Chapter Seventy-Two: The Mohist School and the Hundred Schools of Thought

“The future of the Mohist School?”

Mo Dun fell silent at once. This was an immense question, after all.

Everyone gazed at him quietly, awaiting his response.

After a long pause, Mo Dun exhaled slowly and said, “A thousand years ago, Master Mo advocated universal love, non-aggression, meritocracy, unity, the will of heaven, recognition of spirits, rejection of fatalism, rejection of music, frugality in burials, and economy in use. Yet, in the ensuing era of a hundred schools contending, the Mohist School gradually declined, eventually fading into near oblivion and breaking its line of transmission. History has already given its verdict—Mohist political philosophy does not fit the needs of the times.”

The entire hall was stunned at Mo Dun’s words. No one expected that his very first sentence would so directly deny the Mohist political philosophy cherished for a millennium. Kong Yingda looked up sharply, eyes sparkling—if the Mohists themselves admitted their doctrines were no longer suitable, wasn’t that tacitly acknowledging Confucian orthodoxy?

Li Shimin also breathed a quiet sigh of relief. He had worried that Mo Dun would stubbornly cling to the teachings of his ancestors, as some diehards still did.

Master Yu, too, was cast into gloom. The Mohist village had always upheld the ancestral teachings, and as a result, had sunk into poverty. If not for Mo Dun’s sudden emergence, who could say what state Mohist Village would be in now?

“However, the Mohist School has found a path of its own—a broad and promising avenue,” Mo Dun said confidently.

“Mohist craft?” Li Shimin asked.

“The ultimate aim of Mohist craft is to probe the essence hidden behind the appearances of all things around us. I believe the day will come when Mohist craft astounds the world,” Mo Dun declared.

“What is there left in this world for you to discover? Once or twice you may have had luck on your side—that doesn’t mean you’ll always be so fortunate!” Kong Yingda retorted with disdain. In his view, the Mohists’ breakthroughs, like the curved plow and the method for preserving live fish, were nothing but strokes of dumb luck.

Mo Dun countered, “There are countless things in this world whose reasons we do not know. For instance: Why are there clouds in the sky, and where do they come from? How are wind, rain, thunder, and lightning formed? Why can birds fly in the sky, and fish swim in the water? How many species of plants and animals exist? What lies beyond the great sea? Why does the sun rise in the east and set in the west? Why does iron rust?”

As Mo Dun posed one “why” after another, everyone present was left speechless.

All fell silent. Indeed—why? They knew of these phenomena, yet had never truly pondered them.

“Such inquiries cannot be answered by Mohist Village alone. Fortunately, this time, the Mohist School does not labor behind closed doors, but actively seeks cooperation with the other schools. Our successful collaboration with the Agriculturalists is an auspicious beginning. Next, while deepening our partnership with the Agriculturalists, we will also work closely with the Medical School,” Mo Dun said.

“That gas you mentioned—oxygen?” Li Shimin interjected.

He was deeply intrigued by this oxygen. Throughout history, emperors had sought immortality. While Li Shimin was not yet so obsessed, if this life-sustaining gas could be found—even if it did not grant immortality, but could merely extend life—who could refuse such a thing?

“I am convinced oxygen exists. Once it can be extracted, the Medical School will make great advances. The Mohists will also seek active collaboration with the other philosophical schools,” Mo Dun replied.

“With the other schools? I suppose the Mohists and the Confucians will never cooperate,” Kong Yingda remarked coolly. In his view, Confucianism, having reached maturity, required no further change. Its knowledge was theoretical; Mohist craft was practical—there would never be any overlap.

“Oh? I had intended to present the Dean with something valuable, but it seems unnecessary now,” Mo Dun said breezily, causing all the scholars of the Imperial Academy to grow tense.

“Something valuable?” Kong Yingda was now caught in a dilemma. The worth of a Mohist invention was unpredictable; if it proved as important as the curved plow for the Agriculturalists or oxygen for the Medical School and the Confucians missed out, the loss would be immense. Yet he had just declared, plainly and publicly, that cooperation between the Mohists and Confucians was impossible—if he reversed himself now, his dignity would not survive it.

Li Shimin, seeing the old scholar’s predicament, could not help but find it amusing. Fixing Mo Dun with a stern look, he said in a parental tone, “You insolent boy! Is that any way to address your elders? If you have something good, bring it out at once!”

Mo Dun shrank his head, quickly pulling Qin Huaiyu with him to fetch the item.

Kong Yingda cast a grateful glance at Li Shimin, thankful for the rescue.

Before long, Qin Huaiyu and Mo Dun, faces flushed and dripping with sweat, lugged in a blackboard three feet wide and ten feet long. This was the custom-made menu board for the Zhuangyuan Tower, which Mo Dun had commandeered for the occasion.

This blackboard was nothing like the thin metal sheets of later ages. The technology of Mohist Village had not yet reached that stage; Old Zhang had made it from solid materials, which only added to its considerable weight.

Mo Dun and Qin Huaiyu were red-faced and panting from the effort.

“Oh! Isn’t that our so-called ‘Young Overlord in the Flesh’? Why is this board heavier than a thousand-pound cauldron?” Qin Qiong teased, glancing at Qin Huaiyu.

Qin Huaiyu blushed crimson with embarrassment. He had been boasting just moments ago, only to be exposed so quickly. Cheng Chumo and Yuchi Baolin, his mischievous friends, snickered at his discomfiture, clearly enjoying his predicament.

With a loud thud, the blackboard was set down heavily, propped upright against the table.

“This is the ‘something good’ you mentioned?” Kong Yingda eyed Mo Dun skeptically.

“And this, as well,” Mo Dun said, producing a packet of chalk from his sleeve. On the blackboard, he wrote:

“At noon the farmer hoes the field,
Sweat drips down to the soil beneath;
Who knows that every grain on the plate,
Each one comes from toil and grief.”

The chalk letters stood out clearly on the blackboard. Yet the crowd’s attention was not on the demonstration but entirely captivated by Mo Dun’s poem.

“What a fine poem!”

Many of the Imperial Academy scholars were poetry enthusiasts with refined literary tastes. At a glance, they recognized this as a rare masterpiece.

Several of the academy’s doctors swayed their heads in appreciation, savoring the lines with evident delight. Some had already begun to analyze and comment on the poem.

Even Li Shimin’s eyes lit up. Thus far, the young Mohist had written three border poems and a poem on a goose—all classics. Now, it seemed, he had added another to his corpus.

Li Chengqian and the others looked on with practiced indifference; by now, no feat of Mo Dun could surprise them—he had performed too many miracles for anything to seem out of the ordinary.

As for Qin Qiong, Cheng Yaojin, and the other military men, they looked on with undisguised scorn at the scholars lost in poetic rapture.

Mo Dun was left half laughing, half exasperated. The whole point had gone astray—his intention had been to demonstrate the use of blackboard and chalk, not to provide an occasion for tea and poetry appreciation.