Traveling Through Ancient Times to Be a Teacher - Chapter 28

When Chu Ci arrived at the Zhang Wenhai family residence, Zhang Wenhai was in high spirits, boasting loudly inside the room, his tone brimming with pride. Clearly, his “troublemaking visit” to Qishan Academy earlier that day had gone very well.

“Brother Chu! You’re finally back—I’ve been waiting forever!” Zhang Wenhai came out to greet him, visibly excited. Grabbing Chu Ci’s arm, he pulled him inside and said, “Brother Chu, this is my close friend from Qishan Academy, Fang Jinyang. Jinyang, this is the Chu Xiucai I told you about—Chu Ci of Changxi Village.”

Fang Jinyang looked a bit frail, his face pale even in the warm room, coughing softly now and then. But his eyes carried a gentle smile. “I’ve long heard of Scholar Chu’s name from Changxi Village. It’s an honor to finally meet you today.”

“Brother Fang flatters me. I’m just an ordinary man—please don’t be disappointed.”

The two exchanged polite bows and quickly formed a favorable impression of one another.

After chatting for a while, Chu Ci finally understood why Zhang Wenhai was so elated.

——

That morning, Zhang Wenhai had gone to Qishan Academy and, as usual, was mocked by the other students. Surprisingly, instead of getting angry, he proposed a contest of learning.

The results stunned everyone. Normally, Zhang Wenhai was known for being as dull and slow as a block of wood, but this time he seemed to have been reborn. He answered text recitation and moral interpretation questions fluently and even handled the Nine Chapters arithmetic problems with ease.

Though he didn’t win every round, he performed well enough to make them lose face. Unwilling to concede, the others demanded more rounds.

Zhang Wenhai merely smiled. “We’ve already spent half the day. If we keep this up, it’ll be dark before we finish.”

“What, are you scared?” one student taunted—the same one who had just lost to him in arithmetic.

“Of course not,” Zhang Wenhai replied, feigning calm. “I just have a simpler challenge. If no one in this academy can do it, you’ll all owe me an apology.”

“Boastful words! If someone does it, you’ll kneel and kowtow to us, how about that?” they snapped, angered.

“Isn’t that going too far?” Fang Jinyang said with a trace of anger. “It’s a scholarly contest—why resort to insults?”

“If he won’t agree, he might as well admit he’s afraid. Why talk big for nothing?”

“Fine! Let’s see who’s afraid of whom!” Zhang Wenhai took the bait perfectly.

“You give the question, then,” one of them said.

Zhang Wenhai glanced around at their self-assured faces and smiled slightly—a smile that carried a trace of Chu Ci’s influence.

“The question’s simple,” he said. “I have a brush here. If anyone here can step over it, I’ll concede defeat.”

“This doesn’t count! What if your brush is a zhang long—how are we supposed to cross it?” someone protested.

“It’s just an ordinary brush. What, are you afraid?” Zhang Wenhai pulled a wolf-hair brush from his robe—barely the length of a forearm, small enough that even a child could step over it easily.

The crowd burst into laughter. Their tension vanished; they thought he was making a fool of himself. Some even suspected Zhang Wenhai had studied himself stupid.

“Come then—put the brush down so we can step over it!”

Ignoring the jeers, Zhang Wenhai calmly walked to the courtyard wall, placed the brush by its base, and said, “Go on—who’ll be first to step over it?”

——

Recalling the scene, Zhang Wenhai laughed again. Chu Ci couldn’t help admiring him inwardly—what a flawless bit of showmanship!

That night, Chu Ci pulled out the question Master Qin had assigned:

“In midwinter, heavy snow falls for three days without stopping. The roads are cut off, livestock freeze to death along the way, and the people suffer from hunger. What should an official do in such a situation?”

It was a fitting question. It was deep winter now—though it hadn’t snowed yet, the cold was biting.

Disasters in ancient times were truly devastating. Chu Ci once heard from villagers that one winter years ago, a wedding procession traveling near the prefectural city had been caught in a sudden blizzard. They took shelter in a ruined temple. When the snow finally melted, both families sent people to look for them—only to find all twenty or thirty attendants frozen to death.

That tragedy had left people terrified of winter weddings for years afterward.

After some thought, Chu Ci began to write:

“When snow falls abnormally in winter, there are always signs to be observed. As the saying goes, ‘When heaven gathers clouds, snow and rain follow.’ A diligent official should investigate and give early warning—sending messengers with gongs and drums to alert the people, minimizing casualties. If the disaster has already occurred, the official must first send urgent reports to higher authorities, then open the granaries to relieve the hungry. When the snow ceases, labor relief should be organized—young men tasked to clear the roads and remove obstructions. Dead livestock should be buried on the spot to prevent contamination…”

He wrote line after line until he finally stopped, ink still glistening. Lifting the sheet, he blew gently on it to dry—then began the painful process known to all scholars: word counting.

Modern students often groan at the sight of “no fewer than 800 words” on an essay question—but ancient exam essays had the opposite rule: they had to be concise, typically under 500 characters.

Chu Ci counted, and to his dismay—it was already over seven hundred. Yet he still felt he had more to say.

He sighed deeply. So, even being too good at making things up can be a curse. This wasn’t an academic paper—go over the limit and your essay would be disqualified. 

He muttered to himself, “Not more than five hundred words! Remember that!”

He picked up the brush again and began trimming—cutting redundant phrases, softening stiff sentences. By the time the moon hung high, he finally set it down and went to bed.

——

By the third crow of the rooster, Chu Ci’s door still hadn’t opened. Zhang Wenhai wanted to knock, but Fang Jinyang stopped him.

“Wenhai, isn’t it rude to disturb him so early? Besides, Brother Chu never said he’d teach me the Five-Animal Exercises. Let’s wait until he agrees another day.”

“It’s fine,” Zhang Wenhai said cheerfully. “Brother Chu’s generous—he’s taught not only me, even Xiao Chengzi has followed along a few times. You’re weak, Brother Fang. This will definitely help you.”

Fang Jinyang’s eyes flickered. The county exam always took place in the coldest months, and his frail body often failed him—he could barely last half a day before being carried out of the exam hall.

Though his family never blamed him, he himself was deeply frustrated—he could answer every question perfectly, yet his body betrayed him.

While he hesitated, Zhang Wenhai had already gone ahead and knocked. Having lived with Chu Ci for some time, he knew his routines well.

Hearing the loud bang, bang, bang, Chu Ci sighed with his eyes still closed, then dragged himself up and fumbled for his clothes.

“Brother Chu,” Zhang Wenhai called as soon as the door opened, “Brother Jinyang isn’t well. Can he join your morning practice of the Five-Animal Exercises?”

Chu Ci glanced at Fang Jinyang, who looked embarrassed, and smiled. “Of course. Whoever wishes to learn is welcome. The divine physician Hua Tuo himself would’ve wanted his art shared with all.”

Both men brightened instantly and followed Chu Ci inside. 

Zhang Wenhai, now practiced, promptly stripped down to two layers and began his warm-ups with confident movements. 

Fang Jinyang stood frozen, wide-eyed—he’d never undressed in front of others before.

“Come on, Jinyang,” Zhang Wenhai urged. “Do some warm-ups first—once you’re sweating, you can practice outside without fear of catching cold.”

Fang hesitated, hand hovering at his robe collar. 

Chu Ci said gently, “Brother Fang, it’s fine—just remove your outer cloak. You’re weaker than us, so take it slow.”

Relieved, Fang took off his cloak neatly and followed Zhang Wenhai’s lead through the awkward stretching motions.

After warming up, the three went outside to practice. Zhang Wenhai, having trained for days, moved fluidly now. Fang felt chilled at first, throat itching—but as he continued, he realized it wasn’t as difficult as he feared.

By the end, Zhang Wenhai was drenched in sweat, while Xiao Chengzi stood by ready with hot water for his bath. Chu Ci had only sweated lightly, enough to wipe off. Fang’s face was flushed, though no sweat showed. His servant rushed up to drape his cloak back over him, terrified the slightest breeze might make him ill.

“Forgive me, Brother Chu,” Fang said with a wry smile. “My health’s been poor for three years now—they’re all overly cautious with me.”

“Have you ever suffered from severe cold before?” Chu Ci asked.

“Never,” Fang replied. “Nor any major illness. Every physician says the same—they find nothing wrong and prescribe mild tonics.”

“There’s truth in the saying: ‘All medicine carries three parts poison.’ Don’t rely on too many tonics, lest their residue harm you,” Chu Ci advised.

“You’re right. One old doctor told me the same,” Fang said with a faint smile. “But without the tonics, I doubt I could even leave the house.”

Chu Ci studied him again. He didn’t look like a truly sickly man—more like someone made fragile by overcare. But since even doctors had no answer, Chu Ci could only keep that thought to himself.

When Zhang Wenhai returned, their conversation ended.

After breakfast, Chu Ci took his finished essay and went to the county academy again.

The students were all in class, and Master Qin was lecturing. Chu Ci strolled quietly around, looking like a supervisor inspecting the academy.

“Chu Ci, what are you doing here?”

He turned and saw Headmaster Kong standing under a wintersweet tree with an elderly man.

Feeling a little awkward, Chu Ci quickly approached, bowed deeply, and said, “Sir, I came to consult Master Qin on some academic matters, but he’s in the middle of a lecture. I didn’t wish to disturb him, so I walked around instead. If I’ve violated the rules, please punish me.”

“It’s fine,” said the headmaster. “Just don’t stand too close and distract the students.”

“Thank you, sir.” Chu Ci was about to leave when the elderly man suddenly grew interested.

“This old friend here holds a scroll—might I have a look?” he asked.

Chu Ci felt a touch of resignation. In this dynasty, anyone with a Xiucai title was addressed as “old friend,” regardless of age; those without, no matter how old, were merely “young friend.”

“Of course,” he said, smiling politely. “It would be my honor to receive your instruction.”