Chapter Seventeen: Trust and Honor

After hastily escorting Liu Xian back to the Anle Duke’s residence, Chen Shou came early the next morning to visit his student.

When he entered, Zhang Ximiao had just finished applying medicine to Liu Xian’s wound and was carefully wrapping hemp cloth around it. Since the injury was on his forehead, Ximiao had to wind the cloth several times, so that when the bandaging was done, Liu Xian looked like a dandelion puff, as if a gust of wind might carry him away.

Seeing Chen Shou arrive, Zhang Ximiao quickly rose and invited him to sit nearby, then poured him a bowl of tea and smiled, “Master, why have you come so early? Didn’t I tell you yesterday? Don’t worry, it’s just a minor injury. With some rest, he’ll be fine in a couple of days.”

Chen Shou glanced at the bandages on Liu Xian’s forehead, sensing that Ximiao’s words were a bit insincere. Yet he said nothing to expose him and instead apologized again, “Madam, how could it be anything else? This injury happened under my watch. How could I stand aside?”

He then took out a box of Shangdang ginseng he had bought from the Western Market as a token of apology. “I have taught Biji for so long, focusing only on manners and scholarship, but neglected to teach him how to conduct himself in the world. That is my failing. I hope Madam will forgive me.”

After some polite back and forth, Ximiao finally accepted the ginseng and reminded Liu Xian not to move about too much before turning to attend to household chores. The room was left to Chen Shou and his disciple alone.

Once his mother left, Liu Xian sat up on the couch, wobbling a little under the weight on his forehead. Chen Shou, watching his awkward posture, couldn’t help but smile, then asked with some concern, “Does it still hurt?”

Liu Xian grasped the bandage, frowning, “It doesn’t hurt, it just itches.”

Chen Shou lightly slapped his hand away like a father admonishing a child, “Don’t scratch! The itch will pass, and the wound will heal. If you scratch it open, you’ll likely be left with a scar.”

Obediently, Liu Xian lowered his hand and settled himself, but when he looked up, he found Chen Shou scrutinizing him with a serious gaze. Quickly, he lowered his head, sensing the lecture about to begin.

Chen Shou asked, “Why did you say what you did yesterday? Didn’t you know Sun Hao was capable of killing?”

“I knew,” Liu Xian replied. “The first time he moved here, I saw he wanted to kill.”

“Then why didn’t you value your life and stand down?”

“Because he humiliated me,” Liu Xian said, eyes wide as he stared at his teacher. “Not only me, but my family name. The first lesson you taught me was never to bring shame upon my name.”

Chen Shou was taken aback by the unexpected answer, then softened his tone patiently, “But I also taught you that a gentleman should be cautious in speech and humble in conduct. A man with great ambitions, when faced with life and death danger, should endure for the sake of realizing the righteous path later. Han Xin bore humiliation under the saddle; Gengshi killed his own brother; Guangwu pardoned Xie — all for the same reason.”

Liu Xian nodded, “What you say is true, teacher, but it didn’t apply yesterday.”

“Hmm?”

“For one, I have no great ambitions yet, not a gentleman.”

Chen Shou chuckled. Then Liu Xian surprised him further, “Secondly, what I did yesterday was dangerous, but not fatal.”

“Why do you say that?”

“There’s a saying: ‘The first drumbeat fires the spirit; the second falters; the third fades.’ When Sun Hao dared not set himself aflame in Jianye, his spirit faltered. After entering Luoyang and suffering repeated humiliations by the powerful, his morale sank further. When he threatened to kill a servant at his gate, the murderous intent lasted only a moment. Yesterday, his eyes were low and dejected like autumn grass, showing no real killing intent. What was there to fear?”

Chen Shou was momentarily lost in thought. Liu Xian’s fluent appraisal and sharp confidence reminded him of his own turbulent youth, when others had spoken to him with similar certainty. But those days were distant, and he could no longer recall their faces clearly, only the smoldering ashes of their fates.

He sighed and said, “You… don’t oversimplify things. People are not sages. Many outcomes are unforeseeable.”

Chen Shou intended to change the subject to future plans, but Liu Xian interrupted again with a pressing question.

“Teacher, there’s a doubt in my heart. Will you answer it?”

Chen Shou, seeing the earnest look, felt a pang but composed himself. “Go ahead.”

Liu Xian asked, “Why do people sacrifice their lives?”

He continued with his confusion: “Qu Yuan was passed over and drowned himself in the Miluo River; Jing Ke sang at the River Yi and risked death to assassinate Qin’s king; Geng Gong defended the Western Regions with just thirteen men left; when Deng Ai besieged Chengdu, my great-uncle Liu Chen first killed his wife, then himself. And yesterday, Sun Hao said he once wanted to self-immolate for the country.”

“Why did they do that? You told me to cherish life, yet these people did not—they gave it up willingly. I know, as Mencius said, that they valued something more than life itself, so they chose righteousness over life.”

“But what exactly is this righteousness? I cannot understand why some are willing to die for it and others not. And why is it always a minority who sacrifice themselves for righteousness? Does that mean the majority who live are unrighteous?”

Liu Xian fired off a torrent of questions, his speech quick and at times unclear, but Chen Shou listened intently. When Liu Xian finished, Chen Shou straightened, his face a mixture of emotion and relief. Finally, this boy had voiced the question.

Instead of answering directly, Chen Shou asked, “Do you remember the first time your mother brought you to the thatched cottage to find a teacher?”

“Yes.”

“When she said she wanted me to be your teacher, I initially refused. You remember that?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know why I refused?”

“No.”

“Because I feared being implicated with you. I am a loyalist of Shu Han, and you are a prince of Shu Han. If we were linked, accusations of rebellion would surely follow. One misstep and neither of us would end well. Do you understand?”

Liu Xian was silent for a moment, then said, “I understand.”

“Do you know why I eventually agreed?”

“No.”

“Because I truly am a loyalist of Shu Han. I studied and served under your great-great-grandfather, grandfather, and Chancellor Zhuge’s grace. If I failed to repay their kindness, I would lose my integrity, my foundation.”

“Integrity?”

“Yes, trust. Now, think about it, Biji. Does your mother treat you well?”

“My mother treats me the best.”

“If you betray your mother, how do you think others will view you?”

“Well…”

Chen Shou slowly said, “People will think… if you cannot care for the one who loves you most, you must be heartless.” Liu Xian’s expression grew serious. After a moment’s thought, he nodded earnestly.

“At that time, no one will want to be your friend, nor believe your promises. Because if you cannot care for the one closest to you, how can you care for others? You will be excluded, even killed, for you are not trustworthy.”

“Trust, or more precisely, mutual trust, is what makes us human. People form nations. Without trust, the world becomes a beast’s realm… That’s my view. Though such a world may be filled with excess and indulgence, it is ruled by killing and strife, leading only to destruction…”

Liu Xian understood and asked, “So trust is righteousness?”

Chen Shou shook his head, took a sip of tea, then said slowly, “Trust and righteousness may seem similar, but righteousness is higher.”

“Trust is important, but as you have studied history, you know that to achieve a goal, deceit and trickery are sometimes unavoidable. When trust is broken, people fight and kill each other. If fighting never ends, the world becomes wasteland. Only righteousness can prevent this.”

“Why?”

“Because trust requires equal giving and receiving. Breaking trust means some take more than they give. To restore trust, someone must make a selfless sacrifice, giving without expectation. This is called righteousness.”

“Those people you mentioned, like Qu Yuan, lived in a corrupt and helpless Chu. After his death in Miluo, though Chu declined, righteousness was born, and trust restored. Hence the saying, ‘Though Chu had but three households, it would defeat Qin.’ And indeed, Chu’s people later destroyed Qin.”

Chen Shou’s eyes grew stern as he spoke, forgetting Liu Xian’s youth, fully immersed in his discourse. “Righteousness is not a promise between individuals, but a pursuit of an ideal world, a hope for all living things. It is like lamp oil after sunset, burning itself to light the dark room, unregretful even if reduced to ashes. This is sacrificing life for righteousness.”

After a pause, Chen Shou looked at Liu Xian more gently and asked, “Biji… do you understand?”

“I do.”

Seeing Liu Xian nod, Chen Shou was reluctant to end, so after gathering his thoughts, he added:

“But I do not wish for you to reach the level of righteousness.”

“Ah? Why?” Liu Xian was astonished.

“Many things sound simple in words but are hard in reality. To be righteous often requires great sacrifice, misunderstanding, and no hope for the future.”

“Because although righteousness asks no reward, people ultimately hope their ideals will be realized. Most acts of righteousness, however, are unlikely to succeed. Like your great-uncle Liu Chen — his courage was admired, but he did not restore the Han. Beyond inspiring future generations, it achieved nothing.”

“Why didn’t Sun Hao self-immolate? For the same reason. He didn’t know if his righteousness would move the world or help restore the kingdom. Righteousness is too heavy a burden for most.”

“Now that the nation is united and the world at peace, the dark night has passed. There is no need for anyone to sacrifice themselves for righteousness anymore—only to live well.”

“So rather than strive for righteousness, be a trustworthy person. Find a goal you love and live your life step by step. That is enough. This is why so few sacrifice themselves for righteousness—because most only need to achieve trust.”

The lesson finally ended. Liu Xian felt the conversation was short, but when he looked up, the sun was high, and it was almost time for noon meal.

After tidying up, the Duke’s residence arranged a belated banquet. Liu Xun, Liu Yao, and other household heads unusually gathered to receive Chen Shou. Liu Xun inquired after Liu Xian’s condition. Chen Shou praised him as gifted, diligent, inquisitive, patient in solitude—a young man of Yan Hui’s spirit. The guests and host all rejoiced.

Yet amid the clinking cups, Liu Xian remained immersed in the earlier discourse, his mind aflame with thoughts. If there were no trust, the world would be chaos; if no righteousness, destruction would follow. This revelation stirred all manner of dreams in his youthful heart.

Before him lay the vast fields of Luoyang, and in a moment’s vision, the wheat in the fields crackled as if aflame, turning to scorched earth littered with bones and ghostly flames.

At that thought, the face of Wang Fu at his death, serene and accepting, appeared in Liu Xian’s mind, along with the ancestral tablets of Liu Chen in the backyard shrine. New doubts disturbed his thoughts. Was the world really as his teacher said, with no need for anyone to sacrifice for righteousness? Was the future truly peaceful and harmonious?

He felt no certainty, only that solving one question bred yet more.

As he pondered, someone called his name. Looking up, he saw his father Liu Xun, who scolded him sharply, “Your teacher has found you a new tutor—aren’t you going to thank him?”

A new tutor? Liu Xian was startled, unsure how to respond, glancing at Chen Shou in confusion.

Chen Shou smiled, waving him to sit down. “Biji, when you go there, be careful. I will teach you for three years—I don’t want others to say I led you astray.”

Liu Xian sat down, puzzled, and asked, “There? Where? Which teacher?”

Chen Shou stroked his beard with some pride and pronounced three words: “Little Ruan Gong.”

In the Jin dynasty, only one man was called Little Ruan Gong. Later generations know him as the last of the Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove.