027, is that even something a human would say?
This topic, having reached this point, was essentially at its end. Fan Huansha truly lived up to being the daughter of Fan Li, inheriting some of her father’s talents. What followed was a leisurely conversation traversing all manner of subjects—the lands north and south, the heavens and the earth, poetry and song, the teachings of a hundred schools. In days past, Fan Huansha had always prided herself on her vast knowledge and erudition. Yet now, faced with Wang Yu, she had finally met her match. To be a master of debate, one’s knowledge must be vast indeed. Without an immense reservoir of information, how could one be a worthy adversary in argument?
Thus, Wang Yu and Fan Huansha engaged in spirited exchange. Wei Wuji, himself a learned and talented man, found that apart from the military arts, in which he could contribute his opinions, much of the discussion was beyond his grasp. Zhao Luan, naturally, was even further at sea. There are four paths in the art of war: strategy, formation, yin-yang, and technique. Zhao Luan walked the path of formation—swift as thunder and wind, striking later yet arriving first, changing formation and approach at will, defeating the enemy with speed and agility. Of the other paths, his study was limited. In truth, he was less versed than Wei Wuji, who had chosen the path of strategy—defending the nation with orthodox methods, employing the unexpected in battle, calculating before engaging, adapting to circumstances, balancing yin and yang, and utilizing techniques as well.
Moreover, as the son of a prince, Wei Wuji’s experience was naturally broad. Nevertheless, when confronted with the likes of Wang Yu and Fan Huansha, he was left in the dust. Wang Yu relied on the convenience of accessing varied texts and knowledge from later generations, while Fan Huansha’s insight stemmed entirely from her father, Fan Li. Not only was her vision extraordinary, her family’s library vast, but she had also traveled widely with the merchant guild since childhood—her experience was unparalleled.
The two, meeting as equals, felt the thrill of encountering a true adversary and regretted not having met sooner. However, when the conversation turned to the relative merits of the hundred schools, Fan Huansha found herself on the defensive. In this era of contending philosophies, though Confucianism claimed to be the foremost school under heaven, the other schools were formidable in their own right. This led to constant disputes among them, and people of the time were often bewildered when it came to judging their true worth. In all the world, those who could discern the strengths and weaknesses of each school likely numbered fewer than ten. Fan Huansha was certainly not among them.
Wang Yu, on the other hand, with a foundation of knowledge from later ages, was well aware of the scholarly assessments of each school’s strengths and shortcomings. Thus, he could easily occupy the higher ground and outshine Fan Huansha. Fan Huansha asked, “Young Master Yu, your learning commands my admiration. But what is your opinion of the hundred schools—what are their strengths and weaknesses? I beg you to enlighten me.”
At this, Wang Yu laughed. “Miss Huansha, you’re putting me in a difficult position. Who am I to judge the teachings of the hundred schools? If word of this got out, would I not become the object of their hatred? Pray, do not put me in harm’s way.”
Clearly, Wang Yu was aware of the dangers of speaking too boldly. Such words could only bring trouble. Fan Huansha, proud by nature, having failed to surpass Wang Yu in other matters, was not about to let go of a question he could answer. She smiled, “There is no need for concern, Young Master. What is said here will reach only our three ears—no fourth person shall ever know. I pledge on my family’s name. Can you be at ease?”
Seeing that she had offered her family’s name as assurance, Wang Yu realized refusal would be an offense. Sighing, he said, “So be it. I shall venture to speak, but let my words be taken as idle speculation, not as truth.”
The three nodded, eager for his answer. In truth, Wei Wuji was especially interested; he had heard Wang Yu’s critique of the eclectic school and found it incisive, so he was eager to hear his thoughts on other schools as well.
Wang Yu cleared his throat and raised a finger. “Let us begin with the Confucians. The Confucian school traces its origins to officials who guided rulers in harmonizing with the cycles of nature and illuminating civilization. They studied the six classics, stressed benevolence and righteousness, took Yao and Shun as models, patterned themselves after Wen and Wu, revered Confucius as their master, and regarded their doctrines as the highest of all. As Confucius said, ‘If one is to be praised, one must first be tested.’ The prosperity of Tang and Yu, the glory of Yin and Zhou, and the work of Confucius himself have all been proven by history. Yet, those who are confused lose the subtlety of the teachings, and those who are biased distort them according to the times—departing from the true Way and seeking applause through sensational words.”
In other words: the way of Confucius was excellent, but his later followers failed to grasp its essence, often distorting his true intent and misinterpreting the classics. This was both the strength and the weakness of the Confucian school.
All three present understood Wang Yu’s meaning. Precisely because they understood, they were shocked. Wang Yu had swept aside the entire Confucian school with a single stroke, declaring that their followers had forsaken the true Way and sought fame with empty rhetoric. Such words were a bold repudiation of the current Confucians. Truly audacious—no wonder he had hesitated.
Fan Huansha felt a twinge of regret—she should never have pressed Wang Yu to comment on the hundred schools. Had she known he was so bold, she would not have given him the opportunity. But by now, Wang Yu was in full swing and could not stop.
“The Daoist school,” Wang Yu continued, “originated with historians, who recorded the rise and fall, fortune and calamity of states through the ages, and thus learned to grasp the essence of things, to maintain clarity and emptiness, to be humble and yielding. This was the art of ruling from the southern seat, in accord with Yao’s virtue and the humility praised in the Book of Changes—modest yet gaining in all things. This is their strength. Yet, when extremists took up their teachings, they sought to discard ritual and righteousness altogether, claiming that pure emptiness alone sufficed for governance.”
Fan Huansha, hearing this, felt a headache coming on. She wished Wang Yu would stop. Just listen to what he was saying—abandoning ritual and righteousness, claiming that tranquility alone could rule a nation. Was this even reasonable? Was this really what Daoism meant? Admittedly, Fan Huansha recognized that Wang Yu’s words were not without justification—some Daoists did indeed hold such views, as the Sage Li once said: “If we abolish sages and wisdom, the people will benefit a hundredfold; if we abolish benevolence and righteousness, the people will return to filial piety and compassion; if we abolish cunning and profit, there will be no thieves or bandits.” While these words were spoken by the Sage Li, his true intent was not as literal as some believed.
Li’s true meaning was that abandoning cunning and argument could benefit the people and the state, but he did not oppose the people becoming sages or thinking as sages did. Rather, everyone should have the right to think independently. This was his true intention; otherwise, why would he have counseled Confucius himself? If everyone became a simpleton, what would be the point? The sages’ intent was always good, but it was often distorted by those with ulterior motives. As Wang Yu said—distorted according to the times, forsaking the true Way, and seeking applause through sensational words. His words were precise and incisive. As the saying goes: “I annotate the Six Classics, but the Six Classics annotate me no more”—and so it is.