Chapter Six: Master, Are You Testing Me?

“Really?” Ren Cong listened with skepticism, holding both hands before his eyes, examining them repeatedly.

“Absolutely true!” his retainer Ren Quan nodded vigorously, not a hint of doubt on his face. “Two years ago, Fifth Young Master from the Zuo family’s manor was seized by a fit of phlegm, lost his wits and darted around like a monkey. It was his uncle, Magistrate Zhang, who brought him to his senses with two resounding slaps. After that, it’s said he never suffered another episode!”

“Hmm—” Ren Cong murmured, hesitating.

He had heard vague rumors about the Zuo family’s Fifth Young Master. Indeed, the boy had suffered from ‘phlegm disorder’ and had been rescued by his uncle, Magistrate Zhang of Wannian County, with two fierce slaps. Yet, among the villagers, another version of the story had always circulated.

Rumor had it that Fifth Young Master had set his sights on the Niu family’s second daughter and, emboldened by desire, had snuck into her chamber at midnight. Caught red-handed by the Niu family’s servants, he faced being handed over to the authorities. Only the intervention of his uncle, Magistrate Zhang, prevented disaster—the matter was settled with the transfer of ten premium acres of land. As for the ‘phlegm disorder,’ it was just an excuse his uncle devised to absolve him. The two slaps were for venting his parents’ anger and to teach the rascal a lesson.

“Master, this matter cannot be delayed!” Seeing Ren Cong wavering, Ren Quan spoke decisively. “Phlegm disorders worsen if left untreated. The longer you wait, the harder they are to cure. If the master loses his wits forever, you’ll miss a golden opportunity!”

“That’s right, Master, act swiftly!”

“Master, the man’s life is paramount—don’t overthink it!”

Scarface Ren Qi and the bearded Ren Si exchanged looks, stepped forward, and urged him in hushed tones.

To them, whether a slap could truly cure a phlegm-induced stupor hardly mattered. A slap wouldn’t kill. If once wasn’t enough, they could slap him again and again until nightfall when the city gates closed. But if they didn’t slap Master Zhang, Ren Wu and Ren Liu would have to violate the night curfew and risk scaling the walls of Chang’an!

Though Chang’an’s Zhu Erlang was famed for his connections and had helped smuggle people in and out at night before, that was the past—when the Crown Prince still lived in the Eastern Palace, and the Empress and her son enjoyed a harmonious relationship. But now, the Crown Prince had been driven to suicide by the Empress, and all officials associated with the Eastern Palace had been purged—families ruined, heads rolling, none spared.

To scale the city walls in these turbulent times was to court death. If caught by the night patrol and accused of colluding with the deposed Crown Prince, the whole Ren household, masters and servants alike, would be doomed!

“Master, I think we should try Ren Quan’s method!” Ren Wu, no fool himself, also didn’t wish to risk everyone’s life for a stranger. Leading his horse over, he quietly added his support.

“Then let’s try?” Beset by the persistent urging of his retainers, Ren Cong nervously rubbed his hands together, muttering under his breath.

“Yes, try it, Master, don’t hesitate! The longer you do, the harder it’ll be for the master to recover!” The servants all cheered him on, terrified he’d change his mind about fetching medicine from town.

“Very well—Master Zhang, Brother Zhang, forgive me!” Spurred by their encouragement, Ren Cong’s blood surged. He clenched his left hand with his right, then raised his right arm high.

Yet, just as he was about to bring his hand down, his courage faltered. He stepped back and whispered to Ren Quan, “Why don’t you do it? You know medicine, you’ll have a better sense of the right force. If I hit him too hard and he refuses to take me as a disciple once he recovers, I’ll have lost my chance!”

“You, Master…” Ren Quan was so exasperated by Ren Cong’s cowardice that he stamped his foot in frustration, muttering complaints. But knowing how devoted the young master was to his studies, he held back harsher words. Instead, he turned to the most intimidating-looking among them, Scarface Ren Qi, and instructed in a low voice, “Qi, you do it!”

“Me? All right!” Ren Qi answered eagerly, rolling up his sleeves and preparing to act. But halfway through, he quickly retreated. “Master, you’d better do it. The master is literate and delicate—a man of obvious refinement. I can’t even write my own name. If I lay a hand on him, I’ll surely be struck down for my insolence!”

“You coward!” Ren Cong, enraged, kicked Ren Qi so hard he landed on his backside. “Where’s that bravado you always show? At the crucial moment, you’re worse than a woman!”

“Master, there’s a difference between noble and humble birth!” Ren Qi scrambled up, bowing and retreating with a nervous laugh. “Just look at Master Zhang’s bearing—how many households in Chang’an could compare? If you slap him, it’s for his own good; he won’t hold it against you. But if I do it, it’s an affront to my betters. If he takes offense…”

“Enough! If you lack the nerve, get out of my sight!” Ren Cong, recognizing the truth of his words, had no choice but to scold him.

In Chang’an, ever since the founding of the Tang dynasty, hierarchy and order had been strictly enforced; commoners dared not overstep. And all the attire worn by this Master Zhang was of rare and precious make, his bearing refined, his calligraphy elegant. Even if he wasn’t born into a princely family, he must be from an official or prestigious household.

For a servant like Ren Qi to slap him, whatever the reason, was an act of insubordination. If Master Zhang took offense, Ren Qi would be in grave trouble!

As the young master, Ren Cong couldn’t shield his man from consequences—unless he was willing to break with Master Zhang entirely and give up all hope of learning from him.

With this in mind, Ren Cong realized he couldn’t ask his subordinates to act on his behalf. If Ren Qi lacked the nerve, so too would Ren Si, Ren Wu, and Ren Liu. As for Ren Quan, his slightly higher status didn’t exempt him from the same risk.

Ren Cong gritted his teeth, grasped his hands together, and once more raised his right arm high, ready to slap Zhang Qian across the left cheek. But just as he was about to strike, he saw Zhang slowly lift his head, his eyes now clear and lucid.

“Master, Brother Zhang, you’re all right?!” Ren Cong was overjoyed, instantly lowering his arm and putting on a fawning smile. Only then did he realize Zhang might not understand his words. He quickly crouched down and scrawled on a stone, “Brother Zhang, what troubled you just now? You nearly scared me to death!”

“It’s nothing.” Zhang Qian forced a wry smile and saluted, then picked up a stone to write, “I drank too quickly earlier and lost my composure. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

The words, if not perfectly chosen, conveyed his meaning well enough. Seeing this, Ren Cong was certain the ‘phlegm disorder’ had passed, and he wouldn’t need to risk slapping him after all. Relieved, he grabbed the stone and quickly added, “Think nothing of it, Brother Zhang! A mountain storm is coming—will you accompany me down? My family’s estate lies five li northwest of Xiangji Temple.”

To ask for apprenticeship upon first meeting would be too abrupt, likely to be refused. So Ren Cong had a plan: invite “Master Zhang” to his manor first, treat him to fine food and wine, and once he’d warmed to him, he could broach the subject of discipleship—then, success would be assured.

But, to his dismay, Zhang Qian declined the invitation without hesitation. Smiling slightly, he wrote in archaic script, “We’ve only just met; I wouldn’t presume to impose. Forgive me, Brother Ren. Still, may I ask—what year is it? Who reigns in the empire?”

This was the most appropriate phrasing Zhang Qian could recall from his schooling in classical texts. Yet, after wracking his brains to write it, he only earned a look of disappointment from Ren Cong, who, after a pause, wrote emphatically, “It’s the third year of Shenlong, also the first year of Jinglong. The current emperor is named Xian! Master, my invitation is sincere—please don’t think my humble estate unworthy!”

No wonder young master Ren grew impatient. In all the Tang Empire, except perhaps among southern mountain tribes, who could not at least know the era name Shenlong? For someone to be ignorant of both era names, let alone the emperor’s identity, was unheard of.

“Xian? What is the state’s official title?” Zhang Qian, oblivious to Ren Cong’s growing unease, suppressed his own shock and disappointment and wrote another question.

He’d managed to shake off his drunken stupor by telling himself his broad knowledge and literary grounding would see him through—even in ancient times.

If this were the Song dynasty, he might become a minor official, drinking with the likes of Su Shi and Liu Yong. If it were the Han, perhaps he could serve as a strategist for Huo Qubing, or discuss economics with Jia Yi. If it were the early Tang, all the better: the era of Zhenguan, when the world paid homage—he could discuss government with Wei Zheng, health with Qin Qiong…

Yet he never expected the era names Ren Cong gave—Shenlong and Jinglong—were utterly unfamiliar. What obscure period was this? And who was this Emperor Xian? No Su Shi, no Huo Qubing, no Wei Zheng, not even Li Bai or Du Fu—what joy was left in transmigration?

‘Go on, keep acting! I’ll match you word for word—even if you play Yellow Stone Elder, I’ll be your Zhang Liang fetching shoes!’

Fuming at Zhang Qian’s cold composure, Ren Cong stubbornly wrote, “The state is Tang! The emperor is the seventh son of His Late Majesty Gaozong, renowned for his filial piety—he once ceded the throne to the Empress Dowager. Two and a half years ago, the Empress Dowager, grown old, remembered her son’s devotion and restored him to the throne! Master, a storm is coming—please take shelter at my estate.” (Note: Emperor Zhongzong Li Xian of Tang was once deposed by Empress Wu, then restored late in her life; Jinglong year one is 707 AD.)

‘Tang? Now I understand—it’s him!’ In that instant, Zhang Qian realized his mistake and felt deeply ashamed.

As a student of the humanities, he’d actually forgotten the era names of Emperor Zhongzong Li Xian! And he’d dared ask what the country was called? How mortifying! But since he’d already traveled through time, at least his history teacher would never know of his blunder.

With this thought, Zhang Qian felt a strange sense of relief. He quickly replied, “Thank you for the invitation, Brother Ren, but it would truly be inconvenient for me to impose today. Chang’an is not large; we’re sure to meet again!”

With that, he tossed aside the stone, emptied the shards from his bag, and strode eastward along the mountain path.

Filial piety? What nonsense—Zhongzong was forced off the throne by his own mother! As for the Empress Dowager recalling her son’s virtue, that was simply political necessity. He might not remember exactly whose era was named Shenlong, but he could sense the broad strokes of history.

Now that Emperor Zhongzong was on the throne again, could the glorious Kaiyuan era be far off?

Great Tang, here I come! Li Bai, Du Fu, your teacher Zhang is here to rap your knuckles for writing so many poems I had to recite from childhood!