Setting aside the matter of great clans for the moment, Kongming's attention caught on a term that had now appeared for the second time.
"The Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms…" he murmured. "If I'm not mistaken, that should be the age of chaos between the fall of the Tang and the rise of the Song."
Pang Tong nodded in confirmation. "Earlier it was mentioned that the Boling Cui clan flourished in the late Tang, only to be dealt a heavy blow during the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms. It must refer to that very period of dynastic upheaval."
"The 'Ten Kingdoms' part is easy enough to understand," Kongming said thoughtfully. "But the 'Five Dynasties' likely refers to something akin to Wei replacing Han, Jin replacing Wei—five successive regimes in the Central Plains."
He paused, imagining the scene.
"If that's the case, then even places like Jiaozhou might still claim the banner of 'Great Tang Military Governor' while launching campaigns against the Song. That would make a certain grim sort of sense."
After the Tang collapsed, five dynasties rose and fell in rapid succession across the Central Plains. Meanwhile, in regions where roads were treacherous and communication slow—Liaodong, Lingnan, Jiaozhou, even Shu—military governors of the so-called "Great Tang" simply kept their armies and declared themselves kings.
With limited information available, Pang Tong could only follow the logic so far.
"The light screen mentioned Ma Chao and Lü Bu 'adapting to the version,'" he said. "Could it be that the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms was an age obsessed with martial strength?"
"Dozens of warriors like Lü Bu hacking at one another nonstop?" Pang Tong raised a brow. "That kind of chaos?"
"Good heavens," Zhang Fei exclaimed. "How many foster fathers would that kill off?"
The hall fell briefly silent.
"Merit-based warlords," Li Shimin repeated slowly, tasting the phrase.
Ideas spun rapidly through his mind before he asked outright, "Could it be that the Tang did not fall because it was weak?"
"No—no, that's not right." He shook his head at once.
He remembered the fate of the Guiyi Army all too clearly. In the late Tang, even Hexi could not be recovered. Zhang Yichao had reclaimed the region with blood and steel, only to find the Tang court wary and suspicious of him. A loyal general was treated like a threat—hardly the behavior of a dynasty confident in its strength.
If anything, it was the textbook case of a strong state collapsing into weakness.
"Perhaps," Changsun Wuji ventured cautiously, "the states of that chaotic era all inherited Tang institutions?"
"Just as the Han adopted Qin systems, and Tang drew from Sui. Those who founded kingdoms amid the chaos may have revered established structures."
That explanation was reasonable. Li Shimin nodded.
His military achievements were celebrated for centuries; it would hardly be strange for rebels two hundred years later to borrow his banner.
Still… imagining bands of warlords waving his flag left him with a complicated expression. It was unclear whether he should feel honored—or deeply annoyed.
At that moment, the light screen shifted, and a long explanation unfolded.
[Lightscreen]
[ During the Eastern Han, a distinctive system emerged—one combining great clans, famous scholars, and officialdom. At its heart lay the Recommendation System (Chaju), which in turn gave birth to a new class: the famous scholars.
What people later remembered as the "recommendation of filial and incorrupt" was only one part of this system.
The Western Han had recommended filial sons, accomplished scholars, men of integrity, and those fit for office. The Eastern Han, following scholarly trends, added specialists in classics and law. Even the term xiucai had to be renamed maocai to avoid violating Emperor Guangwu's name taboo.
The flaw of the system was obvious: it was bottom-up. In essence, it was the central court voluntarily surrendering power.
Once the great clans understood the rules, they exploited the era's scholarly fashion and produced the phenomenon known as famous scholars. These men competed with the court for control of public opinion. Whoever controlled reputation could influence recommendations—and thus appointments.
Thus arose the practice of "cultivating fame."
Groups praised one another lavishly: "You're a talent who can save the age," "You're a minister fit to support a king." Their reputations grew, recommendations followed, and with office came privilege and land.
Small circles multiplied.
Xu Shao held monthly reviews, handing out labels like sweets. Guo Tai coined his own brand—"distinguished worthies." Others banded together: the Three Lords, the Eight Talents, the Eight Exemplars, the Eight Models, the Eight Generous.
Titles everywhere. Labels for every taste.
Compared to them, modern awards ceremonies could only bow in respect.
Later, Cao Pi would sigh that these men "rose to office through private doors, and fixed their reputations in back alleys."
The court lost not only grassroots administrative control, but also the authority to define merit. Personnel power slipped away entirely. In hindsight, the fall of the Eastern Han was hardly mysterious.
Yet even monopolizing reputation had a weakness: the Recommendation System still favored commoners.
After all, when your household has a thousand servants, who cares whether your children are filial?
So the great clans unveiled their ultimate weapon.
The Nine-Rank Rectifier System.
It did not replace recommendation. It judged it.
Talent was ranked—but lineage determined the rank.
Officially, it was meant to reclaim authority from famous scholars and return it to the state. That was why Cao Pi approved it.
Unofficially, the great clans loved it even more.
No middlemen. No uncertainty. At the local level, anyone outside the aristocracy could be quietly classified as "lower rank," sealing their fate forever.
This was why Jin dynasty records overflowed with absurd tales of filial devotion—men so desperate they invented increasingly grotesque stories, hoping to batter open the iron gate of the Nine Ranks.
The decay of the Recommendation System proved one thing:
those in power will always reshape institutions to preserve inherited advantage—even at the cost of stagnation or regression.
Only after its collapse did examinations truly rise, illuminating China for a thousand years.]
"The hearts of these scholars are pitch-black," Zhang Fei said bluntly, shaking his head, oblivious to the subtle looks around him.
"If I were born in Jin, I'd be killing pigs for life."
"Unlikely," Pang Tong snorted. "With your temper, you'd be sold into a noble household as a private slave before you sold your third slab of meat."
Zhang Fei laughed. "Fine, then after we pacify the realm, I'll dig them a nice grave."
"If the Judge of Mount Tai asks," Pang Tong said dryly, "don't say Lord Zhang shortchanged them."
He then sighed. "I used to find those Jin dynasty filial tales ridiculous. Now… they're just sad."
"Indeed," Kongming said quietly. "To hold strategies to govern the realm, yet be fixed as lower rank at birth—there would be no place to use them."
"And meanwhile," Zhang Song added, "men of noble blood could idle their days and still become ministers."
The room nodded in silence.
"This conclusion… is unsettling," Kongming said, rereading the final lines of the light screen. "It speaks not only of recommendation."
Court or countryside, frontier or capital—wherever ranks exist, the same pattern repeats. Even distant Great Qin must be no exception.
"If so," he mused, "could examinations be applied more broadly? Civil? Military? Agriculture?"
Ideas poured forth until they crystallized into a single thought.
"Only examinations truly select by talent."
The thought took hold—and Kongming felt an urge to test it with his own hands.
Liu Bei, seeing his expression, laughed. "If the Strategist has ideas, act on them freely. Who would dare dispute the talent of the Crouching Dragon?"
Laughter filled the hall.
Then Zhang Fei scratched his head. "Strategist… your 'Sleeping Dragon' and Pang Tong's 'Fledgling Phoenix'—was that cultivating fame too?"
Kongming and Pang Tong exchanged glances and smiled.
"If it were," Pang Tong said, "I'd praise him as the Dragon, and he'd praise me as the Phoenix."
"Just like those Eight This and Eight That," he continued lightly. "Take away the label—who remembers them?"
"As for Kongming…" Pang Tong waved it off. "What does 'Sleeping Dragon' add to him?"
"Name matches reality," he concluded. "That isn't cultivating fame."
Kongming laughed and clapped his shoulder. "If I said the same of the Phoenix, it would sound suspicious—so I won't."
"Zhuge village fool!" Pang Tong snapped.
After the laughter faded, the two studied the final lines together.
"Does the light screen judge Jin society as stagnant—or regressing?" Pang Tong asked. "By what measure?"
Kongming pondered waterwheels, workshops, iron, sugar, grain yields, and the theories of productivity they had discussed.
"Productive capacity," he said slowly.
"And clean oversight," Pang Tong added, thinking of desperate scholars and broken systems.
They sighed together.
"A long road indeed."