《沖虛至德真經四解》Vol. 6

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) was halfway to the state of Qi when he abruptly turned back. The excessive reverence people showed him made him too uneasy to continue. On the road, he encountered Bohun Maoren (a Daoist recluse), who asked why he was returning. Liezi explained: "When I stopped at ten roadside inns selling broth, five of them served me without even waiting for payment. Everyone treats me with such deference and humility—it fills me with dread."

Bohun Maoren pressed further: "If this is so, why fear being respected?" Liezi replied: "Because my inner cultivation hasn't attained true transcendence (nei cheng bu jie). Though my outward demeanor appears dignified and imposing (xing die cheng guang), capable of awing others with external majesty, my inner substance remains unfulfilled. This discrepancy between appearance and reality might lead people to disrespect true elders (gui lao) and bring upon me the very misfortunes I wish to avoid (e qi suo wu)."

Guo Xiang (a Jin dynasty Neo-Daoist philosopher) commented: The broth vendors operate small businesses with meager profits and negligible influence, yet they show me such reverence. This proves that regardless of status or circumstance, people respond to superficial displays of authority. How much more would this apply to rulers governing great states? Burdened with state affairs, exhausting their wisdom and energy, they would surely demand that I shoulder heavy responsibilities and achieve meritorious deeds. Contemplating this, I grew even more reluctant to proceed to Qi.

Annotations from the Zhenghe era (Emperor Huizong of Song's reign) add: The perfected persons (zhiren) of antiquity maintained pure hearts, followed natural spontaneity, and silently harmonized with the Dao of Heaven. Though appearing simple, they contained profound wisdom; though showing no outward traces, they embodied divine subtlety. Such individuals neither sought prominence nor needed to—respect came to them naturally. But someone like Liezi, still burdened by inner attachments (nei cheng bu jie) and emphasizing external dignity (xing die cheng guang), who awes others through surface solemnity, risks causing people to neglect true elders while elevating himself. When rulers exhaust their minds in governance, endlessly assailed by alternating worries and joys, how could they not feel apprehensive?

(Note: "Broth" refers to food and drink sold at ancient inns; "gui lao" denotes virtuous elders; "zhiren" is the Daoist honorific for those who have realized the Way)

This passage discusses how Daoist practitioners should cultivate the wisdom of humility and inwardness. The Fan commentary explains that true sages wear coarse garments yet harbor jewel-like virtue (De) within, excelling at self-concealment without pursuing prominence. If one cannot maintain inner sincerity, they will never attain the state of "realizing the Dao through forgotten mind"; if one's exterior appears too resplendent, they lose the cultivation of "preserving inner radiance without outward display".

The text observes that those who seek respect through external displays—causing people to disregard their elders while esteeming themselves—are actually inviting misfortune. Genuine perfected persons (zhiren), even dwelling in humble huts, will naturally attract followers. Bohun Maoren (an accomplished Daoist master) praised this understanding as the mark of true discernment: those who maintain silent humility without self-display can wander anywhere without encountering troubles.

The Lu commentary elaborates that seeking reverence through ceremonial pomp only burdens rulers with affairs and multiplies their worries. Bohun Maoren points out: only through reclusive self-cultivation and veiling one's light will people truly protect you. All humans possess innate goodness, yet most remain vulnerable to fame and profit's temptations. Those of middling capacity may develop either upward or downward—understanding that fame cannot be forcibly obtained leads to self-cultivation. Mastering poetry, history, and rituals proves difficult; better to withdraw into stillness and dissolve distractions. By not chasing conspicuous gains, one paradoxically earns the reputation of virtuous persons.

The passage concludes with a vivid scene: Before long, crowds indeed came to follow Liezi (the renowned Daoist figure), until shoes piled outside his gate. Bohun Maoren stood leaning on his staff facing north, then departed in silence. Liezi ran barefoot to the gate asking: "Since you've come, Master, will you not leave some instructive medicine?" ("Instructive medicine" metaphorically refers to beneficial admonitions). This exchange demonstrates that true Dao masters teach not through deliberate instruction—their very presence embodies the ultimate teaching.

The scripture explores through dialogue the wisdom of how Dao practitioners should interact with others.

Master Lu asks why the other does not teach medical prescriptions (metaphor for the path of cultivation). The response comes: I have already told you that people will follow you, but this cannot be forced. When you engage with others in accordance with natural principles, they will not deliberately follow you; but if you go against the heavenly principle to move them, it becomes impossible for them not to follow. You cannot prevent others from admiring you.

Guo Xiang (a Jin Dynasty metaphysician) comments: Maintain a state of peace and naturalness, and you will neither deliberately move others nor demand anything, thus avoiding any dependent relationships. Master Lu further explains: When you withdraw voluntarily and abandon knowledge and cleverness, people follow you not because you intentionally attract them. If you truly erase all traces and merge with the fundamental truth, concealing your intelligence and wisdom, others will not even know to follow you. Thus, your actions precisely invite their following, yet you cannot avoid this.

The scripture criticizes deliberate attempts to stand out: Why must you use extraordinary means to move others? If you constantly think about influencing people, you only unsettle your own nature—utterly meaningless. Those who associate with you fail to point out your flaws, instead offering flattering words ("petty speech" refers to sycophantic talk), which are as poisonous as venom. If neither side awakens, how can they help each other progress?

Master Lu concludes: What method do you use to move others? Surely you prepare unconventional remarks in advance, wagging your tongue to perform before the crowd. Though people may outwardly comply, what good does it bring? Those who interact with you do not criticize your shortcomings but only praise your strengths—this poisons your cultivation, feeds arrogance, and benefits neither party’s growth.

The Zhenghe-era (referring to annotations from Emperor Huizong’s reign) commentary praises this dialogue for skillfully guiding self-reflection. A true Dao-realized person (the "Perfected One") embraces the true spirit and roams the world, remaining unfathomable. If one fails to abide in their original nature, they will attract followers. Yet this state of being followed is not the ideal of "remaining unseen despite having attained." Therefore, one should respond naturally, without striving for extraordinary displays—this is the correct way of engaging with the world.

This passage primarily discusses the state of mind a Daoist cultivator should maintain in social interactions, along with the story of Yang Zhu (a prominent Daoist figure) seeking teachings from Laozi.

First, it explains that cultivators should not deliberately display extraordinary traits. Consistently seeking attention through peculiar behavior not only makes others dependent on you but also entangles you with external matters. Those who associate with you won't point this out; instead, they'll distract you with trivial talk. Unconsciously, you'll deviate from the Dao (the Way) and fail to achieve the state of "mutual refinement" (shared cultivation and growth).

Fan Yingyuan, a Song Dynasty Daoist commentator, notes that true adepts follow nature and maintain inner spiritual focus. Deliberately displaying cheerfulness or extraordinariness violates the principle of "responding only when stimulated" (natural resonance). Like Yang Zhu's intentional displays—though they gained him a massive following (such as ten thousand followers in Dengxu and congratulatory crowds in Qi)—they ultimately destabilized his innate nature, making it impossible to preserve inner tranquility.

The latter part recounts Yang Zhu's encounter with Laozi. While traveling south through Liang, Yang Zhu met Laozi journeying westward. Laozi looked up and sighed: "I originally thought you could be taught, but now I see that's impossible." This was because despite studying with sages, Yang Zhu remained prideful and self-important. Hearing this, Yang Zhu became deeply alarmed, respectfully kneeling and crawling forward to inquire about his faults. Laozi criticized his arrogant demeanor ("haughty and overbearing" describes his swaggering attitude)—who would willingly associate with someone like that?

The text clarifies that Zhuangzi's account of Yang Zhu (styled Ziju) meeting Laozi employs allegory, as historically they weren't contemporaries. This story illustrates that cultivators must shed arrogance and maintain humility to attain the Dao.

Why must you so presumptuously boast of yourself, compelling all to marvel at you? The truly noble appear as if stained, while those of profound virtue (De) seem insufficient. Only by not contending with all things can one remain humble and maintain simplicity.

Yang Zhu (a Warring States period philosopher) changed countenance upon hearing this and respectfully said: "I accept your teaching." Previously when he visited an inn, the host would personally welcome him, arrange his seat, while the host's wife would present towels and combs. Other guests yielded their places to him, and even the fire-tenders avoided the kitchen stove (all because he excessively flaunted himself, making others revere him). But after his reformation upon returning, other guests dared to compete with him for seats (showing he had integrated with the common people, no longer provoking rejection).

True recluses neither flaunt their reputation nor assume noble airs. Thus Yang Zhu was initially received with reverence, but after correcting himself, people treated him as an equal. The previous chapter described Liezi inspiring awe, while this chapter shows Yang Zhu learning not to be feared.

During the Zhenghe era (Emperor Huizong of Song's reign) it was said: "The shrewdest merchants hide their wealth deeply, while gentlemen of profound virtue appear dull-witted." Those who truly understand me are few, thus I become more precious. Those who deliberately display cleverness or novelty to show off are utterly unworthy of discussing the Dao (the Way). Liezi, who never intended to startle the world, still faced criticism—how much more so Yang Zhu, who deliberately altered his appearance to appear unconventional? To say he was unteachable was entirely justified.

"Great purity seems sullied" refers to eliminating mental impurities until no flaw remains visible. Even when bearing the world's accusations, one doesn't deliberately adorn appearances to clear one's name. "Abundant virtue seems insufficient" describes those whose virtue (De) has reached the pinnacle yet remain unsatisfied, as the Daode Jing says: "Highest virtue is not virtuous." Yang Zhu's reformed behavior—where guests dared compete with him for seats—illustrates this principle. Previously people treated him with utmost respect, but later disregarded him. Therefore, the sage appears plain yet harbors jade within (referring to inner virtue), understanding what to embrace and discard.

No greater calamity exists than harboring deliberate virtue and calculating minds—how much worse for those who affect pretentious airs? Affected behavior violates nature; deliberate display lacks integrity. When the inner self is already corrupted yet one still cultivates external image—"Great purity seems sullied" means perceiving profound mysteries yet willingly occupying positions others detest; "Abundant virtue seems insufficient" means daily progress without self-satisfaction.

Yang Zhu (a Daoist philosopher of the Warring States period) was traveling through eastern Song when he lodged at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines—one beautiful, the other plain. Yet the plain one was favored, while the beautiful one was neglected. When Yang Zhu inquired why, the innkeeper replied: "The beautiful one acts conscious of her beauty, so I don’t find her beautiful. The plain one acts conscious of her plainness, so I don’t find her plain either." Yang Zhu sighed and said: "Remember this lesson, my disciples—the truly virtuous never proclaim their virtue. Where would such a person not be cherished?"

This anecdote about the innkeeper’s concubines reveals a profound truth: arrogance and self-promotion win no approval from spirits or people, while humility and self-cultivation earn universal admiration. Who could obstruct such a person’s path?

The text further explains: From the perspective of the Dao, all things are inherently without distinctions of beauty or ugliness. The moment people deem something beautiful, the concept of ugliness arises. What the world considers wondrous may rot, while what seems rotten may transform into wonder—how can beauty and ugliness be absolutely separated? The sage (one who has attained the Dao) clings to no judgments of right/wrong or beautiful/ugly, but dwells in the world with self-effacing openness, neither arrogant nor boastful. This virtue of "doing good without claiming merit" ensures no one can contend with such a person or seize their accomplishments—naturally, they are cherished wherever they go.

The core teaching is this: The world knows two paths—the constantly victorious and the not constantly victorious. The constantly victorious path is "softness" (yielding humility), while the not constantly victorious path is "strength" (forceful contention). Though simple, few understand this. Ancient sages taught that "strength" can only overcome inferiors, while "softness" transcends the self—by not contending with external things, nothing can subdue it. Those who rely on force to overpower the weak court danger when meeting equals.

(Note: "Inn" translates 逆旅; "self-promotion" renders 矜伐; "self-effacing" captures 虚己; "wondrous" and "rotten" allude to Zhuangzi’s dialectical view of mutual transformation between opposites.)

When encountering formidable opponents, forceful confrontation inevitably leads to danger. If one can first relinquish self-attachment in all matters, they will not fall into peril (this is the eternal principle of stability). Cultivating oneself with this mindset is like dwelling in effortless emptiness; governing the world with this attitude resembles the practice of Wuwei (non-action). The saying "victory without contending, responsibility without assuming" means achieving naturally without deliberate pursuit.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao of softness and emptiness abide in a realm free from worldly contention. Whether cherishing their own life or handling affairs of the world, they navigate effortlessly like the void. "Tu" refers precisely to this state of luminous detachment. Guo Xiang (the Western Jin Dynasty Neo-Daoist philosopher) explains: The ear hears what is heard, the eye sees what is seen, knowing remains within the bounds of cognition, and ability stops at what can be done. Letting all things operate spontaneously, following their nature without competing with the external world—this is the softest way of being. Thus, lifting heavy objects feels weightless, and bearing responsibility seems effortless.

Lu Chongxuan (Tang Dynasty Daoist scholar) observes: The distinction between hardness and softness is inherently simple. People fail to understand because their competitive drive is too strong. Prevailing over inferiors proves nothing; encountering equals leads to danger. Approaching self-cultivation or state governance with a combative mindset creates ceaseless turmoil like forced labor. The truly soft not only refrain from suppressing inferiors—how much more so with superiors? What appears as not conquering others is actually conquering oneself; what seems like not assuming responsibility is naturally fulfilling it. Hence Laozi's teaching: "The soft overcomes the hard."

Fan Yingyuan (Song Dynasty Daoist master) elaborates: Victory through enabling all things is supreme; suppression through force is inferior. Eternal victory follows the principle of softness; perpetual defeat stems from hardness. Laozi said nothing in the world is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in eroding the hard. Zhuangzi's "Autumn Floods" dialogue between the one-footed Kui and the snake illustrates: "You can defeat me by kicking, sweep me aside with your tail, yet only I can topple giant trees and overturn houses." This perfectly demonstrates softness overcoming hardness. Though all under heaven know this principle, few practice it. Only sages understand how accumulating countless small failures achieves ultimate victory.

Master Yu (Yuxiong, teacher of King Wen of Zhou and proto-Daoist figure) concludes: To attain hardness, one must guard it with softness; to achieve strength, one must preserve it through weakness. Maintaining softness isn't to seek hardness, yet hardness naturally follows; preserving weakness isn't to become strong, yet strength emerges spontaneously. Thus hardness cannot be obtained through deliberate pursuit. Accumulating through softness inevitably leads to hardness; settling through weakness ultimately yields strength—observing how one accumulates reveals their fortune or misfortune.

(Notes: "Tu" denotes the state of empty detachment; Guo Xiang was a Jin Dynasty metaphysician; Lu refers to Lu Chongxuan, Tang Daoist scholar; Fan denotes Fan Yingyuan, Song Dynasty Daoist priest; Master Yu is Yuxiong, precursor of Daoist thought.)

Fortune and misfortune arise from accumulation. Using forceful means can only overpower those weaker than oneself, but when facing an equally matched opponent, one will inevitably meet with setbacks. Yet when overcoming adversaries through softness, the strength displayed often exceeds all expectations.

Fan Yingyuan (a Daoist master of the Song Dynasty) explains: Softness is the root of the Dao (the Way), and pliancy is its function. Through continuous accumulation of softness, one ultimately becomes strong; through persistent cultivation of gentleness, one eventually achieves great power. By observing how a person accumulates, we understand that both fortune and misfortune are self-invited. Those who rely solely on brute force without understanding how to preserve themselves through gentleness can at best overpower inferiors. But those skilled in the way of softness ultimately overcome hardness—this is the principle of conquering what is stronger than oneself. The ancient sages valued the state of non-contention precisely because through not contending, none in the world could contend with them.

Laozi said: "An army that grows too powerful will ultimately meet destruction." Wang Bi (a Wei-Jin period philosopher) comments: This reflects the natural pattern of things—extremes inevitably cannot endure. Just as overly tall trees are easily broken, pliant things possess greater vitality while rigid things approach death.

Lu Zhongxuan (a Tang Dynasty Daoist) adds: The noble person often says "the violent die unnatural deaths, the combative always meet their match"—the true meaning of softness lies in accumulating De (Virtue) and practicing benevolence. Emperor Huizong of Song (whose reign name was Zhenghe) observes: Transforming countless small defeats into ultimate victory—this only sages can achieve.

Laozi further illustrates with water: Nothing in the world is softer than water, yet nothing surpasses it in overcoming hardness, because water never abandons its fundamental nature. If it changed its nature to accommodate external things, it would lose itself—how then could it overcome others? Precisely because water's nature remains unchanged, it can adapt infinitely without losing its essence. Nothing can ultimately overcome it—this is the eternal way of victory. The eternal way of victory lies in softness; the perpetual path of defeat lies in forcefulness. Though simple to understand, this principle proves difficult to practice, as Laozi said: "The soft overcomes the hard, the weak overcomes the strong"—while known throughout the world, few can actually embody it.

Forcefulness can only conquer inferiors, becoming perilous when facing equals; softness conquers superiors while never encountering danger. For opposing the world inevitably invites opposition, while humility and gentleness can master even the hardest things under heaven. This principle applies not only to self-cultivation but equally to governing the world—only those who practice the way of softness can achieve this.

The capable one excels not by surpassing external things, but by transcending the self; not by relying on others' approval, but by taking responsibility. Thus when two armies face each other, the side that holds compassion in its heart often prevails. Just as an overly sharp blade is prone to breakage, everyone knows to care for the catalpa and Chinese parasol trees when they can be embraced with two hands—but when they grow too tall, they invite the axe.

All things carry Yin (the passive principle) on their backs and embrace Yang (the active principle) in their arms, with these two energies blending into harmony. Yang governs growth and transformation, while Yin governs austerity and restraint. When the energy of destruction prevails, the harmony of Yin-Yang is lost. Hence we say gentleness is the path of survival, while rigidity leads to death.

Ancient texts state that "the rigid occupies the lower position, while the gentle holds the higher place"—this embodies the Daoist principle that "the soft overcomes the hard, the weak conquers the strong." Therefore Zhuangzi teaches us to adopt an outwardly meek and humble demeanor.

Those with similar appearances may not share the same mind, and those sharing the same mind may differ in appearance. Sages value mental resonance while overlooking superficial likeness, whereas ordinary people embrace those who look familiar and distance themselves from kindred spirits. Humans instinctively favor those resembling themselves while shunning the dissimilar. A person is recognized by their seven-foot frame, distinct limbs, hair, teeth, and upright posture—yet this doesn't preclude bestial nature. Even when harboring animalistic tendencies, one receives acceptance through human form. Creatures with wings, horns, or claws are called beasts—yet they may possess human-heartedness, though their appearance causes rejection.

Ancient sage-kings like Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and Yu the Great bore extraordinary features—snake bodies with human faces, ox heads with tiger noses—yet possessed supreme virtue. Human forms naturally share traits with animals, and many ancient sages had peculiar appearances. Their "snake bodies" didn't mean actual scales or missing limbs, nor were their "ox heads" literal horns—just as physiognomy describes turtle-backed posture, crane-like gait, hawk shoulders, or hooked noses.

Tyrants like Jie of Xia, Zhou of Shang, Duke Huan of Lu, and King Mu of Chu had ordinary seven-orifice faces no different from common people, yet harbored bestial hearts. If ordinary folk judge wisdom solely by appearance, they'll struggle to perceive true nature.

Different species can bond through spiritual resonance. When this spirit departs, even father and son become estranged. Thus during terrifying nights when humans share space with other creatures, this spiritual connection proves most vital.

This passage explores the distinction between Shen (spirit, the essential nature) and Xing (physical form) through comparing human-animal relationships. It observes that people fear sharing space with corpses because although the physical forms remain similar, their spiritual essence has departed. Zhuangzi teaches that what connects all things is their shared Shen—the true foundation of nurturing life.

The Fan commentary cites Mencius' view: the difference between humans and beasts is minute. Ordinary people overlook this distinction while noble minds cherish it. Judging by external form alone, beings may appear similar yet differ in wisdom; examining internal spirit, they may share comparable wisdom despite differing forms. Ancient records describe figures with monstrous appearances yet sagely virtue, as well as human-looking creatures harboring bestial hearts—the sole distinction lying in whether they preserve "the essential nature of being human."

Two historical examples illustrate this: The Yellow Emperor commanded bears and other fierce beasts in battle through martial might, while Emperor Yao made all creatures dance and phoenixes gather through music. This demonstrates that though animals differ from humans in form and sound, sages understood methods to communicate with them. Animals inherently possess wisdom akin to humans: mating in pairs, nurturing offspring, seeking warmth and avoiding cold, maintaining orderly communities. In primordial times, they coexisted peacefully with humanity.

When Dao and De (Virtue) remained pure, humans and animals harmed neither each other. By the age of emperors, creatures began fleeing in alarm; in latter days, they hide to escape harm. Fan concludes: since animals respond both to military coercion and musical inspiration, they clearly possess comprehension. When humans harbor harmful intentions, animals naturally understand to withdraw.

In ancient times, humans coexisted harmoniously with nature, sharing with animals the primal instinct for survival. During the era of perfect De (Virtue), people's hearts remained pure and untainted, causing no harm to living creatures. Thus they could lead wild beasts by hand for amusement and climb to observe birds' nests without disturbance. Later, when people began exalting cunning intelligence and disturbing the natural order, inventing bows, arrows, and hunting traps, frightened birds took to chaotic flight across the skies while panicked beasts fled through the marshes. Even insects and the tiniest creatures lost their innate nature.

In the eastern land of the Jie clan, people often understood the language of domestic animals—a result of their focused study in this particular knowledge. In truth, turtles and dragons lead the scaled creatures, while qilin and phoenixes reign over feathered beings. Even flying insects and crawling creatures communicate through sounds, each with their own intentions and rules. Their ways of interaction differ little from humans', yet people, unable to comprehend them, dismiss animal sounds as meaningless. But those who exhaustively investigate principles and possess wisdom can understand all things; those who concentrate deeply may even grasp a means of communication by chance. The Zuo Zhuan records how Jie Gelu, upon hearing an ox's bellow, discerned that it would bear three calves fit for sacrificial rites.

The sages of high antiquity fully understood the nature of all beings and could comprehend the languages of different creatures. They gathered and tamed various animals, educating them just as they did with common people. Thus, they first communicated with spirits and mountain demons (as when Yu the Great summoned deities at Mount Kuaiji), then enlightened the people of all lands, and finally assembled birds, beasts, and insects (as when, during Emperor Shun's reign, beasts danced to music). All creatures with blood and Qi (vital energy) share the same essence of mind. The sages understood this principle, ensuring their teachings left nothing out.

Scholars of the Zhenghe era correctly interpreted the character tong (童) as meaning "shared." In the age of perfect De, people preserved their original state—free of knowledge and desire—known as supu (unadorned simplicity). Thus, humans dwelled alongside birds and beasts, coexisting with all things, able to lead wild animals by hand and climb to observe nests. The Yellow Emperor's battles at Banquan and Emperor Yao's use of music to civilize the people were both founded on this principle. That Jie Gelu understood oxen, and that the Zhou dynasty established offices to domesticate birds and beasts, all demonstrate that communication with all creatures was once possible.

This passage presents several allegorical stories illustrating Daoist philosophy. It begins by mentioning ancient officials (Yi Li) responsible for communicating with animals, who could understand the language of livestock. Sages like Bo Yi and Ge Lu were said to comprehend the calls of birds and beasts, demonstrating the fundamental interconnectedness of all things—the key lies in mastering the method of communication.

The text then recounts the famous "Three at Dawn and Four at Dusk" fable: A monkey keeper in the Song state distributed chestnuts by first saying "three in the morning and four in the evening," which angered the monkeys. When he reversed it to "four in the morning and three in the evening," the monkeys became delighted. The total remained unchanged—only the presentation differed. This allegory critiques how people often become distracted by superficial appearances while failing to perceive the essential truth.

From the Daoist perspective, the sage governs people much like the monkey keeper manages his troop—not through clever deception but by following nature's course. Ancient masters who excelled in practicing the Dao (Dao) didn't seek to make people clever or cunning, but rather helped them preserve their original simplicity. Ordinary folk need only follow the Dao's path without necessarily understanding its principles. True wisdom manifests not in displaying cleverness but in returning to primal authenticity and walking with the Dao.

The passage concludes by noting how ancient texts often used "monkey-like cunning" (Ju Zha) to describe deceit, as monkeys excel at spying and delight in trickery. Yet those who play with cleverness ultimately become ensnared by their own devices. Therefore, the sage employs people according to their innate capacities, allowing both humans and things to fulfill their natural functions—wasting neither talent nor resource. Guiding people with wisdom transcends the simplicity of monkey-keeping, embodying the profound harmony of Wuwei (non-action) where all things find their proper place in the cosmic order.

This passage uses the allegory of training fighting cocks to illustrate the Daoist concept of "perfect virtue" (Quan De). Ji Xiaozu's reports to King Xuan of Zhou on the cock's training progress reveal different stages of cultivation:

At first, after ten days, the cock still relied on bluster and aggressive posturing. Another ten days later, it remained overly reactive to external stimuli like echoes and shadows. After yet another ten days, it still glared fiercely, constantly seeking opponents to challenge. Only when the cock became completely unmoved by external circumstances—remaining indifferent even to other cocks' crowing, appearing like a wooden statue—was its virtue considered complete.

A person of "perfect virtue" not only maintains inner stillness undisturbed by external things, but also prevents others from feeling any urge to contend with them. As Guo Xiang (the Jin Dynasty Neo-Daoist philosopher) noted: one who cultivates to perfection cannot be conquered by external foes while achieving inner completeness. The commentator Lu Zhongxuan added: relying on brute force isn't true victory, and excessive reactivity makes one vulnerable to external manipulation—only by transcending distinctions of form and spirit, rising above the transformations of life and death, can one become truly invincible.

The passage concludes by revealing its core message: those skilled at victory don't rely on contention. Precisely because they don't contend, no one in the world can contend with them. Maintaining inner tranquility and spiritual harmony embodies the "virtue of non-contention" (Bu Zheng Zhi De). Such individuals preserve their innate nature intact, with no gaps in their spirit for external things to penetrate. Even when interacting with the external world, they remain fearless and unharmed. This state of preserving one's authentic nature cannot be achieved through cleverness or brute force—it represents genuine "perfect virtue."

Fan Yingyuan (a Song Dynasty Daoist commentator) observed: if even animal training requires gradual conditioning, how much more so human cultivation? The progression from empty arrogance to non-contention, from hyper-reactivity to imperturbable stillness, mirrors the Daoist practitioner's gradual process of relinquishing attachments and returning to original authenticity.

This dialogue recounts the debate between Hui Ang (grandson of the philosopher Hui Shi) and King Kang of Song regarding the superiority of De (Virtue/Power) over brute strength. Initially, the king declared his preference for warriors over advocates of humaneness and righteousness. Through progressive reasoning, Hui Ang successfully persuaded him otherwise.

Hui Ang began by proposing a method that would render even the most courageous warrior unable to stab the king, and the strongest man incapable of striking him. Intrigued, the king demanded details. But Hui Ang elevated the argument: "This is still inadequate. I possess a superior approach—making men dare not attempt to stab or strike you at all." Progressing further, he described an even higher method: "I can eliminate the very intention to harm you." The ultimate attainment, he explained, was inspiring all people to genuinely cherish their ruler and seek his benefit—this represented the perfection of De that truly surpassed martial prowess.

Thoroughly convinced, King Kang eagerly sought the practical means to achieve this. Hui Ang cited Confucius and Mozi as exemplars—though lacking royal authority, they commanded universal following through moral influence. As ruler of ten thousand chariots, the king could surpass even these sages by cultivating such virtue. Struck by this argument, the king marveled at Hui Ang's persuasive power.

The dialogue systematically demonstrates De's supremacy through four ascending levels: physical defense, deterrence, elimination of hostile intent, and ultimately, winning heartfelt devotion. Hui Ang reveals that true governance lies not in coercive force but in attaining "perfect De"—the highest state where moral transformation replaces violent suppression as the foundation of rulership.

This passage discusses the distinctions between Confucian-Mohist doctrines and Daoist thought. While the teachings of Confucius and Mozi (founder of Mohism) were widely circulated, their propositions emphasized moral regulations without comprehending the hidden truth of the supreme Dao (the Way, the highest truth in Daoism).

When genuine sages govern the world, they employ divine wisdom rather than resorting to force, treasuring compassion as their most precious treasure. They embrace all under heaven with benevolent virtue (De), winning the people's hearts; they transform the world through righteousness, gaining universal trust. This represents the eternal and invincible Dao, far superior to mere reliance on martial prowess.

The text mentions that although Mozi's understanding of the Dao wasn't comprehensive, he remained an exceptionally talented worthy. The commentator Fan (possibly Fan Ye) observes that those who harbor altruistic benevolence haven't yet reached the state where people forget their ego. The arguments of Hui Ang (a Warring States period philosopher) were specifically directed at King Kang of Song, while this discourse concludes with the "constantly victorious Dao," suggesting this represents the most fundamental path to triumph.

Through comparing Confucian-Mohist doctrines with Daoist philosophy, the passage emphasizes that true statecraft lies in governing through non-action (Wuwei) and conquering through virtue, rather than relying on external rituals or military conquest.