new one.
He gripped the brush handle tightly, dipped it heavily in rich ink, suspended his wrist, and began writing directly.
The tip was round, so he used the belly of the brush in place of the tip. With the immense force in his wrist, he forced the arrogance within each stroke and pause to break forth.
The rustling sound filled the study for about the time it takes to burn an incense stick.
The complete text of "On Investigating Things and Rectifying the Mind" landed on the bamboo paper.
Between the dripping ink lines, the wild arrogance remained undiminished.
With this full sheet of ink, he gave the Grand Secretary his first answer: you can change the brush in my hand, but you cannot grind down the thorns in my heart.
Xu Jie took the manuscript and read it from beginning to end.
After reading, the literary leader of the Great Qian Dynasty did something Xu Zijin had not anticipated.
The old man pulled over the crumpled, oil-stained draft and placed it side by side with this newly written full version. His withered fingers moved back and forth between the two sheets.
"You changed seven characters." Xu Jie’s bony fingertip pointed to the paper. "On this draft, it says, 'Heavenly principle hangs above the nine heavens.' When you wrote it just now, you changed it to 'Heavenly principle hides within all things.' 'Hangs' was changed to 'hides.' Why?"
Xu Zijin’s breath caught. This old man’s attention to detail made it clear that the Grand Secretary had already thoroughly studied that dirty scrap of wastepaper.
"'Hangs' positions principle high above," Xu Zijin said, gathering his composure and answering steadily. "If heavenly principle is only in the sky, it is easily twisted to mean that 'only the Son of Heaven can understand heavenly principle.' Changing it to 'hides' insists that principle pervades all things—everything and everyone has its rule, and anyone may seek it out."
Xu Jie did not affirm or deny. He nodded and continued pointing to the next passage. "And the other six characters?"
The old man’s interrogation pressed relentlessly.
The seven character changes were laid out one by one on the desk for scrutiny.
Each character’s deliberation laid bare the sharp edges hidden within the essay.
After finishing his inquiries into these fine details, Xu Jie drove straight to the core.
"Suppose this year’s policy question in the autumn examination is the four characters 'ge wu zhi zhi'—'investigating things to attain knowledge.' How would you write?"
Xu Zijin calculated rapidly in his mind, then began to articulate his approach to breaking open the question.
He completely cast aside stale ethical norms and cut straight into practical knowledge.
"If I write such an essay, sir, I will not dwell on matters of mind and nature. I will begin with the measurement of fields and the auditing of grain taxes, using concrete accounts to build the framework of governance. All things have numbers that can be relied upon. That is the true meaning of investigating things."
"Stop." Xu Jie raised his hand to cut him off.
"You just said that the character 'ge' means to engage with practical matters."
Xu Jie’s finger tapped lightly on the wooden table.
"That is not the interpretation of the great Confucians of this dynasty. This heretical explanation carries the tone of those banished mad scholars from previous dynasties. Which school did you study under?"
Xu Jie had dug a clear pitfall.
If he answered with a specific school or sect, he would instantly be branded with the mark of factional strife—a living target for court infighting. If he could not name his origin, all his previous argumentation would collapse.
Xu Zijin paused for two breaths and gave an answer Xu Jie had not expected.
"I follow neither the ancient sages nor blindly the great Confucians, sir. The character 'ge' in my mouth takes its oldest, original meaning from the dictionary—to measure."
"To investigate things means to measure all things. Without personally measuring this realm under heaven, how can one vainly speak of the eternal Way?"
When Xu Jie heard this, his tapping finger stopped.
This silence lasted longer than before.
The old man’s questions began to leave the classics behind, driving straight into the most fatal vulnerability of this doctrine.
"If common men and women can all understand principle," Xu Jie said, his words falling like heavy stones before Xu Zijin, "then using your reasoning, if the Son of Heaven is wrong, may the thousands upon thousands of commoners who understand principle simply refuse to listen to the Son of Heaven?"
The air in the study became suffocating. Xu Zijin’s temples throbbed.
This vital point was unavoidable. It was the very taboo he had crossed out, written, and crossed out again in his manuscript.
At this critical moment, a passage from Xu Qinghuan’s manuscript suddenly surfaced in his mind—a freeform note circled heavily in red ink:
The foundation of establishing any doctrine or system must answer one question: where does the Son of Heaven’s authority rely? If you cannot crack this barrier, it is mere armchair talk for Confucian scholars.
Xu Zijin felt cold sweat on his back, yet he straightened his spine inch by inch, forcefully suppressing the tremor that had crept in.
"Lord Grand Secretary. The Son of Heaven should be like the dike of a river."
He lifted his head and looked directly at the foremost power in the court.
"A dike does not create water. That water falls from heaven and is the countless common people under heaven. Without a dike to guide and control it, the water becomes a devastating flood."
"The dike’s reason for existence is not because it is nobler than the water. It is entirely because it can channel the water where it needs to go—to irrigate parched farmland and to spare the innocent people from being submerged."
Xu Zijin took half a step forward, her voice rising.
"The great principle of the Son of Heaven governing on behalf of Heaven does not lie in his sole possession of all wisdom under heaven, but in his ability to ensure that every principle finds its proper place."
"Where the water flows, every official and commoner can see with their own eyes."
"Pointing out a breach in the dyke is meant to repair it, to safeguard peace for ten thousand generations, not to destroy it."
"This does not weaken imperial power—on the contrary, it seeks a more unshakable foundation for that power than the notion that 'the Mandate of Heaven is unknowable.'"
Xu Jie listened to these words and fell silent for a long time.
He leaned back in his chair, his withered fingers tapping slowly on the desk, savoring the aftertaste.
After a prolonged stillness, Xu Jie rose and walked slowly to a bookshelf against the wall.
From the highest shelf, he pulled out a yellowed scroll, weighing its heavy pages in his hand. Without opening it, he slid it back into place.
"Thirty years," the old man said, his back still to Xu Zijin, his aged voice carrying an unfathomable weariness.
"For thirty years, I have sat in this chair, waiting—until now, for someone bold enough to speak of 'renewal' plainly and clearly."
Xu Jie turned and walked slowly back to the desk.
"But you are too young. The young have great courage, but they are prone to poking a hole in the sky without knowing how to mend it."
"Let me ask you one final question. This doctrine of yours, this breaking of the old to establish the new—where does it place the imperial power? Do not use the dyke metaphor. I want to hear your concrete proposals for court governance and legal statutes."
This was a demand for him to reveal his hand entirely.
Xu Zijin held back the stifling breath lodged in his chest, raising his head to face the Grand Secretary's pressure head-on.
"The Way of Governance distinguishes right and wrong; the System of Rule dispenses rewards and punishments. The two support each other, not contend with each other." He laid out this foundational principle without reservation.
"The Son of Heaven is, of course, the pinnacle of the System of Rule, wielding supreme authority. But the Way of Governance, which discerns truth and falsehood, cannot belong to the Son of Heaven alone—it rightfully belongs to all scholars under heaven, to all common people, maintained by them together."
"The Way of Governance is the fence; the System of Rule is the beast. Only when the fence is strong and unbreakable can the beast guard the courtyard without harming anyone!"
At these words, Xu Jie's deeply lined face finally relaxed. Stroking his beard, he laughed aloud.
This laugh was devoid of the hypocrisy of official courtesy. Instead, it carried the delight of an old chess master who, sitting idle for half a lifetime, suddenly glimpsed a new path in a stale endgame.
The old man turned back, picked up the manuscript of twelve hundred characters from the desk, folded it neatly along the creases, and tucked it into his wide sleeve.
"I am borrowing this essay," he said.
As Xu Zijin's suspended heart began to settle, the Old Grand Secretary suddenly stepped forward, a glint of amusement in his eyes, and added slowly: "Haha! Your surname is Xu, and mine is Xu too. Could we be from the same family?"
