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In the Han dynasty, the peak of the aristocracy was a mountain countless families strove to climb. Some reached its heights, while others didn't even know where the mountain lay.
The ascent was arduous, but each step offered breathtaking views, intoxicating those who advanced, stirring awe with every gain.
The start might be simple, but finding the right path was not. Those who rushed ahead early didn't always climb higher. The steeper the path grew, the more perilous it became. Many families, with one misstep, fell from the peak, losing their chance to behold its vistas forever.
In a three-story winehouse west of Anyi city, a white-robed scholar wielded his brush in a private room.
Writing instead of eating or drinking in a winehouse might seem odd, but the scholar moved with natural ease, as if in his own home—drinking when he wished, writing when inspired.
A cool breeze from the window lifted the corner of his robe.
White as snow.
His outer robe was white, his inner robe white, even the straps of his wooden clogs woven with white cloth, as if untouched by the world's dust, like a snowflake falling in winter, crystalline and refined.
Two sets of footsteps approached—one light, one heavy. The scholar, unfazed, focused on finishing his final strokes.
The light steps opened the door, then retreated softly, like a rabbit's faint tracks in snow.
The heavy steps lingered inside, halting, like a fierce beast hiding in brush.
The scholar completed his stroke, slowly setting the brush on its stand. Without turning, he said faintly, "A guest arrives, and I've failed to greet you."
"I'm but a crude man, unworthy of troubling Duke Wei," replied the figure, bronze-skinned with a short, three-stranded beard, burly and thick-limbed, clearly a martial man. Yet he wore a long robe and headscarf, like a leopard hiding its fangs and claws.
"No crudeness exists under the Four Knowings Hall. You're too modest, brother," said the scholar, turning—it was Wei Ji. "Besides, I've not yet taken the family head's seat, so 'Duke Wei' is undeserved."
"Is that so?" The burly man ignored the first part, focusing on the "Duke Wei" title.
Wei Ji smiled, dropping the topic. He tapped the writing desk lightly. "I've penned a few words. Please, brother, step over and critique them."
"I know only crude letters—how could I judge Duke Wei's work?" the man demurred.
Wei Ji invited again. "No harm in looking." Without waiting for a reply, he moved to a table by the window, gazing at the scenery outside.
The man hesitated, then approached the desk. On the snow-white silk paper were four bold characters: "Spring and Autumn Within the Skin"!
He froze, pupils contracting, hands clenching in his sleeves with a faint crack of knuckles, like a leopard tensing before a pounce.
Wei Ji, as if unaware, poured himself wine, drank deeply, and said leisurely, "The world's beauty is like a painting, seen only from high places. Do you agree, brother?"
The man slowly relaxed, joining Wei Ji at the table. He sat, poured himself a cup, and after a pause said, "High places are fine but fraught with peril. One misstep, and you're shattered."
"Without climbing, how are you different from ants?" Wei Ji pointed to the bustling street below. "Rising at dawn, resting at dusk, day after day, year after year, ignorant of heaven's timing or earth's advantages, toiling in obscurity, going where profit leads—what then?"
The man drained his cup, set it down, and fell silent.
Wei Ji refilled it. "They say a drunken stupor solves a thousand worries, but if worries could be solved, they wouldn't be worries."
"Duke Wei holds Hedong, with eyes and hands everywhere—what worries could you have? It's men like me, mired in mud, awaiting death, who know true worry," the man said, eyeing the wine. Its jade-green clarity marked it as rare, a prized Nanyang or Hongnong brew of sticky rice, herbs, and fresh fruit—jade wine.
"Who is without worry? Even sages fret, let alone us mortals," Wei Ji laughed, not urging him to drink but pouring himself another cup.
"I'd hear more," the man said.
Wei Ji, smiling, raised his cup and stepped to the window. "I worry for the boundless sky… I worry for the roaring river…"
The man blinked, then chuckled. "Duke Wei, don't jest." Worrying about the sky or river? They'd existed forever—what was there to fret over?
Wei Ji's smile faded, his tone serious. "In my life, I've never jested."
Seeing Wei Ji's grave expression, the man frowned, pondering, then said, "Speak, Duke Wei."
"I worry for the boundless sky, a dome we cannot climb; I worry for the roaring river, its muddy torrents we cannot ford," Wei Ji said, draining his cup.
This time, though still about sky and river, the man didn't laugh. He knew it wasn't about the sky or the river.
"Duke Wei's worries… I, a man of little strength, cannot aid."
"What if you could climb another floor?"
"Another floor?" The man downed his wine. "The building has a roof—how can one climb further?"
Wei Ji smiled, saying nothing.
Though silent, the man sensed the confident control behind Wei Ji's smile.
"If I can climb that floor, I'll lend Duke Wei my strength," the man promised firmly.
"Excellent!" Wei Ji replied.
The talk concluded, their pact sealed. No need for more words. The man bid farewell, preparing to leave.
Pausing by the "Spring and Autumn Within the Skin" calligraphy, he said gravely, "Fine words… but on silk, they shouldn't face the sun."
Wei Ji nodded. "Heaven knows, earth knows, you know, I know."
The man clasped his fists, opened the door, and left.
Wei Ji stood by the window, not seeing him off. As the heavy footsteps faded, he smiled, spreading his arms as if embracing the world, letting the breeze lift his sleeves, reciting, "The great wind rises, clouds soar…"
The wind grew stronger, gathering clouds like rushing river waters, blocked by Anyi city, growing darker, denser—a storm was coming…