Chapter 144: Efficiency, Efficiency, and Fucking Efficiency

Zhang Yu’s words were outrageously brazen!

With Liu Ji already conceding defeat, Zhang’s aggressive stance came across as relentless.

Kong Ne and Deng Zhongxiu felt a chill creep up their spines upon hearing this.

The Kong family members frantically signaled Zhang Yi to relent and show mercy.

Liu Bowen couldn’t help but feel pleased, though observing Zhang Yi’s determined gaze, it was clear he wouldn’t back down.

Zhang Yi’s persistence stemmed from both reason and confidence.

His so-called textbook wasn’t authored by him; rather, it was copied from the instructional materials he would study in the future.

Countless people had poured their heart and soul into compiling these works, and an untold number had contributed to them—a collective honor not belonging to Zhang Yi alone.

Liu Bowen might be a genius, but Zhang Yi represented the future common people.

If Liu Bowen’s concession today was merely an admission of carelessness leading to failure, it would be a grave underestimation of those who compiled the textbooks.

No matter how brilliant Liu Bowen was, if he claimed that his knowledge and intellect alone could surpass the fruits of generations of collective effort, Zhang Yi would never agree.

Old Liu thought: This kid really gives no room for others to save face. Not only that, he’s digging pits for them to fall into!

Damn it!

If it weren’t for his decades of scholarly cultivation, Liu Bowen might have really cursed him out!

But then, upon reflection, Liu Bowen had to admit.

Even if he were to seriously compile a textbook, he absolutely couldn’t produce one better than Zhang Yi’s.

Not for lack of time, nor lack of intellect.

Rather, the underlying logic behind Zhang Yi’s textbooks might be what true education really is.

Illustrations, text, critical thinking, exercises, and those strange symbols and punctuation marks...

Things taken for granted in later eras would, in this time, be considered a dimensional assault.

Ancient scholars did teach and resolve doubts, but the educational theories created by modern education, and their application in practice, belong to an entirely different realm.

If Zhang Yi hadn’t insisted, it would have taken Liu Bowen much longer to grasp the preciousness of those dozen volumes of arithmetic textbooks.

Now, he fully understood.

“I agree with your view. Even if I were to compile a new textbook, it wouldn’t compare to the one you hold!”

Liu Bowen was candid; once he recognized Zhang Yi’s perspective, admitting fault was no shame.

It was clear Liu Bowen accepted defeat wholeheartedly.

Zhang Yi softened his stubborn demeanor and smiled cheerfully.

“All right, everyone, sit down and have some tea. No need to be so tense!”

Liu Ji, Kong Ne, and Deng Zhongxiu exchanged glances, unsure who bore the greater blame.

“Do you have anything else?”

Zhang Yi, having just sat down, was ready to dismiss them.

To him, the matter was resolved, and since unlikely friendships would form, better to part ways early.

Liu Bowen’s expression remained unchanged; when thick-skinned, he could completely ignore Zhang Yi’s hints.

“There are a few things I don’t understand. What are these?”

Liu Bowen scribbled some symbols on paper; Zhang Yi looked on, amused.

“These are punctuation marks!”

“Punctuation marks? Weren’t they present in ancient texts as well?”

“They existed since the pre-Qin period and were even recorded in the Shuowen Jiezi dictionary. You scholars just never used them! You all play tricks, obsessed with dividing sentences, thinking it’s impressive, but it’s really nonsense! It’s just that you don’t want to speak plainly. These are things that could improve efficiency but are ignored, and now you come asking me what they mean?”

Zhang Yi grumbled as he patiently demonstrated the uses of commas, periods, exclamation marks, and other punctuation to Liu Bowen.

Liu Bowen found his complaints harsh but, after thinking about it, realized there was truth to it.

Sentence division was sometimes flaunted as a skill among literati.

Because ancient texts lacked punctuation, different interpretations could arise from different punctuations, sometimes sparking years of disputes.

Liu Bowen had long been accustomed to this, but hearing Zhang Yi’s blunt criticism, he began to see the futility.

“The purpose of writing is to clearly convey one’s reasoning. Yet, due to varying sentence divisions, words can be misinterpreted in countless ways.

Is this truly the author’s original intent?

My cultural knowledge is limited, but discovering punctuation feels like a revelation!

At least, I want to express clearly what I mean without forcing students to guess or learn sentence division.

Life is short; reading is already painful enough. Teachers should lighten the burden, not increase the cost of reading!

This isn’t teaching; it’s just idle mischief!”

Zhang Yi’s rant was unending, causing Liu Bowen to frown repeatedly.

Though acknowledging the logic, Liu Bowen found the tone abrasive.

The emperor held expectations for Zhang Yi’s future, but Zhang’s words showed no sympathy for scholars, sounding more like a detached observer.

This attitude did not appeal to Liu Bowen.

The title “Master Yi” on the arithmetic textbooks was a hope Liu Bowen and Song Lian had for Zhang Yi’s future.

Now he was a Taoist priest; if he later became a scholar and gained fame, even if the true authorship of the "Twelve Volumes of Arithmetic" was revealed, Zhang Yi, as a Confucian, would leave behind a good reputation.

But if this fellow openly disdained Confucianism as a Taoist, Liu Bowen dared not imagine the consequences.

So, despite appreciating Zhang Yi’s criticism, he couldn’t help but rebut:

“Though you have some points, the sages of past dynasties prioritized the transmission of the classics, not these trivial details!

Discovering punctuation is an achievement, but you mustn’t use it to attack others!”

“Trivial details again?”

Zhang Yi chuckled with disdain.

“Perhaps it’s because Confucianism is so obsessed with grand achievements and out of touch that His Majesty accepted the inclusion of arithmetic in the imperial exams!

Others’ attitudes might be forgiven, but you, Liu Bowen, also think this way?

Truth remains unchanged for centuries; what new thing can endless research yield?

What you disdain as minor arts, I see as key to inheritance. I won’t even mention paper or ink.

Whether Confucianism or Daoism, fundamentally both seek better transmission!

Transmission requires education, and educating someone requires resources!

Not to mention, if promoted, these small things on the table could reduce the cost of knowledge transmission manyfold, even by tens or hundreds of times!

Isn’t that far better than those old folks busy pretending profundity but dismissing these small tools?

Minor arts, once qualitatively transformed, become the great way!

And if the great way doesn’t root in practical matters, it’s empty talk!

This is the truth I’ve realized!”

In this era that prized the Dao over minor arts, Zhang Yi’s blunt elevation of arts to equal footing with the Dao bordered on heresy.

He had shared such theories with Huang and his sons but rarely voiced them publicly, knowing they’d be unwelcome.

“What do you think the Dao and arts are?”

“If the Dao is thought, then arts are tools; if the Dao is cause, arts are effect! If the Dao is truth, then arts are the standard to test truth!

If one deduces cause from effect, then a doctrine that no longer drives worldly change but only blindly reveres the past proves it’s being abandoned by the world...”

Liu Bowen’s face darkened. Zhang Yi’s insinuations were beyond mere heresy.

What was he implying?

Liu Bowen felt that Xu Cunren and the emperor were terribly mistaken to want this boy in court.

This kid was rebellious to the core; if he ever gained power, would he not overturn the world?

Fortunately, he was a Taoist with no apparent ambition for fame.

Liu Bowen wiped cold sweat from his brow, realizing it was better that Zhang Yi not get too close to the emperor.

Old Zhu was also a heretic; after so many years serving the emperor, how could Liu Bowen not know?

His respect for Confucianism and favor for scholars was merely for governance.

The emperor himself held Confucianism in contempt.

If these two were to team up, Liu Bowen dared not imagine the consequences.

Still, Zhang Yi’s theory was not without merit.

Arts are tools.

Just as a knife is a tool; without a knife, a person is powerless against the world’s hardships.

Before the imperial exam reforms, Confucians overemphasized human agency and overlooked how tools transform the world.

“If knowledge is the great way, and action the minor arts, then knowing and acting is the path we’ve taken.

But knowing without acting is like a castle in the air, mere empty talk!

No wonder you spoke to Xu Cunren about the unity of knowledge and action...

No wonder your proposal to the emperor included incorporating arithmetic into the imperial exams!

His Majesty must feel that the current Confucian atmosphere is too detached from reality!”

Although Liu Bowen didn’t guess everything correctly, Zhang Yi accepted his view.

Zhu Yuanzhang’s mindset was conflicted; he wanted obedient officials yet also hoped they were capable.

When that was hard to achieve, ability had to prevail.

Hence, historically, he promoted the eight-legged essay but later suspended exams for ten years out of dissatisfaction.

This inner contradiction had kept him trapped in the novice stage as emperor.

Only after the Hu Weiyong incident did he truly mature as a ruler.

Given Zhu Yuanzhang’s background and temperament, aside from his paranoia, he certainly valued pragmatism more than other emperors.

Only he could carry out a rebellious reform like integrating arithmetic into the imperial exams.

Zhang Yi saw no need to explain the emperor’s mindset to Liu Bowen.

Old Liu, thinking he had guessed right, brought up another topic:

“But if you want to make the imperial exams practical and unify knowledge and action, I think simply adding arithmetic isn’t enough.

If you want pragmatism, the evaluation criteria must be practical.

For example, set a difficult problem and let students solve it with their own ideas...”

Listening to Liu Bowen speak so earnestly, Zhang Yi admired the old man.

No wonder he was among the wisest and most legendary figures in the future.

His openness to new ideas and insight into systems were beyond ordinary men.

What Zhang Yi had was the advantage of standing on the shoulders of predecessors, equipped with centuries of historical knowledge.

What Liu Bowen described resembled the modern essay portion of civil service exams.

Such comprehensive assessments are important, though all exams have their routines.

Still, such routines are preferable to endless pedantry.

Of course, Zhang Yi knew Liu Bowen spoke pragmatically and was unlikely to support such reforms fully.

But chatting with him was refreshing.

Zhang Yi had considered this possibility but rejected it himself.

After Liu Bowen finished, Zhang Yi shook his head, smiling.

“This method is flawed?”

Old Liu guessed Zhang Yi would have objections.

Though Liu Bowen’s proposal was offhand, he believed it more practical than merely adding arithmetic.

“Because it’s unfair!” Zhang Yi replied.

“Your idea surpasses its era by centuries; if you lived in a time of information abundance and easy communication, it might be an excellent assessment method.

But this is the Ming Dynasty!

Ninety percent of the populace never stray more than ten miles from home.

How many people today don’t even know who the emperor is?

In this world where knowledge is monopolized by the few, assessing governing ability is unfair to the poor!

Experience is part of ability; nobles and scholarly families have natural advantages.

By your logic, if you test adaptability, these people have the edge; if you test farming or other common skills, the poor have the advantage!

So the direction of the questions determines class admission rates—hence unfairness!”

Arithmetic isn’t perfect, but it’s fair enough.

Moreover, it tests logical ability, and those who possess it generally learn other subjects well!”

Zhang Yi’s words gave Liu Bowen pause.

After much thought, he agreed.

“I understand that you and many officials distrust adding arithmetic to the exams and are wary of a Taoist meddling in reforms.

But you need not worry; I transmit arts, not the Dao!

Arts carry the Dao. If your Confucianism can’t withstand such small changes, it deserves to be lost to time!”

As their conversation progressed, Zhang Yi boldly revealed Liu Bowen’s hidden worries.

Liu Bowen remained composed and never denied his wariness of Zhang Yi.

Yet after this exchange, many doubts faded, and Zhang Yi grew more agreeable in his eyes.

“Today’s visit was worthwhile!”

He ceased debating “Dao and arts,” focusing again on punctuation.

Writing carries the Dao; writing is a tool...

As long as the Dao is unchanging, the tool matters little.

“Tell me more about punctuation; I’ll suggest it to the emperor...”

Liu Bowen earnestly inquired about punctuation usage, and Zhang Yi patiently taught him.

Soon, Liu Bowen mastered the concepts, and Zhang Yi seized the opportunity to suggest:

“How about adding Arabic numerals to learning arithmetic?”

“For what purpose?”

Liu Bowen was puzzled.

When Zhang Yi wrote the Arabic numerals, Liu Bowen instantly recognized them.

Arabic numerals had long been introduced to China but were not widely accepted.

Influenced by the Celestial Empire’s ideology and Confucian pride, mainstream society naturally dismissed Arabic numerals.

“Efficiency, efficiency, damn efficiency!”

Zhang Yi half-jokingly answered Liu Bowen’s question.

“Try writing these numbers yourself.

Whether punctuation or Arabic numerals, all aim to improve efficiency.

For instance, punctuation reduces disputes over sentence division, freeing more time to grasp ideas, which aids education.

Numbers are similar—they’re tools, unrelated to the Dao.

Simply put, if officials write a bit faster, with tens of thousands of officials, that adds up to thousands of breaths saved daily—over a year, millions saved...

Small changes accumulate into massive transformations over time.

Best of all, these changes cost little!

Isn’t this more effective than preaching lofty principles or chasing impractical ideals?”

Liu Bowen fell silent, then stared at Zhang Yi, pondering long and hard.

“Efficiency...

I understand now why you advocate arithmetic!

Much appreciated!”

He stood, pocketing the notes Zhang Yi had written.

At that moment, a sound came from Kong Kejian’s sleeping chamber, interrupting their talk.

“Since Duke Yansheng has awakened, I won’t disturb him!”

Liu Bowen rose and left promptly.

He had come suddenly and left decisively.

Kong Ne rushed inside to find Kong Kejian sitting dazed on the bed.

“How is Grandpa?”

“He’s fine. Looks much better!”

Kong Ne sensed something different about Kong Kejian.

Outside, Zhang Yi called; Kong Ne quickly replied.

But he did not notice the confusion in Kong Kejian’s eyes.

“Dao... arts...”

“Grandpa’s condition is about the same, but in that environment, he’ll never fully recover!”

Kong Kejian had been under Zhang Yi’s hypnosis for over ten days.

Zhang Yi examined him and saw further improvement.

Yet mental illness remained a tough problem even in the future.

Even with his experimental methods, success couldn’t be guaranteed.

“Grandpa’s been better at home but still not as well as here.

Thank you, Zhang Yi. I’ll take Grandpa back now!”

Zhang Yi nodded as Kong Ne led Kong Kejian away.

The Kong family carriage headed toward the Kong estate outside the city.

Entering town, Kong Kejian reached out for the first time, pulling back the carriage curtain to look outside.

This small change delighted Kong Ne.

“Grandpa, want to get out and look around?”

Kong Kejian nodded vacantly.

“I’ll support you!”

As long as Kong Kejian was willing to engage with the outside world, he was happy.

Kong Fu stopped the carriage, and the grandfather and grandson walked through the bustling streets.

Kong Ne introduced this and that.

Grandpa responded.

Unnoticed by Kong Ne, someone in the crowd slowly approached Kong Kejian, whispering in his ear:

“Minister, His Majesty misses you...”

(End of chapter)