Traveling Through Ancient Times to Be a Teacher - Chapter 29

The old man had only spoken up because Chu Ci’s handwriting on the page caught his eye. But after seeing the content, the characters themselves were forgotten entirely.

“Excellent—excellent indeed!” he exclaimed, clicking his tongue in admiration. “Here, take a look at this yourself.” He handed the paper to Headmaster Kong.

Kong took it, frowning at first—the writing style wasn’t the popular parallel prose (balanced and ornate) of the day. But as he continued reading, his expression shifted. He almost gasped in praise, only to suppress it halfway, forcing the sound back down his throat.

“These ideas—did you come up with them yourself?”

“This humble student merely scribbled a few thoughts. Please don’t laugh at my ignorance.”

“No need for such modesty, young man,” the old man said, clearly pleased. “Your mind has depth, and your words substance. Might I take this piece home for further reading?”

“Uh…” Chu Ci froze. The old fellow didn’t seem like the shameless type, yet he wanted to take the essay away?

“Ahem—let me introduce you properly,” Headmaster Kong said, desperately winking at him. “This is Mr. Mo, the Sub-Inspector of the Ganzhou Prefecture Education Directorate, here on behalf of the Provincial Education Commissioner to inspect the county academies.”

Ah—Chu Ci instantly understood. A covert inspection.

In modern terms, the Education Directorate was like a provincial education ministry, and this Sub-Inspector Mo would be the equivalent of a regional superintendent, reporting directly to the top and not under county authority.

After founding the dynasty, the Taizu Emperor had established prefectural academies, county academies, and village schools, with farmlands assigned as school estates to support education expenses. Each year, these institutions were evaluated, and their funding depended heavily on the results. No wonder Headmaster Kong was so tense.

Clearly, Mr. Mo hadn’t wanted his identity revealed at first. Since he didn’t object now, he must truly have wanted Chu Ci’s essay.

“An honor to meet you, sir,” said Chu Ci, bowing deeply. “If my crude writing has caught your eye, I am beyond grateful. Please, take it freely—though I fear its clumsy words may offend your refined taste.”

His tone struck the perfect balance—respectful without fawning. Combined with his composed and scholarly demeanor, it left a very favorable impression.

“Remarkable—such composure for one so young!” Mo Huai-gu laughed heartily. “Rest assured, if this essay proves of use, I’ll see that you’re not left unrewarded.”

He had seen many scholars—some so stubborn they’d rather starve than bend, others so obsequious it made one’s skin crawl. But this Chu Ci—humble, courteous, and intelligent—was the kind of youth worth remembering.

Hearing that, Chu Ci’s heart leapt, then sighed.

The essay’s ideas weren’t even his own—it was simply modern disaster-management theory adapted to ancient context. Naturally, it sounded visionary.

Still, if Mo Huai-gu truly intended to use it in the field, that meant his work would spread far and wide—and his name along with it. A blessing in disguise.

But he couldn’t help worrying. If there really was a snow disaster nearby, how many people were suffering right now? The thought of that tragic old tale about those wedding travelers freezing in the snow tightened his chest.

Not long after obtaining the essay, Mo Huai-gu left the academy, clearly satisfied.

“You—come with me,” Headmaster Kong said sharply once Mo departed. He was in a foul mood. Normally, whenever Mo visited, he’d arrive surrounded by officials. This time, he’d come alone, and Kong had planned to impress him by showcasing his own top students. Yet somehow this boy from Qin Lingqing’s class had stolen all the attention.

Chu Ci followed obediently, not knowing what he’d done wrong, and trailed him to the study.

“Did you know beforehand that Mr. Mo would visit?” Kong demanded. “Were you waiting there on purpose?”

“Sir, if I had such foresight,” Chu Ci said quickly, “would I have ended up wrongly imprisoned in the county jail? If not for Master Qin’s rescue, I’d probably be dead! I couldn’t possibly have known.”

Kong muttered, “Then maybe your teacher knew…” He waved his hand. “Forget it. Perhaps I’m just overthinking. Go on, your teacher’s class should be ending soon.”

He gestured impatiently for Chu Ci to leave. 

As headmaster personally appointed by the Education Directorate, Kong prided himself on his position—but his students never seemed to shine as Qin Lingqing’s did. Seeing another opportunity slip away today, he had unfairly vented his frustration on Chu Ci.

But Chu Ci didn’t move. He stood perfectly still.

Kong frowned. What now—does he expect me to apologize? He raised his head to reprimand him, only to notice Chu Ci wasn’t even looking at him. His gaze burned instead at something on the desk.

“You—”

Before he could finish, Chu Ci stepped forward eagerly. “Sir! You have a copy of The Qingming Festival Poem Manuscript of Huangzhou! Is that Su Dongpo’s genuine work? Might I borrow it for study?”

That piece—the Qingming Festival Manuscript—was one of Su Shi’s most celebrated masterpieces, praised as “the third greatest running-script under heaven.” To someone like Chu Ci, who loved semi-cursive calligraphy, it was a treasure beyond compare.

The characters were vigorous yet graceful, full of life—so radiant they seemed to breathe. It looked just like an authentic work.

Kong gave a cold snort. You steal my spotlight and still want to borrow my treasure? Not a chance.

Chu Ci grew anxious, stepping closer. “Sir, I swear I’ll treat it with utmost care. Not a speck of dust will touch it. I only wish to copy it for study, and I’ll return it immediately afterward.”

At this time, everyone practiced standard script (kaishu), as that was what the imperial exam required. Genuine running script manuals were rare, and Su Dongpo’s works rarer still—almost impossible to find.

“Master your formal script first,” Kong said dryly. “You can’t use running script in the exam halls anyway. I won’t risk your teacher accusing me of misleading students. So no, I won’t lend it.”

It was an excuse—but one that gave him immense petty satisfaction.

Chu Ci could only sigh helplessly. What could he do if the man simply refused? He bowed respectfully, then lingered with one last, yearning glance at the calligraphy—eyes full of sorrow, as though parting with a lover.

“Go on now,” Kong said, deliberately covering the manuscript with another book. “Your teacher’s probably finished by now.”

“Yes, sir.” Chu Ci’s voice was listless as he left, his shoulders drooping.

Watching him go, Kong couldn’t help chuckling. Seeing that defeated expression finally eased his irritation. Picking up the calligraphy, he murmured, “Old friend, you’ll have to charm him again next time—help me vent my temper.”

——

Later that afternoon, Chu Ci sat in Master Qin’s study, quietly reciting the essay he’d written the night before. Every few lines, though, he couldn’t help sighing.

“What’s wrong?” asked Master Qin, unable to focus on his own reading. “Did you forget part of it overnight?”

“No, sir. I can recite it backward if need be.”

“Then is it too cold here? Shall I have my wife bring in a brazier?”

“No, sir. Sitting here with you feels like basking in spring sunshine—even a thatched cottage would feel like heaven.”

Master Qin tapped his head lightly with a rolled scroll. “Then why that long face? A true scholar ‘finds joy not in things, nor sorrow in himself.’ What’s weighing on you?”

Chu Ci slumped across the desk with a sigh. “My realm of cultivation is still shallow, sir. I fear I can’t yet reach such detachment.” Then he suddenly sat upright. “Sir, did you know Headmaster Kong owns a copy of The Qingming Festival Manuscript? Could you perhaps borrow it for me?”

(Translator’s Notes:The Qingming Festival Manuscript (寒食帖, Hánshí Tiè) – A famous calligraphy piece by Song Dynasty poet Su Shi (苏轼), written during his exile. It expresses his loneliness and melancholy during the Qingming Festival, a time when fire was forbidden and people ate cold meals. The work is celebrated for its emotional depth and masterful brushwork, often called one of the finest examples of running script (xíngshū) )

If his teacher borrowed it, surely he could “assist” with ink and brush—and sneak a look.

Master Qin coughed lightly, a hint of guilt showing.

“The year-end exam approaches,” he said instead. “Your formal script has declined lately. If you don’t improve, the magistrate might fail you and revoke your scholar title. Now stop dawdling and rewrite that essay.”

Ah—so even his teacher couldn’t borrow it. No wonder Kong bore him such a grudge; the rivalry started here.

Seeing Chu Ci’s expression, Master Qin straightened his face and added, “If you place first in the county exam, I’ll borrow it myself and let you study it. Agreed?”

“Thank you, sir! You are truly a man of vast talent and unmatched virtue. I’ll follow your example and strive to become a gentleman as esteemed as you.”

The flood of flattery made Master Qin’s lips twitch upward—though inside, he already felt uneasy. How on earth am I supposed to make that old miser lend it to me?

Buoyed by the promise, Chu Ci wrote swiftly, finishing his essay in record time. He blew on the ink, then handed it over.

Master Qin read it carefully, noting a few grammar slips and phrasing issues for revision. After Chu Ci corrected them, he nodded. “No wonder Inspector Mo took your essay. Every policy in it is practical. You know, word just came—northern Mo Prefecture has been struck by the worst snow disaster in thirty years. Corpses litter the roads. If the local officials had observed the heavens earlier, as you suggested, they could’ve prevented countless deaths.”

“Sir,” Chu Ci said quietly, “I’ll be a good official someday.”

“You have the talent and the ambition,” Master Qin said gravely. “Just remember one thing—whatever you do, never betray your conscience. Do what you are meant to do, and do it rightly.”

He gazed at his student, pride and worry mingling. The boy was gifted—too gifted, perhaps. If he could maintain his integrity amid the mire of officialdom, he might one day stand among the empire’s highest ranks. But the bureaucracy was a dye vat—few who entered ever emerged unstained.

He hoped this one would be different.

As he watched Chu Ci bow, Master Qin suddenly felt the same melancholy once written by Su Dongpo himself:

“May my child grow foolish and dull—better a simple soul who lives safe to high office, than one too clever and doomed by brilliance.”

For indeed, deep affection does not last long, and great wisdom brings its own sorrow.