A Scholar in Exile: Liu Bowen’s Despair in Qingtian

In 1359, the scholar Liu Bowen returned to his hometown of Qingtian to write Yu Li Zi, a philosophical text reflecting his disillusionment. At first glance, Qingtian remained untouched by war—farmers tilled their fields under the sun, and villagers lived in peaceful rhythms. Yet Liu Bowen stood apart as the county’s unhappiest man.

His misery stemmed from thwarted ambitions and a collapsing Yuan Dynasty. Years of political marginalization had eroded his once-burning purpose. Like “wandering through a desolate wilderness without light,” he grappled with existential emptiness. Even while writing Yu Li Zi, despair coiled around him like a python. His younger brother Liu Bi would startle him from these trances, but the relief was fleeting.

Liu Bowen’s only distractions were his manuscript and a small private militia. The latter occasionally drilled but mostly worked as farmhands—a necessity, given Liu’s modest means. When a friend urged him to leverage this force against warlords like Fang Guozhen, Liu recoiled: “To imitate those bandits would be worse than death.” The friend then mentioned an emerging leader named Zhu Yuanzhang. Liu Bowen barely reacted. At this point, Zhu was still an obscure Red Turban commander, unknown to the disengaged scholar.

The Making of a Rebel: Zhu Yuanzhang’s Brutal Adolescence

Liu Bowen’s ignorance of Zhu was understandable. Zhu’s rise had been meteoric—a trajectory forged in unimaginable hardship. Born in 1328 as Zhu Chongba (a numerical name mandated by Yuan policies for peasants), he entered a world of poverty. His family, tenant farmers in Zhongli Village, could scarcely feed themselves.

Young Zhu’s survival instincts emerged early. After stealing and devouring a landlord’s sheep with friends, he concocted a story about the animal “vanishing into a rock”—a glimpse of the cunning that would later define him. By 1344, disaster struck: drought, locusts, and plague wiped out most of his family. With no coffins, Zhu and his brother carried their parents’ decomposing bodies uphill, only for a sudden mudslide to bury them. This trauma haunted Zhu for life.

Homeless, 16-year-old Zhu joined Huangjue Temple as a novice monk. But even Buddhism offered no refuge—famine forced him into years of begging across Anhui and Henan. These wanderings exposed him to collapsing Yuan authority, roving bandits, and the first Red Turban rebellions. By 1352, with his monastery burned in the fighting, Zhu faced a choice: starve or rebel. A letter from childhood friend Tang He, now a Red Turban officer, tipped the scales. After divination failed to guide him, Zhu declared: “When two paths are blocked, take the third—I’ll join the revolution!”

From Soldier to Warlord: Zhu’s Meteoric Ascent

Joining Guo Zixing’s rebel faction in Haozhou, Zhu’s early reception was rocky. Guards mistook his rugged features (described as “a face that could startle ghosts at dusk”) for a spy. Yet Guo, sensing something extraordinary, welcomed him. Zhu’s battlefield luck and tactical acumen propelled him from foot soldier to Guo’s trusted lieutenant within a year.

A pivotal moment came when Guo arranged Zhu’s marriage to his adopted daughter (later Empress Ma) and gifted him a new name: Yuanzhang (元璋). “Yuan” referenced the dynasty; zhang meant “jade blade.” As Guo explained: “Your surname ‘Zhu’ sounds like ‘to execute’—you shall be the blade that destroys the Yuan.” Zhu applauded, but privately, his ambitions remained humble: daily survival.

Clash of Destinies: The Scholar and the Rebel

By 1360, as Liu Bowen languished in Qingtian, Zhu controlled Nanjing and styled himself Duke of Wu. Their paths converged when Zhu’s advisors identified Liu as a strategic genius. Summoned to Zhu’s court, the reluctant scholar finally met the man he’d once dismissed. Their partnership would reshape China.

Liu’s administrative brilliance complemented Zhu’s military pragmatism. Together, they crafted policies emphasizing civilian welfare—a stark contrast to rival warlords. Zhu later confessed to Liu: “I rebelled just to eat. Becoming emperor terrifies me.” This admission revealed their shared understanding of power’s burdens.

Legacy of an Unlikely Emperor

Zhu’s rise from illiterate peasant to Hongwu Emperor (r. 1368–1398) remains history’s ultimate rags-to-riches story. His reign founded the Ming Dynasty, reintroduced civil service exams, and initiated projects like the Great Wall’s reinforcement. Yet his paranoia also birthed purges like the infamous “Four Major Cases,” wiping out thousands.

Liu Bowen, posthumously revered as a cultural icon, symbolized the intellectual’s dilemma in turbulent times. His Yu Li Zi endures as a meditation on governance and human nature—themes both men grappled with.

Their intertwined lives underscore a timeless truth: revolutions are often shaped not by ideologues, but by survivors adapting to chaos. Zhu’s pragmatism and Liu’s disillusionment together birthed an empire that would last 276 years—proof that history’s greatest transformations sometimes begin with a starving man’s desperate choice to pick up a sword.