CDJMM – Volume 1 – Chapter 24 Writing in the Republic Era (23)

Le Jing soon received a reply from Zheng Yiliang. Zheng Yiliang readily accepted his invitation and mentioned in the letter that he would bring along a friend on Sunday. Since Zheng Yiliang’s friend must also be a man of letters, Le Jing wasn’t too concerned—though he had no idea that this “friend” would bring him quite the surprise (or rather, fright).

Since he had invited guests to dine at home, the meager cooking skills of Steward Zhou’s wife were far from sufficient. Le Jing had considered hiring a cook before, but he disliked having too many strangers in his home, so he never followed through. Now, it seemed he needed to find one as soon as possible.

The new cook was quickly decided upon: the daughter of a fallen Bannerman family who lived nearby. Compared to someone like his landlord, Qian Duofu, who was lucky enough to still have ancestral property to pawn off, many Bannermen in Beiping were so poor they could barely afford food.

Back in the Qing era, some impoverished Bannermen could still join the military, take the imperial exams, or work as servants in the Imperial Household Department. On top of that, they didn’t even pay agricultural taxes—earning them the envy of countless Han farmers, who dubbed their farmland “ironclad fields immune to droughts or floods.” Unfortunately, once the Qing dynasty collapsed, these former parasites met with disaster.

Apart from a handful of clever ones, most Bannermen had been coddled useless by the Qing government. Now, with no emperor to provide for them, many lived no better than destitute commoners forced to sell their children. As the saying goes: fortunes rise and fall, the wheel of fate turns.

The young woman Le Jing invited as his new cook bore a famous surname—Ulanara, one of the Eight Great Manchu Clans, a lineage once said to be imperial kin. Sadly, her family had nothing left but the name. Her father indulged in every vice—drinking, whoring, gambling—and was also an opium addict. Once, in a fit of gambling madness, he even staked both his wife and daughter at a casino. In the end, only after her uncle sold off a family heirloom were they ransomed back from the brothel. From then on, the girl harbored deep hatred for her father.

Yet her cleverness lay in how she handled the aftermath: instead of crying or throwing fits, she returned home acting more dutiful than ever. Until one day, her father, drunk as usual, “accidentally” toppled into a water vat and drowned. The girl wept so hard she nearly fainted, so convincingly that neighbors all praised her as a model of filial piety. From then on, this so-called “filial” daughter became renowned as a virtuous girl in the neighborhood. So when Le Jing told his landlord he wanted a cook, Qian Duofu immediately recommended this very “filial” young woman.

Le Jing met with her in person. Her name was Chunyan, around sixteen or seventeen years old—practically a high schooler by modern standards, but in this era, already considered an old maid. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but her eyes impressed Le Jing: they were the eyes of a wolf cub that refused to accept its fate. And Le Jing always liked to lend a hand to such clever, unyielding types. So he immediately decided to hire her as his cook.

Chunyan did not disappoint his trust. She cooked superbly, and her braised pork—succulent but not greasy, melting in the mouth—was especially remarkable. Even the usually light-eating Le Jing couldn’t resist taking extra helpings. It was said that the recipe had come as part of her mother’s dowry, passed down through generations—a true family treasure.

On Sunday morning, Le Jing woke up early, put on a new long gown, and handed the next day’s manuscript to Steward Zhou’s son to deliver to Editor Wang of Beiping Novel Gazette. Then he shut himself in the study, writing while waiting for Zheng Yiliang’s visit.

…

Zheng Yiliang and his friend Zhou Dezhang stepped down from a rickshaw and surveyed the modest-looking siheyuan courtyard in front of them. Zheng Yiliang turned to his companion: “This should be the place. I’ll knock.”

Zhou Dezhang, distracted, only nodded absentmindedly. His mind was still caught up in the letter he had just received—his friend had written that vast tracts of farmland in Sichuan were now being planted with opium…

After a few crisp knocks, the face of a middle-aged man appeared from inside. Judging from his attire, he was the gatekeeper. “And you are?”

Zheng Yiliang reined in his usual temper and donned the gentle demeanor of a scholar. “I am Zheng Yiliang, bringing a friend to pay a visit at your master’s kind invitation.”

“Please, please come in! My master has been expecting you both.”

As soon as they entered the courtyard, a young man in white strode quickly across the corridor toward them, smiling broadly. Even before he reached them, his voice rang out warmly:

“Is this Mr. Zheng and his friend? Forgive me for not coming out sooner to welcome you—what a discourtesy indeed.”

Zheng Yiliang and his companion were briefly struck dumb at how unexpectedly young The Watchman was. Le Jing, too, was inwardly astonished.

Who would have thought that the “friend” Zheng Yiliang mentioned was none other than Mr. Zhou Dezhang? Mr. Zhou, the current principal of Enlightenment Middle School, still had his portrait posted on the school’s notice board. Le Jing saw that familiar face every day when going to and from work. On the surface, Zhou Dezhang seemed to be accompanying a friend on a casual visit, but from the perspective of Le Jing and Li Shuran’s identities, this visit was both a superior’s courtesy call and a principal’s home visit.

Unlike the widely circulated later photos of him as an elderly man, the current Zhou Dezhang—just in his forties—was a true middle-aged gentleman of refined charisma. His features weren’t particularly remarkable, but as the saying goes, “a bellyful of poetry and books brings forth natural grace.” When he stood there, his scholarly elegance made it hard for others to look away.

Standing beside him, Zheng Yiliang was no less impressive. At thirty-two, he was at the very peak of his golden years: born into a distinguished family, well-loved by relatives and friends, handsome in appearance, overflowing with talent, with excellent works emerging in quick succession and earning the admiration of the academic world. He was truly a favored son of heaven. Every pore on his body seemed to radiate pride, so much so that he feared nothing and dared to criticize everything. Le Jing knew that this pride would end with his assassination three years later. It was this very pride that made him, and this pride that ultimately took his life.

No matter what sighs stirred in his heart, Le Jing’s face maintained a warm smile as he cupped his hands toward the two gentlemen, who still looked a little dazed. “I am The Watchman. I wonder how I should address Mr. Zheng’s friend?”

Zheng Yiliang looked Le Jing up and down in astonishment, clicking his tongue. “I really didn’t expect this.” He recalled Zhou Dezhang mentioning wanting a younger friend, and looking at The Watchman now, he muttered to himself, “At this age, he could be our son…”

Zhou Dezhang’s face darkened, and he discreetly jabbed his tactless friend before cupping his hands politely toward Le Jing. “I am Zhou Dezhang, courtesy name Junyu. I hadn’t expected The Watchman to be so young. Please forgive any rudeness.”

Le Jing pretended not to hear Zheng Yiliang’s muttering and instead greeted Zhou Dezhang with delighted surprise, as if meeting him for the first time. “So it’s Mr. Zhou! I’ve long heard of Enlightenment Middle School’s upright scholarship and studious atmosphere under your guidance. Today, I finally got to meet you in person—indeed, seeing is believing!”

The youth stood tall and straight, elegant in demeanor, his white robes setting off his jade-like refinement. His bearing was poised and unassuming, his smile as warm as a spring breeze—one glance and anyone could tell he was a gentleman of pure character. Even when openly flattering someone, it didn’t come across as sycophantic or oily; instead, it felt earnest and genuine, leaving the recipient quite pleased.

It was always a joy to interact with someone so charming. Even someone as serious and steady as Zhou Dezhang couldn’t help but let a faint smile curl at his lips, his voice softening as he replied, “Not at all, not at all. Young friend, you flatter me. On the contrary, for someone so young to have such talent—you far surpass what we were capable of at your age. Truly, as the saying goes, ‘the pupil surpasses the master.’”

Zheng Yiliang chimed in, “To think that a teenager could write such works—truly enviable! Compared to you, all my years of living have gone to the dogs!”

The three exchanged flowery compliments in the courtyard until Zheng Yiliang and Zhou Dezhang were completely at ease. Only then did Le Jing invite them into the main hall, personally serving them tea.

After several rounds of tea, the conversation flowed more freely. Somehow, the topic shifted to the recent serialization of The Rise of a Dynasty in the Beiping Novel Gazette.

“In the Great Hua, there are years of natural disasters, fields failing across the land, and foreign tribes invading,” Zheng Yiliang said, shaking his head with a mocking glint in his eyes. “Yet the rulers are corrupt and cruel, the army weak and exhausted… If Xu Wangmu wants the people to survive, rebellion is the only path left to him.”

Le Jing raised an eyebrow calmly. “Oh? Why do you say that? After all, rebellion dooms not only the rebel but his nine clans.” Inwardly, he marveled at Zheng Yiliang’s sharpness. The story hadn’t even reached the rebellion stage yet—Xu Wangmu was still focused on infrastructure: leading refugees to hunt and forage, digging wells, and building irrigation.

Zheng Yiliang sneered. “If people are starving, what do they care about nine clans? For the common folk, filling their bellies is the only true justice.” Curling his lips, he added mockingly, “And wasn’t that exactly why the last one was toppled?”

Silently, Le Jing nodded. Indeed, Zheng Yiliang’s reasoning aligned with his own planned plotline. But few in this world were as clear-eyed—far more were brainwashed by millennia of loyalty-to-the-throne thinking. Even now, with the emperor gone for over a decade, there were still fools crying for restoration!

That was why his rebellion arc had to be draped in the banner of righteousness. For Xu Wangmu, that banner would be “The War to Protect the Nation.” He would lead the uprising to resist foreign invasion, defend the land. The last emperor, tragically, would die at enemy hands, and Xu Wangmu, out of grief and rage, would fight back relentlessly until the invaders were expelled and vengeance achieved. But a country could not be without a ruler even for a day, so at last, amid the tears and pleas of his generals and the people, Xu Wangmu would “reluctantly” don the imperial robe and found a new dynasty.

Xu Wangmu’s path would mirror that of the Ming dynasty’s founding emperor, Zhu Yuanzhang. Readers who understood would see the parallels, while those who didn’t would still see Xu Wangmu as a loyal, patriotic, courageous, and capable figure—an emperor both legitimate and uncontroversial.

At this point, Zhou Dezhang, who had been silent, sighed heavily, sorrow etched in his brows. “We can see these things clearly, but those in power can’t—or won’t!”

His chest heaved, the words long pent up finally bursting forth. “Do you know what’s being planted in the fertile fields of Henan, Shaanxi, the Northeast, Sichuan—over a dozen major grain-producing provinces? Opium! Tens of thousands of acres of farmland, all for opium! Why do the people buy grain instead of growing it themselves? Because grain doesn’t bring profit. Opium, though—one can smoke it at home or sell it for cash. And the government and warlords encourage them! Why wouldn’t they? The opium tax is enormous! Didn’t the late Qing Empress Dowager fund her cannons and warships with opium tax revenue while living in obscene luxury?”

He rose to his feet, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Now in this so-called new society, opium has simply shifted from the royal treasury to the pockets of governments and warlords. I’ve even heard some warlords pay their soldiers in opium—it’s more cost-effective, isn’t it?” His eyes reddened, hand clutching his chest as he shouted hoarsely, “I fear that if one year heaven withholds its rains, if even one drought strikes…” He shut his eyes, his face pale as he slumped back into his chair, whispering weakly, “The starving people will become wolves, and they will tear this country apart.”