Chapter 62: The Truth the Refined Farmer Had to Speak

Once a sense of crisis arises, chess ceases to be a pleasure. Every move is cautious, fearful of making mistakes, and the kindly farmer sitting across from Luo Gan now seemed, in his mind, a destructive beast, unfathomable and inscrutable.

“What’s the matter? Are you scared?”

The farmer’s crescent smile curved up, sending chills down Luo Gan’s spine.

After Luo Gan placed a stone behind the farmer’s three, the farmer almost instinctively set his next move beside the white stone, threatening once again. Luo Gan dared not slacken, keeping a close eye on the farmer’s every action, anticipating which direction he might attack, preparing a net to ensnare him.

Amidst their hurried exchanges, Luo Gan made a careless mistake, setting a piece in the wrong place.

A black stone landed, striking at the vital point formed by Luo Gan’s rows of paired stones. The farmer seized the opportunity without hesitation, winning the game outright, leaving Luo Gan deeply frustrated.

“No, no, I made a wrong move—let’s start over!” Luo Gan protested indignantly.

“Chess, like life, cannot be rewound; every move is final!” the farmer sighed.

With a weary look and clutching his head, Luo Gan’s mood soured; there was no leisure left in him. He pressed onward, intent only on uncovering the secrets of the Sima residence, huddled like a trapped beast at the stone table, playing chess.

Though his clothes were ragged, the farmer’s face was clean, clear and tidy—not at all slovenly.

“Young man, you must focus on what you do.”

Luo Gan, used to lectures, replied impatiently, “I know, I know—just let me win, that’s all.”

“I’m not talking about chess, but your desires.”

Luo Gan paused, wondering if the farmer was about to expound some profound theory—perhaps an important clue.

“My desires? Isn’t it normal for people to have desires?”

“If your desires are too many, you’ll never be perfect. Look, obsessed with white, can you also pursue black?”

Black? White? Was it about being unable to focus on two things at once? All along, Luo Gan’s aim had been to clear the stages and win the game’s reward. Then, after meeting Erhu and the others, he wanted to protect these sincere friends. Later, upon encountering Lady Jun Tao, he wished to give her a life of equality, freedom, and ease. The more he craved, the less pure his actions became, ever less true to himself, constantly wavering and influenced by external things. In the end, the results would surely disappoint him.

Reflecting deeply, Luo Gan suddenly realized that his path was never straight—he forced himself to take detours, making each task far more difficult than necessary.

Another sigh escaped him, heavy thoughts written on his young face, barely twenty years old. Though not tragic, he was certainly disheartened and unfulfilled.

“So you mean… I should abandon my desires and focus on what I love?”

The farmer, impatient, took another swig of wine.

“No, I mean you’re messing about with my black stones.”

Luo Gan burst out laughing. Though the farmer’s words were blunt, the teasing eased Luo Gan’s tense mood.

The farmer seemed no ordinary man—there were no neighbors nearby, yet Luo Gan, entertaining himself at the mountain pass, found a certain contentment.

He probed, “Why do you keep calling yourself ‘humble’? You don’t seem like a real farmer.”

The farmer slapped his thigh in displeasure.

“And you don’t look like a real traveler.”

When the farmer placed another stone, the earth seemed to shake; he sat calmly at the chessboard, while Luo Gan, caught unawares, stumbled to the ground, cornered once more.

He clutched the stone table and let out a plaintive cry.

“Can we stop playing?”

The farmer shook his head drowsily. “You’ve had wine; you must see it through.”

Touching his stomach, Luo Gan realized the osmanthus wine he’d just drunk was strange; whenever he wanted to flee, his stomach churned in agony.

The farmer said offhandedly, “A man can go a day without food, but not without wine.”

“Drinking, drinking, is wine really that important?”

“It is. You don’t understand its magic.”

In reality, Li Chuanglai was not adept at socializing, claiming to be allergic to alcohol but in truth just unsociable. Whenever drinking, he had to spout polite words; drinking and boasting was men’s amusement, and he knew all these empty boasts and platitudes by heart.

Naturally, Luo Gan was more indulgent in this world, often getting drunk, sometimes even grateful that the treasure from the nameless temple was a bottle of wine—quenching thirst and easing hardship.

His face flushed, like a performer with rouge spreading from his eyes, Luo Gan was the type to sing a tune at the beat of a drum, though his drunkenness meant he had no idea what he was singing.

Facing the sunset, the farmer grew melancholic, thoughtful; he raised a cup in salute to the setting sun and recited wistfully:

“At dusk on Eastern Heights, I stand, leaning, wondering where to turn. Every tree wears autumn’s hues, every mountain only sunset’s glow. The shepherd drives his calves home, the hunter leads his game back. We look, but know none among us; I sing long, yearning for the wild herbs.”

His voice wavered, carrying a touch of heroism—though not beautiful, there was a hint of dignity.

Wait, a memory flickered in Luo Gan’s mind. He remembered discussing the “Three Hundred Tang Poems” at the Liu residence, where Liu Buwen mentioned that though few current poets were included, there was one named Wang Ji. Now, having met so few learned people, this farmer seemed knowledgeable—why not ask?

Luo Gan bowed, “A fine poem! I’d like to ask you something.”

The farmer was still lost in poetic reverie, unable to extricate himself, but his head tilted slightly toward Luo Gan, signaling he was listening.

“I’d like to inquire about someone. Do you know Wang Ji?”

“Who?”

“Wang Ji.”

Hearing the name, the farmer became animated.

“You mean that learned scholar, versed in the classics and history?”

Luo Gan nodded, pretending to understand.

“The one who thrice served and thrice withdrew, a recluse of the highest order?”

Mentioning such a recluse meant Wang Ji was famous indeed—even a humble farmer knew of him.

“Is it true that Master Wang’s reputation is widespread?”

“Of course!” the farmer replied proudly. “Known to all, young and old!”

With that, the farmer happily raised the wine jar and drank.

Luo Gan continued, “But as I recall, Wang Ji was known as the Scholar of a Bucket of Wine—he was addicted to drink, heedless of all else, exploiting the people, caring nothing for the masses, all for the sake of wine!”

The wine jar crashed to the ground, and Luo Gan noticed the farmer’s expression shift—clouded with gloom, his drinking mood vanished.

Unconsciously, Luo Gan gestured at the farmer, “Speaking of wine and recluses… could it be…”

The farmer’s gaze darted away, uneasy; he hugged the wine jar and remained silent.

“Drinking, drinking… wine doesn’t harm anyone, what’s wrong with it?”

Distracted, he placed his stone in the wrong spot, failing to block the white’s advance. Luo Gan seized the moment, finally forcing the farmer into a dead end.

The farmer was aghast, reaching to retrieve his stone. “Oh dear! A wrong move, let’s start over!”

Luo Gan intercepted him, smiling brightly. “Just now, you said chess is like life—no second chances, every move is final!”