Chapter Forty-Three: Coal

Chapter Forty-Two: The Final Lesson

Inside the Hall of Literary Glory, the atmosphere seemed as ordinary as ever.

Li Shimian stood before Zhu Qizhen, explaining to him the profound principles of Mencius, piece by piece. He did not even shy away from discussing passages that had been excised by the founding emperor himself, as if he hoped to move Zhu Qizhen with subtle words and lofty ideals.

Zhu Qizhen listened with utmost attention, not daring to let his mind wander in the slightest. First, because Li Shimian was a stern man, but when it came to teaching, he indeed had a certain caliber. At the very least, Zhu Qizhen could genuinely absorb what he taught; he was by no means the pedant or dry stick later generations might imagine. Quite the opposite: those who truly devoted themselves to Confucian learning, those with real insight, were never rigid. It is always the half-educated who revere doctrine as sacred and refuse to step beyond prescribed bounds.

This holds true in any field.

Second, with one-on-one instruction, Zhu Qizhen had no room for distraction. The rod bestowed by the Empress Dowager in Li Shimian’s hand was not a mere ornament.

More importantly, this was to be Li Shimian’s final lesson.

Tomorrow, Wang Zhi would come to teach the Spring and Autumn Annals.

Zhu Qizhen, recalling the scheme that had secretly hastened Li Shimian’s departure, felt a pang of guilt.

Time slipped away, and before long, the morning had come to an end. The sunlight streaming through the window had receded, now falling just outside. The ancients possessed the uncanny ability to judge the hour by the light. Li Shimian shot a brief glance outside and said, “The hour is up, Your Majesty. That will be all for today.”

Zhu Qizhen rose at once. “Thank you, Master.”

Li Shimian said, “Your Majesty, today is the last time I shall instruct you. I have a final word, and I hope Your Majesty will hear it.”

“Please, Master.”

“Your Majesty possesses a rare and god-given intelligence. In decades of teaching, I have never seen one so precocious. Yet every gift carries its own loss.”

“I hope Your Majesty will cherish, above all, the value of not being clever.”

“Not being clever?” Zhu Qizhen was perplexed.

Li Shimian explained, “The true challenge of stewardship lies not in cunning, but in the human heart. If Your Majesty governs with the kindness and righteousness of the ancient sages, even if you make a misstep and your ministers seize upon it, the great enterprise will not be lost. But if you grow light-hearted and believe the world can be gathered in schemes and calculations, then however great your success, some day it will all rebound upon you. I hope Your Majesty will discern this.”

Zhu Qizhen flushed slightly. He suspected Li Shimian knew of his subtle machination behind the scenes. Yet, pondering further, he realized Li Shimian would not speak so for a single incident.

He hurried to reply, “I understand, Master.”

Li Shimian stepped back and bowed deeply. The sight of his head of white hair suddenly struck Zhu Qizhen, and his heart tightened with sorrow. He hurried forward to support the old man. “I have played a few small tricks,” he confessed. “Master Li, do not blame me.”

Li Shimian replied, “Your Majesty is but a youth, and I was overly anxious. Yet the way of a ruler is best pursued with openness and integrity.”

“I understand,” Zhu Qizhen said.

Li Shimian bowed again. “This old servant takes his leave.”

Zhu Qizhen watched Li Shimian depart, at a loss for words.

It was because of men like Li Shimian—whom Zhu Qizhen had never encountered in later life. Li Shimian was a true Confucian scholar; every word and deed followed the teachings of the ancient sages. In his presence, Zhu Qizhen felt a deep sense of shame, as though he finally understood what it meant to use others as a mirror for oneself.

One could not claim Li Shimian was a paragon without flaw, but in later generations, Zhu Qizhen could find no one like him: unafraid of power, repeatedly remonstrating with the Yongle and Renzong Emperors and nearly losing his life. His words and deeds were always aligned—upright and forthright, as if he could see straight through to one’s heart, never failing his word.

Zhu Qizhen knew that Li Shimian harbored no selfish motives. The reason for such exacting demands on Zhu Qizhen’s studies was simply that, at this moment, nothing was more important than his learning.

Later generations scoffed at those who adhered steadfastly to moral standards, dismissing them as fools. But only when faced with such a person did one feel the true impact.

Still, Zhu Qizhen believed that men like Li Shimian were not rare in the Ming dynasty.

The next day, Li Shimian’s replacement arrived.

It was Wang Zhi.

What struck Zhu Qizhen first was Wang Zhi’s magnificent beard—in this age, it would be called a “heroic beard.”

Wang Zhi differed greatly from Li Shimian. His manner was gentle, like a spring breeze. If Li Shimian’s presence inspired solemnity at first impression, in Wang Zhi’s company one felt relaxed, even close.

He taught the Spring and Autumn Annals.

Yet he did more than recount the text; each time he told a story from the Annals, he would draw parallels, arraying similar historical events and interpreting them through the sages’ judgments.

He would ask: what if one acted thus, or otherwise? He would analyze the subtle implications and profound meanings in detail.

At first, Zhu Qizhen was guarded. He worried that if he revealed too much ability, Wang Zhi, like Li Shimian, would accelerate the pace of instruction.

But soon, Zhu Qizhen set these thoughts aside.

For he realized that Wang Zhi’s lessons on the Annals were, in truth, lessons in history. Each profound maxim would lead to a dozen stories—real events, not simple tales for children, but incidents formally recorded in the histories.

Zhu Qizhen was utterly absorbed.

To be honest, though Zhu Qizhen possessed the perspective of later generations, his grasp of Chinese history was not profound—certainly not in comparison to the scholar-officials of this age. Unless one was a history major in later times, what was learned in textbooks was mere common knowledge. Indeed, from a different perspective, it almost seemed as if one had read a false history.

At first, Zhu Qizhen restrained himself, but before long, captivated by the lecture, he could not help but ask questions—about historical details, about differing interpretations.

Wang Zhi explained everything with a gentle smile.

And so, unknowingly, the morning slipped away, and it was time for the lesson to end.

After seeing Zhu Qizhen off, Wang Zhi’s lips curled into a wry smile. “What is this situation?” he murmured.

Wang Zhi was renowned alongside Wang Ying; both were successful candidates in the second year of the Yongle reign, and the two were close friends. When Wang Ying impeached Li Shimian, he recused himself from the position of lecturer to avoid suspicion, and recommended Wang Zhi instead.

Wang Zhi was both surprised and delighted. After all, to serve as imperial tutor was a great temptation. All the current political grandees had come from the Renzong Emperor’s former household.

Yet Yang Shiqi, fearing Wang Zhi would repeat Li Shimian’s path, summoned Wang Zhi before his appointment and made things clear. The emperor was still a child; the goal was to inspire, to let him feel the allure of the sages’ teachings, not to force him. The lessons need not be too rigorous—so long as the emperor grasped the essential principles.

There were even rules set for the emperor’s progress. The Spring and Autumn Annals, for instance, must be studied for at least a year.

At the time, Wang Zhi saw no issue.

But once he began teaching, he discovered the real problem: His Majesty was no ordinary child.

Many lessons required barely a word, and the emperor understood. The pace set for him was covered in little more than half an hour.

So Wang Zhi improvised, shifting the curriculum toward history, and thus managed to fill the remaining time.

Only then did he understand why Li Shimian’s instruction had moved so quickly—not from disregard for the boy’s health, but in response to the emperor’s capacity for learning.

For a moment, he wondered if Li Shimian’s dismissal had further causes. But as an official in the Ministry of Personnel, Wang Zhi was no stranger to the court’s intrigues.

In any case, he had received the greatest benefit: to forge the bond of teacher and pupil with the emperor. As for other matters, he would not pursue them too deeply.

Still, he had his suspicions.

His prime suspect was Wang Zhen.

Thus, unlike Li Shimian, Wang Zhi was always deferential to Wang Zhen, treating him with extra respect.

Wang Zhen, after all, was a scholar, albeit only a licentiate, but he recognized Wang Zhi and regarded him with both kindness and surprise. The two got along exceedingly well.

Yet, seeing the respect Zhu Qizhen showed Li Shimian, and with the Empress Dowager still alive, Wang Zhen kept his resentment against Li Shimian hidden, waiting for the day when he might settle the score.