What do the ancients do when they bid farewell, and what do they sing?
Yanyan saw it, and he heard it.
In Wujun, at Yushan Academy, under a blanket of heavy snow, the world was clad in silver, yet the academy's courtyard was filled with singing and dancing as the teachers and junior disciples sent off their senior brother, who was successfully graduating and completing his studies.
There were no massive bells and sonorous chimes—those were reserved for kings, lords, and high ministers in the imperial court.
Yet there were chime-bells, zithers and lutes, xiao flutes, and drums, accompanied by a troupe of young and graceful dancing girls.
"Gathering the artemisia, gathering the artemisia, the artemisia sprouts are budding. They say we return, they say we return, and now the year draws to a close. With no chambers and no homes, because of the Xianyun. Without a moment to rest and dwell, because of the Xianyun.
...
In the past when I set out, the willows were fluttering softly. Today as I come back, the rain and snow are falling thick and fast. The road is long and slow, parched with thirst and gnawed by hunger. My heart is full of grief, yet no one knows my sorrow."
The song and dance drew to a close amidst the final lines of "In the past when I set out".
The "Plucking the Vetches" from the Lesser Odes of the Kingdom was the most common song used by the ancients for farewells.
In those days, the Book of Songs all came paired with dedicated musical melodies, and there was even a specialized Classic of Music to accompany them.
It was only a pity that as poetry became mere poetry, the accompanying music and tunes for many of these poems, songs, and rhapsodies had long been lost.
Especially with the loss of the Classic of Music, the melodies that complemented the Book of Songs had vanished right along with it.
"Safe journey, Senior Brother!"
"Rest assured on your path, Senior Brother!"
"Lead the way, Senior Brother!"
"..."
Looking at his teachers and junior disciples, whose eyes burned with fervor yet held not a trace of sorrow—even brimming with delight and a sense of relief—Yanyan was momentarily at a loss for words.
I am graduating, not passing away. Are you all quite certain you are using these lines in the right place?
Since that is how it is, do not blame your senior brother for being heartless. How will you gentlemen respond when I pull out a song called "Farewell"?
A lingering song drifted over...
"Outside the long pavilion, beside the ancient road, the fragrant grass stretches green to the horizon. The evening breeze stirs the willows as the flute notes fade, beyond the hills stand distant hills."
"At the edge of the sky, at the corners of the earth, our parting friends are scattered like autumn leaves..."
This instantly left the entire Yushan Academy silent and emotionally shattered. The lyrics rang clear in their ears, conjuring vivid imagery before their eyes, and the sorrow of parting was dialed up to the maximum in an instant.
"Were we perhaps a bit too much?" The Libationer of Yushan Academy, the Proctor, and the heads of the Six Arts all fell into self-doubt.
"Actually, Senior Brother doesn't seem... quite so detestable after all. At least in the realm of music, he truly deserves to be called the Senior Brother!" whispered a disciple.
"The crux of the matter is that we can no longer teach him anything!" The Libationer sighed.
"He debated with me for three days and three nights, asking me whether the chicken came first or the egg, asking me who I am, where I come from, and where I am going! He asked me whether things exist because I perceive them, or whether I perceive them because they exist? He asked me whether the flowers bloom because I arrive, or whether I arrive because the flowers bloom? How on earth was I supposed to answer that?" The Proctor stared up at the sky; at the time, he had almost wanted to resort to violence and show Yanyan what a real debate was like.
Hearing the Proctor's words, the assembled masters fell silent. They were thankful the questions hadn't been put to them—otherwise, their inner foundations of the Dao would likely have shattered on the spot.
Only the Proctor, with his unyielding mental fortitude, had managed to last three days and three nights. If it had been any of them, the consequences would have been unimaginable.
"Quickly, write down the song he just sang! I fear the Classic of Music and the Book of Songs will soon have one more farewell song added to their ranks!" The Libationer reacted quickly, clearly sensing a brand-new rhythmic tempo emerging within the metrical framework of the Book of Songs, one that would deliver an absolute shock to poetry.
Though Yanyan was being sent off, a disciple's wool should be sheared wherever possible!
If they didn't squeeze out every last drop of value from a disciple, they wouldn't be worthy of being called teachers!
After all, as they sent Yanyan away, Yushan Academy had also lent him the Classic of Changes to copy and take with him.
"What a truly lovely bunch of people!" Yanyan laughed heartily as he strode away from Wujun.
He had been adopted by Yushan Academy; the academy's Proctor had rescued him from a world of ice and snow, and for sixteen years since, they had imparted the Dao, cleared his doubts, and taught him his profession!
Every single master and teacher here had treated him as their own flesh and blood, and the Six Arts of the Gentleman had been taught to him personally by the heads of the Six Arts themselves. Therefore, toward Yushan Academy and the Yan Family, Yanyan felt deeply grateful. Through unremitting effort, he had stepped up to become the deputy head of the Six Arts and the universally recognized Senior Brother of Yushan.
(Head of the Six Arts: If he doesn't leave, our positions aren't safe! We are each specialized in just one of the Six Arts, but he has mastered all six!)
Yet having left Yushan Academy, Yanyan did not know where he ought to go.
Ever since he arrived in this ancient world, the furthest he had ever traveled was to the county town at the foot of Mount Yu, and he had never once stepped outside Wujun.
Yet as a graduating disciple of the Confucian School, embarking on a tour of scholarly travels was an obligatory path for them.
The Confucian hierarchy was exceedingly rigorous, ranging from Confucian scholars to masters, then to great scholars, and finally to sages.
Many Confucian scholars spent their entire lives without ever attaining the position of master, and even more disciples grew old and died in the rank of master, unable to reach the realm of great scholars. As for sages, there had only ever been two in the entire history of Confucianism.
Wanting to become a master was neither particularly difficult nor particularly simple. Once you reached a sufficient age, you could be called a master; or if your learning, scholarship, and conduct surpassed those of others, convincing them and winning their voluntary respect, people would likewise address you as master.
Thus, becoming a master was something one could achieve simply by biding one's time—provided one did not give up one's studies midway, one would eventually grind their way into becoming a master.
Becoming a great scholar, however, was exceptionally difficult. A great scholar was a teacher to masters, meaning you had to command the conviction of a whole group of masters, far surpassing them in scholarship and conduct, and win their recognition before you could possibly become a great scholar.
Simply put, a Confucian disciple not only had to be formidable himself, but his disciples had to be formidable as well!
"I always feel like the Confucian School is a pyramid scheme mixed with a criminal syndicate. The real problem isn't that pyramid schemes and syndicates are terrifying—what's terrifying is that these people also excel at motivational training, martial arts, penal law, and astronomy!" Yanyan gazed up at the firmament and shook his head, thinking of later generations.
If contemporary Confucian disciples had just finished their studies, well over half of them would straightaway go off to sew mailbags in prison.
The remaining half might not even have a sewing machine to work on before they were put down.
As for the final tiny fraction left over—those were undoubtedly high-ranking and powerful bigwigs!
Han Fei had once said that Confucians disrupt the law through literature, and looking at the composition of the Confucian School, Yanyan understood the meaning perfectly.
Just imagine: you, a Confucian master, leading dozens of disciples—disciples who were capable of both literary and martial arts—wherever you went, wasn't that a terrifying terrorist organization?
One had to know that in a smaller county town, the total number of officials and clerks combined might not even equal your headcount. Add to that the fact that you were thoroughly versed in the laws of various states, skilled at swaying human hearts, and capable of governance—if you arrived in a place and declared yourself king on the spot, the locals wouldn't even have a chance to resist.
Coupled with mastery of crowd manipulation and administrative skills, the common people wouldn't resist at all; they would even line the streets to welcome you. If this wasn't disrupting the law through literature, what was it?
At the height of his power, Confucius had three thousand disciples and dozens of war chariots as he traveled among the various states. Why did no one ever dare employ them?
One had to ask: among the feudal states of the Spring and Autumn period, how many possessed a military armaments of three thousand men and dozens of war chariots?
If they employed you, who would have the final say in the country?
Would the common people know their lord, or would they know Master Kong Zhongni?
In particular, the Confucian School's methods for recruiting disciples were terrifyingly effective. If a state employed them, within a few years, the entire country would be swarming with Confucian scholars and disciples of Confucius.
Given such a situation, which ruler would not be terrified? Which stubborn fool would dare employ them?