“I’m sorry, Professor Lei, but the academy can’t let you publish this. No abount of revisiting your argumentation or clarifying their implications will change that. As long as this work sticks to the core ideas and beliefs it represents, it’s going nowhere.”
Geming Lei audibly sighed. Though he had hoped otherwise, he had certainly expected this. Still, how many times would he still have to have this discussion?
“Look, we’ve been over this. Just because you don’t agree with my work, it doesn’t mean that you can’t publish it. As long as it makes for a valuable addition to the field of discussion, it should be out there.”
“Professor, you’re making it sound like it’s a personal thing. It is not. The academy publishes heaps of stuff that both I personally and the leadership broadly disagree with. The issue is that it’s not just us. Nobody agrees with you.”
“Alright, I’m aware that most of the academic scene…”
“All of it.”
“…disagrees with my standpoint, partly because it’s quite uncomfortable and partly because somebody makes it harder for me to publish my work, but that’s not a valid criterion to judge the argument on. It is also not your call to make, it's other academics who ought to judge the argument based on its own merits.”
“I could point out that it breaks with literally all convention on the matter, or that it is clearly just a more radical continuation of your other work which was already widely criticized. But I won’t. Because this isn’t a debate. I’m informing you of the academy’s decision. We are not publishing it, no ifs and buts about it. The last time we thought that was a good idea, we experienced the largest backlash in over fifty years. Three of your colleagues resigned in protest. You’re a great asset to this academy and if you write another book on the foundations of ethical theory or something like that, we’ll gladly publish it. But you’re not worth another controversy of this scale.”
With that, the voluminous man who was the current director of the academy threw the manuscript at Geming Lei’s chest, who could reflexively caught it.
“You are dismissed, professor.”
For a moment, Geming Lei just stood there in silence. Then, with another sigh, he bowed.
“I understand. Thank you for your time.”
There was nothing left for him to accomplish here. The director was a strong-willed man, and it was clear he had already made up his mind. Geming turned around and left the room to make his way back to his office.
This was another setback but it wasn’t as if he wasn’t used to these at this point. He couldn’t even be properly angry at the leadership. It was the same with them as with the rest of the academic community. They weren’t stupid, they were just stuck in the worldview that had been taught to them. That and also just careful. Geming Lei couldn’t deny that he was flying close to the sun with his work.
There were good reasons academics tended to exempt cultivators from any deep ethical considerations. They didn’t take well to being criticized or being told what to do. Or asked for help. Or really anything that didn’t involve copious amounts of praise and reverence.
Most philosophers either pretended they didn’t exist at all in their thought-models, or they kept it with Yaozu Wu’s classic doctrine.
Cultivators, their bodies freed from the coils of mortality and their minds opened to the deepest truths of the world couldn’t be properly grasped with the confines of the mortal mind, so any attempt to explain, judge or regulate their behavior should only come from other cultivators.
It was blatant and willful ignorance but just taking the time to properly deconstruct and challenge it had been enough to turn create a tempest of outrage when Geming Lei had first done it. Ever since, his image plagued by infamy, only worsening with each further step he took along this path.
On some days, he cursed his academic instincts that had led him to push back against these attacks instead of just ceding ground on this issue when it first arose. Now he was well into his fifties, and it was likely that if anything, he would be remembered for the boring and uninspired summaries and overviews of other people’s works he had written on the side, just to secure continued funding. His true life’s work would die with him, ignored and forgotten forever. Not what he had imagined as a young and upcoming philosopher when he had first secured a place at this prestigious academy.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Oh well, such was his lot. The truth remained the truth and Geming Lei had long resolved not to compromise on that.
Geming Lei clutched his manuscript that was never going to be turned into a book now. ‘Three whole lifetimes – on the Luó Family and cultivators ruling mortals.’ Perhaps he truly was a little suicidal.
He let out a dry chuckle, earning him several puzzled looks from the surrounding students. Didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to be allowed to teach them anything important anyway. The academy didn’t trust him enough to assign him anything but the most fundamental topics. For which, once again, he couldn’t blame them. He wouldn’t trust himself either.
Some time and a lot of self-deprecating contemplations later, Geming Lei had left the more populated and pristine parts of the academy, made his way through the dusted and much less visited archive and finally reached the empty and narrow corridor at the end of which his humble office was located.
Its remoteness was a true signifier of his low standing within the academy, but he didn’t mind it. In fact, its proximity to the archive and the surrounding emptiness made it the ideal place to spend long days doing nothing but thinking, strolling to the archive and back, hardly ever being interrupted. Except for occasional lost student, he didn’t get many visitors here.
As such, he was appropriately surprised when he noticed the man casually leaned against the wall next to his office door. He was wearing simple grey robes, but his strikingly white hair and truly magnificent well-groomed beard nevertheless provided a striking contrast to the dim surroundings.
His age clearly too great to be a student and his posture much too dignified to be an assistant of some kind, Geming Lei found himself wondering who this strange old man was. He didn’t interact too much with his colleagues, but he would still recognize the man if he was a professor at the academy. Perhaps a visiting one then? That didn’t feel too right either, but it was the best he could come up with. But what would a visiting professor be doing here? Geming Lei approached him.
“Greetings. Can I help you?”
“That remains to be seen… You are Professor Lei, I assume?”
The man’s voice was deep, sonorous and exuded confidence.
“Yes, that would be me.”
“Good, very good. I was looking for you. If it’s alright, I would like to ask you a couple of questions regarding your work.”
“I- well of course. You can ask away, but would you like to come in first?”
“Happily.”
“Great. Let me just…”
Geming Lei fumbled to pull out his key while clamping the manuscript under one arm. When he had gotten it, he unlocked and opened the creaky old door.
“After you. You can sit right there. Let me just get a second chair really quick… Sorry, I’m not well prepared for visitors… Okay.”
Sitting down and putting the manuscript on the table in between them, Geming Lei turned his attention to his visitor.
“What do you want to talk about?”
“It’s about your work on cultivators.”
Well, these surprises just kept on coming.
“My attention was recently drawn to it by unrelated circumstances. I read your work on it in ‘redefining guidelines for ethical considerations’ and quite a lot of what you have published since. I’m not an expert in the field so I can’t comment on it too much, but I will say that I was deeply impressed by your argumentative prowess.”
“Oh, that’s… thank you very much. There aren’t too many people who think like that.”
“I have noticed, though I don’t fully understand why. To get to the point, I firstly wanted to ask you if you are still working on the topic.”
“I am, though not too much success. This right here is my latest book, though the academy has declined to publish it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. ‘Three whole lifetimes…’. It sounds quite interesting, what exactly is it about?”
“It builds upon my earlier conclusion that cultivators ought to be judged by the same moral standards as anybody else by doing exactly that. It examines the dynamics and ethics of a cultivator ruling over generations of mortals. Based on archived incidents, it takes the Luó Family as its main focus of consideration, especially the current prince’s great-grandfather, the previous regent of the city who was in power for well over a hundred and eighty years. That’s what the title is referencing.”
“Quite the topic. I can imagine how it might throw up some flags in people who value their safety and standing in this city.”
“Absolutely right.”
“If it’s alright, may I ask for what reason you continue on regardless? I’m certain you’re aware that you could be much more successful if you turned your mind to other topics.”
“I… I’m not entirely sure myself to be honest. Part of it is definitely that it just won’t leave that thick skull of mine. And the other part… I think it’s just that I believe that as someone who contemplates and comments on ethics, it’s my duty to try and rectify what I perceive to be one of the field’s biggest blind spots. The world depends on us philosophers to figure out what’s right and what’s wrong, that’s the whole reason we exist. I’m just trying to do my best not to let it down.”
“An impressive stance to take, especially backed up by action. Thank you for your honest answer. I think it’s time I repay you in kind by properly introducing myself.”
As he talked, the man straightened his posture, and his already dignified feeling was now clearly joined by an air of regality. Suddenly, Geming Lei understood what kind of man he was facing.
“I’m Liu Wei, Elder of the Lunar Peaks Sect. Pleased to make your acquaintance, professor.”