Chapter 53 Disgusting Old Meng

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"Zixiu, you’re truly enthusiastic—even one word from you summons us all here. This won’t do! Fortunately, the wine and delicacies before us are unrivaled, or else I’d return to Mount Shu for some peaceful cultivation," said the elderly man of refined bearing with a cheerful laugh, then took a satisfied sip of his wine.

"I’ve always envied you few, living among mountains, accompanied by sun and moon, with the breeze at your side—what freedom and ease! Only I remain tied to the mundane world, even my writings tainted by vulgarity," Li Gang said with self-mockery; of those present, he alone served in officialdom.

"Master Li, don’t you see? True sophistication lies within the greatest simplicity. Centuries from now, only you will be remembered by the world," Cai Cong declared, striding through the doorway with a resonant voice.

"Greetings, esteemed elders," the young man said with a bow.

"Haha, the boy speaks true! After the hardships of the Sui, only Wen Ji had the courage to fight for the people’s welfare. The rest of us are cowards, so frightened we can do nothing but write poetry atop mountains, trying to cover our shame with a scrap of verse," said an old man dressed little better than a beggar. He took a swig of wine, his gaze distant and unfocused.

Li Gang rapped Cai Cong on the head. "Rascal, mind your tongue!"

"Hehe, I’m not wrong. If you elders never step into the world, the world will surely forget you. But now you’re working together on a general history—forgetting you will be impossible," Cai Cong replied with a mischievous grin.

"You rascal! Weren’t you drilling troops? What brings you here?" Master Wei asked, curiosity piqued. News of this had already spread far and wide in Chang’an, to the point that bookies were taking bets: twenty to one odds on Cai Cong’s victory, and twenty to one against the Black Armor Army, as if the whole affair was a joke.

"Haha, today marks the start of a small exam. They’ll be tested for seven days, so I came home to rest," replied Cai Cong.

"I’ve only ever heard of scholars taking exams, never that soldiers must also be tested! Truly, extraordinary men do extraordinary things," Zhao Zhujie, the elegant elder, exclaimed, clapping and laughing.

"Hehe, in my spare time I’ve written the Annals of Zhou—divided into Western and Eastern Zhou, thirty-seven kings over thirty generations, lasting seven hundred and ninety-one years. Eastern Zhou is also called the Spring and Autumn and Warring States period, but I haven’t had time to write the Warring States history yet. I hope the gentlemen will correct and refine it," Cai Cong said, presenting a thick stack of papers—his own work, drawn from memory, mixed with personal interpretation. Even as a thief of culture, he couldn’t possibly recall the entire Comprehensive Mirror to Aid in Government. If he could, what need would there be for these venerable scholars?

Zhao Zhujie took the manuscript, read a few pages, and said gravely, "It’s comprehensive, but some points lack rigor and need verification. Please, gentlemen, have a look."

Inwardly, he was shaken to the core—he had never before seen such fluent, documentary prose. The others set down their wine and gathered around. After a long while, they put down the manuscript, staring at Cai Cong as if he were a monster.

"Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m smart and handsome, but unless you have beautiful granddaughters, such looks are wasted on me," Cai Cong joked, breaking the tension.

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"Out with you!" the old scholars laughed, pointing to the door. Grinning, Cai Cong bowed and took his leave. It seemed these scholars would skip dinner tonight; in this era, writing history was a solemn task, and a single word could spark days of debate.

Sure enough, that very night, Li Gang stormed out in fury, others retreated to their corners, and plates were smashed as they argued over wording and phrasing.

When Cai Cong brought their supper, he became their scapegoat, suffering endless scolding—wrong interchangeable characters, incorrect mountain names, mistaken ancient names—every criticism as sharp as possible. Li Gang even demanded he report to the palace for further study and re-education.

In the following days, apart from their constant arguments, the old men barely greeted one another, acting like children—each desperate to prove himself right, but unable to find convincing evidence.

Zhao Zhujie buried himself in bamboo scrolls, hoping to find proof of his arguments. The old beggar, poor and always wandering, had no books, so he wrote thirty-four letters, ordering his disciples to collect ancient texts for him.

Li Gang threw himself into the palace archives, burning with the need to vindicate himself. This single general history stirred up the entire Confucian scholarly world. All the writers, save for Cai Cong, were great scholars of the age, some reclusive for years. Their disciples quarreled constantly, and Li Gang himself argued repeatedly with Yan Silu.

After two days at home, Cai Cong was so frightened he fled back to the barracks—Cai Family Village was not safe; the scholars would block his door, demanding debate.

Mount Dahuang was rugged and densely forested; further in, miasmas abounded, and even seasoned hunters dared not linger long. Gan Xinda sat atop a tree, gnawing raw rabbit meat, a dead snake beside him.

He watched his surroundings warily. Today was the fifth day, and no more fools were lighting fires to roast meat—snatching a few stalks of smiling grass was no easy feat.

After finishing his meal, he hugged the trunk to rest. It was afternoon; the true battlefield came at night. Besides his teammates, carnivorous beasts would also prowl, and the slightest carelessness could be fatal.

Suddenly, the grass rope in his hand went taut. Instantly alert, he scurried down the tree like a monkey, drew the stone axe from his belt, and sprinted toward his trap like a leopard.

When he arrived, he found only a dead boar hanging from the snare. Alarmed, he rolled behind a tree for cover. A bamboo arrow struck the spot he’d just stood—if he’d been slower, his left leg would be skewered.

"How do these country bumpkins know everything? I listened when the master taught us—why can’t I find suitable materials?" Gazing at the quivering bamboo arrow, Gan Xinda was on the verge of tears. Now, it was no longer about individual martial skill but how adeptly one could use the forest’s resources.

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The arrow gleamed; clearly, it was coated in anesthetic—one hit and you were out.

"Damn it, where is he hiding now?" Gan Xinda muttered. His opponent clearly wouldn’t face him head-on, using camouflage to slip away—who knew where he’d moved to now.

In the thicket, a figure covered in leaves watched Gan Xinda’s position coolly, short bow in hand. Suddenly, a garment was thrown into the air; by reflex, the figure nearly loosed an arrow, but held back at the last moment. Then a shadow rolled into the dense forest; without hesitation, he fired.

The arrow struck its target but fell limply to the ground. The leaf-clad man was startled and tried to change position, but it was too late—a stone whizzed in, striking his arm. The short bow tumbled from his grasp.

Gan Xinda pounced like a hungry tiger, knocking him flat with a punch. He pressed the stone axe to the man’s throat and grinned, "Old Meng, Master always said—make sure of your shot; if you’re not certain, keep waiting. You made a serious mistake!"

"Bah! Who’d have thought you, always so honest, could be so devious—using a ruse within a ruse. Fine, you win this time, but next time I’ll get you," Old Meng spat out blood, unwilling to concede but resigned. He pulled six stalks of smiling grass from his tunic and handed them over.

"In all these years, I’ve never seen you so cooperative. Now, take off your pants," Gan Xinda said with a wicked grin.

Old Meng’s face changed immediately. "Gan, we have no grievances—are you really going to humiliate me like this?"

"Heh, we’ve bathed naked in the river together, and now you’re acting shy? Hand over the smiling grass in your crotch."

"You’re ruthless! These last three are all I have—have a heart, let me live! Time’s running out and I’ll be eliminated," Old Meng pleaded pitiably.

But Gan Xinda wasn’t fooled; he pulled five stalks of grass from Old Meng’s pants, stuffed them into his own shirt with a look of disgust. "Even if this grass could heal wounds or grant immortality, I’d never eat it after where it’s been. You’re truly disgusting."