Chapter Fifty-Two: The More Adopted Children, the Better

“What… you intend to adopt all these children?” Wang Qun was startled by Zhen Qian’s audacious idea. Adopting one or two children was understandable, but adopting over a dozen—what was he planning to do with so many? It was utterly baffling. “Eldest Young Master, could you tell me why you wish to take in so many foster children?”

“Well… It’s not convenient to say for now, Uncle Wang. Could you just tell me whether it’s allowed?”

Zhen Qian himself wasn’t sure if such an act would invite criticism or if there were any taboos around it. He remembered from various unofficial records of the Tang Dynasty that it was not uncommon for people to adopt foster children, especially in the later Tang period, when many such adopted sons rose to prominence, even inheriting their fathers’ thrones. In other words, this practice was quite normal in Tang society.

“It’s not impossible,” Wang Qun replied, seeing that Zhen Qian would not explain his reasons and realizing he had his own mind on the matter. “There’s no fixed number when it comes to adopting foster children, but adopting too many may well draw criticism, considering your current status. It’s best to keep a low profile.”

Since there were no real restrictions, Zhen Qian felt at ease. “Uncle Wang, rest assured. I want to take these children in not so they feel inferior or fall into despair. I want them to live ordinary lives, to study and work as regular people do. I do not wish to treat them as slaves. By adopting them, I can give them security and confidence, which will be far better for their growth.”

Wang Qun, recalling how Zhen Qian usually treated his people, was warmed by these words. “You’re right. Taking in children who have nowhere else to turn is a blessing for them and will greatly benefit their futures. Eldest Young Master, whatever your intentions, just speak your mind. We old folks will support you.”

Zhen Qian had been waiting for these words, and immediately followed up, “These children are still young and malleable. I want them to be trained in both the literary and martial arts. What do you think, Uncle Wang?”

“That would be a fine thing indeed.”

In the Tang Dynasty, there was no stigma against martial pursuits, nor were martial people looked down upon as crude. Many scholars enjoyed wandering the world with swords; Li Bai wrote in “The Swordsman’s Journey”: ‘In ten steps, one kill; a thousand miles, no trace remains.’ Li He’s poetry declared: ‘Why should a man not bear a Wu sword, to conquer fifty provinces beyond the passes?’ Such bold verses abounded in Tang poetry, showing how common it was for scholars to also be warriors. In the early Tang, many were adept at both governing and commanding armies.

Thinking of the frail, bookish scholars of later dynasties, Zhen Qian felt the Tang spirit was all the more precious. He said offhandedly, “Let them be robust in body and refined in spirit—only then can the great nation of China stand atop the world for generations, and its sons and daughters enjoy lasting peace.”

“Robust in body, refined in spirit… Well said!”

Wang Qun was no scholar, but after years as a steward, he understood such principles well enough. Hearing these words, his spirits rose, and after repeating them to himself twice, a sharp light flickered in his eyes and a subtle smile curled his lips. As if struck by a realization, he clapped Zhen Qian heavily on the shoulder. “Eldest Young Master, you are no ordinary man. I remember the Second Master once said that the Zhen family would face a great change. It seems he was not mistaken.”

Now it was Zhen Qian’s turn to be surprised by such a strong reaction. He asked urgently, “Who said the Zhen family would face a great change?”

Wang Qun only smiled, “Don’t ask. Very few know of this, and I myself don’t know the specifics. If you truly want to know, you’ll have to ask your father directly when the time comes.”

Zhen Qian felt a wave of frustration. He could barely remember what his distant father looked like; as the two girls had told him, his father returned home only once or twice a year. The last time was for New Year, but Zhen Qian had been in the capital for the imperial exams. Afterwards, he returned to Zhendin, was thrown from a horse, and lost his memory. His father had only written a letter asking about his condition—Zhen Qian didn’t know if the man truly cared or simply wasn’t worried.

He would rather avoid his father than seek him out, fearing he’d betray himself if they met. He shifted the topic, asking, “Uncle Wang, if I wanted to split from the family, do you think my father would object?”

“It’s hard to say,” Wang Qun admitted. “Given your current situation, the Second Master must be aware, but he’s never brought it up. Who knows what his attitude really is?”

Zhen Qian realized that splitting from the family was an issue he could not sidestep, and if his father objected, no amount of reasoning would change things. Would he really have to fall out with his father?

He could think of no good solution, so decided to leave it be for now—he would cross that bridge when he came to it. Surely, a living man wouldn’t be trapped by circumstance.

Early the next morning, Zhen Qian and his retinue arrived at the Song family’s estate outside the city. He hadn’t brought the two girls with him, which led to much grumbling—they accused him of not wanting the burden, and, in truth, he hadn’t wanted to bring them along. The mountain roads were rough, hardly a pleasure trip.

At Song Yi’s house, the courtyard was already crowded with people, each with nervous and complicated emotions, wondering what sort of master Zhen Qian would prove to be—would he be harsh, would he bring disaster on their heads?

Zhen Qian let his gaze pass over their anxious faces, then nodded slightly to Carpenter Lu and walked over. “You must be Uncle Lu. There’s no need to worry anymore. I know my words may not mean much now, but I promise you—I will not treat you as a slave. If you serve me well, I will one day set your family free.”

Lu, nearly fifty, was a master carpenter with an excellent reputation. His previous household had treated him well, but when it fell into decline, he and his family were sold to Zhen Qian. Skilled slaves were rarely sold, let alone set free. Lu was shocked that Zhen Qian would make such a promise at their first meeting.

As Lu struggled to respond, Zhen Qian was already standing among the fearful children, gently patting a boy’s head and asking each child their name. After some time, he straightened and said, “You need not be anxious or afraid. I did not buy you to serve me, nor to treat you as beasts of burden. I intend to take you as my foster children, to teach you to read and write.”

He gestured to the two elders behind him. “From today, you will follow these two. They will teach you letters and martial arts. You will call them Master Wang, and I am your foster father. You are now my foster sons. Do you understand?”

Being a foster son was vastly different from being a slave. Although Zhen Qian hadn’t explicitly mentioned setting them free, everyone knew that foster sons had a much higher status.

Though the children were bewildered, a few clever ones quickly realized what was happening and knelt, calling him “Father.” The rest, having been chosen by Wang Qun, were similarly quick-witted and followed suit. Soon, the courtyard echoed with cries of “Father.”

Zhen Qian was about to speak when Song Yi suddenly came forward, dragging his grandson, Song Xu, along. “Master Zhen, please take my useless grandson as a foster son too!”

Zhen Qian was startled, unable to fathom why Song Yi would give up his only grandson in such a way.

Song Yi’s grandson and granddaughter had long been under Zhen Qian’s care—one learning accounting with the girls, the other often at his side receiving guidance. Zhen Qian had noticed what Song Yi himself admitted: Song Xu had little talent for seal carving, and the family craft would likely die with the older generation.

But Song Yi had no idea what Zhen Qian’s real intentions were for keeping Song Xu close. Though Song Xu lacked talent for carving, he was exceptionally bright—a reticent child with extraordinary gifts and a remarkable knack for hands-on work, always full of questions.

Had Zhen Qian not been from another time, and had Song Xu not encountered him, the boy might have spent his life misunderstood and dismissed as a simpleton.

At first, Zhen Qian failed to see anything special about the boy, who barely spoke a word. But one day, overhearing a conversation between Song Xu and Xiao Zhu, Zhen Qian’s view changed entirely.

“Why does the sun rise in the east and set in the west?” Song Xu asked. “Is the ground beneath our feet really square? They say heaven is round and earth is square—does the earth really end at some pillar holding up the sky?”

His barrage of questions left Xiao Zhu at her wits’ end. Not only could she not answer, but in the Tang Dynasty, no one could. In exasperation, she sent Song Xu to Zhen Qian, who was surprised such a young boy could ask such questions.

Zhen Qian called Song Xu to his side and first explained that the earth was not square, nor was the sky a lid over it. He spent a day and a night talking to Song Xu, careful not to introduce too many “incredible” ideas—he didn’t mention that the earth was round or revolved around the sun. Instead, he explained the three states of water, why sky lanterns rise, and why wood floats on water. These everyday mysteries piqued Song Xu’s curiosity anew, inspiring him to observe the world more keenly.