Chapter 010: Who Will Rescue Us from a Century of Time? A Letter Worth a Thousand Pieces of Gold and Silver, Hard to Come By

“Master, we want to hear yesterday’s story again.”

The young attendants had their duties, but the children, unburdened by worries or lessons, naturally favored the master, especially when there were such delightful tales to listen to.

Hearing the students’ calls, Cheng Heng fell silent for a moment, then casually flipped through a book and said, “No stories today. You all copy some passages yourselves.”

Thunder rumbled, and the two parted unhappily. Cheng Heng had wanted to say more, but when he opened his eyes again, he saw the same group of students before him—the words of Guan Yin had struck a chord within him.

Whether it was Lady Lanxiang from a tea merchant family, or Lady Wan Jing, whose husband was a high official... these figures seemed like characters from his own plays, familiar yet detached to Cheng Heng.

But Guan Yin’s appearance made Cheng Heng begin to doubt his own approach.

“Master?”

“Why do you suddenly want us to copy books again?”

“Master...”

Children at this age were the most clingy; their pouty, aggrieved looks could soften anyone’s heart. Had Cheng Heng been focused on the school, he surely would have been torn again.

Cheng Heng believed that thoughts should precede the times, especially when he learned these children hadn’t yet memorized many poems, yet some already had child brides at home—had their parents also been forced into such unions? Had they met the person they longed for as they grew?

“The call of the era, the people’s literature and art, isn’t that what you are meant to do?” Guan Yin’s words echoed in Cheng Heng’s ears.

Feeling the scrutinizing gazes of the young attendants, Cheng Heng increasingly doubted whether his ideas were pushing these children of history too hard. If he truly pursued “free love” at home, would it shatter the harmony of the family?

“Master? Master?”

A tug at his sleeve brought Cheng Heng back to reality. Before him, a child held up a book, pointing to the characters. Cheng Heng read aloud with some puzzlement, “Behold the lush bamboo on Qi’ao.”

“Master, I don’t know how to write these two characters. Could you teach me?”

Hearing this, Cheng Heng’s smile vanished. Though he had been pleased that no one had caught him out, these characters were ones he had been forced to memorize as a child, yet writing them was an entirely different matter.

“Writing?” He could read and recite them fluently, but writing them himself was out of the question!

The Four Books and Five Classics, the wisdom of many schools—he had been pushed to memorize them endlessly in childhood. Even without understanding, he could still recite them now. But practicing calligraphy, Cheng Heng had refused tearfully more than once, and his parents eventually gave up.

In university, enticed by the calligraphy and painting clubs and the opera veterans, he tried briefly to take up the refined scholar’s arts—music, chess, calligraphy, painting, tea, and cultivation—but none lasted.

“I injured my wrist yesterday, ow...” Cheng Heng stifled a laugh, instinctively wanting to turn to his good brothers and say, “How’s my acting?”

But he had to keep up appearances. He raised his other hand from under his chin, massaging his slightly trembling right wrist. “Hey, you try writing first. Another day I’ll write it for you.”

Thinking quickly but knowing this was no lasting solution, Cheng Heng frowned, regretting not having listened to his parents and practiced calligraphy earlier. His grandfather was renowned across the region, with ancestors who produced top scholars.

Though not unusual in their village of scholars, his grandfather’s brushwork was so admired that every New Year, when writing couplets, many people flocked to their doorstep.

“But the students say Master has a special skill—he can even write beautifully with his left hand.”

Oh no! Cheng Heng now suspected the world could hear his thoughts, sending the most cunning challenge his way just to make things difficult—Heaven, I have done no wrong; Earth, why do you torment me?

So many scripts failed to teach Cheng Heng what it meant to “call on Heaven in vain, cry to Earth in vain,” and now his impromptu performance couldn’t save him.

“What should I do?”

“This can’t last.”

“Is that you?”

“Why is it you again?”

The moment they saw each other, though both were stubborn, their surprise far outweighed their doubts.

“Can you write a script?”

“Haven’t the students’ parents caused trouble for you?”

Both voiced the other’s unspoken concerns. By now, the unpleasantness from before seemed to have vanished like smoke. The two young men smiled, urging the other to speak first.

“Ladies first, so Guan... Teacher, you go ahead.”

“You know I’m a teacher, but in this era, wanting to be a proper schoolmaster is almost impossible,” Liu Jiao’an comforted well, but Guan Yin’s grievances could not be shared with her. Seizing the chance, he spoke to the point, “Besides, the predecessor seems to have come from the entertainment quarters.”

“You know how that is—even if they sold only their art and not their bodies, people still looked down on them...”

“Who cares? Did you eat their rice?”

Guan Yin had worried about touching a sensitive spot for Cheng Heng, but the latter’s straightforward reply was unexpected, making Guan Yin feel as though he had worried unnecessarily, harboring a slight disdain himself. “Actually, if you’re unprepared, you could have them discuss in groups.”

“Or flip the classroom.”

When these words were spoken, both young men, having been through it all, fell silent—when had these teaching methods, once despised, become accepted as natural?

“I only realized during my internship that sometimes there are two kinds of teachers: those who reluctantly adapt to new methods, and those who...” Guan Yin’s words made Cheng Heng blush. “Actually, giving lectures isn’t too bad.”

“Be sparing with ink, sparing with words—being a teacher means leading by example.”

Without minding Cheng Heng’s embarrassment, Guan Yin’s gaze happened to fall on the chaotic scribbles on the desk. “Teaching, enlightening, resolving doubts—it’s not just about worrying for their safety on the bridge.”

Outside, rain pattered steadily. As a commotion arose, Cheng Heng caught the “tail” of the dream and called to Guan Yin, “The essay belongs to the author!”

“Belongs to... belongs to oneself.”

Cheng Heng meant that if one could not write, then write about oneself. This brief admonition lingered in Guan Yin’s mind for a long while—from Liu Jiao’an’s departure to when she set down a bamboo-woven basket before him.

The mingled scent of rain and earth struck his face, clearing his thoughts. Guan Yin looked at Liu Jiao’an and spoke slowly, “Lady, would you be so kind as to help me transcribe some passages later?”