sovbooks Chapter 7 Hidden Front
Chapter 7 Hidden Front
It's almost 9 AM.
The wind subsided a bit, and sunlight peeked through the gaps in the clouds, causing the dampness on the bluestone slabs of the courtyard to rise into a layer of white mist that was almost invisible to the naked eye.
Zhao Heng walked alone towards the study on the west side.
The corridor was very quiet.
At this hour, the servants of the mansion should be sweeping the front yard or preparing breakfast in the kitchen; few people come to this side courtyard.
Wei Jia dislikes having strangers around him when he is teaching, and this has become a regular practice over the past three years.
Zhao Heng walked steadily, his face still pale from his recent recovery, but his eyes were clear.
Fragments of memories about Wei Jia are now surfacing in my mind.
Three years ago, also in spring, this gentleman was brought to the mansion. At that time, Zhao Heng was seven years old and had just begun his studies. His father had been in Qin for several years. Lady Han held him in her arms and sat in the main hall. Through the curtain, she heard the eunuch sent by her grandfather introduce him: "This is Mr. Wei, personally appointed by the King as the tutor of the young master."
He remembered that Wei Jia stood in the hall at that time, his dark gray robe stiffened from starching, his whole figure like a slender bamboo, thin and straight. His mother asked him some questions through the curtain, about his teachers and what he had learned. Wei Jia answered briefly: "I once studied at Jixia Academy and have a rudimentary understanding of the classics and history. I am grateful that Your Majesty has not rejected me, and I am willing to offer my humble sincerity."
Then came three years.
The lessons were taught in the study, starting at Chen Shi (7-9 AM) or Si Shi (9-11 AM), lasting one to two hours each day. Wei Jia lectured on the Book of Poetry, the Book of Documents, and the Spring and Autumn Annals, as well as Sun Tzu's Art of War and Wu Zixu's Art of War.
He explained classics and history in a simple and easy-to-understand way, but when he talked about military strategy and tactics, he only touched on the subject briefly and never touched on current affairs or politics. His study contained almost nothing but bamboo slips, writing brushes, ink, and a small table. It was so simple that it was almost deliberate.
Today's "lesson" is probably different from any other day.
Zhao Heng turned through the last corridor.
The study was a small, secluded courtyard with seven or eight stalks of green bamboo, each about the thickness of an arm, their leaves rustling in the morning breeze. The bamboo shadows cast on the stone steps swayed gently. The courtyard gate was ajar.
He pushed the door open and entered.
The room was spacious.
The west window was half open, letting in slanted light that cast a bright rectangle on the floor, where dust motes swirled slowly.
The room was small, about three zhang square, with blue brick flooring and no decorations on the four walls. Only a silk painting of "Yu Gong Nine Provinces Map" was hanging on the east wall, the ink of which had faded somewhat.
On the long table, bamboo slips were neatly stacked, and a brush rested beside the inkstone. The ink on the brush tip had long since dried, solidifying into a small, hard lump.
He paused at the door for a moment.
A long table was placed under the west window, its surface polished smooth. On the left side were stacks of a dozen or so bamboo slips, and on the right side were a brush, ink, inkstone, and a bamboo slip cutting knife.
Two bluish-gray rush mats were laid out in front of the desk, facing each other. The mat on the north side was slightly thicker and worn at the edges, which was Wei Jia's usual seat; the mat on the south side was newer and belonged to Zhao Heng.
In the southeast corner stood a bronze crane-shaped lamp, unlit. In the northeast corner was a six-panel plain screen, behind which a bamboo curtain leading to an inner room could be vaguely seen. There seemed to be a space behind it, but Zhao Heng did not recall ever seeing it opened.
He went into the room and knelt down on the straw mat on the south side.
First, sit quietly for a moment and regulate your breathing. Zhao Heng didn't know where this habit came from, but after kneeling here, his back naturally straightened, his shoulders relaxed, and his breath settled down.
The faint throbbing pain in my chest has gone, but I still feel a bit weak, and my back and waist feel tired if I sit for too long.
Zhao Heng looked up at the person opposite him.
The straw mat on the north side was empty, its edges worn so badly that the color of the straw stems underneath was visible. A small area on the table in front of the mat was particularly shiny, a testament to years of people working there.
He looked away and reached out to take the top bamboo scroll from the table.
It was *The Art of War* by Sun Tzu. The braided rope was sturdy, the bamboo strips were slightly cool, and it felt substantial in his hand. He slowly unfurled it, the strips rustling softly against each other. He then focused on the words and began to read carefully.
"...Therefore, those who subdue the feudal lords do so with harm, those who employ the feudal lords do so with tasks, and those who entice the feudal lords do so with profit..."
He read very slowly. Sunlight crept in through the west window, moving inch by inch, first illuminating the corner of the desk, then spilling over the edges of the bamboo slips, and finally landing on his folded sleeves.
Countless dust particles were swirling in the light.
There was a faint commotion in the distance. It sounded like servants carrying heavy loads through the corridor, their footsteps muffled, and there were also brief, hushed conversations, the contents of which were unclear.
Further away, the city of Handan awoke, the clamor of the marketplace drifting through layers of courtyard walls, blending into a muffled yet persistent low murmur.
A quarter of an hour passed.
Wei Jia has not yet arrived.
Zhao Heng was not in a hurry.
He read the bamboo scroll to the end, rolled it up, and placed it beside him. He then unfolded the second scroll, which was also "Sun Tzu's Art of War." This time, it was the "Nine Variations" chapter.
"...There are roads one should not take, armies one should not attack, cities one should not besiege, and territories one should not contend for..."
After skimming through a few lines, I opened the third volume, only to find it blank, a newly printed book, with no inscription yet.
Just then, the curtain on the east side swayed very slightly.
There seemed to be a breeze. But the west window was only half open, and the wind direction was wrong. Zhao Heng lowered his eyelids, seemingly unaware, focusing his attention more intently on the text on the bamboo slips, his breathing remaining steady.
Another quarter of an hour passed.
The curtain was lifted by a hand.
Wei Jia walked out slowly.
He had already changed his clothes. He wore a dark brown, almost black, curved robe, made of coarse, unadorned fabric. A matching cloth belt was tied around his waist. He wore no jade or sachet or other ornaments. His hair was neatly combed, his long beard was tidied, and his face was calm, revealing no emotion.
Zhao Heng rolled up the bamboo slips, placed them back on the table, then stood up, took a half step back, tucked his hands into his sleeves, and bowed in a disciple's salute.
"The student has met the teacher."
After the ceremony, he straightened up and looked up.
Wei Jia nodded slightly and gestured for him to return to his seat.
However, Wei Jia himself did not sit down immediately. He stood in front of the north seat, looking down at Zhao Heng.
His gaze was calm, like a still pond on an autumn day, yet Zhao Heng felt an invisible scrutiny. However, this scrutiny was neither malicious nor approving; it was more like a craftsman examining a piece of uncarved jade, deciding where to begin cutting.
Zhao Heng remained motionless and silent.
Finally, Wei Jia slowly knelt down. His movements were graceful, his robe sleeves drooping, his posture relaxed yet dignified.
He and Zhao Heng faced each other across the table, separated by a rectangular patch of sunlight, in which dust particles still swirled.
The silence continued.
There was the sound of birds flapping their wings outside the window, which briefly passed by before disappearing into the distance.
After a long silence, Wei Jia spoke: "It's already past 9 AM, but class hasn't started yet. Don't you find that strange?"
Zhao Heng raised his eyes and met Wei Jia's gaze.
"Sir, you are a teacher. A teacher has his own reasons for deciding when and how to conduct a class. The student simply waits."
Wei Jia nodded.
"it is good."
A brief pause.
Wei Jia picked up the scissor on the table and gently wiped the blade with his fingertips.
"No lessons today," he said. "Let's talk about something else."
Zhao Heng performed the ceremony.
"I would like to hear your guidance, teacher."
Wei Jia put down the knife. The blade made a soft sound as it touched the table.
"You have already stated that the young man from Handan, your wife, and your retainers are all without fault. Therefore, I will not inquire into the faults of this incident."
He spoke slowly, "I'll only talk about how you just refuted the eunuch Gao Qu in the front hall, causing him to leave in a sorry state. In your opinion, was this action right or wrong?"
Zhao Heng's gaze sharpened slightly as he looked out the west window. Among the several green bamboo stalks outside the window stood an old apricot tree, its branches swaying gently in the wind, casting a shadow that danced on the window paper.
He pondered this for a moment and said, "In my opinion, it is both right and wrong."
Wei Jia leaned forward slightly, adopting a listening posture.
"But looking at the bigger picture," Zhao Heng continued, "it is ultimately the right thing to do."
Wei Jia remained calm and simply gave a soft "hmm".
So Zhao Heng continued:
"Gao Qu came on the king's orders. Regardless of whether he truly received the king's 'admonitions,' daring to insult my mother to my face is an insult to the Chunping Lord's mansion. If the family's reputation is damaged, the people's hearts will scatter. This is the first point."
"When his admonitions failed, he turned to the idea of beating his four retainers to death, which was a warning to others and an attempt to break the morale of the household. Now, the household is already weak in Handan, my father is a hostage in Qin, my mother is a woman from Han, and I am still young. If we allow a palace eunuch to continue to oppress us like this, the eyes inside and outside the household will grow cold. Once the hearts of the people are cold, everything we do will be hindered."
At this point, Zhao Heng raised his eyes and looked at Wei Jia.
"Therefore, I believe that as a son, it is right for him to protect his mother and safeguard the family's reputation."
Wei Jiashen asked, "Then what's wrong?"
Zhao Heng continued to respond slowly.
"Gao Qu is, after all, a close attendant of the King of Zhao, his eyes and ears. He has the power to isolate the King from the outside world and to influence him. If I offend him today, he only needs to say a few words to the King of Zhao, and I'm afraid I will not have a good reputation with my grandfather in the future."
Wei Jia pressed further: "If that's the case, then why say 'it's ultimately right'?"
Zhao Heng's expression turned serious.
"King Zhao cannot be fooled by a single eye or ear. Even if Gao Qu has some ability, he cannot cover up the truth and deceive the king."
"The family's reputation and the people's hearts cannot withstand the repeated humiliation inflicted by a mere eunuch. The household is currently only slightly leaky, but if the people's hearts are shattered, it will truly be riddled with holes and beyond repair."
His tone turned cold when he mentioned this.
"The most important thing is that whether or not we have offended Gao Qu is no longer important. Because from the fact that no one inquired about the palace for three days after the drowning, to Gao Qu daring to act like this today, it is clear that someone has already built a high wall between King Zhao and me."
He stopped there, without saying anything more.
Wei Jia waited a while, and seeing that he did not continue, he spoke up: "So, you are right in two ways and wrong in one."
Zhao Heng nodded.
Wei Jia shook his head.
"That's right. You fell into the water for three days, and the palace didn't ask any questions, which proves there's a wall," he said. "But in my opinion, you're right in two ways and wrong in two ways."
Zhao Heng straightened his posture, clasped his hands in front of him, and bowed, saying, "Please enlighten me, teacher."
Wei Jia's tone grew increasingly serious.
"There are people in the city who plot against you. They previously thought you were just a child, and even though their plans were meticulous, they still left flaws. But today, you showed your prowess, and they know you are no ordinary child. The next one to come will probably not be a fool like Gao Qu who relies on his power."
Zhao Heng astutely asked, "Is the teacher teaching me to conceal my strength?"
Wei Jia stopped speaking, but stood up and walked towards the six-panel plain screen. His figure disappeared into the shadows behind the screen, and after a moment, he emerged, holding something in his hand.
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"A wise man keeps his talents hidden until the right time to act." — The Book of Changes, Appendix III