Volume One: The New East in the Global Spotlight Chapter 10: Inquire About the Rites of the Duke of Zhou

As a transmigrator, few can manage to sleep so soundly on their very first night after crossing over. Zhao Congjian was an exception.

Even if this had been merely a grand day trip organized by his former boss, it had been more than enough: an entire day spent masquerading as a supreme noble, brimming with joy and fulfillment, becoming the embodiment of righteousness and virtue, basking in the adoration of all, wantonly oppressing his former colleagues—especially his direct superior—and behaving with unchecked abandon within the county governor’s residence. Such pleasures were his for the taking.

But was this truly what he desired? During a post-meeting break to relieve himself, Zhao Congjian had been startled to discover a glaring absence in this era: no toilet paper! How mortifying it was, forced to use the wooden slats delivered by Miao Fengnian’s servant, faintly scented with jasmine—a feeble attempt to mask the chemical residue of excrement, with clear traces of “reuse.” Clumsy with the wretched implement, he ended up soiling his hands, and the act of rinsing the filth from beneath his fingernails felt like the ultimate humiliation. If even kings could not escape such indignities, what hope was there for others? Each day, countless souls endured such privations—an intolerable prospect for someone as fastidious as Zhao Congjian.

As the saying goes: “Better to be a dog in times of peace than a human in times of chaos.” At heart, he still envied the modern way of life; the spiritual thrill of adulation in antiquity could not reconcile with the comforts of the present. The two experiences could never be unified. It was a hard choice, indeed.

Within the closed chamber, three people huddled together. Awaking in the middle of the night, Zhao Congjian used the chamber pot, then mischievously turned himself 180 degrees to lie beside the maid, promising to switch back at dawn so as not to be discovered by Miao Fengnian. In such circumstances, body heat soared, and as he drifted between sleep and waking, Zhao Congjian dreamed of another world:

He found himself in a rain shelter in the mountains, the sky above heavy with thunder and roiling clouds—escape, for now, was impossible. Turning around, he beheld an elderly man with hair streaked with white, resembling a corpulent grandee, though his bearing and aura were more akin to that of a noble scion—greater, even, with the faint air of a king.

Sensing no hostility in the man’s demeanor, Zhao Congjian mustered his courage and inquired after his identity.

“I am Duke Zhou, of the Zhou dynasty, famed for assisting King Cheng—Zhou Gong Dan.” With that, the old man gazed at Zhao Congjian with warm, gentle eyes.

Ah—his current role was that of Prince Jia, newly self-proclaimed King of Zhao, equal to the King of Zhou, and recognized by the lords as the celestial sovereign—a flagrant violation of the rituals. With what face could he meet Duke Zhou now? Zhao Congjian pondered. Was it because the partitioning of Jin by Han, Zhao, and Wei, with Jin’s earlier usurpation of the Zhou king’s authority and its status as a great power that had disrupted Zhou’s order, that he now encountered Duke Zhou in a dream?

“There’s no need for surprise; I know everything you’re thinking,” Duke Zhou continued, eyes gentle, as if all was under control and he awaited Zhao Congjian’s questions.

“Duke Zhou, I wish to return to my original time and place. Is it possible? Ideally, with a trove of gold and jewels in tow!” Zhao Congjian’s eyes shone with hope, only to be met with merciless ridicule: “Why be obsessed with things that neither follow you in life nor in death? You came naked, you leave knowing nothing—do you really think such possessions can bring happiness?”

“Oh come now, that’s no way to speak—young girls, old men, bridal chambers, and candlelit weddings; doesn’t wealth bring happiness? Life in the modern era is so free! Please, Duke Zhou, let me go back.” Zhao Congjian pleaded, almost coquettishly.

“Enough with such nonsense. You were chosen by consensus of the gods,” Duke Zhou’s expression shifted to one of cool detachment.

“What? There really are deities in this world?” Zhao Congjian immediately regretted speaking—the proof was before him. Still, he pressed on: “Then why pick an ordinary mortal like me to return to the past?”

“It’s because you descendants have gone too far! Always tinkering with time machines—last time it was even more absurd, only a robotic cat came back! Truly, as the saying goes, a knife to the backside—another eye-opener! The divine realm must counteract such madness to preserve the subtle and fragile fabric of time, so it isn’t wrecked by those who blindly pursue science but inwardly crave control and the manipulation of history!” Duke Zhou fumed, even spitting upon Zhao Congjian as he ranted.

“I still don’t get it,” Zhao Congjian, bewildered, pressed on: “What does this have to do with me? I may be a descendant, but I haven’t ascended to immortality and possess no power to stop them.”

At last on topic, Duke Zhou offered a rare sly grin: “You must believe in yourself, trust in your ‘platinum potential’! The most important thing in life is to have dreams, and then to obey orders and follow command—aren’t those slogans from your era? I hope I’ve used them correctly.”

“Blind confidence only leads to censure from superiors! That’s just arrogance,” Zhao Congjian recalled the daily psychological manipulations endured as an intern, full of resentment, his hands clenching in frustration but unable to form fists.

“Young man, relax—calm down and hear me out. Do you think slaughtering a chicken needs a butcher’s cleaver?” Duke Zhou resumed his kindly, instructive tone, not waiting for a reply before continuing: “Of course not—that would be a waste of divine power. Besides, we must never allow those rebellious descendants to truly see the gods, much less study them. The boundaries of age and rank must be upheld!”

“What? Even divine power is exhaustible?” Zhao Congjian marveled at the collision of cultivation and technological civilizations across the timeline.

“That’s not important. What you need to know is simple: remember it well and carry it out. Power breeds ambition, and thus the potential for rebellion. So we must seek a ‘modern person’ of humble birth and status to carry out the task—do you understand?”

Enlightened, Zhao Congjian replied, “So I’m the sacrificial pawn! Duke Zhou, rest assured—point me where you will, and I shall strike. But there must be some reward, right?” He hesitated, rubbing his hands expectantly. “At the very least, let me return to the modern world a few rungs up the social ladder...”

Duke Zhou sneered, shattering his psychological defenses: “Let you go? Accept ransom? Do you think this is some modern kidnapping? That there’s room for negotiation? Think about it: anyone who carries secrets back can’t be ordinary. If you can’t keep those secrets and your descendants are inspired to invent a time machine, what then? You must elevate your own sense of mission—think more about leaving an immortal legacy for society.”

“I have no words. My parents and family—I’ll never see them again. Just like that, they’re lost to me...”

Seeing his pupil’s despondence, Duke Zhou hastened to comfort him: “Actually, there is a way: you must integrate into the divine realm and become a new deity. That way, you’ll possess the ability to traverse time and ‘return to the future.’”

“What exactly must I do?” Seeing a glimmer of hope, Zhao Congjian refused to let go. Though his social status in antiquity was enviable, he felt no belonging or security; he was like a walking slab of meat, ripe for the wolves of ambition.

“Govern as a king who fulfills the wishes of all classes, and, if possible, help as many people as you can to live in relative harmony. When your achievements are remembered by the world, you will be deified after death,” Duke Zhou replied with gravity.

“After death? Who cares about others when they’re dead?” Zhao Congjian was incensed; the old man was too shameless—forcing him to transmigrate, then covertly and overtly forbidding his return. Might as well become a tyrant—at least then, he’d be remembered!

“You could be a tyrant, but positive energy would be insufficient—negative energy cannot sustain too great a wish. After all, there is a hierarchy of deities, and whether the body dies is irrelevant to apotheosis. Furthermore, the divine realm is collectively transparent and democratic in choosing you—it wasn’t just my own opinion,” the sly old man stroked his beard, intent on having his way.

He’d forgotten Duke Zhou could read his thoughts. So... best to get to work and ask about practical matters. With resignation, Zhao Congjian asked, “In a country like Zhao, with its blend of nomadic and settled cultures, when it comes to war, how do I ensure that sacrifice and slaughter remain within acceptable bounds?”

“Follow your conscience,” Duke Zhou replied, his gaze direct, his voice echoing in Zhao Congjian’s mind: “Between two clearly opposed choices, there always exists vast room for discretion—people just don’t like to admit it. As long as you proceed toward your goal, some ruthless acts aren’t truly so heartless. As king, with the aura of glory, as long as you avoid grievous errors, the masses will unconsciously drift from their own beliefs to follow yours—that is the norm of this world.”

“So, those descendants tinkering with time machines are just stubborn ordinary folk?” Zhao Congjian teased, trying to find a flaw in his reasoning.

“Ordinary people can’t invent time machines. In a sense, they are qualified to become new gods, but their actions violate the harmony of heaven and earth, so they must be stopped.” Duke Zhou’s gaze deepened, as if willing Zhao Congjian to grasp this point. After hesitating, Zhao Congjian, having gained some insight, boldly voiced his doubt:

“So this is just the old gods crowding out the ‘sardines’ of the bus to apotheosis, denying later generations equal rights?”

“If you can see that, you’re not ordinary—the divine realm’s collective judgment is sound. But have you passed your probation? Did you vent your anger on the servants around you out of resentment, acting imperiously?” Duke Zhou cast a probing look, awaiting a reply. Clearly, those inventors of time machines lacked sufficient moral rigor, becoming beasts in human form, abusing science to meddle with history, even unleashing viruses.

The safest place is “in the shadow of the lamp”—standing in the name of justice and great organizations while scheming for personal gain.

Zhao Congjian let out a long sigh and, heart calm, posed another question: “Why is it you, Duke Zhou, who comes to see me? Do you not bear any grudge on behalf of the Zhou dynasty you helped build?”

Duke Zhou threw back his head and laughed, pacing the pavilion. “Did I not once wander in exile among the southern barbarians? All things have their rise and fall—if human effort could alter the course of nature, would gods exist at all? Consider letting things take their course. The Zhou dynasty was destroyed by Qin, the royal clan scattered, but the blood of the great ancestors flows everywhere. How can that be called failure? The rites I established still govern the nobility, and thought remains largely within my prescribed bounds. Thus I became a god. As for Zhao, if misgoverned, its fall is inevitable—would you regret it? If it still stood, how would Prince Jia have reached Dai?”

Zhao Congjian, dizzy with all these theories, struggled to keep up but managed to voice his thoughts: “You mean Qin’s legal system is flawed, causing its people to stray from Zhou rites, so I must use modern thinking to oppose them? The original Prince Jia failed at this, so I took over his body?”

“Exactly. But I cannot tell you more, lest I violate heavenly secrets—the divine realm’s rules are strict! As for the original Prince Jia, his soul has not vanished, but his mind is too feeble to withstand the onslaught of transmigrators in the Warring States. He’s now trapped in your body in the future, living as a vegetable.” Duke Zhou again spoke through thought, turning his back to the now completely dark sky.

“So, is Confucius, who often dreamed of you, your true intellectual heir? Is Confucianism really suitable as the sole pillar of a nation’s order?” Zhao Congjian asked, voicing the most pressing theoretical question from a modern perspective.

Duke Zhou turned, regarding Zhao Congjian somberly: “We are now colleagues—some matters cannot be openly discussed, let alone defined. As for his dreams of me, I’ll answer responsibly: ‘While I lived, Confucius had not yet been born; when he lived, I was already gone.’ Such dreams are rare—once or twice is enough. In the future, we may never meet in dream again.”

“Crash!”—six peals of thunder rent the sky, purple lightning igniting wildfires below. Not even torrential rain could quench them; water and fire mingled beneath the dark heavens in an eerily uncanny scene.

A warning before heavenly punishment!

Zhao Congjian snapped awake; Duke Zhou had vanished. The cries of Kou’er and Lianren rang in his ears: “Your Highness! That hurts!”

Only then did Zhao Congjian realize the cause of his unclosed fists: in turning over during sleep, each of his hands had come to rest upon the soft chests of the maids beside him—how mortifying! “What a nightmare—I dreamed of falling into an abyss, grasping desperately for support, so I...” Before he could finish, Kou’er and Lianren begged him to return to the other side; they’d rather sleep until dawn with his feet near their faces than endure this.

“What a pity,” Zhao Congjian lamented. He hadn’t yet discovered the core principles of the Zhou rites! How should one govern such a vast country? Burdened with restless thoughts, Zhao Congjian stretched out imperiously across both beds, awaiting the dawn.