Chapter Thirty-One: The Scholar’s Sacred Duty

The arrival of all three deans of the Academy left He Chang'an feeling somewhat overwhelmed, but his expression soon fell. The Dean of the Great Tang Academy? A fourth-rank Confucian scholar? Is that it? Surely this must be a joke.

The headmaster of the most prestigious private institution in Great Tang was, when it came to quarreling, fiercer than students like Ma Dai, Shen Yan, and Li Yishan. Their methods were ever-changing, their manner oddly distinctive...

At last, He Chang'an witnessed firsthand the style of the Great Tang scholars—

“Zhao Zheng, you old scoundrel! Every time you see a student with a bit of talent, you claim he’s fated to meet you. Where’s your old shameless face now, I ask?” Du Shisan sneered repeatedly, glaring at the Dean.

“He still has the face? The best he’s ever taught is Ma Dai, that useless brat,” Wen Taiyuan added with a smile.

Ma Dai thought: ‘What’s this got to do with me…’

Dean Zhao Zheng ignored the two vice deans, his eyes fixed on He Chang'an, growing more delighted the longer he looked, as if his gaze could shoot green light...

He Chang'an tensed up and quietly took a step back.

“So you’re the rascal He Chang'an?” The Dean squinted his eyes with a smile and asked.

“I am He Chang'an,” He Chang'an grumbled inwardly, wondering if this old man even knew how to speak properly. Why was he cursing the moment he opened his mouth?

Is this what all Great Tang scholars are like?

“Hm, hm, you’re quite impressive, young man,” the Dean mused, then asked, “I hear you’re good at fighting—and at cursing?”

‘What does he mean? Beat up the young ones, now three old ones come to question me?’

“I wouldn’t dare,” He Chang'an cupped his hands with an awkward smile, “I’m a rough fellow, not skilled in reasoning, so I have no choice but to resort to brute force.”

“Haha, to reason with scholars, sometimes you need a bit of roughness, right, Du Shisan, Wen Taiyuan?” The Dean turned to the vice deans, his eyes nearly closed in laughter.

A Dean, indeed: well-read, strong-fisted, thick-skinned; even if wounded inside, as long as he doesn’t spit blood on the spot, he must grit his teeth and stand tall...

“Humph!” Du Shisan and Wen Taiyuan turned their heads away, unwilling to look at Zhao Zheng.

They had indeed lost the previous bout—not only had the Dean pinned them to the ground, but that old scoundrel had even spit on their faces and bodies!

A disgrace to all scholars!

“He Chang'an, I admire you. How about this: beat me up, curse me a bit, and explain your reasoning to me—what do you say?” The Dean watched He Chang'an expectantly.

“Don’t worry, I promise I won’t fight back or curse you,” the Dean added.

If it could help him break through from fourth-rank to third-rank, letting this young man beat and curse him a few times was a small price to pay—he could always return the favor later.

He Chang'an felt uneasy.

Beating up Ma Dai, Shen Yan, and other scholars was easy; they were weaklings, not his match, and he felt no psychological burden.

But this old man—a fourth-rank Confucian scholar...

One swipe of his hand could bury He Chang'an in the dirt, never to be recovered...

“You?” He Chang'an sized up the Dean, hesitating to make a move.

“Yes, me…” The Dean suddenly grew heated.

This kid’s tongue is sharp—who does he think he’s looking down on?

“Dean, I really don’t dare fight or curse…” He Chang'an replied honestly.

He truly couldn’t win, nor did he dare to curse.

---

“Ha ha, go ahead and fight, go ahead and curse. I just want to test whether the rascal He Chang'an is as Ma Dai claims: that a few light curses could ignite a scholar’s blood and push them to breakthrough…”

“Uh, is that so,” He Chang'an felt a bit reassured, but still wary, “You really won’t fight back or curse?”

“I promise.” The Dean stroked his beard and smiled.

“I see now why Ma Dai’s so useless. Turns out he has such a useless master…” He Chang'an muttered.

“…” The Dean was instantly furious, though his face remained calm.

“Uh, Dean, you gentlemen are teachers. Actually, we’re all wrong,” He Chang'an pondered, careful not to anger the great scholar before him.

They said they wouldn’t fight back or curse, but seeing Du Shisan and Wen Taiyuan bloodied and battered, it was clear what kind of scholar this Dean was…

“What’s wrong—where did we go wrong?” The three scholars asked in unison.

‘To establish the heart for heaven and earth, the destiny for the people, to continue the lost learning of the sages, and to bring peace for all generations…’

He Chang'an was tempted to show off, but reconsidered.

Such lofty lines, in a normal Great Tang, would surely resound and make him famous; even if he lived idly, he could shine forever.

But this Great Tang—isn’t right.

In a Tang founded on martial strength, Confucianism, Daoism, and Buddhism are all considered heretical. If he spouted those four lines, he’d probably be beaten to death…

“May I ask, Dean, gentlemen, what is a scholar’s duty?” He Chang'an asked.

“A scholar’s duty?” The three scholars were stunned, falling into deep thought.

The question seemed simple, but every scholar has pondered it, never quite grasping the essence; it’s hard to sum up in a single phrase.

Is it ‘thought free from evil’?

No, that’s a scholar’s mental state, not a duty…

‘Cultivate oneself, manage the family, govern the state, bring peace to the realm?’

‘Learned beyond measure, versed in classics, well-read, and serve the royal court?’

All seem somewhat forced.

Since ancient times, scholars have had too many duties, which only confuses them further—what, truly, is their duty…

It’s like having too many concubines and the trouble of choosing one…

“Rascal He Chang'an, you tell us then—what is a scholar’s duty?” The Dean asked seriously, brows furrowed.

‘Hmm, Tang scholars are actually decent: to admit what they know and what they don’t—that’s rare.’

“I have two poems for you, Dean and gentlemen. The words are coarse, but they speak to the issue; let me declare first—no slapping faces,” He Chang'an said with a smile.

He had little confidence in copying poems.

The three scholars nodded, promising not to lay hands on him, so He Chang'an felt somewhat at ease.

“Let’s agree—no fighting, and definitely no slapping faces, or else… or else I’ll curse the Buddhist and Daoist temples instead!” Better to add extra insurance; a scholar’s promise is rarely kept.

“Alright, alright, no fighting, no fighting. Whoever fights isn’t worthy of being called a scholar!” The three scholars smiled and agreed.

“Very well, I’ll copy—cough, I’ll compose a poem titled ‘On the Scholar’s Duty: Reflections with the Academy’s Great Scholars (Part One—struck through)’.” He Chang'an pondered, then raised a half-cold bowl of tea to moisten his throat.

‘This kid is tactful—the poem’s title is good, offends no one, and clearly addresses the Academy’s scholars; the only pity is he doesn’t say exactly which ones…’

Dean Zhao Zheng, Wen Taiyuan, and Du Shisan watched intently.

He Chang'an cleared his throat and recited:

---

“Chattering crows, a handful,
Spewing filth with every squawk.
Today we part for amusement,
Tomorrow, mouths rotten to the core.”

“……”

Damn, did this kid do it on purpose? Is this even a poem? Even a jingle isn’t this biting…

“Rascal!” Zhao Zheng erupted in anger, swinging a slap toward He Chang'an’s mouth…

Yet, two or three inches away from He Chang'an’s face, the Dean caught the half-smiling, half-mocking expression—clearly ridiculing.

‘Scholar, where’s your dignity?
To break one’s word—is there anything more shameful?’

With a crisp smack, the Dean’s hand veered aside and landed squarely on Ma Dai’s face, who was grinding his teeth and preparing to act.

“Useless disciple! We agreed not to fight—what are you trying to do?” The Dean roared, then kicked his student over.

Ma Dai: ‘Damn, I only wanted to help since you looked like you were about to strike…’

“Rascal He Chang'an, write another poem!” The Dean demanded, gritting his teeth.

He Chang'an rubbed his face and smiled wryly, “Since we’re discussing a scholar’s duty, I’ll risk another poem.”

The Dean, Wen Taiyuan, Du Shisan, and Ma Dai, Li Yishan—all the scholars present pursed their lips, thinking: ‘Can anything decent come from this rascal’s mouth?’

“When the rooster crows once, lips purse;
When it crows twice, lips purse again.”

‘……’

All the scholars pressed their lips tight, not daring to purse them again.

He Chang'an’s mind was quick, his observation keen—no wonder a mere couplet could enrage Ma Dai and the others…

But this poem—cough, this jingle hardly counts as poetry; clearly not a scholar’s work.

“At the third crow, the sun rises from Fusang,
Sweeping away the lingering stars and faint moon.”

…

When the last two lines were spoken, the crowd of scholars fell silent.

“When the rooster crows once, lips purse;
When it crows twice, lips purse again.
At the third crow, the sun rises from Fusang,
Sweeping away the lingering stars and faint moon.”

This rascal’s poetry—remarkable!

The first two lines are coarse, even ambiguous, as if describing a drunken night. Suddenly, a twist: ‘At the third crow, the sun rises from Fusang, sweeping away the lingering stars and faint moon.’ Instantly, the aura of a king bursts forth—unyielding, iron-boned, gazing proudly upon the world!

Behind He Chang'an, the scholars could almost envision the ghostly image of a lonely monarch, sword in hand, rising at the rooster’s call, challenging the dawn, surveying the vast earth…

“Rascal He Chang'an, you mean the scholar’s duty is…” The Dean pondered, seeming unsure how to phrase it.

The gap between the two poems was immense; the Dean struggled to digest it.

“You’re right, Dean—the scholar’s duty, first, is to have one’s name passed down through history,” He Chang'an drank another mouthful of cold tea, calming himself, and spoke with composure:

“Second, it is…”