Chapter Thirty-One: Mohists vs. Confucians

“Master of Ceremonies, should we intervene?” Fang Ling, the Guozijian Academic, frowned as he watched the surge of students flooding outside.

“How would you intervene?” Kong Yingda shot him a glare, his brows furrowed. “Isn’t this outcome ideal? If the Mohist scion realizes his disadvantage and retreats, we won’t embarrass His Majesty, and everyone wins.”

Dr. Fang slapped his thigh, suddenly enlightened. “That’s right! Even if the Mohist scion remains in the Guozijian, he won’t be able to stir up any trouble.”

Kong Yingda smiled faintly, inwardly marveling at His Majesty’s wisdom. The Mohist had just arrived, and already the entire Guozijian was in uproar—wasn’t this precisely the ‘catfish effect’ His Majesty desired?

Yet, who the true catfish was would only become clear after the contest.

At the gates of the Guozijian, Kong Huisuo stood at the forefront, leading the charge, while more and more students gathered behind him. Outside the gates stood Mo Dun alone, facing them.

One man against a crowd. The atmosphere froze instantly.

“Mohist scion!” Kong Huisuo fixed his gaze on Mo Dun, a hint of anticipation in his eyes.

He was a descendant of Confucius, representing the Confucian school, while Mo Dun was a Mohist. A thousand years ago, Confucianism and Mohism were both prominent schools, but after Dong Zhongshu, Confucianism rose to imperial prominence, and Mohism faded.

Now, Mohist and Confucian descendants stood in opposition once more, each bearing the pride of their lineage, unwilling to lose.

“Mo Dun, Mohist scion, greets the esteemed seniors!” Mo Dun bowed respectfully.

“Mohist scion, the Guozijian is a sacred place of Confucianism. If you know what’s good for you, leave at once!” Wang Ling shouted.

“Yes, leave immediately!”

“You’re not welcome here!”

“Why would a Mohist come here?”

…

Incited by Wang Ling, the students’ emotions boiled over, clamoring for the Mohist scion to depart.

“Sacred place of Confucianism!” Mo Dun’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “As far as I know, the real sacred place of Confucianism is in Qufu, Shandong. When did the Guozijian become its sanctuary?”

---

“You arrogant Mohist! The Guozijian has always been the empire’s vital ground for selecting talent. Its academics are all great Confucians, and our Master of Ceremonies, Kong Yingda, is a descendant of the Sage himself. Of course, it counts as a Confucian sanctuary,” Wang Ling retorted.

“So by that logic, only descendants of Confucius may enroll?”

“Absolutely!”

Mo Dun pointed to the trio running a gambling ring nearby. “Then, aren’t they Confucian scions as well?”

“Ah!” Qin Huaiyu and his companions were dumbfounded; having merely watched the commotion, they never imagined they’d be dragged into the fray—caught in the crossfire, so to speak.

Wang Ling was equally stunned. Those three could barely recite the Analects, let alone claim Confucian descent. Strictly speaking, their lineage belonged to the school of military strategy.

If military scions could enter the Guozijian, there was no reason to bar Mohist scions either, especially since Mo Dun was of noble birth, perfectly eligible for admission.

At its root, the Guozijian was the empire’s talent selection institution, not a Confucian monopoly.

“In that case, let’s see what remarkable abilities you possess, Mohist scion, to warrant His Majesty’s favor!” Wang Ling’s words hit the mark. Their challenge was not just for the Guozijian’s sake, but out of envy for the emperor’s attention toward Mo Dun.

Everyone dreamed of selling their skills to the imperial court, but how to do so? One had to be noticed by the emperor. Now, if he could outshine the emperor’s chosen Mohist, he’d surely gain imperial favor and soar ahead.

“Mohist scion, if you wish to enter the Guozijian, you must prove your worth! I, Wang Ling, on behalf of the Guozijian, will test your learning.” Wang Ling stepped forward first, having rallied these students himself; he had to take the lead.

“Wang Ling! That surname sounds familiar!” Mo Dun smiled slightly.

“He’s the son of Wang the Censor!” Qin Huaiyu added, stirring up trouble.

“Oh!” Mo Dun nodded in sudden realization.

Wang Ling ground his teeth in silent resentment. The Wang family’s fish market was his family’s business; Mo Dun had seized the Chang’an market, driving them to ruin and causing the manager to lose an arm. Even a dog’s beating should respect its master, so Wang Ling naturally bore a grudge, and had orchestrated this challenge against Mo Dun.

“Very well, I accept!” Mo Dun replied calmly.

He knew this day would come. As a pawn, he must accept his fate; the emperor had cast him out to test the catfish effect. Without stirring up trouble, how could he fulfill his role?

“As Guozijian students, composing poetry is essential. Our first contest—let’s compete in verse!” Wang Ling announced smugly.

“Shameless!” Qin Huaiyu thought in disdain.

---

Wang Ling always called himself the ‘Little Poet Sage’ of the Guozijian—mostly boasting, but he had indeed worked hard at poetry.

“Ah!” Mo Dun looked at Wang Ling in surprise, thinking to himself, Is he my undercover agent? After all, he possessed the Three Hundred Tang Poems as a traveler from another world.

But Mo Dun’s astonishment was mistaken by Wang Ling as timidity. Although composing poetry was a basic skill for every scholar, it was also the greatest test of learning—hence the scarcity of renowned poets.

Wang Ling felt smug. The Mohist scion was barely fifteen or sixteen, even if he’d started reading at seven, how much could he know? Now, he’d see him falter.

“This time, let’s compose frontier poetry!” Wang Ling pressed his advantage.

To deliver a decisive blow to Mo Dun, Wang Ling had prepared in advance, crafting several excellent poems for the occasion. Even if not frontier verses, he had other options ready.

Mo Dun regarded Wang Ling as one might a fool. “Frontier poetry? I’ve recited ancient poems since childhood. Frontier verses are second nature to me.”

“Alright, frontier poetry it is!” Mo Dun nodded.

“Ah! We’ve fallen into his trap!” Qin Huaiyu regretted aloud. They could see Wang Ling had prepared for this.

“It’s obvious. Ever since the Mohist scion decided to enter the Guozijian, this outcome was inevitable,” Cheng Chumo said in a low voice.

“So we’re bound to lose!” Qin Huaiyu grumbled.

“Not necessarily. Have you ever seen anyone bet on himself to lose?” Cheng Chumo toyed playfully with five gold leaves.

“That’s true!” Qin Huaiyu felt somewhat reassured, though he found it amusing that the Mohist scion was so wealthy. They had scraped together five hundred taels, while Mo Dun casually wagered the same.

“Wait! If Mo Dun wins, we’ll owe him five thousand taels!” Yuchi Baolin realized belatedly, exclaiming in distress.

The three were instantly stricken—five thousand taels was no small sum!