Volume One: The New East in the World’s Spotlight Chapter 5: The First Decentralization Meeting at Dai Prefecture—Awaiting the Gathering

The people gathered below the hall fell into deep thought. Truly, this move was brilliantly played.

When faced with adversity, it is sometimes wise to present your colleagues with an even greater dilemma, forcibly binding your destinies together. Clearly, Zhao Congjian was thinking along these lines. Throughout the deliberations so far, he had perfectly displayed the cohesion and strategic vision befitting a ruler. This was, of course, owing to the soul within him—an unmarried modern man who could maintain calm and patience amid adversity, especially at the grassroots level, honing a tendency to unite others for the sake of his own ‘personal interests.’

Historically, since the loss of the Taiyuan Commandery, the lands of the northern barbarians had been tenuously linked to the plains east of the Taihang Mountains and north of the Yellow River—controlled by Zhao—via the Daijun and Yanmen regions along the routes through the Taihang. Within a single nation, the coexistence of two or more distinctly different forms of productive organization was a challenge only resolved, and almost perfectly so, by the Qing Dynasty in later times, employing the most ideal feudal solution. Even the Western Zhou, famed for harmonious coexistence across ethnicities, was not a flawless model. Only King Wuling’s reforms—adopting nomadic attire and mounted archery—seemed to have fostered unity, perhaps thanks to the constant external wars of the Warring States period, which battered internal threats and forged national cohesion. This strategy, which could be dubbed ‘A nation cannot be idle for a day,’ proved effective for nearly a century—an achievement in ancient times, when most states were beset by interminable warfare.

Viewed from another angle, this ‘strength’ was intertwined with Zhao’s failure to implement a thorough governmental reform. The spread of nomadic customs promoted martial spirit, and the elevation of the military placed the interests of the royal family at the heart of government, with noble sons rising generation after generation as generals and ministers. The mainstream ideology was dominated by the military schools; only the Yin-Yang scholars, useful for diplomacy, could scrape by, and the strategists occasionally supplemented their ranks from abroad. Other talents, such as the likes of Lü Buwei—unwilling to be exploited as a farmer, shrewd and opportunistic, often leaking secrets to foreign lands—abounded. Among the agricultural populace, frequent conflict led to anti-war sentiment, especially among the middle class, who, possessing influence and reasoning skills, followed the Mohists as disciples. Their slogan of ‘universal love, non-aggression’ fostered a self-contradictory demand for unconditional obedience to their leader, undermining equality within the organization. Such chaotic anti-authoritarian doctrines could not be embraced by the court. Inept aristocrats were naturally courted by shrewd merchants from the military-industrial sector, who, under their patronage, formed monopolies extending their reach to all non-agricultural industries; the story of the Guo clan monopolizing prosperity in Zhao for centuries was but one of many—a model for wealthy families.

Eventually, when a merchant family produced a traitorous minister like Guo Kai, who sought profit by betraying the state and preserving his own business interests, even at the cost of breaking with the powers that be, the inevitable demand for anti-monopoly economic reform in the face of growing wealth inequality was blocked. He colluded with various lobbying talents, notably the Mohists, openly organizing industry groups to overturn the state and indirectly safeguard his own interests. Astute monarchs like Ying Zheng would hardly care about the presence of these powerful merchants in newly conquered lands, so long as they paid their taxes and facilitated governance. This explained why Lady Ba Qing and Wu Shi Luo could maintain immense wealth and power in Qin’s non-agricultural western territories, despite diverging from Qin’s legalist ideology—they filled the gaps left by the agricultural economy and could swiftly provide resources to the royal house as needed.

As for generals like Lian Po, whose military status allowed them to openly consume societal wealth, they would praise Zhao’s unique natural and social conditions, proud of commanding forces rich in infantry, cavalry, chariots, and naval troops—no other nation offered such frequent opportunities for military ambition. His famous declaration in exile at Daliang, “I wish to command Zhao’s soldiers!” was grounded in the reality of the common people’s prolonged suffering. The harsher the times, the more rampant the enemy’s bullying, and the greater the demand for courageous generals; but as war consumed resources, the people’s fortunes became more volatile, trapped in a vicious cycle of militarism. Thus, Zhao’s demise in the Handan period became inevitable.

By contrast, the legalist state of Qin, protected by mountains and rivers, imposed severe but bottom-line material extraction, never depriving the people of basic grain, and could freely manage the frequency and intensity of warfare. The difference between Zhao and its brother state, Qin, was vast.

Zhao Congjian pondered for a long time, burdened by a heavy psychological weight, before quietly addressing the silent assembly: “Once, we possessed the plains—fertile lands stretching for miles—able to amass wealth and grant estates to the Hu Xia officers, ensuring the provisioning of the border. But now, with all lands beneath the Taihang lost and nothing left to plunder, how can we unite the hearts of the borderlands? And what incentive remains for the Rong and Di to serve?”

He deliberately paused. Seeing no one respond, he continued, “Therefore, I, though unworthy, request that the royal kinsmen be dispatched to Linhu, Loufan, Yanmen, Yunzhong, and Jiuyuan—‘the two Hu and three northern districts’—to oversee local officials and the people, determined to implement the national policy, stabilize the frontier, and share fortune and misfortune with Zhao!”

No sooner had his words fallen than four figures appeared at the door, the last nearly knocking the others over with his hurried stride. The assembly, startled, glanced outside, with some ministers scoffing at the uncouth demeanor of these local officials—indeed, the previously slighted Daijun governor, captain, and assistant had been summoned.

“Your servant Zhao Kuai, on command, has brought the Daijun governor, captain, and assistant to attend.”

Zhao Congjian was surprised at their swift arrival, but then recalled stories from modern times—how, during Empress Dowager Cixi’s westward journey, high officials filled every office and agency—and realized: he was sleeping in the governor’s residence!

What a shocking realization! Local officials were still nearby, accessing records in the courtyard—had he not deliberately summoned the regional deputies, they might have harbored resentment, plotting to harm him, perhaps even sending his severed head to Xianyang. Even counting the guests and women who had accompanied him to Daijun, his own followers would not total ten thousand; and for an assassination, only a handful of swordsmen were needed.

Thinking this, Zhao Congjian turned to the eunuch chief, their eyes meeting. The latter immediately sang out: “Summon the outer officials to meet the king!”

Such a grand phrase instantly flushed the faces of the courtiers with embarrassment—they were refugees, after all. Those in the know straightened their backs, rallying their spirits for the dignity of the court. Of the newcomers, only Zhao Kuai took his seat on the right, and the hall had not been prepared with additional seats, leaving the three Daijun officials awkwardly standing. In a moment, the Daijun captain, perhaps an old acquaintance of the royal house, surveyed the left row and attempted to kneel directly before Zhao Congjian. The governor’s stern glare halted him mid-kneel, leaving him hesitantly upright.

A great border commandery’s military chief, so humble before the Handan nobility—this reassured Zhao Congjian: Daijun was still loyal to the Zhao name!

The governor boldly requested, “May the king grant us seats!” His words carried a clear undertone of dissatisfaction and contempt for the capital’s nobles. Zhao Congjian, not permitting the eunuch chief to speak further, decided it was best to comfort them himself in the modest hall: “Let the eunuch chief fetch three seats from the side chamber, so that servants need not enter the main hall and our confidential discussions remain secure.”

Miao Fengnian paused, realizing he was being used as a prop, but announcing his new post publicly for the first time could not be a bad thing, and the three external officials were thus shown respect. Before leaving, Miao Fengnian shot the governor a glare; the latter understood—had he not insisted on preserving dignity, he would not have immediately antagonized the new monarch and eunuch chief upon arrival. It was his own rashness at fault.

The governor’s face, dark as soy sauce, remained fixed on Zhao Congjian, his resentment and embarrassment clearly observed by the king. As Miao Fengnian returned, both rows of attendees frowned at Zhao Congjian’s preemptive appointment of a chief eunuch, and the participation of the Daijun officials left them anxious about their own futures: who could say whether their wishes would be met? If their arduous escape north proved fruitless, to whom could they voice their grievances? Most uneasy was the ‘plotter’ in the second seat on the left; seeing Miao Fengnian rise, he feared that his words about the dullness of King Daoxiang and his son, and his private dealings with the Miao clan, might one day, as Zhao revived, become thunderbolts, shattering his world and condemning him and his clan. Daijun, it seemed, was a wasted journey! For the rest of the day, this royal kinsman spoke little at the meeting; aside from loud clamor in the side chamber, he said nothing further, a fact noticed only by Miao Fengnian—perhaps from that moment, he understood the motives of the royal kin for rebellion, their fate to be judged at Miao’s discretion.

The silence was boundless, like the oppressive weight of the Qin army’s repeated invasions, their dark ranks suffocating all.

The eunuch chief entered, intending to place the seats before the three officials, but Zhao Congjian instead signaled him to place them to the left, beside the royal kinsmen, near the wall. This subtle move disrupted the arrangement of five on the left and seven on the right; none could guess what direction the ruler would take the meeting next. Sensing a resurgence of military power, the chief minister on the right, Yu Boyan, disregarded decorum and stood abruptly, addressing the critical issue: “Since the king has assumed the throne and Daijun’s leaders are present, let us swiftly assign court positions, so that new policies may begin and the realm be settled!”

What of the rites for the late king? He set them aside. Now, both rows of courtiers were eager for the next round of debate; if not handled well, a brawl might erupt, exposing the weakness of the nobles to the Daijun officials. Yet, he was uncertain about the official titles outside of Qin; he only vaguely knew that the six eastern kingdoms, except Chu, which followed its own system, inherited the Zhou rites. The three Jin states, founded last, were least changed, still influenced by the old Jin, and Zhao, lacking broad reform, was closest to the last orthodox Zhou state—the state of the Duke of Shao—in its classical offices. But the exact titles and functions of the Three Excellencies and Six Ministers eluded him; if he made a mistake, the courtiers’ respect would be greatly diminished.

Once again, Zhao Congjian felt the peril of the upper court, crisis upon crisis. Fortunately, the summoned official, brash as before, acted rashly again, timely breaking the impasse.