HCT – Chapter 22 Dirt Clings to the Grain

Zhu Xiang hadn’t expected Zhao Kuo to come.

He had previously received many young scholars seeking his guidance. But those scholars were from the lower echelons—mostly retainers of nobles—so sparring with Zhu Xiang was a way for them to gain fame, a mutually beneficial arrangement.

As for the noble youths who were already well-known or had family connections that would secure them an official post, going to Zhu Xiang was like elevating him, which would do them more harm than good.

To the high-ranking aristocracy, Zhu Xiang’s famous debate-for-glory incident was no more than a bunch of monkeys performing tricks. If the spectacle pleased them, they might pick the most skilled monkey, dress him in robes and allow him to be considered human.

When Lord Pingyuan—one of the Four Lords known for valuing talented individuals regardless of status—visited Zhu Xiang, it was essentially a certification that Zhu Xiang had succeeded in his monkey show and could now be regarded as human.

As a scion of the Mafu family, Zhao Kuo—even if temporarily sidelined due to his father’s words—should be among those watching the monkeys from atop the mountain, not one of the monkeys grappling in the pit.

Even now, when Zhu Xiang’s fame had reached such heights, his only aristocratic friends were still just Lin Zhi and Li Mu.

In this era, identity meant everything. Even if Zhu Xiang were to achieve great success in the future, countless people would still look down on him because of his humble origins, including many talented and virtuous individuals.

In the time of Qin Shi Huang, Yao Jia, a top official, had performed monumental deeds, but Han Feizi still denounced Yao Jia’s background, saying he was “born to a family of gatekeepers, a great thief of Liang, a banished man from Zhao.” Even with his accomplishments, Yao Jia should not be rewarded but driven out or executed, or else it would endanger the state’s rule.

Li Si advised killing Han Feizi out of jealousy, but Yao Jia did so because Han Feizi had attacked him first.

Sure, Han Feizi’s denouncement partly stemmed from Yao Jia’s act of breaking the alliance of four states, putting Han in jeopardy. But the fact that Han Feizi asked the emperor to execute or exile Yao Jia based solely on his background shows that in this era, no matter a man’s accomplishments, “origin” alone could sentence him to death.

So for someone like Zhao Kuo—a high-born noble who could inherit titles and land—to come debate with Zhu Xiang, even if he put on an air of disdain, it still appeared, to others, as demeaning himself. People simply couldn’t understand it.

Zhu Xiang hesitated, then still invited the nose-in-the-air Zhao Kuo into his home.

Inside, Lin Zhi was leaning against a tree. One hand wielded a feather duster, teasing Ying Zheng who leapt about trying to snatch it, while the other hand held a wine jug.

Lin Xiangru had fallen seriously ill again. Although Lin Zhi only learned of this after his father’s condition had marginally improved, he immediately resigned and returned home. Even when Lin Xiangru tried to drive him out with a stick, he refused to leave.

The King of Zhao was deeply moved by Lin Zhi’s filial piety, granted his resignation, and rewarded him generously.

Since Lin Xiangru was recovering at Zhu Xiang’s home, Lin Zhi naturally moved in too, playing with Ying Zheng every day to keep the boy from feeling neglected and sneaking off to perform tap dances on his sleeping uncle’s belly.

When Lin Zhi saw Zhao Kuo enter, his hand paused mid-swing with the feather duster. Ying Zheng immediately hugged the duster protectively to his chest.

Lin Zhi grinned and let go, letting the boy “steal” the feather duster, then swayed toward Zhao Kuo, clutching his wine jug. “Well, well! Isn’t this the famous Mafu of all Zhao? What brings you to this humble place to visit Zhu Xiang? Surely you’re not thinking of debating him? With your status, even speaking to Zhu Xiang gives him too much credit.”

Lin Xiangru and Zhao She had a good relationship, so Lin Zhi and Zhao Kuo had naturally known each other since childhood.

Lin Zhi was famous among scholars for being a wastrel—uninterested in officialdom, holding only idle posts, and befriending commoners like Zhu Xiang, making him a disgrace among noble scions.

Zhao Kuo, on the other hand, had studied military strategy diligently from a young age, striving to surpass even his father Zhao She. He was a model aristocrat in every word and deed.

Lin Xiangru often scolded Lin Zhi with, “Learn from Zhao Kuo—if not both books and arms, then at least one!” But Zhao She greatly appreciated Lin Zhi, saying that someone like him possessed true wisdom.

The two were at odds since childhood. As adults, they mellowed and drifted apart, but whenever they met, Lin Zhi couldn’t help mocking Zhao Kuo.

Zhao Kuo, seeing the drunken Lin Zhi, reacted as if he’d seen a cockroach. His proud face scrunched up in revulsion.

He covered his nose with his sleeve and made a show of disgust. Were it not for remembering Lin Xiangru was present, he would’ve cursed him outright.

With someone like Lin Zhi, sarcasm was useless—only direct insults would do.

Zhu Xiang, knowing his close friend Lin Zhi and Zhao Kuo didn’t get along, quickly tried to smooth things over. “I remember you two were childhood playmates. Should I give you space to catch up? Zheng’er, come here.”

Ying Zheng bounced over with the feather duster and handed it to Zhu Xiang.

As soon as Zhu Xiang spoke, both Lin Zhi and Zhao Kuo showed faces full of disgust.

Even Lin Zhi sobered up from the repulsion.

Seeing the two’s contorted expressions, Zhu Xiang chuckled. “You two chat. Zheng’er, let’s go elsewhere.”

Ying Zheng clutched his uncle’s sleeve, glanced at Lin Zhi and Zhao Kuo, then nodded solemnly.

He could tell—his uncle was picking a fight again.

“No need. I have no relationship with him,” Zhao Kuo said coldly.

“Who has a relationship with you?” Lin Zhi leaned in and blew wine breath right in Zhao Kuo’s face.

Zhao Kuo recoiled, hand going to his sword, eyes narrowing at Lin Zhi.

Lin Zhi raised the wine jug, ready to use it as a weapon.

Zhu Xiang, watching the show, immediately scooped up Ying Zheng and dashed forward to pull Lin Zhi back.

Though Lin Zhi was stronger than Zhu Xiang, Zhao Kuo—despite his later historical reputation—was a real general. Lin Zhi wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Take care of Zheng’er for me. Mafuzi’s here to see me, not you. Don’t make trouble.” Zhu Xiang snatched the wine jug and shoved Ying Zheng into Lin Zhi’s arms.

Ying Zheng, skillfully cradled by Lin Zhi, immediately pushed away his face in disdain.

Stinky!

“Don’t mind him. Let’s talk inside,” Zhu Xiang said to Zhao Kuo.

Zhao Kuo snorted, didn’t draw his sword, and followed Zhu Xiang with his chin held high. Although he could’ve passed by Lin Zhi directly, he made a point to walk in a wide arc to show his contempt.

Lin Zhi snorted back, then ignored Zhao Kuo, deliberately exhaling wine breath at Ying Zheng.

The boy responded with a flurry of baby punches, making Lin Zhi burst out laughing.

Zhu Xiang glanced back at the two playing and couldn’t help but smile fondly.

Zhao Kuo saw Zhu Xiang’s expression and felt personally attacked. His eyes stung, and even his stomach churned.

“If you want to achieve anything in life, stop associating with people like Lin Zhi,” Zhao Kuo growled.

Zhu Xiang replied, “I survived my youth thanks to Lord Lin. If I didn’t associate with Lin Zhi, I likely wouldn’t have a future to speak of.”

Zhao Kuo pondered this barbed remark, and his arrogant expression softened slightly. “I detest Lin Zhi, but you’re right.”

Zhu Xiang was surprised by Zhao Kuo’s bluntness and felt a little guilty for underestimating him.

He was aware of how Zhao Kuo’s fame had recently surged in Handan. Compared to that, his own hard-earned reputation was fading. Even the neighbors now sang Mafuzi’s praises.

Lin Gong was sulking, and merchants even mentioned that Mafuzi had recently bought a lot of land. Zhu Xiang suspected that the King of Zhao had already appointed Zhao Kuo as general.

He had thought about intervening but knew it was impossible. Zhao Kuo’s parents’ warnings didn’t work, nor did Lord Lin’s. The king was determined to use Zhao Kuo. What could Zhu Xiang do?

Now that Zhao Kuo had come to challenge him, Zhu Xiang felt a glimmer of hope again.

Zhao Kuo said, “Everything I said is already found in military manuals. If you think it’s impossible, I can open them up and show you.”

Zhu Xiang lowered her hand. “Let’s continue the debate.”

Zhao Kuo, full of confidence, continued with her.

Zhu Xiang: “I command ten thousand troops to launch a surprise attack on your two hundred thousand troops. A meteor falls from the sky into your camp, your soldiers’ morale collapses, and my army defeats yours.”

Zhao Kuo: “?”

Zhu Xiang: “A fierce general of mine charges into your army with a blade and beheads your commander in one strike. Your army’s morale collapses, and we defeat you.”

Zhao Kuo: “?”

Lin Zhi, holding little Ying Zheng’s hand, both big and small, clung to the doorframe eavesdropping.

Zhu Xiang: “I have a divine archer hidden on high ground. With every arrow, he kills the person operating your siege engines. You have no one left who can use them and must retreat.”

Zhao Kuo: “?” He was starting to get angry!

Zhu Xiang: “Though you have horses and chariots, we have the support of the people. Ordinary soldiers fear no death and will throw themselves at your horses’ hooves and chariot wheels to die with you. Even the old, weak, women, and children rush to the front lines to drown you in sheer numbers!”

Zhao Kuo shouted, “Is this a military debate?! This is sophistry!”

Xun Kuang and Lin Xiangru listened in by the window, hands tucked behind their backs. Cai Ze had his ear pressed to the wall.

Zhu Xiang took a small sip of water. “Why is this sophistry?”

“Can you swear meteors will never fall from the sky?”

(Liu Xiu is watching you.)

“What if my army’s commander is the young General Lian Po, General Le Yi, or General Bai Qi, and your side is just a disorganized mob?”

(Guan Yu is watching you.)

“Is the story of an archer determining the fate of the world so rare? I don’t believe so. I can pull it from a book for you right now.”

Is it so impossible for a sniper to earn a special-class merit for such feats?

“As for morale and popular support…” Zhu Xiang continued, “Our commanders give away their wealth to ensure the soldiers are fed and clothed, so they are willing to die for them. Our military discipline is strict—we’d rather freeze to death than break into houses, rather starve than plunder—so the common people hope we win every battle. Is that hard to understand? Didn’t your father, Zhao She, do the same?”

Zhao Kuo’s expression changed drastically.

Zhu Xiang said, “I gave you a hypothetical scenario and you called it sophistry. Yet when you cite special cases from military manuals and load all favorable conditions onto your side, is that not sophistry too?”

“You say no one in Zhao can beat you in military debate. Could it be because they treat every participant in a debate—friend or foe—as real people, thinking seriously about supplies and weapon consumption, while you just sit here spouting fantasies about endless armies, unbreakable morale, infinite logistics?”

“I hear you’ve never shared your rewards with subordinates. I hear you look down on common soldiers. I hear you don’t care about logistics at all. So tell me, Zhao gentleman, how do you expect General Wang He, a veteran who eats and sleeps alongside his men, to inspire less morale than you, who does nothing?”

Clatter! Zhao Kuo knocked the water cup off the table with his sleeve.

Zhu Xiang looked down as the ceramic cup rolled a few times on the ground, water splashing everywhere before it shattered into pieces.

“Zhao gentleman, war is not a game. Generals and soldiers are made of flesh and blood, with thoughts and feelings. They cry, fear, and get angry. They are someone’s father, son, husband—they are real, living people, not the fictional numbers in your war debates.”

Zhu Xiang stood, clasped his hands, and bowed low—almost to a right angle.

“I earnestly beg you, Zhao gentleman, as you head to Changping, to lower yourself and look at the soldiers around you.”

Zhao Kuo sat on his seat, staring at Zhu Xiang with a dark and brooding gaze.

Zhu Xiang remained bowed for a long time, but Zhao Kuo said nothing, letting him stay in that difficult position.

Lin Zhi couldn’t take it anymore. He walked quickly into the room and helped Zhu Xiang up.

Before he could mock Zhao Kuo for not being able to accept defeat, Zhao Kuo abruptly stood up, flung his sleeve, and left—without giving either of them a glance.

Xun Kuang and Lin Xiangru quickly hid so Zhao Kuo wouldn’t see them.

Zhao Kuo wasn’t a generous man. They feared that if he found out they had witnessed his defeat, he would hold a grudge against Zhu Xiang.

Zhao Kuo left by carriage. This military debate was described afterward as ending in discord, without resolution.

Indeed, in both Zhu Xiang and Zhao Kuo’s minds, it had no real outcome.

It wasn’t a debate at all.

Zhu Xiang didn’t understand: “Didn’t the Warring States military prodigy Ma Fuzi never lose a debate? Even Ma Fu Jun couldn’t beat him?”

Lin Xiangru said, “Why would an actual general, one who’s led troops, bother debating Zhao Kuo? All his debating partners are like you. As for Ma Fu Jun—Ma Fuzi is his son. He already pointed out his son’s flaws and made his stance clear.”

Zhu Xiang fell silent.

So it’s like a self-proclaimed science expert debating online that rockets must be fueled with smokeless coal—while real rocket scientists can’t be bothered. And the one real rocket scientist, his father, debates with his son once, then immediately tells the world: “My son can’t build rockets. Don’t listen to him.”

“Why would the King of Zhao let someone with no field experience replace General Lian Po?” Zhu Xiang couldn’t understand, no matter how he tried.

Xun Kuang cut straight to the point: “Aren’t the King of Zhao and Zhao Kuo very much alike? The king is fond of Zhao Kuo—what’s so hard to grasp?”

Lin Xiangru really wanted to scold Xun Kuang for insulting his lord. But Xun Kuang was right, so he could only grunt a few times and turn his face away in silence.

“The Battle of Changping wasn’t critical,” Xun Kuang continued after insulting the king, “If Zhao Kuo won, the king would gain a brilliant new general; if he lost, he’d just retreat and give up Shangdang—which was originally Korea’s anyway.”

“The king didn’t fail to consider the chance of defeat—he just thought he could afford it.”

Lin Xiangru sighed and nodded.

He had known this as well. That’s why, when he realized the king’s mind was made up, he stopped trying to dissuade him.

Zhu Xiang’s lips moved, but in the end he said nothing.

The Battle of Changping really wasn’t that crucial to Zhao.

Looking at a map today, people think Shangdang is close to Handan, and assume it was the gateway to the Zhao capital, so Zhao had to send troops.

But in truth, Shangdang was surrounded by the Taiyue, Wangwu, and Taihang Mountains. Though it looked close to Handan on the map, in reality the Taihang range was a natural barrier. In that era, no army could march through it. To reach Shangdang, Zhao’s troops had to detour around the Lu River.

Since early in the Warring States period, Shangdang had been fought over by Wei, Han, and Zhao. Though it lay in the geographical center of the realm and was culturally significant, due to terrain and soil quality, Zhao had never prioritized it.

For Wei and Han, Shangdang was a key passageway to the outside. For Zhao, it meant little. Under pressure from Wei and Han, Zhao had retreated north, abandoning nearly all influence in Shangdang and instead building a Great Wall along the Pila, Duanshi, Guanglang, and Xuan lines to hold them back.

So to the King of Zhao, gaining Shangdang—something abandoned by his grandfather and father—proved his strength. If he lost it, retreating behind the Wall wasn’t a big deal.

Shangdang had never truly belonged to Zhao. The king sent troops just to test his own prowess.

As for the cost in grain, weapons, and lives from a defeat in Changping, the King thought it bearable—it wouldn’t harm the country’s strength.

Not just the king—even all the officials of Zhao, including Lin Xiangru, believed this. That’s why they didn’t stop Zhao Kuo from taking command, so as not to offend Ma Fuzi or the king.

Zhu Xiang knew that if Zhao Kuo could retreat back behind the Wall after losing, then yes—it would be just as Zhao expected. The loss wouldn’t matter much.

But who could have imagined that, in the end, only a little over two hundred soldiers would return from the Battle of Changping?

In the sixth month, Zhao Kuo still departed with the army.

Following the Lu River, it would take about half a month to reach Changping and relieve General Lian Po.

This time, Zhao Kuo brought nearly a hundred thousand more troops with him.

Zhu Xiang sat on the edge of a field, gazing blankly at the sparse millet and sorghum crops.

By the sixth and seventh month, the grains were already turning yellow. The weather near Handan had been relatively good this year. Although there wasn’t enough labor to tend the fields carefully, the millet still ripened, waiting for harvest.

The warm winds of midsummer and early autumn blew across the golden crops, rustling them into a dance, as if waving to the farmers—telling them they were ready to be reaped.

In the distance, an old farmer with gray hair and a hunched back like a wheel held a chipped sickle, struggling to cut the grain.

Behind him, a child with spindly limbs and a round belly bent down to pick up fallen ears of grain.

The child was so small, he didn’t need to try hard to gather the scattered kernels. Without concern for the dirt or the scratchiness, he stuffed them into his mouth and chewed slowly, his face lit up with joy.

The old farmer turned and saw the child sneaking bites. He knocked the child on the head with the handle of the sickle.

The child didn’t cry. He raised a dry yellow millet leaf. The old man nodded, and the child happily chewed the leaf too, still grinning.

Zhu Xiang’s fingers twitched slightly at his sides. He wanted to stand—but in the end, he did nothing.

Little Ying Zheng stood behind Zhu Xiang, frowning. “Uncle,” he asked, “can I give him my cakes?”

Zhu Xiang said, “Don’t go. There are starving people everywhere now. If you give those cakes to that old man and his grandson, it’ll draw a crowd and cause a scramble, endangering your life. I’ve already exchanged the gold and gifts sent back by the King of Zhao for grain, and we’re distributing porridge at the village entrance in his name every day. They won’t starve.”

Ying Zheng sat on Zhu Xiang’s legs, not caring if he dirtied Zhu Xiang’s clothes. Hugging his own legs, he asked, “Uncle, you were prepared from the start? Will they all survive?”

Zhu Xiang replied, “I was prepared early on, but I don’t know if they’ll survive.”

Ying Zheng rested his chubby little chin on his knees and stared unhappily at the fields ahead.

The fields were clearly full of millet, yet it looked like a barren wasteland with not a soul in sight.

People like that grandfather and grandson, diligently harvesting the fields, were rarely seen.

It wasn’t that the villagers were lazy. Even if no one worked the land, they still had to pay taxes. If they toiled in the fields, exhausted and starving, the meager grain they reaped would all be taken as tax, and then they’d have nothing left. Laboring also increased their need for food, making them starve even faster.

So, they stayed at home, guarding their remaining food, not moving unless absolutely necessary—to consume as little as possible. If officials came to collect taxes, the half-dead villagers would tell them the grain was all still in the fields and let the officials harvest it themselves—they didn’t want a single grain of it.

The only time they’d venture out was when they’d completely run out of food. Or like that grandfather and grandson in the distance—when the old man was sick and near death, he’d drag himself out to harvest, hoping the grain, even after taxes, could keep the child alive.

This was the wisdom of today’s farmers.

Zhu Xiang’s porridge couldn’t save the lives of those who chose to die so their children might live.

Ying Zheng asked, “Can’t we do what we did last year—have the nobles’ retainers help with the harvest?”

Zhu Xiang replied, “No. The retainers only led symbolically. The ones who actually harvested were the soldiers under the King of Zhao and the nobles. But now Handan doesn’t have that many soldiers left.”

Ying Zheng said, “But I saw that officials in Handan are still holding feasts, with crowds so big their shoulders touch. If those people went to the fields, we could definitely harvest most of the grain.”

Zhu Xiang replied, “Those shoulder-to-shoulder people are scholars. Their status is higher than retainers. They’d never set foot in the fields. Farmers once hoped the king would work the fields like them, but that was only a dream. It’s impossible in reality.”

Zhu Xiang rubbed Ying Zheng’s head. “Everyone climbs higher to escape hardship. If those who shouldn’t work the fields are made to, no capable people will serve under the king.”

As Zhu Xiang and Ying Zheng spoke, Xunzi stood in the shade not far away, using the sword at his waist as a cane. He too looked out at the desolate, yet clearly abundant, fields.

Xunzi once thought Zhu Xiang didn’t understand his ideas and couldn’t be a Confucian.

But now he realized—Zhu Xiang might be his kindred spirit.

Confucians criticized the Agriculturalists and Mohists for failing to respect social hierarchies—dragging kings and nobles into the mud and spouting nonsense about the equality of all beings.

Did Confucians really believe that some were destined to be above others, and some to toil forever? The Confucian ideal of a great harmonious society was clear—it wasn’t like that.

They merely spoke the hard truth: the ideals of the Agriculturalists and Mohists were utterly impossible.

If something can’t be done, why waste effort trying? That benefits neither the nation, the family, nor the people. A political philosophy must be feasible before it can be implemented.

Xunzi believed in the constancy of nature. He believed that kings had no fixed power. He was the first to emphasize the “will of the people” over the “will of the scholars.”

But Xunzi also said that the capable should stay loyal to one cause and strive for national unity; ruler and subject must remain distinct, and ministers must never claim higher virtue than their kings.

Later scholars criticized Xunzi for bowing and scraping, flattering kings, lacking the integrity of Confucius and Mencius.

But Xunzi’s life tells a different story.

He simply saw the current reality and chose the most viable path: monarchy, centralization, and national unification.

Xunzi knew he’d be condemned. His stance reduced the status of noble families that once stood equal to kings.

But he never feared his legacy. Still, he sometimes wondered if he’d ever meet someone who truly understood him.

Xun Kuang leaned on his sword and walked over to Zhu Xiang, scolding, “If you understand, why mourn uselessly? Mourning accomplishes nothing and only makes you weak.”

“Yes, teacher,” Zhu Xiang said as he stood, holding Ying Zheng.

Xun Kuang nodded. “Do what you can.”

“Yes.”

As Zhu Xiang and Xunzi spoke, the exhausted old man carrying sheaves of millet began walking back.

“Lord Zhu Xiang!” The old man spotted Zhu Xiang and suddenly quickened his steps, as if his fatigue had vanished.

He had potatoes stored at home and had now harvested enough millet to pay taxes. His grandson would live. It was all thanks to Lord Zhu Xiang.

The little boy behind him skipped happily, full of energy again.

The old man set down the sheaves and pulled out a small ring woven from dried millet leaves, placing it in Ying Zheng’s hands.

Smiling, he said, “Haven’t gone out in a long time. I thought for sure I’d see Lord Zhu Xiang and Young Lord Zheng this time.”

Zhu Xiang lowered his voice, “Thank you. Zheng’er missed you too.”

The old man was delighted. After a few more words, he picked up the sheaves and left with the child.

Ying Zheng kicked his legs in Zhu Xiang’s arms, then jumped down.

“Wait!” Ying Zheng ran after them.

He wanted to give them his cakes, but recalling his uncle’s words, he clenched his teeth and said, “Uncle is giving out porridge at the village entrance—make sure to go! Next year, next year I want new toys!”

He held up the woven grass ring in his hand.

The old man smiled, revealing his mostly toothless mouth. “Alright, next year I’ll weave more toys for Young Lord Zheng.”

The boy smiled too and pulled out his own grass ring, waving it at Ying Zheng before leaving happily with the old man.

Ying Zheng stood still, raising his head to watch them disappear.

Only when they were out of sight did he turn and throw himself into Zhu Xiang’s arms.

Zhu Xiang bent down to catch him. “Let’s go home.”

Ying Zheng murmured, “Mm.”

Xun Kuang sighed. “Let’s go back and do what we can. We’ll serve the porridge.”

Zhu Xiang: “Mm.”

But what he could do wasn’t limited to porridge…