Refuse to trample on the pride of heaven

Chapter 425 Inner Torment

Being afraid of death is not a sin, but when "greed for life" requires the wailing of thousands of innocent souls, those "benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom" that he regarded as the guiding principles have now become gold foil pasted on the coward's face, appearing particularly dazzling under the light of truth.

Just like Li Qinghuan at this moment, with his wolf hair brush hanging on the bamboo paper, he wanted to write down the words of sages, but he was also afraid that after the ink spread, it would reveal his cowardly truth.

Li Qinghuan suddenly recalled the scene when he was young and had a heated debate with others in the academy about "sacrificing one's life for righteousness". At that time, he slammed the table and stood up, saying that scholars should be like Jingwei filling the sea, carrying stones into the abyss even though they knew it was impossible.

But now, looking in the bronze mirror, he saw the newly grown white hair on his temples like reeds growing wildly on the banks of a turbid river, and the turbidity in the eyes of the person in the mirror was no longer as clear as the one who dared to point to the stars and say, "How can we be called ordinary people?"

Perhaps it was because of these "words of the sages" that he never truly included "survival" in the category of a gentleman's way, and therefore felt ashamed.

He was not a fool, and he had no feelings about these monks who insisted on chasing him. As one of the core of the formation, he clearly knew the significance of his existence. - Just like the drum hanging on the top of the city wall, it was a tool for telling time, but also a sacrifice that could be burned by the flames of war at any time.

Perhaps he should be a person who is willing to sacrifice, but worldly concerns and the pain of death haunt him all the time. He struggles and suffers between the choices, both confused and clear.

If asked about the deeper secrets of the formation, he doesn't know much, and he has no idea about the person behind it... But does he really not know, or does he simply not want to know?

When the young man said, "Sir, I'm afraid you've delayed your own life," he had to admit that the fishy-sweet taste in his throat was more uncomfortable than when the flood poured into his lungs that year.

He had wished he could spend his entire life deciphering every word and sentence in the books of sages, and measure it inch by inch with his flesh and blood.

In his eyes, those maxims engraved on bamboo slips and anecdotes written on rice paper were once the beacon that illuminated the world and the compass that guided the soul.

Like a devout believer, he recited scriptures facing the rising sun every morning, and annotated classics by dim candlelight at night, pouring his joys, sorrows, anger, and happiness, as well as his insights into life, between the lines.

But at this moment, as I stroked the densely packed annotations between the pages, I was surprised to find that I was always circling around the surface of the text.

He could recite those chapters and verses about integrity by heart, and he could quote every sentence at will. When he talked with his friends, he could quote extensively and analyze the profound meaning of the chapters and verses in detail.

However, when faced with the choice between life and death, when real danger came upon him like a turbulent wave, he was never able to truly touch the proud veins behind him.

Or rather, he didn't dare touch it.

In every sleepless night, he would ask himself, if the moment really came when he needed to sacrifice himself for justice, would he be able to die heroically as the book said?

But every time, this problem would be overshadowed by his concern for the unfinished annotations and his worry about the studies of the children.

Like an ostrich, he buried his head in piles of books, thinking that this would allow him to escape the fear in his heart.

He suddenly realized that the poverty-stricken character that he was most proud of had now become a fig leaf to cover up his cowardice.

Aren’t those carefully starched old shirts and those neatly annotated classics another form of whitewashing the truth?

Li Qinghuan suddenly laughed out loud.

The laughter was as dry as the echo in a dry well, and it startled the sparrows on the window frame.

He claimed to be well-read in the Spring and Autumn Annals, but when the real "regicide" was about to happen in Xiangsheng City and when thousands of people became sacrifices on the altar, he did not even have the courage to "pick up the pen" to write down the truth.

Those profound ideas that he had repeatedly studied were ultimately just empty talk in the ivory tower.

The sound of children reciting the Book of Songs came from the corridor. The four words "彼黍离离" were dragged out in their childish voices, but they were like a thin needle piercing Li Qinghuan's eardrum.

He had explained this poem countless times in class, saying that it was the sorrow of Doctor Zhou seeing the decline of his homeland. But now he understood that the real sorrow is not seeing the ruins, but knowing that the foundation under your feet is made of the bones of tens of thousands of people, but still leading the children to recite "Those who know me, know that I am worried."

The stacked copies of "Book of Rites" on the desk suddenly gave off a strong musty smell. Among the tiny annotations, the four characters "Self-discipline and restoration of propriety" were eaten by insects, revealing the yellowed paper underneath, which was very much like the hole in his soul that he dared not touch.

With his sorrow, the monks seemed to let him go, and their eyes seemed to have an indescribable feeling...

The compassion in their eyes was like the rain in late spring, which silently wet his neatly starched shirt and made his shoulder blades hidden under the patches feel cold.

Is it compassion? He doesn't know.

It was not contempt, nor anger, but a kind of sympathy. This look was sharper than any weapon, piercing straight into the darkest corner of his heart and tearing his high-sounding excuses into pieces.

He couldn't remain calm anymore.

It was like a blunt knife cutting open the cocoon he had woven with the books of sages - it turned out that the sages' teachings that he had spent his entire life studying could not withstand the biting cold at the bottom of the turbid river.

He seemed to be able to see his own reflection in their eyes, a cowardly and selfish scholar who was full of knowledge but did not have the courage to face the reality and shoulder his due responsibilities.

Every word he uttered that day was true, but it made him feel the lowliness of a gecko cutting off its tail to survive. Every word he said to justify his life became a thorn in his heart, filled with the shame of living a miserable life.

All his integrity and dignity were trampled under the feet of reality, revealing his true face of being curled up and afraid of death - in weighing the pros and cons, he turned the word "benevolence" in the books of sages into a bargaining chip for survival.

The brilliance of young people does seem dazzling, and against the backdrop of their steadfast pursuit of justice, the selfish inner corner of the "adults" is clearly visible and has nowhere to hide.

The fiery faith that danced in their eyes was like a prairie fire in the twilight, burning away his carefully maintained composure.

In contrast, he looked even more narrow-minded and ugly.

Li Qinghuan couldn't help but wonder, were some of the things he had adhered to throughout his life just another form of being penny-pinching?

For some reason, Li Qinghuan only felt that the heartbeat in his chest became clearer, and his body was restless... The evening breeze lifted the window lattice, and the candlelight suddenly burst into sparks, flickering in the dancing light and shadow, just like his wavering heart.

"I am the center of the formation..."

Could he also look forward to it? Looking forward to not being the silent nourishment at the bottom of the turbid river, but becoming a sharp blade that tears through the formation; looking forward to the daybreak when the children recited the illusory "Those who know me say that I am worried", but the real "The sun and the moon are bright, the road is magnificent"?

----

(Because the author has something to say about the word limit, I would like to explain the character Li Qinghuan here - because there is not much ink and the plot of the formation is too long, I am afraid that I can't show the nature of the character, resulting in limited expression, so I specifically talk about my thoughts on this character.)

Li Qinghuan has many contradictions and a sense of self-tear.

He longed to encourage himself with the integrity of Confucian scholars, but was also overwhelmed by the ant-like instinct for survival.

When the decision between life and death is imminent, those "benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom" that were once regarded as the guiding principles collapse in an instant and turn into sharp blades that stab oneself.

He realized that the moral tower he had spent his entire life building was vulnerable to the reality of death.

This cognitive tear made him fall into pain - he was ashamed of his cowardice in wanting to survive, but he was unable to let go of his unfinished worldly concerns.

He was like a night watch drum suspended in mid-air. He knew that he was a victim of the formation, but he was also greedy for the value of telling time. He was tormented repeatedly in the struggle between clarity and confusion.

When the monks tore open his spiritual cocoon, Li was forced to face the huge gap between "knowing" and "doing".

The worm-eaten annotations of "Restrain Oneself and Return to Propriety" are not only a metaphor for his moral hypocrisy, but also a hint of the failure of Confucianism in troubled times.

This cognitive collapse forced him to break free from the shackles of books and begin to measure justice with his flesh and blood.

However, Li Qinghuan always retains the introspective gene of an intellectual, and beneath his cowardly appearance lies the potential for responsibility of a "scholar".

When worldly concerns and moral guilt reach a critical point under the shadow of death, his instinct for survival turns into the ultimate questioning of the value of life.

Just as the night watch drum can either burn up in the flames of war or sound the final warning, this awakening is not only a redefinition of the meaning of one's own existence, but also a tragic interpretation of the Confucian spirit of "dying for the sake of righteousness."

(The four people at the center of the formation are actually the representatives I chose in this chaotic world. I won’t go into detail about their symbolic meanings. Let’s see if anyone in the comment section can understand them. Hehehe, I’ll explain them in detail later.)