Chapter Ninety-Eight: Confucianism

As he left the room, Ning Yi sighed deeply.

Li Pin was still inside, likely processing all those thoughts, perhaps even jotting some down. It no longer mattered; what had been said was out in the open, no longer his burden to ponder or dissect. The future path belonged to Li Pin now.

Some ideas he had spoken aloud, others he kept to himself—just as he had said, “It’s all just a joke.” This was not a mere evasive phrase or a false humility; to him, it truly was nothing more than an irresponsible jest.

To mend the flaws and loopholes in the existing political system was near folly. Of course, if purely discussing the problems at hand, Ning Yi had considered them. Take commerce, for example. In the Wu Dynasty, commerce was not an urgent weak point needing development—it had become a strength, perhaps the strongest. From the perspective of balanced development, many other institutions lagged behind commerce’s growth. Pushing commerce further, even if sweet rewards came, would be distorted and perilous to the nation.

Confucianism had reached a point of saturation and overflow. If any positive progress was possible, refining the division of labor would be an excellent direction—both to rationally distribute educational capacity and to prepare for the impending industrialization. It sounded promising, but therein lay the joke.

The root of all these issues lay in Confucianism.

When Ning Yi said he revered Confucianism, it was neither flattery nor sarcasm, but genuine reverence. Having long managed organizations, he could discern the strengths and weaknesses of various management disciplines. Whether a company had thousands or tens of thousands of employees, he could establish sound systems, manage people well, and ensure smooth operations. But life was not so simple, nor was a nation-state so shallow.

Confucianism was not merely Confucius’s pedantic, useless teachings. The Analects were about cultivating one’s mind and character—universal laws of human life. Later rulers found the key within these laws—how to create rules, manipulate these principles, and guide society. Generations refined and amended these ideas, adjusting and compromising when problems arose. Over thousands of years, the finest minds of each dynasty dedicated themselves to perfecting this governance philosophy, like sifting sand through great waves.

Stripping away its seemingly gentle and archaic surface reveals a system of governance executed with utmost practicality. Modern management philosophy, such as cultivating corporate culture to foster a sense of belonging, demands tremendous effort—sometimes an ultimate goal in itself. If modern management is an eight-bit computer program, Confucianism is a vast genetic map. It governs the hearts of tens of thousands, invisibly and naturally accepted as self-evident.

After millennia of evolution—survival of the fittest—if the Han ethnicity is viewed as a whole, this system is essentially one of its genetic strands. Even in the following decades, whoever ruled this land would inevitably rely on Confucianism—not necessarily out of admiration for Han culture, but because no other model could survive. In its intricate and complex nature, it far surpassed European constitutional monarchies, parliaments, church rule, Japanese Bushido, or Indian caste systems.

It resembled a vast spider’s web—any movement pulls the strands around it, ring after ring, layer upon layer. Internal reform was unpredictable; no one knew where to start or how much force would yield results. It was like punching the water’s surface—no matter how high the splash, the water always settles back. One person attempting reform faced a colossal network formed by the collective wisdom of the top figures of every dynasty, every year and month for thousands of years—a massive Taiji diagram. Trying to perform acrobatics within such a system single-handedly was folly.

For Ning Yi, he could sit and admire this system, marveling at its exquisite complexity, treating it as a work of art. Yet, he lacked confidence to reform it from within. Some dynasties produced geniuses who identified key points, but few had faith in those keys. Wang Anshi’s reforms in the Northern Song, though supported by the emperor and persistent for years, were ultimately crushed by overwhelming backlash. Shang Yang’s reforms in the Qin dynasty struck the right chord, but he offended too many and was eventually torn apart by five horses.

Chinese philosophy embraces the concept of Taiji and yin-yang—greater force invites greater feedback. Those who attempt radical reform within Confucianism often meet grim ends. Of course, thoughtful individuals might nudge the system incrementally through effort. Li Pin had such qualifications; if he wished to act, he could. That was why Ning Yi casually shared his thoughts with him.

Yet, deep down, Ning Yi believed internal reform was thankless and exhausting. Even if he excelled at political intrigue and power struggles, armed with modern theories or able to stir the court like a Taiji master, he doubted his ability to withstand the system’s pushback.

But why resist? If something truly had to be done, Ning Yi would consider becoming another Liao or Jin—toppling the Wu Dynasty from the outside. The governance system depended on human existence; once the state collapsed and the Confucian system froze, one could seize the opportunity to inject new ideas and sweep away accumulated burdens—a system reset, like reinstalling an operating system, and then watching how it would slowly digest and evolve.

This was, in Ning Yi’s sincere opinion, the simplest path to reform. Of course, he wouldn’t bore Li Pin with this. Li Pin sought practical internal methods, so Ning Yi shared his views on internal change. Li Pin was no blind follower; though initially alarmed, he would gradually digest and transform these ideas into his own. If he truly succeeded, Ning Yi would watch the transformation with interest.

It was idle chatter anyway. It was only afternoon, and Ning Yi was merely a bored merchant’s son-in-law. Once their idle talk ended, he cast it aside and headed toward the academy.

At the entrance of Yushan Academy, he noticed two carriages parked beside the roadside wall, guarded by a few soldiers, seemingly waiting. The carriages belonged to Prince Yong’s mansion. Ning Yi frowned slightly, looking back toward the academy.

Could it be that the sibling pair had come again to challenge him, and he had missed them again?

Missing them was for the best. Ning Yi shook his head with a mischievous smile and left. He hadn’t eaten lunch yet and planned to go to a nearby tavern to grab some food. Turning a corner, he saw Xiao Chan coming from the opposite side, resting in the shade of a large locust tree. She smiled and waved, “Young master.”

Sunlight filtered through the locust leaves above.

Following Xiao Chan was a servant carrying several boxes. Recently, many refugees had flooded the city. Though security remained good, the Su household still insisted that the ladies and maids be accompanied outside to prevent accidents. This servant was likely assigned by Xiao Chan as a bodyguard and attendant. Upon seeing Ning Yi, Xiao Chan spoke briefly before nodding politely and sending the servant away. The servant seemed both honored and pleased—Xiao Chan was always courteous and kind to everyone.

Meanwhile, near the entrance of Yushan Academy where Ning Yi had just left, the sibling duo emerged sneakily. Seeing Ning Yi absent, they relaxed and became open. Zhou Junwu surveyed the streets, his shoulders slumping. “Sister, that Ning Yi is really powerful.”

Zhou Pei frowned slightly, thoughtful for a moment before shooting her brother a glance. “I know he’s powerful.”

“So should we still test him?”

“Of course we must question him.” Zhou Pei considered and then headed toward the carriages. “Let’s wait until we’re ready.”

“Okay, okay.” Zhou Junwu followed, nodding in agreement. “He even made Li Pin concede. That’s amazing, but I don’t quite understand what he said. Sister, do you?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh… but I think…”

The siblings’ voices faded as the carriage moved off, blending into the bustling street on an early autumn afternoon. White clouds drifted lazily. On another street, Ning Yi and Xiao Chan made their way toward the Fu Yi tavern.

That evening, Zhou Pei sat in the garden of Prince Kang’s mansion, lost in thought. No lanterns lit nearby, no maids to interrupt. The young princess favored such tranquil settings to contemplate. Dressed in a long gown, her hair still damp from bathing, she had removed her shoes and socks, leaning against the pavilion in the garden. It was near the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month; the moon shone brightly, and fireflies danced among the flowers.

Zhou Junwu was not home tonight. After dinner, he had gone to visit his father-in-law, the prince consort. There, he sat in the garden with Kang Xian, stealing moments while other children ran and played noisily, and recounted the day’s events.

“Prince Consort, that Ning Yi—did what he said make sense?”

Kang Xian frowned deeply, his gaze as solemn as a fathomless abyss. His scholarly demeanor was known for its seriousness, though among children like Zhou Pei and Zhou Junwu, he showed a different, softer side. Only when discussing truly important matters with elders like Qin Lao would he adopt this stern expression; among friends, he rarely did.

“Did he… say all that?”

“Yes. Sister seemed to understand some, but probably not everything. I think he’s amazing. Even Li Pin bowed to him. Prince Consort, can I invite him to be my teacher?”

Meanwhile, at the Su household, on the second-floor corridor of the small building, Ning Yi had long forgotten the chaotic thoughts of the day. He was now leisurely seated in a pavilion with Su Tan’er, Xiao Chan’er, Juan’er, and Xing’er, peeling tangerines and eating. Though “leisurely” was relative; after finishing one tangerine, Su Tan’er wiped her mouth and stood. “I’m full. Husband, you take your time.”

“Hey, no need to rush.”

Ning Yi’s tone was casual, fitting Su Tan’er’s adaptable style. The small bamboo basket held plenty more tangerines. Su Tan’er turned back with an apologetic yet helpless smile. “There’s still work to be done…”

“Need help?”

“No, husband, just enjoy your tangerines.”

Su Tan’er smiled sweetly and returned to her room. She had been quite busy lately. Floodwaters were imminent; the city gates would soon close. Various preemptive measures had to be planned, funds quietly gathered for a major move. Though tiring, her spirits seemed good—perhaps due to real breakthroughs with the imperial merchant affairs.

Everything appeared to be going smoothly, just like this life…

(Theories and ideas—I always take them seriously. Some like them, some don’t. Perhaps such things are inherently thankless. But in a world of self-interest, what must be done still must be done.

Next, we officially enter the second half of the hidden battle—the imperial merchant phase...

As always, it shouldn’t disappoint.)