"Han Fei, to think you'd grasp the Ru in such depth—for once, your master yields to you."
In the heart of Little Sage Village Hamlet, Master Xun—white-haired and long-bearded—turned to the purple-robed Han Fei. The young man blinked in bewilderment. What did I even say? What did I do? How am I suddenly outshining him?
Li Si, standing nearby, stepped in to clarify, recounting Li Haimo's rundown of Maslow's hierarchy of needs.
"That wasn't you?" Master Xun frowned. He couldn't picture Han Fei spinning such wisdom. The boy studied under him, true, but veered hard into Fajia ways—the sharpest Fajia mind Xun had ever seen. He'd synthesized law, technique, and power into the three streams, capping it with Five Vermin—Fajia's grand summation. Pity he hailed from the Seven's frailest, Han.
"No, but it carried a whiff of the Daoist Ren Sect: all beings equal, each chasing their truths." Han Fei replied.
"Then it seems we have visitors inbound." From Han Fei's words, Xun knew who was coming. Yan Lu had tipped him off back from Ji Yang City: the Daoist heads would call to pick his brain. And here they were, months on.
"Three moons past, word from Yan: Mohist leader Six-Fingered Black Knight himself confirmed it—Uncle Wu Chenzi's begun forging his Supreme Profound Scripture. Who knows what canon he'll birth?" Li Si added.
"The profound of the profound: the utmost mystery." Xun murmured.
"I've heard from Elder Chu Nangong: the Daoist Scripture holds a secret art called Retro-Sight—beholding the ancients from today. True such divine skill?" Han Fei asked abruptly.
"Retro-Sight: perch on time's river, borrow the now to gaze back—or forward. As the foremost of the Hundred Scriptures, such power's no surprise." Xun affirmed. "Records tell: King Wen's chariot spanned eight hundred circuits, so Zhou endured eight centuries."
Han Fei's face shadowed. So it wasn't a dream—raw future, staring back.
Xun knew his tale, sighing. "Daoist Scripture seekers start with the Yi—one line in its oracle: Change with the times, for in change lies the unchanging."
"Pray, teacher, illuminate us." Han Fei and Li Si chimed—first time Xun unpacked the Daoist Scripture for them.
"This is its root: the Dao shifts ceaselessly; heaven, earth, all things flux without cease. Yet this very flux—the Dao's eternal churn—is what endures. From it sprout the Hundred Schools. Our Daoists: The Dao that can be told is not the eternal Dao. Yin-Yang: The Supreme is passionless. We Ru: On the riverbank, the Master said: It passes like this, unceasing day or night. Thus, the Daoist Scripture crowns the Hundred." Xun lectured, a pang in his voice. How many School heads grasp this Yi chapter only at life's end?
For Han Fei and Li Si—Fajia luminaries both—such unbound flux grated. They loathed anything skirting rules; Fajia's creed was to leash it all with law. Yet the Daoist Scripture's unchanging change hooked them deep.
Fajia cut an odd figure among the Hundred Schools. Daoists claimed Mount Taiyi; Ru, this Little Sage Village; Farmers, Emperor Yan's Six Sage Tombs. Each had its seat. But Fajia splintered into law, artifice, and momentum: Shang Yang's Qin reforms bound law to change; Shen Buhai's Han arts wielded law as tool; Shen Dao's thrust made law the tide. Three veins, no central hall. Yet each era birthed stars: Guan Zhong, Li Kui; later Fan Li and Ji Ran, Wu Qi. Only now did Han Fei weave them whole—a unified Fajia.
And so it thrived sans shrine or lineal rite: each heir scavenged scrolls alone. Royals and Schools hoarded Fajia texts too, so acolytes sprang from elites alone—no common blood.
"Fajia chafes at Daoist otherworldliness; Daoists scorn Fajia's penned-in cosmos. But this is Ru ground." Xun warned—mind your place as my pupils, not Fajia heirs. Don't drag trouble on us Ru. They're Dao heads; you're nobodies yet. And they fight—best not court a thrashing to death.
Pre-Qin School clashes weren't mere debates. Confucius roamed the states sans a speck of might? Highway ronin and brigands would've schooled him quick. Hence the Ru creed: courtesy first, then force. Words fail? Fists fly. Fists falter? Back to talk. The Hundred Schools ran that drill: might or sway to shield the Way, or perish on the road.
"Yes, teacher." Li Si and Han Fei got the subtext: Behave here, and Ru shields you. Stir the pot, and if you're slain, we wash our hands.
Ru skin over Fajia bones! On the road to Sanghai, Li Haimo mulled it. Han exalted the Ru, then twisted to Fajia ends—and now Li Si and Han Fei sat at Xun's feet, Zhang Liang to follow in the Ru fold. Ru's no lightweight in this Qin era. Disciples' doing, or true 'teach all comers,' hands off?
That skin-over-bones blueprint? Han Fei and Li Si's spawn. Li Si never matched Han Fei's Fajia pinnacle—blame his roots. Truth: this Li Si's Fajia path was fledgling still. His soar came as Qin's Court Warden, diving into the core. For all lands, none amassed Fajia lore like Qin—from Shang Yang's day, Duke Xiao hoovered texts; crown heirs drilled Ru first, then Fajia. Qin prized law above all. Han Fei's capstone? Han's vaults rivaled Qin's—boyhood steeped, princely perch putting him at Li Si's finish line. Sans Qin's conquests...
Like the legend: all crave Yi Xiaochuan's lot, end up Zhao Gao's. Nah—even Zhao outstrips the pack. Li Si too: earnest in study, in all. Think prime minister under the First Emperor's a cakewalk? Eye Changping and Lü Buwei. Yet from Warden to Chancellor to the Emperor's fall—Li Si endured.
Posterity damned Li Si for two stains: dooming Han Fei; forging the edict with Zhao Gao, toppling Qin. But Han Fei's end? His blood: Han hostage. Qin couldn't loose him home—death was set, only the hand varied. Li Si's blade? Kindest dispatch for Han. At least in dying, he vaulted Fajia to zenith. Fajia stock: peak the Way, and self-slaughter's fair game. Li Kui, Shang Yang, Shen Buhai—all mirrored it. Heng dreads the reckless; reckless, the death-wishers. That suicidal streak? Why Fajia, martial-weak, carved its niche. Slay me? I'll seed the law in my grave—a gambler's all-in.
"No women disciples at the Ru's Little Sage Village, so we'll bunk outside Sanghai." Li Haimo said. Best spot's Yi Jian Inn, sure—but Mohist turf, tangled with Shu Mountain folk. Too messy; we'll pass.
"Teacher, for the Daoist Tianren Head's arrival—what rites?" Fu Nian inquired. Tianzi eight-by-eight dance; lords six; officials four. But Daoists? Neither lord nor clerk, yet betwixt—five-by-five? Fu Nian wavered.
"Depends: as Dao Heads, or Yan Lu's friends incognito?" Xun replied.
"As Dao Heads? Six-by-six, and send Yan Lu to greet. The Hundred Schools rank as lords—that's Zhou's decree. Past Dao Heads were lords, like Jiang Shang. Lordly welcome's fitting, not overdone."
"Your inner sage, outer king—the Sage Sword's not honed full; you'd fall to Wu Chenzi." Xun read his ambition plain. Mohist whispers: Wu Chenzi penned his tome—heaven-man union sealed. Fu Nian and Yan Lu brimmed with gifts, a hair shy of that realm.
The Yi's 'change with times' rings false to the text—but its primer? Spot-on gloss. Recall that college elective: first lecture unpacked Yi's name. All things evolve ceaseless—yet what's fixed? The rule of endless flux. That's Yi: probing those shifting laws. Not feng shui hacks or fortune-telling scribbles.
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