Chapter Forty-Seven: The Chicken and the Egg

Moving through the crowd with Zhu Yingtai cost them a great deal of effort before they finally emerged from the throng gathered before the stage. By now, people were continuously streaming in, forming a dense mass around the theater, all captivated by the twelve performers above, applauding and commenting with gusto. Even those who tried to make a ruckus were immediately hushed by those beside them—no one wanted their enjoyment of the play disturbed.

For the common folk, this festival was a rare moment of amusement, and they would not let a few thoughtless troublemakers ruin it.

Turning to look at Zhu Yingtai, he noticed her still gazing longingly at the twelve performers. Smiling, he teased, “If you wish to watch, you may as well stay.”

“I never said I wanted to watch,” she replied stubbornly, shaking her head. “I think wandering outside is just as delightful as watching a play.”

Liu Ping nodded. “I quite agree. Though the lyrics of those twelve performers have some charm, they hardly hold any meaning.”

Zhu Yingtai’s eyes lit up. “You understand opera as well, Fengchang?”

“A little, not much,” Liu Ping replied.

“Fengchang, you truly are learned. I admire you so,” Zhu Yingtai praised.

“Don’t direct your admiration at the wrong person. My meager knowledge is hardly worth envying,” Liu Ping laughed.

“There you go again, belittling yourself. That’s not a good habit.”

“Enough of this. Let’s go to the Temple of the Flower Goddess to make an offering,” Liu Ping suggested, pointing to the not-too-distant shrine.

The festivities of the Flower Festival centered around this temple. Though small, it was teeming with people—men and women, young and old, rich and poor, all coming and going. As they approached, the full name of the temple—‘Temple of Miraculous Flowers’—could be seen in grand gold characters on a red plaque above the door, giving an impression both mysterious and imposing.

The temple had a high threshold, not easily crossed by ordinary folk, not even by scholars. So Liu Ping and Zhu Yingtai entered by the side door with the rest.

Inside, the first sight was a vast garden, and a few steps further stood a lakeside pavilion. Despite the temple’s modest size, its layout possessed a unique charm.

Walking through the corridors, they arrived at a hall. To one side was a box for donations, and directly ahead stood twelve statues of flower goddesses, each with a different expression, all exquisitely beautiful.

One glance, and Liu Ping realized that not a single one was as lovely as Meng Shang.

A surge of joy rose in him, mixed with a pang of regret and deeper longing for Meng Shang, whom he had not seen in many days.

A year in heaven is but a day on earth; as these days passed here, how many years had swept by above? The thought left him somewhat melancholic. Such a long time had gone by—had she forgotten him?

Lost in thought, Liu Ping stared at the statues, quite forgetting himself. Zhu Yingtai, noticing, tugged at his sleeve in reminder. His unrestrained gaze had already drawn the disapproval of many devout flower farmers, though seeing his scholar’s garb, they refrained from speaking.

Jolted from his reverie, Liu Ping realized his discourtesy. He bowed his head, took a piece of silver from his pouch, dropped it into the donation box, and joined Zhu Yingtai in prayer.

In truth, neither of them were flower farmers, so even if the goddess was efficacious, it meant little to them. But as it was the Flower Festival, they felt obliged to go through the motions, if only to honor the goddess. With this half-amused thought, Liu Ping made a rather absurd wish: since she was the flower goddess, perhaps she could grant him a bit more romantic luck.

The odds of the goddess hearing such a wish were slim. Though the goddesses existed, how many temples to the flower goddess dotted the Grand Xia empire? Only twelve goddesses for countless flower farmers—could they possibly listen to every wish? It was like winning the lottery: the chance existed, but it was vanishingly small. Such was the nature of the divine system—only local deities might have the patience to heed each prayer, seeking to expand their domain and followings.

Leaving the temple, Zhu Yingtai laughed and asked, “Fengchang, you wore such a shameless smile just now. Did you make some improper wish?”

“What do you mean, improper?” Liu Ping shot her a look and muttered, “Do you really see me as that kind of person?”

“Who doesn’t know what you’re like, Fengchang?” she replied, undeterred. Having lived with Liu Ping for some time, she knew his character well enough to guess his wish was far from solemn.

Liu Ping sighed in exasperation. “Must you be so blunt?”

Once outside, their ears were again filled with the cries of vendors hawking candied hawthorns, flowers, sugar figurines, iced drinks, and baked cakes.

Liu Ping tossed five copper coins to a little girl and took a wildflower wreath from her, only to suddenly place it atop Zhu Yingtai’s head.

Her cheeks flushed crimson as she quickly removed the wreath, protesting, “Fengchang, what are you doing? Why put this on me? I’m not—”

“It’s for you,” Liu Ping said simply.

“At least warn a person first!” she grumbled softly, though she didn’t throw the wreath away.

They walked on a bit further when Liu Ping suddenly stopped.

“Fengchang?” Zhu Yingtai nearly bumped into him, looking puzzled.

Liu Ping said nothing, his gaze drawn to the side.

An old farmwoman had laid out a mat selling ancient relics dug up from the earth.

She noticed the two scholars and gave a guileless smile. “These are treasures from the last dynasty, very precious. Take a look, all for a good price.”

Many passersby paused, but after a glance lost interest. Though ancient, every item was broken—mere trash, worthless.

Zhu Yingtai shook her head. “They may be from the former dynasty, but they’re so broken they’re worthless. No one would want them even for free.”

Hearing this, the woman’s face fell. Such blunt words from the handsome youth cut to the bone. She had been ecstatic when she first unearthed these relics, dreaming of sudden fortune, only to find them worthless. Yet, unwilling to give up, she brought them to the festival in hope of finding a fool. But after all this time, no fool had appeared, and disappointment had set in. Now this—she snapped, “If you’re not buying, don’t ruin my business. Move along.”

Liu Ping merely smiled. “You’re right, but some things are still interesting.”

He crouched, picked up half of an ancient seal, weighed it, and asked, “How much for this?”

“Five taels of silver!” The woman named a greedy price without hesitation.

Liu Ping laughed. “I must be the fool willing to pay that.”

He handed her five taels and walked away.

The woman stared at the silver in disbelief, eyes wide. “What just happened? I actually sold one?!”

After a moment, she looked up at the departing scholars, an odd emptiness in her heart, as if something precious had slipped away. But the joy of such a windfall soon swept away all other thoughts. She began hawking again—if only she could sell a few more!

As they made their way onto a nearby bridge, Zhu Yingtai finally couldn’t help but complain, “Fengchang, you really are a fool. Even if you liked it, you could have bargained it down to fifty copper coins, but you paid a hundred times that!”

Liu Ping only smiled. “I don’t mind being a fool.”

Zhu Yingtai asked in confusion, “Is there something special about that seal?”

“I don’t know. I just feel it’s precious… By the way, Jie Zhi, do you believe in karma?”

“I do.”

“I bought the seal without bargaining because, if I had, the old woman might have refused to sell it out of spite, and even if I’d offered thirty taels, she wouldn’t have agreed. By buying it outright, I cut off all entanglements—the seal is now mine.”

“That’s a strange kind of karma,” Zhu Yingtai mused. “I’ve never heard that before.”

Liu Ping smiled. “That’s Daoist ‘karma’ for you.”

Karma, in Buddhism, refers to cause and effect, but in Daoism, it’s more about fate and fortune—different words, similar ideas.

As they spoke, a painted pleasure barge drifted below. A scholar called out, “Brother Liu! Brother Zhu! What a coincidence to meet you here. Come aboard!”

A wealthy classmate had hired a pleasure barge for the festival. Among those aboard were several familiar faces, including Lu Liang.

Unable to decline, they boarded. The boat was spacious and lavishly decorated—soft carpets, exquisite furnishings, the air scented with incense, and countless candles illuminating the room like day. Around a round table, a dozen scholars were feasting and drinking merrily.

“What a coincidence to meet you, Brother Zhu and Brother Liu!” The scholars all rose to greet them.

They took their seats, joining in the lively conversation. Beautiful women played guzheng and pipa nearby, occasionally offering wine. If any scholar fancied one, he could even slip into a private room with her—such was the decadent life of the wealthy.

Lu Liang stood, looked at Liu Ping, and sneered, “These two are real talents. Does anyone disagree?”

Everyone jeered, “No objections! No objections!”

Liu Ping felt helpless—was Lu Liang picking on him?

Zhu Yingtai quickly waved her hands. “I’m no great talent—Lu, you flatter me.”

Lu Liang pressed on, “How could it be flattery? Brother Zhu, you’re too modest! We were just debating a question and failed to reach a conclusion. May we consult you?”

Without waiting for a reply, Lu Liang continued, “The question is—Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

“Heh, perhaps you haven’t heard it before. Let me explain: the chicken lays the egg, and the egg hatches the chicken. Which came first? If the chicken, then where did it come from? If the egg, then where did that come from? We’re all stumped, and I’ve long heard of Brother Liu’s brilliance. Surely you can provide an answer.”

Hearing this, Zhu Yingtai frowned and pondered. The chicken lays the egg, the egg hatches the chicken—which came first? It seemed a closed loop, impossible to resolve. She was frustrated and glanced at Liu Ping, whose expression was oddly complex, as if he knew the answer. She asked, “Fengchang, do you know?”

“How could I know?” Liu Ping shook his head. His expression wasn’t due to profound thought, but rather sheer exasperation.

He had never expected Lu Liang to pose a philosophical question.

“Surely you know, Brother Liu?” Lu Liang pressed, ever more obviously trying to trip him up. “A mind like yours must have an opinion. Why not share it?”

Liu Ping stood and shook his head. “There is no answer, nor can there be, because your question admits none.”

Lu Liang was about to argue when Liu Ping cut him off, “It’s not absurd! I have more to say—bear with me. There are many questions with no solution. Listen to this—”

The others laughed, “Brother Liu, go ahead—give us a question as perplexing as ‘which came first, the chicken or the egg’, and prove your point.”

“Very well, let me try. First—Which came first, the criminal or the law? If there is no law, how can someone be called a criminal? Without laws to break, there are no criminals. Am I right?”

Everyone nodded. “True, but is that comparable to the chicken and egg?”

Lu Liang interjected, “Of course not. Are you changing the topic, Brother Liu?”

“Not at all,” Liu Ping replied. “Let me ask—if there were no criminals, would laws be made?”

At that, the crowd fell silent. After a moment, they conceded, “If there were no criminals, there would be no laws!”

They quickly changed their stance. “So, criminals came first, then laws!”

“Not quite,” Liu Ping shook his head. “In ancient times, there were no states, only tribes, ruled by custom and habit, not law. But once states arose, laws appeared—as tools for rulers to maintain order, to prevent rule-breakers, i.e., criminals. So, in a sense, laws exist first to prevent crime, and only then do criminals arise to break them.”

“So which came first, law or criminal?”

This stumped the scholars; their thoughts collided and were overturned, and they began to ponder deeply.

Liu Ping pressed on. “Which came first, the novelist or the reader? Common sense says the novelist—without novels, there are no readers.”

They nodded. “True, without novelists, who could be a reader?”

Liu Ping grinned slyly. “But perhaps readers existed first, eager for stories, prompting the creation of novels. Others saw someone famed for storytelling, and imitated them, so novelists appeared.”

“So, which came first, novelist or reader?”

This…! How to answer? The crowd was at a loss.

Liu Ping went on, “Which came first, the renowned man or his admirers? Without fame, there are no admirers, but without admirers, is he truly renowned?”

“Which came first, the master or the servant? Without a master, there’s no servant; without a servant, there’s no master. Did the master seek someone to serve and so a servant arose, or did the servant seek a patron and so a master emerged?”

A string of such questions left the crowd calling out, “Brother Liu, enough, enough! Our heads are spinning—we can’t take any more!”

Liu Ping laughed. “Is that so many? There are plenty more. Let me give a few simple ones.”

“Which came first, the king or his ministers and subjects? Without a king, what are ministers and subjects? But without ministers and subjects, is there still a king?”

“Which came first, the bottom or the top—oh, perhaps you don’t understand. The bottom is position, the top is thought: does status determine thought, or does thought determine status?”

“And which came first, father or son?...”

“Which came first…”

As the crowd gaped in amazement, Liu Ping rattled off more than a dozen such questions in a single breath.

By now, everyone was stunned by his unending series of paradoxes. They had been fixated on the chicken and egg, never imagining there could be so many similar conundrums.

It was hard not to admit—Liu Ping was truly extraordinary.

Looking at the astonished faces, Liu Ping smiled. “So, are you all still troubled by which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

Their minds in turmoil, the crowd groaned, “Enough, Brother Liu, enough! If you keep going, our heads will split. We’re done with the chicken and egg—alright?”

——

Both chapters posted. Nearly 8,000 words. This chapter alone is almost 5,000—too long to split, so here it is. I’m exhausted~~~