The Chinese have yet to face a fundamental truth: human nature is unreliable and must be constrained and balanced. Once a country allocates all social resources almost unreservedly and rigidly to the highest ruler through institutional means, the so-called “great talent and vision” inevitably transforms into a synonym for “tyrant and traitor to the people.” This is not an isolated phenomenon but a universal law repeatedly validated by history.

From an ontogenetic perspective of cultural development, examining Chinese history reveals that the Eastern Jin regime in the south was not entirely the same as the highly centralized northern dynasties. The aristocratic politics that emerged during the Eastern Jin period closely resembled the structure of earlier Spring and Autumn states. Objectively, it had the potential to evolve into a “noble republic,” injecting new vitality and balance into Chinese political life, and leaving room for “human dignity” to grow within politics.

Unfortunately, China’s imperial system, imperial politics, and the deeply intertwined Confucian historical paradigm gradually stifled this possibility. The idea that “under the heavens, all land belongs to the king; all subjects are the king’s officials,” became, in that era, the fundamental law of the entire community, an unwritten but supreme constitutional principle. After centuries of persistence, it internalized into the very marrow of the people, shaping a political ecology and ideology characterized by monopoly, winner-takes-all, and a “live only for oneself” mentality.

Under such institutions and beliefs, words like “minister,” “concubine,” “slave,” and “servant” in classical Chinese are highly overlapping in meaning, not by chance. In this country, only the emperor is regarded as a complete “human,” while everyone else is merely an object to be manipulated at will. This perception eventually solidified into an almost indestructible political creed and cultural tradition of the nation.

Because of this, the highest position of “claiming孤独, ruling alone” quickly evolved from a “king and horse sharing the world” to a series of degenerations: conspiracy, intrigue, betrayal, murder, and violence gradually became the norm of political life. The nascent aristocratic republic, which had already begun to sprout and was highly likely to break through the soil, ultimately became a mirage—like a flower in the mirror or the moon in the water—an echo in a long, mournful canyon.

The direct consequence was that the entire country once again bowed before the slaughtering blade, returning to a throne supported by bloodline, violence, and conspiracy. From then on, the people could only wait like waiting for sunlight and rain, hoping for a “good emperor”—a ruler with the mercy, justice, and wisdom of a father. All vitality and energy of the nation could only be entrusted to the emperor’s personal talent and divine wisdom.

As Wang Anshi said: “Enriching the country and strengthening the army, and the people’s happiness depend solely on His Majesty’s revitalization.” But the question is: is this possible? This political creed and cultural tradition precisely paved the way for those beastly emperors and officials, who oppress the people and indulge in their own pleasures, to walk an infinitely broad and smooth road.

The reason is simple. For centuries, Confucian ideology deliberately avoided or obscured the honest reflection on “human” and “human nature.” Under the doctrines of divine right of kings, the unity of heaven and humanity, fate in life and death, and wealth and honor in heaven, Chinese society has consistently refused to acknowledge a simple yet brutal fact: human nature itself is unreliable, and power must be constrained by institutional means.

When a country concentrates almost all social resources into the hands of a single emperor through rigid institutions, even if he is born of “dragon blood” or possesses extraordinary talent, he can still grow into a cold-blooded, bloodthirsty, and enormous butcher’s knife in such a soil. On this scale, the people are inherently weightless, with no real standing; their value exists only in words and rhetoric.

Their only future often resembles lambs awaiting slaughter, repeatedly exploited and slaughtered by those wielding public authority before they can even reach the slaughterhouse. The short-lived dynasties of the Southern Dynasties—Song, Qi, Liang, Chen—and the rise and fall of the Northern Qi family, all serve to repeatedly and convincingly demonstrate this ironclad historical logic.