A chilly breeze crept through the courtyard, carrying with it the delicate aroma of cherry blossoms and moist earth. It stirred the pages of an ancient manuscript spread out on the table where Prince Jin sat across from his mentor, Scholar Qin Wen. Although the elderly teacher’s eyes were dimmed by cataracts, they still shone with a penetrating wisdom as he regarded the prince. “Tell me, Young Master Yun,” Scholar Qin Wen began in a voice shaped by decades of instruction, “what is your interpretation of Emperor Xuanzong’s downfall?”

  Looking up from the text, the prince offered a knowing smile, eager to display his insight—a quality that filled Scholar Qin Wen with pride. “The Emperor became complacent,” he started confidently. “He abandoned state matters in favor of his beloved consort Yang Guifei, leaving the court vulnerable to the corruption of eunuchs and ministers. By the time General An Lushan rebelled, the empire’s inner workings were already rotting.”

  Slowly nodding, the scholar stroked his wispy white beard. “And is that the complete truth?”

  “There were outside pressures too,” Jin admitted hesitantly. “The Chu Kingdom to the west and the Barbarians to the north exerted influence. But ultimately, internal corruption was the decisive factor...” He finished, his voice trailing off as he sensed a test hidden in the question.

  “Young Master Yun, you recount events as if you merely observed them and not truly understand them,” Qin Wen interjected softly. “The downfall of dynasties like Xuanzong’s is not just a succession of incidents but a reflection of deeper, underlying principles.”

  “I’ve pored over these texts for weeks—three studying the Tang Dynasty, four the Yuan, and another three on the Jin. I recognize the recurring themes: corruption, greed, and military frailty,” Jin replied.

  “Yet you recite mere facts devoid of wisdom,” the scholar countered, as he deliberately filled Jin’s teacup with tea. “It is like a bird mimicking speech without grasping its meaning.”

  A flash of irritation crossed the prince’s face. “I am not simply mimicking, Master Qin. I see the patterns clearly. The Tang fell because of internal decay, the Yuan crumbled under oppressive taxation and neglect, and the Jin were weakened and eventually overthrown.” He jabbed a finger at the manuscript. “The lessons are right there in the words.”

  “And what of your own dynasty, the Tian? Does its story follow the same pattern?” Qin Wen inquired.

  Jin’s expression darkened. “No. My father was a powerful ruler whose people remained loyal. Our armies commanded respect. There was no inner weakness or corruption—only treachery.”

  “Ah,” responded Scholar Qin Wen, raising his cup in a quiet toast. “Now we touch upon the core issue.”

  “What do you mean?” Jin asked.

  “You study history to find explanations that resonate with your experience, not to grasp the true nature of governance and power,” the scholar explained as he took a measured sip of tea, his gaze never wavering from Jin’s. “Though it is natural, this approach limits you.”

  “Then enlighten me,” the prince challenged, his voice edged with impatience. “If the patterns I’ve identified aren’t the full truth, what lessons are there?”

  Setting his cup aside, Scholar Qin Wen then replied, an encouraging smile appearing on his face, “Consider water, Your Highness.”

  “Water?”

  “Indeed. The Tao Te Ching teaches that water is the softest and most yielding substance, yet it can erode the hardest rock. It takes no fixed form but adapts effortlessly, seeking the lowest points vital for life.”

  Jin folded his arms. “And how does that relate to the decline of dynasties?”

  “Power, like water, obeys natural laws. When rulers resist these laws—becoming inflexible rather than adaptable, rising too high and losing touch with the foundation of their rule, forgetting that their strength comes from the people—they are doomed to fall regardless of their military might or the loyalty they once commanded.”

  “So you imply that my father’s rule defies these natural principles?” Jin’s tone was laced with barely restrained emotion.

  “I am saying that you cannot fully comprehend his downfall by merely focusing on surface events,” replied Qin Wen gently. “The blade that struck him was only the visible edge of much deeper currents.”

  Jin pushed back from the table and stood. “My father was a great emperor! He ruled with justice, cared for his people, maintained formidable armies, and wise councils. His reign was free of fault!”

  “And yet he fell,” the scholar murmured softly.

  The words hung heavily in the air as Jin’s fists tightened and his face flushed with anger. For a moment, it looked as if he might storm out, but something steady in his teacher’s gaze held him in place.

  “Your mind is sharp, Young Master Yun; however, your heart remains anchored in the past,” said Qin Wen. “Grief and rage cloud your vision, but that will change in time. You’re eight years old; I don’t say these things to make you feel incompetent, but to remind you of how life is. As a prince, you don’t live for yourself…but for your people.”

  “Then tell me, what must I do?” Jin asked quietly, the anger melting into a rare vulnerability. “Should I simply forget my family? Accept that their deaths were somehow warranted by these ‘natural laws’ you speak of?”

  “Never forget, but understanding why they died is key. Also, you mentioned that all of your father’s people were loyal; do not fool yourself. The Dragon Palace had traitors that very night. A coup d’état does not take place without treachery,” replied Scholar Qin Wen, rising slowly, his joints creaking with age. “However, I want you to understand this. I wish for you to truly understand, rather than just accumulate knowledge. Knowledge without understanding is like possessing a map but never embarking on the journey.”

  He walked over to a small cabinet in the corner and retrieved a modest wooden box. Returning to the table, he opened it to reveal a well-worn chessboard along with its pieces. “Come, let us play a game of Xiangqi.”

  Jin stared at the board in confusion and inhaled deeply. He knew his master was coy, but this was totally indifferent. “We’re discussing the fall of dynasties, and now you wish to play chess?”

  “Indulge an old man; sometimes the indirect route brings greater insight.”

  Reluctantly, Jin resumed his seat, and together they arranged the pieces in silence. The familiar ritual served to ease the prince’s agitation. Taking the red pieces, Scholar Qin Wen made the first move.

  As the game unfolded, Jin found himself drawn into its intricate layers. His early moves were aggressive, sacrificing pieces for rapid gains, while Qin Wen adopted a defensive posture—yielding ground when pressed yet maintaining a solid setup.

  “Your strategy is flawed,” Jin remarked after capturing one of his teacher’s cannons. “You retreat too easily.”

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  “Do I?” Qin Wen countered, shifting his chariot to an apparently vulnerable spot. “Or am I following the way of water—seeking the low ground, adapting to circumstances, and biding my time for the right moment?”

  Jin quickly attempted to exploit the opening, only to see that he had overextended his forces. Within three swift moves, Scholar Qin Wen had encircled his general. “Checkmate,” the old scholar declared quietly.

  Jin stared in disbelief. “How did you—”

  “You focused on capturing pieces, on immediate triumphs,” Qin Wen explained. “I looked at the entire board—the interplay between the pieces and the flow of the game.” As he began to reset the pieces, he continued, “In governance, as in Xiangqi, relentless aggression creates vulnerability. Inflexibility blinds you to opportunities. Overconfidence breeds complacency.”

  “And what of my father?” Jin asked softly. “Was he too aggressive, too rigid, too certain?”

  The scholar’s demeanor softened. “Your father was a virtuous ruler, Young Master Yun, Yet even virtuous rulers are swept up in forces beyond their control. Your father’s killer didn’t emerge out of nowhere; he was the embodiment of conditions nurtured over generations.”

  “You speak as if the assassin’s actions are justified,” Jin countered, a trace of his anger returning.

  “No,” Qin Wen said firmly. “I seek understanding beyond simple judgment. The killer committed monstrous deeds, yet his rise was not mere chance. It was the result of many converging forces, some seen and others hidden. Much like your defeat in this game did not result from a single misstep, but from an incomplete grasp of the whole.”

  For a long moment, Jin was silent, his gaze fixed on the chessboard. Finally, he met his teacher’s eyes. “How can I grasp these greater patterns when I struggle to comprehend what happened to my own family?”

  “Begin where you are,” advised Scholar Qin Wen kindly. “Study not just to accumulate facts, but to transform yourself. Look beyond the cycle of dynasties rising and falling to the principles that govern existence. Seek to understand both the visible and the hidden currents of power.”

  “Will this insight help me reclaim my father’s throne?” Jin pressed.

  The old scholar’s eyes turned distant. “Perhaps, or perhaps it will lead you to something even more precious.”

  “What could be more valuable than restoring the rightful rule of the Tian Dynasty?” Jin demanded, his youthful impatience surfacing once again.

  “That,” replied Scholar Qin Wen with a small smile, “is a discovery you must make on your own.”

  At that moment, the rhythmic clashing of wooden swords rang out from the courtyard, drawing Jin’s attention. Through the window, he observed Shi Xiu in training, his movements precise and relentless. Every strike carried a certainty that Jin’s scholarly pursuits had never provided.

  As Jin watched, a spark of realization lit within him. He had long admired Shi Xiu’s skill from afar, seeing it as merely complementary to his intellectual journey. Now, however, he recognized a different form of wisdom—a knowledge that resided not in texts, but in the mastery of the body.

  “Your bodyguard understands a truth about power that you have yet to learn,” observed Qin Wen, following Jin’s gaze.

  “What truth?” Jin inquired.

  “That genuine strength does not arise from titles or positions, but from within. Even if you were not of noble birth, Shi Xiu would serve you loyally because his strength is born of self-cultivation, not mere external authority.”

  Watching Shi Xiu’s disciplined movements with fresh eyes, Jin murmured softly, “I have been foolish.”

  “And how so, Your Highness?” Qin Wen asked, though his knowing smile suggested he already understood.

  “I’ve been hiding behind books, believing that knowledge alone could restore what I’ve lost.” Turning to face his teacher resolutely, Jin continued, “My father was a scholar, but not a warrior. Because he didn’t need to be one. I have to be a warrior. My first brother was a warrior because he wanted to be one, but my second brother was a strategist. I know what I must do.”

  Scholar Qin Wen nodded slowly. “The truly superior ruler nurtures both civil and martial virtues. The brush and the sword are the twin pillars of good governance.”

  “I must learn,” Jin declared, his voice filled with new determination. “Not only history and philosophy, but also the art of combat and the art of leadership in battle.”

  “Balance is key, Your Highness,” the scholar cautioned. “A sword devoid of wisdom is as perilous as wisdom lacking strength. Both must be harmonized by true understanding.”

  Glancing back toward the courtyard where Shi Xiu persisted in his rigorous practice, Jin said, “I won’t forsake my studies, Master Qin, but I can no longer ignore the martial side of rulership.”

  With newfound resolve, Jin rose from his seat and moved toward the door. “I must have a word with Shi Xiu.”

  “Now?” Scholar Qin Wen raised an eyebrow. “Our lesson is not finished.”

  “On the contrary,” Jin replied with a respectful bow, “I believe I’m finally grasping your lesson. Knowledge must be balanced by action, wisdom by strength, and reflection by resolve.”

  A glimmer of approval shone in the old scholar’s eyes. “Perhaps you are beginning to learn, Young Master Yun.”

  “All because of you…”

  “I’m just doing my duty, Young Master Yun.”

  “Thank you, master; I know I’m a handful, but I want you to know that these past two years you have made my isolation worthwhile.”

  “It is my honor, Yo-Young Master.”

  “Can I take a break?”

  “Of course,”

  Jin stepped into the courtyard from the pavilion, his mind beginning to wander. He didn’t like the fact that Master Qin was relenting on calling him Young Master Yun, but he had no choice in the matter. He didn’t know who his enemies were. Prince Liang had advised him on the possibilities of spies lingering within his manor, despite Shi Xiu being there. Your bodyguard can’t be everywhere.

  At first, it didn’t occur to him, but it surely does now, especially within the past two years that his master was trying to sculpt his mind into one worthy of ruling.

  As Prince Jin neared the training yard, he could hear the steady sound of wood colliding with practice dummies growing ever louder. As the sun beamed down on him, Shi Xiu was there practicing with deadly precise, each blow bellowing before he transitioned into his next attack. Each motion was calculated, without wasted effort or extravagant flourish—only sheer, efficient lethality.

  Jin lingered at the yard’s edge until Shi Xiu concluded his routine. Lowering his wooden sword, the bodyguard turned and offered a deep bow upon noticing the prince.

  “Young Master,” Shi Xiu greeted, bowing his head deeply. His breath was barely audible despite his intense exertion. “Scholar Qin has finished early today.”

  “Hardly,” Jin said as he lifted his chin up, correcting his posture. “No, we’re taking a break.”

  “I see…”

  Silence sat between them for a few seconds, and it was obvious the prince had something to say. He was used to getting what he wanted, but when it came to Shi Xiu, he knew the man’s loyalty and how he saw things:

  “Is there something on your mind, Young Master?”

  “There is,”

  “How may this humble servant assist?”

  “Shi Xiu, I would like you to train me in the art of combat.”

  Although his face remained composed, a brief flash of surprise passed over Shi Xiu’s eyes. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a cloth. “Young Master, with all due respect, I’m not the best one to teach you. However, I will speak with Scholar Qin Wen and have him speak to Prince Liang to find an instructor for you.”

  “I’m against more people knowing wh—“ the prince started, but saw a gardener in the corner of his eye.

  ”I understand, Young Master; however, I am no mere instructor. I serve as your bodyguard, a... killer if I were to be precise. I’ve taught you to kill those who oppose you. My skills were not honed in esteemed dojos or imperial academies, but were forged in the crucible of necessity and blood.”

  “I understand the difference between martial arts and the art of killing, Shi Xiu. I’m not naive,” Jin stated firmly, his gaze unwavering. “Martial arts instill discipline, promote health, and uphold honor—they suit nobles for tournaments and ceremonial displays. Yet it’s the art of killing that wins wars.”

  Shi Xiu studied the prince with renewed interest. He nodded in agreement, but Prince Jin still saw hesitation in his eyes. “And why does the Young Master desire the killing arts?”

  “Because those who destroyed my family still breathe, I don’t believe I will kill them with a pen, but with my sword.”

  A lengthy silence settled between them as Shi Xiu examined Jin closely, seeing far beyond the fine silk of his robes to the steely resolve within.

  “You’re only eight years old, Young Master. You’ve been forced to be ten years older than you’re meant to be. I blame myself for this. If I were stronger, I would’ve been able to kill Zhu Mo Shi and his machinations.”

  “You did as asked by my father, Shi Xiu. If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead. Because of you, my enemies are unaware that I’m alive. I thank you for that, but I must get strong.”

  Shi Xiu exhaled slowly, and Prince Jin could see the reservation in his eyes. He paced back and forth and then finally turned to the prince. “If—and I stress if—I were to train you, it wouldn’t be anything like you expect. There’d be no pomp or silk training garments, and no regard for your noble status.”

  “I expect nothing less.”

  “You say that now,” Shi Xiu replied, his tone growing stern. “But know this: my training will leave you bruised, your hands will bleed, and your muscles will burn until you weep. I will extend no mercy and will offer no solace.”

  “Good.”

  “What do Scholar Qin and Prince Liang have to say? Would they trust me with your training?”

  “Do I have to?”

  “I would feel more comfortable if they had a say in this.”

  “Then I will discuss it with them.”

  “As you should, Young Master, as you should.”