In Li Haimo's view, marriage was a private affair between two people, not something to broadcast to the world. It reminded him of modern celebrities—furtive during courtship, half-wanting secrecy, half-craving attention; then, at the wedding, making a grand spectacle as if afraid the world might miss it. Only to later spiral into scandals of infidelity, turning life into a drama both on and off the stage.
In the world of Qin Moon, however, actors weren't called celebrities but lingguan—court entertainers. The renowned were dubbed youling, while the obscure faded into oblivion. Despite their title, lingguan ranked lower than even the humblest village official. Historical records used the term "kept" to describe them, a word choice revealing their lowly status. Only in the Records of the Grand Historian's preface to the lingguan did their standing gain a slight uplift.
Before the Tang Dynasty, who were these lingguan? Criminal slaves—outcasts so despised that even sentencing them to punishment was seen as an insult to the judicial officials. They were "kept" like livestock. Some might ask, then, why the term dajia (great master) existed? This title wasn't for just anyone. Take Cai Zhaoji, known as Cai Dajia. She was the daughter of the renowned Han scholar Cai Yong, a scion of a prestigious family. Her contributions to completing the Book of Han and composing Eighteen Songs of a Nomad Flute earned her the title. Her every move was scrutinized by the scholarly elite, setting a standard for decorum. Only in the Tang and Song Dynasties, when poets like Ouyang Xiu wrote for lingguan and emperors personally crafted works like The Dance of the Qin King Breaking the Formation and The Song of the Neon Feather Robe, did lingguan evolve into a respected profession, shedding their status as slaves.
Thus, Li Haimo had hoped for a low-key wedding within the Heavenly and Human Sects of the Daoist School. But Chixiaozi and Xiaoyaozi looked at him as if he were a fool.
Whether it was the Heavenly Sect or the Human Sect, each was a titan capable of dominating any philosophical school single-handedly. Combined as the Daoist School, they were unmatched—be it Confucianism, Legalism, Mohism, Yin-Yang, Military, Agricultural, Medical, or even the obscure schools. The Daoists could boast, with no exaggeration, that none could challenge them.
The marriage of the Heavenly and Human Sect leaders wasn't something that could be kept quiet. Failing to invite any of the Hundred Schools would be taken as a grave insult, enough to spark enmity and sever ties. This wasn't a jest—history recorded many who, feeling slighted, proved their honor with their lives. Such a mindset baffled later generations. It explained why Duke Zhou "spat out his meal" to welcome guests, not out of pretense but genuine fear of offense. Even Cao Cao, who crushed Yuan Shao, humbled himself to greet scholars barefoot. A perceived slight could lead to a scholar's suicide by sword, ensuring the offender's social ruin.
Thus, Chixiaozi and Xiaoyaozi had begun sending invitations to the Hundred Schools and royal houses a month ago. Whether they attended was their choice, but ignoring the invitation meant either overconfidence or a belief that the Daoist School's blade had dulled. Those who dared snub the call wouldn't even face the Daoists directly—other kingdoms would answer the summons and crush them. This was the awe-inspiring might of the Hundred Schools in the Qin era, why? "When Guigu speaks, the feudal lords tremble; when Guigu rests, the world finds peace." They were simply untouchable.
The First Emperor's burning of books and burying of scholars wasn't just about silencing dissent—it was a warning to the Hundred Schools. By destroying Mohism's strongholds and crippling Confucianism, the two most prominent schools, he sent a clear message: Stay in line. During his reign, no school dared challenge him. But upon his death, chaos erupted. Mohism vanished entirely, Confucianism was left half-crippled, the Daoist School sealed itself off, and Guigu faded from history. The Hundred Schools were decimated in this purge. The Daoists suffered grievously with the Book of Changes burned, surviving only because Li Si classified it as a medical text. But the surviving fragments were a mere shadow of the Daoist core—tens of thousands of scrolls reduced to a fraction, barely a drop in the bucket.
Without its core teachings, the Daoist School spiraled into chaos. They abandoned their roots, dabbling in alchemy and divine worship. The true pre-Qin Daoists scoffed at gods—look at the Yin-Yang School's Donghuang Taiyi, who renamed himself a deity. As the poet lamented: In the Xuanshi Hall, seeking the wise and exiled, Jia Yi's talent was unmatched. Yet, in the dead of night, the emperor ignored the people's plight, asking only of ghosts and gods. This marked the shift from Daoism to what could be called Daoist religion. Pre-Qin Daoism was grounded in martial arts and philosophy, centuries ahead of Western thought. But it lost its way, devolving into mysticism.
Confucianism followed a similar path. Initially rooted in the Four Books and Five Classics, it later indulged in the Spring and Autumn Annals' cryptic style, then veered into self-referential commentary—I annotate the Six Classics, and the Six Classics annotate me. At first disciplined, it eventually ran wild, producing corrupt scholars in droves. The greatest blow came at the Song Dynasty's end, when a hundred thousand soldiers drowned themselves at sea, yet Confucius' descendants served the Yuan, breaking the scholars' moral backbone. If even the sage's heirs could bend, others found their excuse.
By the Ming Dynasty's fall, the emperor guarded the gates and died for the state, yet when the Qing invaded, they found vaults overflowing with silver in Beijing. Ironically, when Emperor Chongzhen had begged for military funds, the elite claimed poverty, donating mere dozens or hundreds. The Qing's plunder revealed millions. Had the Ming been founded in the pre-Qin era, it could have been a world-spanning empire.
Thus, when the Hundred Schools lost their restraint and core, their immense potential turned reckless. Gone was the era of virtuous scholars retiring to write treatises. Pre-Qin nobles had their share of wastrels, as every era does, but even they dared not harm commoners. The scholars' pens were lethal—offend a peasant, and they'd curse you to death. Either you died, or they did, dragging your entire clan into ruin while their legacy endured.
In short, pre-Qin scholars were a terrifying force, quick to draw swords over a slight. Either you apologized, or they died, taking your clan with them in a blaze of mutual destruction.
After Chixiaozi and Xiaoyaozi explained why the wedding couldn't be low-key, Li Haimo worldview shattered. He realized the fearsome nature of this era's scholars—a group so unhinged they'd threaten ritual suicide at a moment's notice. Who wouldn't fear such fanatics? In later eras, like in Love Apartment's Guan Gu, the threat of seppuku was a cultural echo of pre-Qin influence, but without the same stakes. In modern times, people might watch such a spectacle with popcorn. In the pre-Qin era, if someone claimed you insulted them and vowed to disembowel themselves, you'd better beware—they'd do it, and your social existence would die with them.
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