Chapter Sixty-Six: When the Stars Shine (Part One)

To be a teacher to young people is, in truth, an immensely delightful affair.

You need not teach them much at all, yet can direct them like mules in the laboratory or workshop, having them do all the work that ought to have been yours. When in good spirits, letting a little money slip through your fingers is enough to earn their tearful gratitude. Should their research advance, it is always thanks to the teacher’s wise guidance; should their efforts falter, it is their own foolishness for failing to grasp the master’s true essence, and none of the blame touches you.

Since taking Guo Nu as his junior disciple, Zhang Qian had become just such a teacher. With the plump Ren Cong joining as the second junior, his days grew ever more leisurely.

The task of distilling spirits could now be entrusted entirely to his two juniors. As the eldest brother, imparting the master’s teachings, Zhang Qian need only occasionally inspect the results, tasting to judge whether the alcohol had reached proper strength.

The standard process for refining essences still required some careful thought, as he had not yet fully mastered it. Yet all the tedious, physically demanding preliminary work could be delegated to his juniors.

The doctrine of “Qin Mo” emphasizes unity of knowledge and action, so the heavy practical labor would hasten the two new disciples’ understanding of their sect’s unique skills. Of course, however much they toiled, “Introduction to Philosophy” must still be memorized swiftly. That was the compulsory lesson for every Qin Mo disciple at the outset; no one could be lax. If one lacked the intelligence and perseverance to memorize two thousand five hundred characters, how could one be worthy to follow the eldest brother in cultivation?

In short, aside from not signing his name to his students’ papers, within a few short days Zhang Qian had performed all the duties of the modern “professor-boss.” His two juniors, far from complaining of exploitation, as later graduate students might, instead crouched in the cologne workshop, so busy they forgot to long for home.

Moreover, both were exceptionally skilled and gifted in practical work, filling Zhang Qian with surprise and delight each day.

Days spent in pleasure always pass quickly.

In the blink of an eye, the ninth day of the ninth month arrived.

As noon approached, Zhang Qian ordered the recent research results—four large barrels of high-proof spirits—loaded onto a carriage. He walked on foot, letting Ren Quan drive the cart, making his way leisurely to Zhang Ruoxu’s home for the chrysanthemum banquet.

The two courtyards were not far apart; after leaving his own land and passing through two rows of boundary trees, Zhang Qian arrived at Zhang Ruoxu’s fields. Then, following a dirt road wide enough for two carts abreast for seven or eight hundred meters, the gate of Zhang Ruoxu’s manor stood close at hand.

As host of the chrysanthemum feast, Zhang Ruoxu had long since assembled his page and household servants at his front gate. Seeing Zhang Qian approach, smelling the strong aroma of spirits from the barrels, he beamed, “Young friend, you arrive most timely! Just now I was hesitating, wondering whether to ride over to your house and beg two jars of fine wine to inspire the guests’ poetry. Yet here you are, delivering it to my door! Many thanks, come in, come in—Ji Weng was just now mentioning you to his old friends inside!”

He instructed his servants to take the cart to the rear gate, then took Zhang Qian by the hand, personally escorting him to the inner gate of the courtyard before pausing, his gaze settling on a handsome youth emerging from within. Smiling, he introduced, “Ji Ling, this is the disciple of Qin Mo I spoke of last night, whose fine wine you praised so highly—it was made with his master’s secret technique.”

He swiftly turned to Zhang Qian, smiling, “Yong Zhao, this is the son of an old friend, surname Wang, given name Zhihuan, courtesy Ji Ling. I invited him here these days to help greet the guests. You are of similar age and both young talents; you should grow close in time.”

“Ji Ling of Jiang Prefecture greets Yong Zhao!” The youth was remarkably congenial, smiling as he clasped his hands to Zhang Qian.

“So honored…” Though Zhang Qian had developed some immunity, the name Wang Zhihuan still struck him, causing his composure to waver. He bit his lip several times before smiling and returning the gesture, “So honored to finally meet you, Ji Ling!”

As contemporaries unfamiliar with each other, such humility in greeting was rather excessive. Fortunately, Wang Zhihuan was naturally open-minded, and, having heard from Zhang Ruoxu that Zhang Qian was fresh from the mountains and inexperienced in worldly affairs, he merely frowned lightly, then smiled again, clasping his hands, “Yong Zhao, you are indeed witty. I am but a wandering swordsman—what fame could I have? Yet since entering Chang’an, I hear your name nearly every day.”

“A swordsman…” Zhang Qian paused, nearly losing his composure again.

In his memory, Wang Zhihuan, courtesy Ji Ling, ancestral home Jinmen, moved with his elders to Jiang Prefecture. Every detail matched the youth before him exactly.

But the Wang Zhihuan he recalled was a celebrated frontier poet of the flourishing Tang—a single poem, “Ascending the Stork Tower,” echoed through the ages; two “Ballads of Liangzhou” shone across history. Yet the Wang Zhihuan before him claimed to be but a swordsman; how could Zhang Qian’s mind remain steady?

“Nonsense! Of all things to learn, why pick the reckless path of the wandering knight at your young age?” Just as he drifted in confusion, Zhang Ruoxu’s stern voice rang at his left ear, jolting him awake. “Your Wang family is a house of scholars—how can you be so willful? Rest well for a few days, then enroll obediently in the Four Gates Academy. Otherwise, beware your father sending someone to drag you back and skin you alive!” (Note: The Four Gates Academy was a Tang institution for sons of officials of the fifth to seventh rank.)

“I see! Wang Zhihuan is still young; his life’s path not yet determined!” Zhang Qian’s eyes brightened, his mind, nearly stalled, finally restored to full function.

He looked closely at Wang Zhihuan: phoenix eyes and silken brows, a face like powdered jade, tall and slender, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, brimming with heroic spirit—nothing at all of the poet’s demeanor. He could step straight into a twenty-first century web drama as a young swordsman, needing no further makeup! (Note: According to historical records, Wang Zhihuan did indeed take up the path of a knight in his youth. He was nineteen now.)

Like many modern, sunny young men, Wang Zhihuan’s face dimmed at hearing he would soon attend the Four Gates Academy. He clasped his hands to Zhang Ruoxu and replied, lacking energy, “Your admonition is just, Uncle. After today, I will resume my studies and not disappoint you or my father.”

“That’s right! Youthful passion is best tempered by study, which nurtures calm and strength,” Zhang Ruoxu, though wild in his own youth, was stern with his juniors. “If you wish to right the world’s wrongs, wait until you are prime minister—then, with a stroke of your pen, dozens of corrupt officials will be ruined, far easier than wielding a sword!”

He turned quickly to Zhang Qian, smiling, “White Cloud Daoist promised to arrive at noon. He is always punctual and nearly seventy, so I must go meet him at the gate. Yong Zhao is one of us; I won’t escort you further.”

“Please, do as you wish!” Having been instructed by Zhang Ruoxu so often his head spun, Zhang Qian feared the same admonitions would be turned on him, and hurriedly clasped his hands.

Zhang Ruoxu, busy as ever, paid no mind to the relief on Zhang Qian’s face, and added, “The wine and seats are in the garden. All are honored guests, regardless of rank or status. Make yourself comfortable; I’ll come greet you after welcoming White Cloud Daoist.”

He gave Wang Zhihuan a few instructions to ensure Zhang Qian was well settled, then bowed to the two young men and strode off toward the gate.

Wang Zhihuan visibly relaxed, smiling as he gestured for Zhang Qian to follow.

Having recently been lectured by Zhang Ruoxu as a senior, Zhang Qian felt uneasy. He secretly breathed a sigh of relief and smiled, stepping forward.

In the next moment, the two young men exchanged smiles. In each other’s gaze, both recognized a sense of shared adversity.