Traveling Through Ancient Times to Be a Teacher - Chapter 46

When one asks another for help, one must never shortchange them.

Chu Ci gave Chen Zifang some white hemp cloth in thanks, then discreetly hinted at the Emperor’s passing.

Chen Zifang was shocked at first, but soon calmed down. After hurriedly expressing his gratitude, he left with the cloth and returned to his dormitory.

Chu Ci then picked out another bundle of white hemp to deliver to Master Qin. He figured the old scholar likely hadn’t heard the news yet—at most, he might have heard that His Majesty’s health was failing.

“Madam Qin, I’ve come to trouble you again,” Chu Ci greeted cheerfully, handing over the bundle.

Madam Qin looked behind him and saw he was alone. “Why didn’t you bring Xiaoyuan and Yu’er along? I just received a new batch of candied fruit—they must try some. I’ll pack some for them to take home.”

Chu Ci found it a bit amusing how those two little brats seemed more popular than he was. They’d only visited once after settling in, and already Madam Qin adored them.

But it made sense—Master Qin and his wife’s children lived far away, and with no grandchildren around, it was natural for them to grow fond of two bright, lively boys. Even Chu Ci himself sometimes found them so cute it made his heart ache.

Only after speaking did Madam Qin glance at the white hemp in her hands. Having lived with Master Qin for many years, her intuition was sharp. She pointed upward in silent question. Chu Ci merely nodded. She sighed softly.

“Your teacher isn’t at the academy now. He should be back this evening. Why not bring Xiaoyuan and Yu’er here for dinner?”

“No need to trouble you, Madam. Those two have been obsessed with the canteen’s new fried yellow croaker. It’s on the menu again today, and they’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

Madam Qin’s shoulders drooped in disappointment. Fried yellow croaker? She could cook that too—or, well, maybe she’d need to practice more first.

Carrying the candied fruit Madam Qin had given him, Chu Ci returned to the dormitory. It was the first day of the third lunar month, a rest day at the county academy.

Though sounds of scuffling came from inside, when Chu Ci opened the door, both children sat upright at their desks, writing diligently. Only the slightly crooked hair on Zhongli Yu’s head and Chu Xiaoyuan’s wrinkled clothing betrayed the fact that they had clearly been wrestling moments ago.

“Uncle, you’re back!” Xiaoyuan exclaimed, pretending surprise and flashing a winning smile.

“Uncle Chu,” Yu’er echoed sweetly.

“Have you finished your assignments?” Chu Ci asked, though he already knew the answer.

“Almost, Uncle. I’ll be done before dinner,” Xiaoyuan promised.

“Right, right!” Yu’er nodded eagerly.

“Good. If you’re not finished before dinner, there’ll be no yellow croaker for either of you.”

That gentle smile of his had an instant effect—both froze, then bent over their work, writing furiously.

But in the end, Chu Ci’s plan failed. Even though they finished on time, there would be no croaker anyway.

Not long before, the county magistrate had formally announced the Emperor’s death. All households were ordered into mourning, and the canteen, having just fried a batch of yellow croaker, had to dump it in the back hill—where the academy’s fat stray cats enjoyed the feast instead. Cats, after all, didn’t have to observe mourning.

Dinner that evening was entirely vegetarian—no meat, no lard, not even a trace of garlic or onion.

Ironically, Xiaoyuan thought the simple dishes tasted a bit like home and ate with great enthusiasm.

Zhongli Yu, who usually had little appetite without meat, found himself eating too—seeing Xiaoyuan enjoy his food made him unconsciously finish a full bowl. 

If Steward Xu had witnessed it, he would have wept with joy.

When Yu’er’s mother died, he should have mourned for three years, but before her death she had begged that her son mourn for only three months, not three years. Even so, that short period had nearly hollowed him out—his little face had turned thin and pale.

Truly, children needed to be with other children.

When both boys had eaten their fill, Chu Ci himself found he couldn’t. The untouched food in his bowl drew two pairs of sympathetic eyes. Then, in unspoken agreement, both boys began to recite “Sympathy for the Peasants.”

(Translator’s Notes: “Sympathy for the Peasants” (《悯农》) – A well-known Tang Dynasty poem by Li Shen (李绅). It expresses compassion for farmers’ hard labor and reminds readers to cherish every grain of rice, famously concluding: “Who knows that each bowl of food / comes from such bitter toil?”)

Fighting back tears, Chu Ci ate every bite under their solemn recitation. Serves me right for preaching about vegetarian virtue, he thought miserably.

That evening, Master Qin returned. 

Chu Ci went to visit and found the teacher eating his own simple meal—no meat, of course—but beside him sat a wine jug.

Chu Ci’s heart skipped. Was the man defying mourning customs? 

But when he peeked closer, he realized the jug held only water.

“Twelve years ago,” Master Qin began slowly, “His Majesty toured the south. I was then a student at the prefectural academy, chosen to represent the scholars who greeted the Emperor. When I beheld the dragon’s visage, my legs trembled so badly I almost disgraced the academy.

“His Majesty was imposing—majestic, awe-inspiring. Yet he was kind. Even toward humble students like us, he spoke gently. I still remember his words: ‘The day you master your studies will be the day you repay your country. Scholars must strive diligently, so that they may become pillars of the realm.’

“These words still echo in my ears. And now—he is gone.” He sighed heavily. “I never even made it to the metropolitan examination before my spirit grew weary. I failed His Majesty’s trust. And now that he has departed this world, I shall never again have the chance to see him in person.”

Whether he was confiding in Chu Ci or speaking to himself, Chu Ci couldn’t tell. He sat quietly beside him, occasionally refilling the cup of water.

He couldn’t fully comprehend the depth of loyalty these people felt to their ruler. In this age, the bond between sovereign and subject seemed to run deeper than anything in later generations. Perhaps after years of war and hardship, a wise ruler who brought peace truly was the foundation of their world.

When Chu Ci had heard the news, his own reaction had been pragmatic—wondering whether the new emperor would be that second prince who had once issued the “self-reproach edict,” or whether palace intrigue and bloodshed would follow.

Most scholars would grieve for a while, but once the next emperor ascended, their sorrow would fade. The new ruler would become their pillar once more.

The next day, the county magistrate summoned all teachers from the academy and local private schools. Each county, he said, was required to produce one hundred memorial essays per day during the mourning period—half to be burned in ritual offering, half to be archived for inspection.

This meant all classes were suspended for fifteen days. Students could either stay at the academy to study on their own or return home until mourning ended and the new emperor took the throne.

Chu Ci chose to return home. 

He first requested leave for Chu Xiaoyuan and Zhongli Yu, then went to inform Master Qin.

By then, the teacher had regained his composure.

“When the new emperor ascends, by tradition an Imperial Grace Examination will be held. You’ll have a chance to sit for it this August,” said Master Qin. “I’ve noticed your studies aren’t as diligent as before. I’ve assigned you some work—finish it at home and bring it to me when the academy reopens.”

(Translator’s Notes:Imperial Grace Examination (恩科, Ēnkē) – A special round of imperial examinations held by decree of the emperor, often to celebrate major events such as an emperor’s accession, a royal birthday, or an amnesty. Scholars who passed were considered recipients of imperial favor and could advance more quickly in official rank.)

“Yes, sir.” Chu Ci’s tone was serious. He had expected three full years to prepare for the provincial examination, but now—with only five months left—he had to focus completely.

After escorting Zhongli Yu back to the Kou residence, Steward Xu greeted them warmly and insisted they stay for lunch. Chu Ci politely refused, so Steward Xu arranged for a carriage to take him and Xiaoyuan home.

That spared Chu Ci the trouble of renting one—if Zhang Wenhai or Fang Jinyang heard he’d traveled on foot, they’d scold him for treating them like strangers. He was genuinely grateful for Steward Xu’s help.

Zhongli Yu stood by the gate watching them leave, his small hands clutching his robe. In just half a month, he had come to see them as family. Their departure filled him with reluctance.

“Yu’er, remember to finish your lessons each day,” Chu Ci said, lifting the curtain. “When we return to the academy, I’ll be checking your work.”

“Goodbye, Uncle Chu! Goodbye, Brother Xiaoyuan!” Yu’er waved hard.

Xiaoyuan only grunted in reply.

“Xiaoyuan,” Chu Ci asked on the road, “why do I feel like you’re not very friendly toward Yu’er?”

He had observed it for a while—the little one often tried to please Xiaoyuan, but Xiaoyuan remained aloof. He hadn’t wanted to ask in front of others, but after that curt goodbye, curiosity got the better of him.

“I’m not,” Xiaoyuan said awkwardly.

“Oh, you are.” Chu Ci chuckled. “Be honest—are you jealous that I treat him well?”

“I’m not!!” Xiaoyuan burst out, voice rising in protest.

“All right, all right—you’re not. Then why don’t you like him?”

After a pause, Xiaoyuan frowned. “He’s soft. Not like a boy. I don’t like playing with him.”

At that age, boys admired strength and mischief. All of Xiaoyuan’s village friends were the rough-and-tumble type.

“Xiaoyuan, you mustn’t speak of others that way. Yu’er is gentle and well-mannered—how can you call him soft?”

“He is! When someone hides his things, he doesn’t say a word. When they bump into him, he doesn’t fight back!” Xiaoyuan scowled, exasperated.

“What’s this? Why haven’t I heard of it before?” Chu Ci asked, frowning. From the sound of it, Zhongli Yu was being bullied.

Xiaoyuan looked puzzled. “But isn’t it easy to fix? Just hit them back! Why tell the grown-ups? That’s embarrassing.”

And indeed, every time Yu’er lost a brush or was shoved, the culprit would soon return the item tearfully or apologize in fright. He never realized that behind the scenes, Xiaoyuan had dealt out his own justice.

Listening to his explanation, Chu Ci was torn between amusement and exasperation. So much for teaching about the evils of bullying—his nephew was practically the enforcer.

The students of the Children’s Hall mostly came from wealthy county families. With tuition at two taels a month, only those of means could afford it.

These children, pampered and delicate, were like a nest of white rabbits—adorable, spoiled, and weak. At worst, a little overbearing—but physically useless.

Xiaoyuan, on the other hand, had spent his childhood carrying baskets of grass, muscles hardened by chores. Later, through Qin Zhao, he had even learned to use a slingshot. 

When Chu Ci wasn’t home, Qin Zhao often visited the village to play with him—and under Xiaoyuan’s persistence, taught him some tricks.

When such a boy entered the academy, it was like a wolf walking into a warren of rabbits. No one dared provoke him.

Naturally, the others resented it. They were all boarders, closed from constant company, while Xiaoyuan and Yu’er got to go home every night. 

So the weaker, timid Yu’er became their target. But every time they laid a hand on him, Xiaoyuan appeared—and they paid for it.

Even reporting to the teachers did no good. None of them could lie well, and under mild questioning, the truth always came out. 

The result: red palms and tearful apologies.

Chu Ci could only sigh. He repeatedly reminded Xiaoyuan never to start fights, never to strike first, and never—under any circumstance—to use his slingshot on people. 

“You must always stand on the side of reason,” he said, “if you wish to remain unshakable.”

Xiaoyuan nodded solemnly. But inwardly, he thought, Those rabbits aren’t even worth my slingshot.

And perhaps—just perhaps—this was what Brother Qin had meant when he said: “Heroes are always lonely.”