Chapter Twelve: The Young Master

By the time the meeting at Tao Qian’s residence concluded, it was already afternoon. Tao Qian kept everyone for a meal, and on the way back, Liu Bei personally escorted Shen Chen toward Xiangben.

In truth, Yan County wasn’t far from Huangmen Pavilion—about fifty li to the northwest. A Han dynasty li was roughly four hundred meters, so the distance came to about twenty kilometers, easily reached within an hour on horseback.

On the journey, Shen Chen sat in a carriage arranged by his clan. As the hope of both the Deng and Shen families, his daily travels were carefully guarded: he had both carriage and escort, with security tighter than ever.

Liu Bei rode alongside him. Shen Chen had composed himself with perfect decorum before Tao Qian, his analyses clear and incisive, which had left Liu Bei both astonished and intrigued. He was eager to hear Shen Chen’s opinion on the current state of the realm.

“The Central Plains to the east of the Pass have always been densely populated,” Shen Chen spoke softly, sitting cross-legged in the carriage. “But during the Yellow Turban Rebellion, the areas most devastated were Henan and Hebei. That’s because the land there was almost entirely controlled by the powerful local families.”

“That’s why there were so many followers of the Yellow Turbans in Henan and Hebei—not because of natural disaster, but because disaster was brought by the greed of the great families.”

“What an unusual perspective, young sir,” Liu Bei exclaimed, surprised. Yet the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Liu Bei himself had come from humble origins; he knew all too well how the common folk struggled for survival. When the powerful monopolized the land, the people were left with nothing to rely on—rebellion was an act of desperation.

Shen Chen continued, “Now in Hebei, Yuan Shao and Gongsun Zan vie for supremacy. In Henan, Cao Cao, Lord Tao, and Yuan Shu contend with each other. I cannot yet see through the situation in Hebei, but in Henan, Governor Liu, I urge you to beware of Cao Cao—he is the one most likely to unite Henan.”

“Oh? And why is that?” Liu Bei asked in surprise. “Cao Cao is as ruthless as Dong Zhuo. I doubt the people or the great families would flock to his banner.”

Shen Chen sighed. “Yes, he is ruthless. Yet Cao Cao is truly a man of talent and vision. Whether in military affairs or governance, he is among the finest of today’s lords. The great families care only for profit; they will always side with the strong, even if that strongman slaughters their kin. For all Cao Cao’s violence, he will still find followers among them.”

“I am not afraid!” Liu Bei declared with spirit. “Cao Cao slaughtered the people of Xuzhou—he owes a blood debt for that. Should he return, I will make him pay.”

Shen Chen shook his head. “Governor, you are a man who upholds righteousness. But in the face of the butcher’s blade, the people fear for their lives more than they cling to virtue. Should you go to war with Cao Cao, I fear it will be hard to secure the support of Heaven, earth, and the people.”

“The Book of Zhou once said, ‘Man is stronger than fate.’ I believe those words!” Liu Bei’s fighting spirit flared anew.

Shen Chen glanced at him, feeling a blend of admiration and amusement toward Liu Bei—admiration for his resolve and righteousness, amusement at his simplicity and lack of depth in seeing the world’s harsh realities. Nobility of character deserves respect, never mockery, but naiveté is another matter. Too much innocence and idealism can prove fatal.

“Governor, today Lord Tao offered you Xuzhou. Why did you refuse?” Shen Chen steered the conversation away from questions of morality.

Liu Bei answered gravely. “I came to Xuzhou out of righteous duty to aid Lord Tao. How could I take advantage of his misfortune now?”

“Your motive is praiseworthy, but your reasoning is flawed,” Shen Chen corrected gently.

“Xuzhou truly cannot be held—not for reasons of righteousness, but because it is a land open to attack on all sides. After Cao Cao’s slaughter, it lies in ruins. Yuan Shu will also strike north. You’d be hard pressed to defend against enemies on two fronts. It’s better to make other plans early.”

“Is that so?” Liu Bei mused, finding the situation so tangled that he couldn’t see where righteousness ended and the question of taking the governorship began.

“It is so,” Shen Chen said softly. “Though Xuzhou is prosperous, its counties are divided, each ruling itself. Lord Tao commands only Donghai in truth. Should you take up the post, you’d face trouble within and without.”

“I still don’t quite understand,” Liu Bei admitted, shaking his head. Shen Chen’s explanation was clear, yet the matter still seemed as knotted as a ball of string—impossible to untangle.

“It’s simple,” Shen Chen smiled. “Whenever you ponder a problem, you must see its essence clearly. I’m fond of a saying: ‘Children ask what is right and wrong; adults weigh profit and harm.’ Many things cannot be decided by so-called righteousness, but by what benefit or trouble will result from acting or not acting.”

“But you’re still a child!” Liu Bei protested. “You can’t deny that, however clever you are.”

“I am indeed a child,” Shen Chen laughed, glancing ahead. The Huangmen Pavilion was already visible in the distance. He said, “I look forward to the day I become an adult, Governor, and can discuss the fate of the world with you again. By then, perhaps you will see things differently as well.”

Liu Bei didn’t quite catch his meaning, but he couldn’t help feeling that, for all his eight years, this young gentleman’s words and logic were unusually clear and mature. There was something deeply convincing about how he spoke—perhaps because his views were hard to understand, or perhaps because they looked at problems from a level Liu Bei could not yet reach.

At least for now, Liu Bei still felt lost in the fog, unaware that a person’s destiny is not always set in stone.

Seeing Liu Bei’s confusion, Shen Chen merely smiled and said nothing more.

If one could find in all the histories an example of character not wholly determining fate, Liu Bei would surely take first place. History records that he did indeed refuse Tao Qian’s offer of Xuzhou, even suggesting, “Yuan Gonglu is near at Shouchun—he is of noble lineage and widely respected; you may entrust the province to him.” Clearly, at that time, Liu Bei had no designs on Xuzhou and perhaps doubted his own virtue and ability to rule.

Yet after the Battle of Red Cliffs, he ultimately turned on his kinsman Liu Zhang and seized Yizhou—proof that character can change.

As for Shen Chen, being so young, his understanding of Han society was still incomplete. He was certain, though, that Xuzhou was indefensible; in the south, at least, none could match Cao Cao’s abilities.

So, many things are best left to time—and the answers will reveal themselves in due course.

Soon, Shen Chen returned to Huangmen Pavilion. At home, his mother was sighing and worrying. In recent days, the elders of the community had begun preparing to migrate; the fields had been left fallow.

With Xuzhou in turmoil, the elders of the Deng and Shen clans struggled to find anyone to take over the land at Huangmen Pavilion. They had to buy grain, gather men to defend the migration south, and the entire clan was thrown into chaos; the villagers were afraid.

“Mother, where is Father?”

Shen Chen saw his mother, Lady Deng, in the courtyard, mending clothes torn by brambles when his father had gone to Mount Niqiu, sighing all the while.

She hadn’t noticed when Shen Chen arrived, but when she saw him standing there, she said, “Your father’s been chosen as a clansman to train in arms. Chen’er, go speak to the elders—see if they’ll let him come home.”

Shen Chen shook his head. “The elders would never select Father. Even my elder brother, strong and young, wasn’t called. Father is thirty-eight—far too old. He must have volunteered. He was once conscripted to defend the frontier, often hunted in the mountains, and must still feel the urge to fight. Mother, you’ll have to persuade him yourself.”

“Oh...” Lady Deng frowned and sighed. “I’ll go see him. There are some cakes left at home—Chen’er, eat something while I’m gone.”

“Don’t worry, Mother. Go ahead.”

Shen Chen entered the house. On the table were several cakes, and he took one back to his room.

His family, in fact, was not badly off. With the support of two large clans, they had been allotted enough land to feed the whole household and even hire two farmhands to help with the work.

But “not badly off” meant little by the standards of the time. Compared with most refugees, their house—a modest dwelling of about three hundred square meters, with a front yard, main hall, central room, rear quarters, and a back garden, all surrounded by a rammed earth wall—was decent. Yet in the sparsely populated Han era, the estates of the great families often covered hundreds of acres; a plot of three hundred square meters was nothing special, barely qualifying as a prosperous farmer’s home, far from the gentry class.

Thus, as someone from the lower classes—one not even considered minor gentry—Shen Chen, no matter his abilities, would find it hard to enter the circles of the great clans and noble lords.

The rear quarters had three bedrooms: his parents’ master room, his elder brother’s, and his own.

Strictly speaking, Shen Chen was not the second child, but the fifth; he had three elder brothers and a sister above, and below him should have been a younger sister and brother.

But in Han times, childhood mortality was high; even if a child survived birth, many did not live long.

So now, only Shen Chen and his eldest brother, Shen Zhong, survived. The age gap was huge—Shen Zhong was eleven years older. He had married and started his own household the year before last.

Although Han custom held that a man came of age at twenty and only then would take a courtesy name, marry, and set up his own house, that was the rule for the great clans. Ordinary people were lucky to have a name at all—most went by childhood nicknames or sobriquets, and often couldn’t even write them.

Thus, for commoners, such formalities hardly mattered. Shen Zhong married at seventeen, set up his own home, and by the start of this year, Shen Chen already had a nephew only eight years younger than himself. In Han times, this was entirely normal.

With Shen Zhong living elsewhere, only Shen Chen’s parents remained at home. Now his father had gone off to join the militia, and his mother had gone to persuade him to return, leaving Shen Chen alone in the house.

Back in his room, Shen Chen did not go straight to bed. It was nearly sunset—around five in the afternoon. In ancient times, with little to do after dark, people would sleep as soon as night fell, but it was still too early.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, pondering Xuzhou’s predicament. Without pen or paper, he could only reason things out in his mind—a taxing process that demanded astonishing memory to keep the intricate web of events clear.