#207: Settled (3)

Han Feicong, while fiercely fighting off attackers, bent down to help his father. In his fury, he pointed accusingly at Han Feichi across the crowd and shouted, “Zhongheng, have you lost your mind?! How can you side with an outsider? Qi Jingchen isn’t your real brother! You’re a Han! You’ll always be a Han!”

His voice tore through the air like the death cry of a wounded beast, sharp and despairing. Yet, it failed to stir any reaction in Han Feichi. He merely watched coldly as his uncle and cousin were cornered into a hopeless situation. His eyes held no sorrow, only indifference.

As he observed the unfolding chaos, his thoughts drifted, recalling vivid memories from the past.

He remembered being a child prodigy, devouring books with photographic memory. The elders of his family cherished him, calling him a once-in-a-century genius destined for greatness—perhaps even surpassing the illustrious second son of the Qi family.

At that time, Qi Yin already enjoyed widespread acclaim among the noble families. Even Wang Qing, the esteemed scholar of the Hanlin Academy known for his exacting standards, lavished praise on Qi Yin whenever possible, extolling the depth of his scholarship and the elegance of his writing. Young Han Feichi had been unwilling to concede, thinking there was nothing extraordinary about Qi Yin, and harbored a desire to compete with him.

His chance came in the sixth year of Qinghua, when fourteen-year-old Qi Yin took the spring examinations, earning the title of Bangyan and setting a precedent for literary governance in Jiangzuo.

The Qi family celebrated joyously. Left Chancellor Qi Zhang hosted a grand banquet at their ancestral home, inviting nobles and scholars alike. Han Feichi attended with his elders and once again encountered the renowned Qi second son.

Watching him surrounded by admirers, Han Feichi felt a pang of resentment—wasn’t he also a celebrated child prodigy? Why did no one praise him today? Frustrated, he publicly challenged Qi Yin to a contest, whether in recitation, poetry, or literary critique, declaring himself ready to compete.

Despite his lofty ambitions, Han Feichi was but a ten-year-old boy, still shy of his eleventh birthday. A direct contest in poetry or prose would surely end in humiliation. His older brother, Han Feiyu, tried to dissuade him, fearing embarrassment, but Han Feichi, stubborn and fueled by emotion, refused to listen. He insisted Qi Yin accept his challenge.

To his surprise, Qi Yin simply smiled and replied calmly, “Very well, let us compete in recitation.”

Recitation was Han Feichi’s forte. Overjoyed, he thought victory was certain. He vowed to triumph and prove himself the superior prodigy in front of everyone.

True to his expectations, he won. They both studied a passage from the Qin History within the span of an incense stick’s burn. Han Feichi poured all his effort into preparation and ultimately recited a longer excerpt than Qi Yin, securing victory under the watchful eyes of the crowd.

Triumphant, he anticipated seeing disappointment in Qi Yin’s eyes. Instead, Qi Yin smiled warmly and said, “I’ve long heard Zhongheng possesses an eidetic memory. Your future achievements will surely surpass mine.”

…Qi Yin hadn’t shown the slightest anger; instead, he offered sincere praise.

That night, the Qi family’s banquet brimmed with harmony. Everyone laughed and praised young Han Feichi, who basked in the admiration he craved. Yet, strangely, he didn’t feel happy. Only later did he learn from his older brother that Qi Yin had memorized the entire Qin History by the age of eight—that day, Qi Yin had deliberately let him win.

Though seemingly trivial, this incident left a deep impression on young Han Feichi.

It wasn’t anger over losing or resentment toward Qi Yin for not taking the competition seriously—it was something else. Suddenly, he realized how immature he was, obsessing over petty victories, unable to match Qi Yin’s magnanimity and broad-mindedness.

As a child, Han Feichi had always been fiercely competitive, likely because he’d been overly praised and couldn’t tolerate losing. Determined to emulate Qi Yin’s demeanor, he resolved to become more open-minded, generous, and indifferent to success or failure.

For a time, he earnestly practiced this new mindset. In school, where he used to dominate every discussion, he now forced himself to step back, allowing his cousins to answer questions. Even if their responses seemed inadequate, he refrained from mocking them, adopting instead the gentle and composed demeanor Qi Yin had displayed.

Over time, he began to resemble Qi Yin more closely. Yet, a new realization dawned on him—he started to see the futility of competition and striving.

He had once fought for attention, praise from tutors, and even the fleeting glances of strangers. But as he emulated Qi Yin, he realized these things were meaningless. What difference did praise or adoration make? Competing was childish. One could live well without such validation; clinging to it only brought exhaustion.

From one extreme, he swung to another, growing increasingly dissolute. Everything seemed devoid of meaning.

Yet, just as he embraced this newfound hedonism, he noticed Qi Yin remained steadfast, entering public service and immersing himself in bureaucratic duties year after year.

It was then that Han Feichi truly began to admire Qi Yin.

Being intelligent, he understood Qi Yin must have traversed a similar path—from being adored to renouncing competition. Yet Qi Yin had gone further, seeing through the vanity of worldly pursuits without succumbing to nihilism. Instead, he chose to shoulder burdens and move forward.

Han Feichi recognized this as a form of sacrifice.

—A sacrifice of himself for the greater good of others.

He finally came to admire Qi Yin, though a part of him pitied him. Why couldn’t Qi Yin be like him? Having seen through the illusions, why not abandon everything and live freely? Why confine himself to such self-imposed constraints?

He admired Qi Yin deeply yet remained perplexed. As he watched Qi Yin rise in the Privy Council, defend the nation, and advocate for commoners during the spring examinations, he grew to understand this man—a person profoundly wise yet burdened by profound sorrow.

Because of his clarity, detachment was inevitable. Yet, constrained by compassion, he remained entangled in responsibilities.

An unbearable contradiction.

Han Feichi knew he could never be like Qi Yin—able to see through everything while shouldering immense burdens. For him, it was either one or the other, but never both. And so, he surrendered, bowing in complete admiration.

From then on, he became close to Qi Yin, feeling closer to him than even his own brothers. He believed he truly understood Qi Yin, and every time he called him “Second Brother,” it came from the heart. Qi Yin, in turn, treated him kindly, and they became steadfast friends.

Han Feichi had planned to drift through life indulgently, refusing to conform despite familial pressure—until the first year of Jiawei, when the Qi family collapsed overnight.

He understood the roots of this calamity—the Qi family had been too prominent, and Qi Yin too exceptional. The new Emperor had long sought to eradicate the noble clans, and Xiao Ziteng harbored personal grievances against Qi Yin. Both politically and personally, the destruction of the Qi family was inevitable.

Han Feichi wanted to help. He couldn’t bear to see someone who had sacrificed so much for the nation and the world meet an unjust end. He didn’t want to see Qi Yin’s painstaking efforts reduced to nothing. He wished to lend a hand, but as a civilian with no foothold in court, he was powerless. His father watched the Qi family’s downfall indifferently, while his uncle, Han Shouye, reveled in their misfortune, eager to kick them while they were down.

…Were they blind to the fact that the Qi family’s fall was only the beginning? Xiao Ziteng clearly intended to dismantle all noble families and consolidate imperial power. Laughably, his relatives clung to their tenuous blood ties with the throne, deluding themselves that the Han family could escape unscathed.

It was like living in a dream.

He felt utterly powerless and had never regretted anything more. Why had he chosen indulgence and decadence in his youth? If he hadn’t given up, if he had followed Qi Yin’s example and entered the fray despite seeing through its illusions, could he now possess the strength to protect what mattered most?

But it was too late. At the time, he could do nothing but visit Qi Yin at the Qi estate, offering hollow words of comfort and helplessly asking how he could assist.

Qi Yin had just returned from peace talks with Wei. Standing under the dim lanterns of the Qi estate’s gate, his expression complex, he uttered only one word.

“Wait.”

Han Feichi didn’t understand the meaning of “wait” until much later. Only then did he realize—Qi Yin was waiting for the shifting dynamics among the noble families. He was waiting for the decline of the Qi family, the rise of the Han family, and for the Emperor’s focus to shift to the Hans. Only then could the Qi family find a sliver of hope in the narrow crevice of survival.

Thus, Qi Yin’s gaze upon him that day was so complicated…because he was a Han. Qi Yin knew that the Qi family’s survival meant the Han family’s peril—they were locked in a zero-sum game.

Han Feichi understood but bore no resentment toward Qi Yin.

He knew that even without the Qi-Han rivalry, the Emperor would never allow the Han family to grow too powerful. Xiao Ziteng’s lust for power had warped him. He couldn’t tolerate any checks or balances. He wanted absolute authority, unquestioned obedience, and total submission.

Many failed to see this. His father, Han Shousong, naively hoped for peace, oblivious to the impending imperial purge. Ironically, his otherwise foolish uncle, Han Shouye, was the first to attempt overturning the board.

…Uncle harbored treasonous ambitions.

Objectively speaking, Han Feichi didn’t fault his uncle’s intentions. It was a desperate act, born of necessity—there was no other choice. If the Han family didn’t rebel, Xiao Ziteng would strip them of their military power. Could the Hans survive afterward? Who could guarantee they wouldn’t meet the same fate as the Shen or Qi families?

The Hans had no choice but to resist.

Yet, Han Feichi didn’t believe his uncle could stabilize the throne.

The Liang Dynasty had stood for over two centuries, once boasting the glory of unification before being forced south. Even in retreat, the court never abandoned its ambition to reunify. The people harbored an attachment to this regime, driven by illusory desires. They believed achieving unification would satisfy their inner yearnings, tolerating the dynasty’s flaws in pursuit of that goal.

Such was the peculiar nature of public sentiment—they would rather see the Liang destroyed by Wei’s iron hooves than replaced by a new regime before then.

Too many regimes had risen to overthrow a declining old order, only to meet grim ends. This was proof enough.

Even if his uncle succeeded in rebellion, seizing the throne and subduing the Fu family and other nobles, he would never secure the realm. History and the hearts of the people decreed it so. Not to mention, his uncle lacked the qualities of an emperor, and his cousin, Han Feicong, was far from a wise successor.

If they ascended to power, they would only invite calamity for their family and the nation.