In Jinling City, silver can move gods and command ghosts.
Three days later, Hou San brought back news.
He stood before Feng Yuan with a troubled expression, hesitating to speak.
“Speak,” Feng Yuan said. He was practicing walking in the courtyard, taking each step with extreme steadiness, as if measuring the ground.
“Master, I found two people, but…” Hou San scratched his head, “They might not seem like much, but they definitely have skills.”
“Oh?” Feng Yuan stopped walking and looked at him.
“First, tell me about the teacher.”
“That teacher is called Han Anmeng. He is a Xiucai who has taken the examinations his entire life but never even passed as a Juren. He is almost forty now, his family is dirt poor, and his elderly mother is chronically ill. They rely entirely on him selling calligraphy and paintings, and his wife doing needlework to support the household.”
Feng Fang shook his head while listening nearby: “Young Master, this person is likely an unworldly, pedantic scholar who only knows how to read rote texts. How can he teach you strategies for governing the nation?”
Hou San quickly added, “I specifically went to the shop where he was lodging and bought a piece. This calligraphy has the spirit of iron and silver hooks, very imposing! That painting, a stalk of bamboo drawn so vividly it looks alive—it seems like it will move if the wind blows! The shop owner said if his reputation weren't so obscure, a piece of his calligraphy or painting could sell for at least ten more silver taels.”
“Oh?” Feng Yuan stopped walking again and said, “Bring it here for me to see.”
Hou San quickly unrolled the painting. Feng Yuan stared at it for two glances, then clapped his hands and said:
“Prepare the carriage; we will go see Mr. Han first.”
A narrow, cramped alley in the west of Jinling City.
The bluestone slab road was uneven, and the houses on both sides nearly touched, squeezing the sky into a thin line.
The air was filled with a damp, indescribable musty smell.
Feng Yuan alighted from the carriage and told Hou San and Feng Fang to wait at the alley entrance while he walked in alone.
He was wearing a half-worn plain blue cloth straight robe, and in his hand, he carried a simple cloth bag containing the bamboo painting by Han Anmeng that Hou San had purchased.
He did not look like a wealthy Young Master coming to hire a teacher, but rather like a poor student seeking instruction.
He stopped before a wooden door whose paint was peeling and gently knocked three times.
“Who is it?” a tired voice came from inside the door.
The door opened, and a woman with a sallow complexion, though her clothes were cleanly washed, peered out.
“May I ask if this is the residence of Mr. Han Anmeng?” Feng Yuan bowed respectfully.
The woman eyed him suspiciously: “What business do you have with my husband?”
“I am Student Feng Yuan. I came here by reputation, hoping to seek guidance from the Teacher.”
“My husband is not here.” The woman started to close the door.
“Auntie, please wait.” Feng Yuan was neither rushed nor impatient. “I mean no harm. I merely chanced upon the Teacher’s artwork, was astonished by its brilliance, and my curiosity is unbearable.”
He opened the cloth bag and revealed the painting.
The woman’s expression softened upon seeing the painting, but she still shook her head: “My husband has gone to the market. Please come back another day.”
“Mother, who is here?” A childish voice called from the inner room.
A boy of five or six ran out, hiding behind the woman, looking curiously at Feng Yuan.
The child was thin, but his eyes were bright, and he was holding a scroll of a book.
Feng Yuan smiled and took out a small packet of osmanthus candy wrapped in oiled paper from his robes.
“For you.”
The woman tried to stop him, but the child had already taken it.
“Thank you… thank you, Young Master,” the woman said, looking somewhat embarrassed.
Afterward, Feng Yuan sat inside the house waiting for Mr. Han to return.
At the same time, he learned that the child’s name was Han Dingfang.
Not long after,
a thin, middle-aged man carrying a scroll of paintings walked over from the alley entrance.
His figure was slender, his face haggard, but his eyes were like deep pools, hiding light.
He saw Feng Yuan by the door, then glanced at his wife and child, and frowned.
“Who are you?” His voice was hoarse, carrying a hint of vigilance.
“Teacher has returned.” Feng Yuan bowed again. “I am Student Feng Yuan, paying my respects to Mr. Han.”
Han Anmeng’s gaze fell upon the painting in his hand, then swept over his simple attire.
“What is it?”
“I wish to ask the Teacher to instruct me in my studies,” Feng Yuan stated directly.
Han Anmeng let out a self-deprecating laugh: “You are the master of that Servant Boy from the other day. Jinling City has plenty of famous scholars and great masters; what could I, a poor Xiucai who couldn't even pass as a Juren, possibly teach you?”
“The Teacher’s calligraphy possesses the spirit of metal and stone. The Teacher’s paintings possess the force of thunder.” Feng Yuan looked into his eyes. “These are things a person who only reads rote texts cannot possess. What I wish to learn is precisely these things beyond the books.”
Han Anmeng froze.
He had maintained his integrity and prided himself on his talent his entire life, yet he was constrained by the times.
People who saw him either pitied him or despised him; when had anyone ever discerned the spirit of injustice in his heart from his calligraphy or paintings?
“Come in,” he stepped aside, clearing the path.
The room was small, visible in its entirety.
One table, a few stools, and a corner piled high with books, emitting the scent of paper and ink fragrance.
A stifled cough came from the inner room.
“My mother is unwell; please excuse the sight.”
“Teacher.” Feng Yuan did not sit but took a money pouch from his robes and placed it on the table.
“Here are fifty silver taels, this is for the Teacher’s tuition fee.”
Han Anmeng’s breathing hitched for a moment.
“Why me?” He stared at Feng Yuan.
“Because there is fire in the Teacher’s eyes,” Feng Yuan replied calmly. “And there is fire in mine as well.”
“What is your purpose in taking the Imperial Examination?”
“For power,” Feng Yuan uttered a single word.
Han Anmeng’s pupils contracted.
All the scholars in the world recited, “To establish the heart for Heaven and Earth, to establish destiny for the common people,” even if it was false.
This teenager before him, however, had so nakedly spoken the word “power.”
“Power can kill, and it can save,” Feng Yuan added. “I wish to be the one holding the blade.”
Han Anmeng was silent for a long time.
He looked at the money pouch on the table, then toward the inner room.
“Can you truly afford twenty silver taels every month until I pass the examination?”
Twenty taels a month meant two hundred and forty taels a year.
This sum was enough to procure the best medicine for his mother and ensure his wife and child were well-fed and warmly clothed.
“A gentleman’s promise is worth a thousand gold pieces.”
Finally, he picked up the cup of cold water before Feng Yuan and drank it all down.
“Tomorrow at the hour of Mao, I will come to your residence.”