Can Win Over People's Mouths, But Not Their Hearts

Chen Wenqian narrowed his eyes slightly. "What do you mean by that?"

Cui Hao's tone was solemn, his words measured yet forceful, as if he had prepared long for this moment to reclaim the ground lost in their last debate:

"A horse refers to its form—all horses share this form. White refers to its color. A white horse, then, is both form and color. Since a white horse possesses whiteness, how can it be the same as just a horse?"

"If one seeks a horse, black or yellow would suffice. But if I ask for a white horse, would you give me a black or yellow one instead?"

"Substance and name are inseparable. So how can a white horse simply be a horse?"

As Cui Hao's words fell, silence enveloped the hall.

Chen Wenqian gazed deeply at Cui Hao. As a great Confucian scholar, it was not merely extensive reading that mattered—quickness of mind was equally crucial.

The debate over the white horse might seem like a mere quibble about semantics, unrelated to the broader philosophical contest, as if Cui Hao were merely playing word games to gain an advantage.

But Chen Wenqian knew better.

This question was, in truth, an interrogation of Confucianism’s very foundations.

What Cui Hao had truly invoked was the relationship between "name" and "substance"—which, in Confucian terms, translated to "ritual" and "principle."

This was no mere sophistry. It was a dagger, hidden yet lethal.

Chen Wenqian did not rush to answer. He was startled by the weapon Cui Hao had prepared. With such a blade, it was no wonder the debate had been abruptly pushed forward.

His gaze flickered to the side, where he noticed the other great scholars also lost in thought.

Outside the hall, the gathered students listening to the debate stirred faintly.

Yet none spoke aloud.

Each carried paper and brush. When they wished to communicate, they wrote their thoughts and passed them silently among themselves.

Thus, the soft rustling beyond the windows came only from the scratching of brushes and the shuffling of paper.

Among the students, some grasped the deeper implications of the argument, while others dismissed it as mere sophistry.

But the sudden hush in the debate made one thing clear—this discussion of white horses was about far more than horses.

This was the fourth round of the debate. Never before had the opening exchanges reduced one side to complete silence, forcing them to resort to written exchanges.

Even Li Junzi, who had been losing consistently, had never seen Chen Wenqian or the other scholars wear such troubled expressions.

Chu Xingchen’s gaze drifted toward the window. Outside, the students moved with deliberate quiet, passing notes or writing with careful restraint to minimize noise.

Gentleman Mountain… At first glance, it did not seem entirely undeserving of its reputation. But whether it truly lived up to its name remained to be seen.

Chu Xingchen withdrew his gaze and turned it toward Cui Hao, who stood triumphant.

In the philosophy of the "Second Sage," ritual took precedence over principle.

A unified and rigid system of rites—such as those between ruler and subject, father and son—formed the framework. Absolute loyalty and filial piety replaced ordinary reasoning, making them unquestionable truths.

To a modern mind, nothing is absolute.

But for Confucian scholars steeped in these teachings, such truths were as unshakable as two plus two equaling four.

This was not a lack of intellect—merely the constraints of their era.

Moreover, in Confucianism, the collective always outweighed the individual. When an idea was universally accepted, how could one deny it?

Thus, blind loyalty and blind filial piety were never in short supply.

Loyalty meant disregarding right and wrong. Filial piety meant the same.

Even Confucius himself had said—"Endure small punishments, flee from great ones."

Yet this did not prevent later generations from producing stories like "Guo Ju Burying His Son," which now seemed incomprehensible in their extreme devotion.

Of course, one could not entirely blame the sages for such distortions.

Once a sage passed on, later scholars were free to interpret their words as they pleased—after all, the dead could not rise to debate them.

For an ideology to endure, it needed not only a core doctrine but also an audience. To expand its reach, great scholars were willing to tweak Confucianism, making it more palatable to certain interests.

Viewed through the lens of principle, Confucian rites were like the white horse.

To deny the white horse was to deny the bloated rituals of Confucianism.

If the white horse was mere sophistry, then what did that make Confucian rites?

Chen Wenqian’s brush never stopped moving. His eyes darted across the notes passed among the scholars, but after a glance, he shook his head slightly—none of the responses would suffice.

Li Junzi watched Chen Wenqian, awaiting his answer.

After what felt like an eternity, the floating "Destitute Brush" hovering in the air flickered faintly.

Chen Wenqian glanced at it and knew time was running short. He scanned the table once more, covered in scribbled notes.

This was sophistry—dangerously clever sophistry.

The only way to counter it was to step outside its logic.

After a long pause, Chen Wenqian finally spoke:

"Concepts in this world are defined by discourse. A thing is a thing. To claim a white thing is not a thing is impractical."

"You may win the argument, but you cannot win the heart."

A smile tugged at Cui Hao’s lips. Chen Wenqian’s words were an admission—time was too short for a proper rebuttal, so he conceded half the point to avoid being cornered.

After all, what did winning this debate truly achieve? Confucian rites governed the world’s morality. What practical difference did a rhetorical victory make?

Still, it was a partial surrender.

And that was enough. His task as the vanguard was complete. Now, it was time for the protagonist to take the stage.

Cui Hao turned to Li Junzi, gave a slight bow, and took his seat.

Li Junzi nodded in acknowledgment but did not rise immediately. Instead, her gaze settled on Chu Xingchen, who had remained relaxed throughout.

Three days earlier, under the cover of night…

Li Junzi pushed open the door and found Chu Xingchen reclining in a rocking chair, alongside Daoist Yuyang in another.

When the moon hung directly overhead, Chu Xingchen had sent Chen Baiqing off to bed.

Chen Baiqing, a Golden Core cultivator, didn’t quite understand why she needed sleep—she wasn’t like her senior sister, who simply loved to nap.

But when her master sternly warned that lack of sleep would stunt her growth, she obeyed without protest.

After all, he had promised to stay a few more days. She would see him again tomorrow.

Not wanting to displease him, Chen Baiqing nodded obediently and retired.

Chu Xingchen had sensed Li Junzi’s approach. He straightened slightly and asked,

"Are the preparations for the debate going smoothly?"

Li Junzi nodded. "Cui Hao is exceptionally bright. I’ve learned much from him."

Chu Xingchen’s voice was calm. "Then have you come to admire the moonlight tonight?"

Li Junzi shook her head. "I am troubled. 'A white horse is not a horse' is not the philosophy I seek."

"Master Li, didn’t you originally just wish to prove that Confucianism is not the eternal truth? The white horse argument achieves that, doesn’t it?"

"What I want is not merely to win a debate, but to reform."

Li Junzi lifted her face to the moon. "During my time in Lin Family Gully, I saw not only the principles of the Second Sage but also what lay beyond them. While teaching Luo Yu, I often pondered—many of the Second Sage’s teachings are beautiful in theory but lead to chaos in practice."

"I suspect you already know how to enact such reforms, Master Chu. Yet, after much reflection, my doubts remain. I had to come and ask."

Chu Xingchen listened, then smiled faintly before replying in a natural tone:

"Hasn’t Mr. Li already figured out how to do it and even acted upon it?"

"If you wish to correct yourself, what you must do first is discard the books of the Demi-Sage. Otherwise, you’ll remain bound by convention."

Chu Xingchen’s tone suddenly turned grave as he spoke earnestly:

"What matters is the phrase 'acted upon it.' I can say no more than this."