Chapter Twenty-Two: Becoming a Novelist (Part Two)

In an instant, Yan Shigu’s anger flared: “How dare you, boy, claim the words of ancient sages were false?”
You dare suggest that the words of the ancient saints were mere fabrications?

Yan Qing gave a cold laugh. “What is truth, and what is falsehood?”
“If it is recorded in history, it must be true.”
“Then, may I ask, sir, what proof is there for the Book of Documents? Who witnessed the deeds of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors? Everyone speaks of Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang, but why is there no written record before the Book of Documents? If not for oral tradition, how would later generations know of these sages? According to your logic, would that not mean Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang were all invented?”

“Ah, well…”
Yan Shigu opened his mouth but could not find an answer.
In truth, this is merely the difference between official history and popular history; neither side can claim absolute right or wrong. But from the perspective of a historian like Yan Shigu, Yan Qing’s argument is indeed flawed. In fact, Luo Guanzhong’s Romance of the Three Kingdoms has deceived countless later generations—including Yan Qing himself. If Yan Qing were to argue this point with Yan Shigu, he would surely be at a loss for words. So, from the start, he deftly shifted the topic.

Among the Thirty-Six Stratagems, this is known as “substituting beams with pillars.”
For those in the bureaucratic circles of later generations, this is an essential skill.

“You, sir, compile history so that future generations may learn from it; I, a mere youth, write histories for my own amusement. Why trouble yourself with me?”
You are a figure of great renown; I am but a small fry.
You preserve the classics and histories, earning eternal fame, while I weave tales from historical events for entertainment—two entirely different things…

The exchange between Yan Qing and Yan Shigu left Zheng Shian utterly bewildered.
Yan Qing can read histories now?
To the ancients, reading history was a momentous undertaking—not something done at whim. It required literary foundation and a certain depth of thought. Ordinary folk simply could not read history.

Yan Shigu had been led astray by Yan Qing, knowing his words were faulty, yet unable to refute him.
After all, Yan Qing had already said he wasn’t speaking of history…

To pursue the matter further seemed pointless.
Yan Shigu, furious, swept his sleeve and coldly declared, “How dare a mere whelp speak of history?”
With that, he turned and walked away.

But that remark deeply annoyed Yan Qing.
You think you’re superior just because of your birth? If not for your esteemed grandfather and father, what would you be?

Yan Qing watched Yan Shigu’s retreating figure and suddenly spoke, “Sir, please wait. I have one more word.”
He continued, “I have heard that in ancient times, there were the Hundred Schools of Thought. Among them was one known as the Novelists. Surely you have read the Book of Han, where it is written: ‘The Novelists originate from minor officials, crafting tales from street conversations and hearsay.’ Thus, Liu Xin listed the Novelists among the nine streams and ten schools.
Confucius himself said, ‘Though novels are mere trifles, there is merit in them.’”

Since you, sir, are a disciple of the sages, why do you scorn novels? I’ll wager with you: using the Three Kingdoms as our subject, you may compose history, while I will tell stories. Now, who do you think the people will prefer—your work or mine?”

Confucius had another saying: “If one aims too far, one risks getting mired; thus, the gentleman abstains.”
Unfortunately, at that moment, Yan Shigu, provoked by Yan Qing’s words, could not recall this follow-up.

He halted, sneering, “So be it. What have I to fear?”
Why should I, Yan Shigu, be afraid of a mere child?

A pity that Sun Simiao had gone to Sichuan, and Du Ruhui and Zhang Zhongjian were nowhere to be found.
If they were present, would you dare be so impudent?
But since they are not, I have no choice…

In these times, reputation matters more than people. My grandfather and I now struggle in Luoyang, so I will make Yan Shigu my stepping stone.

Yan Qing gritted his teeth. “If I lose, I am willing to offer my head.”
Yan Shigu replied, “If I lose, I will lead your horse and serve as your attendant, parading through Luoyang for three days.”
“It’s a deal.”
“A promise is a promise…”

Yan Shigu had forgotten that he was wagering with a child. Perhaps the very fact that Yan Qing was so young made Yan Shigu underestimate him. Whatever a child invents, at most, is mere child’s play.

“Yan Qing, what are you doing!”
Zheng Shian finally recovered, stomping and pounding his chest in dismay.
How did things come to this?
Worse yet, Yan Qing was staking his very life. If he loses…

“Sir Yan, Sir Yan!”
Zheng Shian rushed after Yan Shigu, but Yan Qing clung tightly to his robe.

“You reckless child, how can you wager your life? You’re so young, and Sir Yan is a renowned scholar—he is praised even by the Duke of Yue. How could you, how could you…”

Yan Shigu ignored Zheng Shian, continuing on his way.

Yan Qing held fast to Zheng Shian’s robe, remembering his repeated stomping, until at last the old man’s tears flowed freely.

“Yan Qing, let’s go after him and beg Sir Yan’s forgiveness.
Let’s not wager, all right? If you lose, what will I do? You are my only grandson—how could you…”

Yan Qing felt a warm glow in his heart as he held Zheng Shian’s hand.

His small hand looked pitifully tiny in Zheng Shian’s large, weathered palm.

Standing on tiptoe, he reached up with his other hand to wipe away the tears from Zheng Shian’s wrinkled face. In this world, he may still have a father somewhere, and an uncle whose whereabouts are unknown. But from childhood, the dearest and kindest person to him was this disabled old man before him. Yan Qing’s temperament was a bit cold, but he was deeply affectionate—though he did not know how to express it, so he gently wiped away Zheng Shian’s tears.

“Grandfather, don’t worry. A wager doesn’t mean I’ll lose.”
“You foolish child, you don’t know the limits of heaven and earth.”
“Grandfather, listen to me. Though you’ve come to this manor, it’s not safe. You’ve seen it—the letter you wrote to Anyuan Hall received no response from the master. That means the master cannot, or will not, intervene. After all, the eldest son is grown, and will be master in the future. If the master forces you to return, the eldest son may yield under pressure. But then, he would resent you even more.

We have no retreat. In Luoyang, there’s Cui Daolin watching us like a tiger.

The master cannot help us, the eldest son looks down on us, so we must rely on ourselves… If I can defeat Sir Yan, even if the eldest son wishes to trouble us, he’ll have to think twice. As for Cui Daolin, he’s little more than a clown.”

Zheng Shian stared at Yan Qing in astonishment.

At that moment, the Yan Qing in his eyes was no longer a child, but a man of keen intelligence and resourcefulness.

He understood his own predicament well, and he knew why Zheng Dashuai had not responded all this time.

Perhaps Zheng Dashuai hoped that he and his grandson might change Zheng Renji’s mind.

But he hadn’t expected Yan Qing to already have a plan.

Yet this plan was…
It involved Yan Qing’s very life—if… Zheng Shian instinctively clenched his fists. If Yan Qing lost, he would risk his own life to save him. With this thought, he could not help but pull Yan Qing into his arms.

“Grandfather, don’t worry. Your grandson will win this time!”
“Ah?”
Zheng Shian did not understand why Yan Qing was so confident.

Yan Qing smiled slightly. “Grandfather, your grandson invented the ‘Goose Ode’ style and wrote the ‘Goose Ode’ poem—what have you to worry about?”

Yes, my grandson is indeed a genius!

Zheng Shian finally breathed a sigh of relief.

Yan Qing, meanwhile, sneered inwardly: Yan Shigu, forgive me, but this time I will use you as my stepping stone…

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Weakness, weariness, breathless…
Please, give me a recommendation!