Chapter 7: Seeking Benevolence Through Apprenticeship

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Speaking of which, Le Yin was indeed a good official. Not only was he a man of integrity, but he was also honest and upright in his duties, never engaging in shady dealings. Yet in these times, honest officials rarely lasted long in office. This was because the current emperor was openly selling government positions.

The emperor Liu Hong had the flair of a shrewd merchant when it came to selling offices: a post with an official rank of two thousand shi cost twenty million coins; a six hundred shi post cost six million coins—no deception, just clear, fixed prices. And the payment was not a one-time affair. Not only was a fee required upon appointment, but also for renewal or transfer and promotion. It was reminiscent of certain platforms in later centuries charging membership fees.

Zhuo County, the seat of Zhuo Commandery (which had not yet been renamed Fanyang), was a large county. The county magistrate held a six hundred shi rank. Le Yin had served there for two years and was up for renewal, which meant another six million coins had to be paid. If one couldn’t afford the fee, naturally one had to be replaced.

Le Yin’s departure was inevitable, and the incoming magistrate was to be Gongsun Zan, a man who had become an enemy of the previous magistrate.

That said, Gongsun Zan might not have been eager to take on the post. After all, the magistrate of the commandery seat—a county attached to the city walls—was not a desirable position. For the past two years, Gongsun Zan had served as the Chief Clerk for the Liaodong client state, effectively the diplomat handling affairs with subordinate states in Liaodong Commandery.

Though originally a civil post, the Chief Clerk had little use against the Hu barbarians, who preferred to settle matters with fists rather than words. Thus, the officially civil Chief Clerk had effectively become a military officer.

Gongsun Zan had fought several battles against the Xianbei in Liaodong, personally beheading dozens of enemies with his unique double-edged spear. He earned much military merit and gained fame, causing the Xianbei to dare not invade through Liaodong again.

Moreover, he had trained cavalry forces in Liaodong, preparing for a counterattack beyond the frontier against the Xianbei.

Logically, such achievements and military preparations should have earned him a promotion to a border military post, such as Commandery Captain or a special post overseeing the subordinate states in Liaodong.

At worst, his merits should have qualified him to be a county commander of a major county in Liaodong; even a position half a rank lower would have been much better than being a magistrate of an attached county, at least he would still command troops.

Gongsun Zan’s reputation was built on military accomplishments; with the Xianbei still threatening the border, it was the perfect opportunity for him to continue winning merits and seek a noble title.

Yet instead, he was transferred deep inland to Youzhou, far from the battlefield, to serve as magistrate of Zhuo County.

After all, a promotion from Chief Clerk, a civil post, to county magistrate was normal.

It was obvious someone had set Gongsun Zan up, intending to prevent him from further military exploits and likely to seize the troops he had trained.

This was compounded by the fact that last year, Gongsun Zan’s patron Liu Kuan had lost his position as Grand Commandant due to a solar eclipse and was demoted to Guard Commander, no longer in charge of military affairs.

However, Liu Bei did not care whether Gongsun Zan had been sabotaged; what mattered to him was how to persuade Gongsun Zan to act reasonably.

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After much thought, Liu Bei concluded that if he became a disciple of the former county magistrate, the new magistrate would at least not openly harm him—at worst, merely create subtle obstacles, which still fell within the realm of reason.

To thrive in the future, one could not remain a mere outlaw. Even outlaws needed education and connections, so having a master was essential.

Of course, the purpose of having a master was not merely to study the classics but to gain status and networks.

After all, without a respected Confucian teacher, others would not regard one as a scholar, and in these times, lacking scholarly status meant being regarded as less than human by many.

Having a reliable tutor would also provide much greater security.

The former magistrate had been expelled by Lu Zhi, which was a great loss.

Liu Bei intended to make up for that loss.

Le Yin’s reputation in later times was not prominent, but at this moment he was a highly respected Confucian scholar, especially among the gentry north of the Yellow River—almost everyone knew the name of Master Le of Jizhou.

This was because Le Yin upheld ancient customs.

Regardless of whether his students came from aristocratic lineages or impoverished families, Le Yin always accepted only a piece of cured meat as tuition—a traditional ritual, not for money, but truly for the sake of teaching.

Few great scholars still maintained such old customs in this era.

Perhaps for this reason, Le Yin was not very wealthy.

Before Le Yin left Zhuo County, Liu Bei planned to pay his respects as a disciple.

With Jian Yong’s recommendation, Liu Bei brought a string of cured meats to the Zhuo County study hall and knocked on Le Yin’s door.

“I am Liu Bei, a childhood acquaintance of Xianhe. I know that Your Honor is a benevolent elder whose virtue shines across the realm. I earnestly request Your Honor to teach me the way of benevolence and virtue.”

At this time, Liu Bei’s speech no longer resembled that of a modern man.

However, Liu Bei did not ask to study the classics, nor did he mention formal admission; he simply requested Le Yin to teach him the way of benevolence.

Le Yin stroked his beard, hesitating somewhat.

In truth, Le Yin had a good impression of Liu Bei.

Le Yin was now Jian Yong’s teacher, and Jian Yong had told him that Liu Bei had once committed a crime in Luoyang and was expelled by Lu Zhi.

Therefore, Le Yin had no intention of recruiting Liu Bei as an official—though even if he had, Liu Bei would not have accepted.

Yet in Zhuo County, Le Yin had never seen Liu Bei engage in any unlawful acts.

On the contrary, Liu Bei consistently urged the wandering knights to uphold righteousness first; he often led his men in assisting Jian Yong in apprehending bandits or helping neighbors solve difficulties.

He never accepted payment—since becoming the leader of the knights, he had never taken money from neighbors, but he always handled matters when called upon.

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The beacon tower to the north of Zhuo County was also funded by Liu Bei himself. Le Yin knew that this structure was useful for defending against Xianbei incursions and could indeed serve as a military facility when necessary.

This revealed Liu Bei’s true spirit of a chivalrous hero.

A prodigal’s return is worth more than gold; who among the young has not made mistakes? What matters is reform.

However, Liu Bei was Lu Zhi’s rejected disciple.

The Lu family was a major clan in Zhuo County, and Lu Zhi himself now held the office of Secretary—being a rejected disciple of the Lu family was not a trivial matter.

“Xianhe told me you had committed a crime in Luoyang, but I observe that you possess considerable virtue here in this county. Why is that?” Le Yin asked, avoiding mention of Lu Zhi and instead probing Liu Bei’s thoughts.

“In lawless lands ruled by the unvirtuous, only by breaking the law can one survive. But in virtuous lands under good governance, one must be virtuous to live,” Liu Bei replied gently, bowing slightly with utmost humility at the study hall’s door, yet speaking with remarkable boldness.

“The capital region, the crown jewel of the realm, you call a lawless and unvirtuous place? On what grounds do you say this?” Le Yin frowned, tugging at his beard, sensing he might understand why Liu Bei had been punished.

“Though Guanzhong and Henei lie directly under the emperor’s feet, no one repairs the river channels. The Yellow River floods cause catastrophic disasters, yet the provincial governors and magistrates shift the blame to the emperor with mere words of ‘loss of virtue’... and the emperor tacitly accepts this. Thus, naturally, the capital’s three surrounding regions become lawless and unvirtuous lands.”

Liu Bei’s answer was reasoned and convincing.

“…Why do you seek to study benevolence and virtue instead of the classics?” Le Yin fell silent for a moment and changed the subject.

“Where I witnessed in Luoyang and Henan, the city was filled with nightly revelry while migrants roamed outside. The river was clogged with starving corpses, and bones lay exposed on the barren fields.”

“The capital’s wealthy families only pursued profit, indifferent to the people’s plight; they would rather see the dead starve than sell a grain of food to the populace…”

“The imperial academy was compiling the world’s texts and engraving stone classics, yet in times of great disaster, offered no relief, spending a fortune on stone monuments. The supposed ‘great principles’ contained none for the people…”

“If this is the meaning of the classics, then what use are they?” Liu Bei’s posture remained humble, but his words grew sharper: “I seek learning not to become an official, but to understand the truth. Therefore, I do not seek to be taught the classics, but to be taught benevolence and virtue.”

Liu Bei’s words were sincere.

He truly did not seek office.

But by understanding the truth, he hoped that under Le Yin’s tutelage, Gongsun Zan might come to reason—or at least learn to restrain his fists.