Chapter Twenty: The Great Risks of Freely Writing About Ancient Times

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Fei Qian left the Cai residence still somewhat excited. Having been in the Three Kingdoms for a while now, he finally had a sturdier support to lean on. Although it was from the scholar-official sector, it was still a prominent figure. Now, stepping outside, he carried an additional protective aura—not insignificant but not overwhelming either.

When Fei Qian returned home, a sudden realization caused cold sweat to break out on his brow. Earlier at the Cai household, he had used modern English letters and numerals—things from the future. If someone with keen eyes investigated this, it would be difficult to explain! He might even be mistaken for a lab rat in some sinister experiment!

Fei Qian cursed himself, wishing he could slap his own face for showing off.

At this point, Dong Zhuo had just entered the capital and was busy coordinating military affairs. His main focus was to secure and co-opt the troops left behind by General He Jin. For the time being, he had no opportunity to meddle in politics, so the Han government remained relatively stable, still moving along its original trajectory. Many officials hadn’t received new orders from above, but from the overall operation, no major disruptions had yet arisen.

Throughout the Han dynasty, the degree of control over literature and ideology was exceptionally strict. Fei Qian, from the future, had only known about Qin Shi Huang’s infamous “burning of books and burying of scholars,” but upon arriving in the Three Kingdoms era, he realized the Han dynasty’s measures were hardly less severe.

Qin Shi Huang was extremely vigilant about controlling intellectual thought. He ruthlessly suppressed any heterodox doctrines, partly because Legalist scholars used this as a means to crush rival ideas—“You heretics babble nonsense, now you shall be eradicated; peace shall reign thereafter.”

Liu Bang of the Han dynasty inherited this banner and innovatively established the crimes of “great treason” and “secret dissent”—even if you didn’t speak out, if you were suspected of harboring dissenting thoughts, you were guilty! The Qin dynasty was short-lived and often criticized by Confucians as the epitome of cruelty for the burning of books and burying of scholars, which claimed fewer than 500 lives. In contrast, during the Han dynasty, records show over fifty incidents where literary or verbal transgressions led to fatalities—totaling more than 1,500 deaths.

From the perspective of the ruling regime, troublemakers fell into two categories: those with malicious intent but lacking courage, and those with courage but no malicious intent. Which group was safer? Those with intent but lacking courage might grow bolder if the opportunity arose; those with courage but no ill will would cause little damage despite their bravery.

Thus, rulers required courage but not malice. Anyone who wrote or spoke against government needs was ruthlessly suppressed.

Most notably, the Han dynasty introduced the crime of “secret dissent,” which could be prosecuted on fabricated grounds. Even more deadly was the Han’s unforgiving stance on witchcraft and sorcery—punished by immediate execution regardless of status, even princesses and princes were beheaded without hesitation.

If Fei Qian’s scribbles were labeled as gibberish or associated with witchcraft, he would have no chance to explain. The consequence would be immediate execution.

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What to do? Turning around now and going back to the Cai residence would seem improper and only arouse suspicion. Fei Qian could only plan to wait for the next appointment at the Cai household to find an opportunity to resolve this issue.

Besides, he needed to prepare some explanation for himself.

Fei Qian trudged toward his study, regretting deeply as he tried to recall: these Arabic numerals weren’t really Arabic. Moreover, these characters were introduced into China only during the Song or Yuan dynasties and originally came from India. But what was India called during the Han dynasty?

“Tianzhu”—that was a name from the Tang dynasty, associated with some verbose monk, wasn’t it?

Ah, this was giving him a headache. Fei Qian truly wished he could slap himself twice for using this notation, thus creating so much unnecessary trouble.

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Cai Yong was highly accomplished in literature and other areas, but in terms of mindset, he was relatively pure-hearted and not as politically savvy as Minister Wang Yun. Perhaps this was why he excelled in many fields—human energy is limited, if one aspect consumes too much, another might suffer.

At this moment, Cai Yong was holding Fei Qian’s calculation paper, studying it carefully from all angles, murmuring quietly while gesturing over the sheet. The diagram was generally recognizable as a schematic map of Fangyi, but what did the annotations mean?

Although Cai Yong could work out the subject matter himself, his speed was clearly slower than Fei Qian’s. Cai Yong needed more than ten sheets of paper the same size as Fei Qian’s single sheet to perform such deductions, whereas Fei Qian managed it all on one. Though Cai Yong couldn’t comprehend these symbols, his intuition told him they were connected to Fei Qian’s unique notation.

Pondering over such matters was Cai Yong’s passion; sometimes he would stay up day and night without rest. This time was no exception. He sketched and marked, unaware that dusk had fallen. The servants in the Cai household, accustomed to their master’s habits, silently lit candles for him.

However, it was already past evening meal time, and Cai Yong had not emerged from his numerical reverie. The elderly steward, worried that Cai Yong might be neglecting his health, called several times, but Cai Yong gave no response. Left with no choice, the steward went to fetch Cai Yan, also known as Princess Zhao Ji.

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At this time, Cai Zhao Ji had recently fallen out with the Wei family.

Cai Yong was indifferent to the politics of Emperor Ling’s reign and disliked involvement in struggles between eunuchs and imperial relatives. Consequently, he also did not favor the young talents now engaging in court politics. When Cai Yan reached marriageable age, her father picked and chose and arranged her marriage into the Wei family of Hedong.

The Wei family rose to prominence in the era of General Wei Qing and had grown into one of the foremost clans in the nation, renowned and powerful enough to wield considerable influence without even stepping into court. Cai Yong believed that marrying Cai Yan to Wei Ning, Wei Jì’s second younger brother, was an excellent match. He trusted that by joining such a prominent family, Cai Yan’s later life would be secure, and as a father, he could rest assured.

Unfortunately, like many other noble families, the Wei clan had a penchant for occult practices. Wei Zhongdao, Cai Yan’s husband, frequently consumed concoctions like Five Stone Powder and Nine Turn Golden Elixir as treats. Not long after the marriage, Wei Zhongdao died from coughing up blood.

The Wei family naturally did not blame their son but rather Cai Yan, branding her a jinx. No matter that she was the daughter of a literary master, a label of “wife-killer” was inevitable.

Cai Yan, stubborn as ever, refused her dowry in anger and returned to the Cai household as a single woman.

Cai Yong, heartbroken and helpless, saw his beloved daughter treated worse than grass and thus kept Cai Yan at home, turning hostile toward the Wei family.

Hearing that her father was absorbed in study and neglecting rest and meals, Cai Yan smiled faintly, took a lamp, and walked toward the hall where Cai Yong was.