Lu Chen, having drained his wine, casually tossed the empty flask out the window. It tumbled into the stream, destined, no doubt, to be swept downstream and claimed by some discerning new River God, eager for such a treasure.

“You, Master Gao, are a drinking companion of the young Hidden Envoy,” Lu Chen mused aloud, “and I am a Daoist friend to Chen Ping’an. Therefore, we are practically friends, though yet unintroduced. Consider this a humble token, a trifling trinket capable of channeling the flow of water.”

He turned to Ning Ji, a boy of sharp eyes and quick wit. “Our esteemed Master Chen will soon begin his lessons. Come, I’ll show you some curious things outside the schoolhouse.”

A string of bells hung beneath the eaves, dangling a long rope. The end of the rope was within reach of Chen Ping’an’s outstretched hand. Lu Chen, true to his mischievous nature, reached out to ring them, but Ning Ji stopped him. “They cannot hear it but ourselves,” Lu Chen chuckled, but the boy remained firm. Lu Chen, relenting, led him to another object, a sundial crafted with clumsy hands and etched with the symbols of the twelve earthly branches. It was a simple device, used to measure the passage of the twelve hours of the day, each divided into eight刻.

On days of rain, when the sun remained hidden, Chen Ping’an relied on Zhao Shu, a sturdy武夫, to call out the hours, ensuring the village’s rhythm was not lost.

Lu Chen extended a finger, halting the shadow’s progress on the dial. He moved the shadow with unnatural speed, so that time was but a swiftly turning page in a book, until Lu Chen retracted his hand and all returned to normal.

Then, Lu Chen stepped inside Chen Ping’an’s dwelling, while Ning Ji, filled with curiosity, remained at the doorway.

Lu Chen surveyed the stacks of books, many penned by Chen Ping’an himself, first drafts for his lessons. A smile touched his lips. Clearly, Chen Ping’an intended to offer more than the common texts of the world below: the “Three Hundred Verses,” the “Dragon’s Whip of Rhymes,” and the “Forest of Youthful Learning.”

Ning Ji seemed to wander through the long river of time, though he had no feeling of dizziness. Lu Chen saw his spirit as a well-tempered blade.

Stepping back outside, Lu Chen held out his palm, revealing a miniature sundial, no bigger than a thumb. “Now,” he declared, “you shall control the flow of time.”

Ning Ji shook his head.

Lu Chen chuckled. “Remember this, boy: to *have* and to *use* are two different realms, separated by an endless chasm.”

After some hesitation, Ning Ji accepted the sundial, its weight surprisingly light. “Can I make time flow slower?” he asked. “Or perhaps… backwards?”

Lu Chen inwardly approved of the boy’s quick grasp. “Of course,” he said casually. “It is but a trifle, an insignificant skill known to any mountain spirit. You need not be impressed by my abilities.”

Ning Ji could not help but marvel. Were all mountain spirits so mighty?

Lu Chen smiled. Perhaps the boy would not become his disciple, but a jest was always welcome. One day, Ning Ji would learn that Chen Ping’an himself could not manipulate time so easily. The sight of the boy’s face on such an occasion made the Daoist’s smile grow wider.

Inside the schoolhouse, the children sat at their desks. Some had fingernails caked in dirt.

Others, born into poverty, had calloused hands before their years. Some were barefoot. Others wore new shoes, a mark of sacrifice from their family.

Some were restless, fidgeting in their seats, disturbing their neighbors.

Standing at the entrance, Ning Ji hesitated, almost afraid to enter.

Lu Chen, leaned against a window frame, stretching his legs.

“Why does Master Wu not use his true name?” Ning Ji whispered, unable to speak aloud.

Lu Chen laughed softly. “A bad habit, indeed. One should be forthright, declare one’s name to the world. I must chide Chen Ping’an for such behavior.”

“Wu 镝, a homophone for Invincible, arose from a jest. Long ago, he visited the Locking Clouds Sect of the Northern Continent with a friend. At the gates, he declared himself Chen the Good, and took on the Daoist name Invincible. He announced his intention to stride directly forward, and expected the Locking Clouds Sect to move their mountain from his path. Imagine the guards’ reactions!”

Ning Ji considered this. “Master Wu always has his reasons.”

Lu Chen smiled. “His friend, Liu Jinglong, he immediately named as his disciple, Liu the Reasonable, insisting that all could be reasoned with. A good man who does good and a patient man who speaks reason well; what is not to approve?”

“And you, Master Lu?” Ning Ji inquired. “Do you not take on aliases in your travels?”

Lu Chen stretched, then laughed. “I prefer my own name. But it holds little weight. Those who hear it, even knowing of a ‘Lu Chen,’ will not associate it with the White Jade Citadel. Those few at the mountain peaks are my friends, and know me well enough that hiding is pointless.”

“As for the origin of 陈迹, traces…”

Lu Chen gestured to the willows. “Each year, the new branches return. The old is gone. Traces, the mark of that which has passed, filled with sorrow and nostalgia. Life grinds onward, step by step, upon the past. No words can soothe the suffering.”

Lu Chen grinned, pleased with his explanation. “When you’ve read more, you will find that the term ‘traces’ first appeared in my own ‘Chapters on Celestial Fortune.’ Six millennia, countless scholars, regardless of their Dao or origin, cite my words in their writings. Were someone to tally the mentions, I would, without boasting, surely be among the top three.”

Lu Chen clapped his hands on his belly. “The greatest power is appetite. Are you hungry?”

Ning Ji shook his head, but his stomach betrayed him.

Lu Chen bustled to the mud-brick kitchen, used for storage and as a sleeping space by Zhao Shu, and soon returned with two bowls of wontons. He handed one to Ning Ji and sat on the doorstep, a flask of plum wine beside him. Between mouthfuls of wontons, he took sips of wine and asked, “Can books fill an empty stomach, Ning Ji?”

Ning Ji squatted nearby, bowl in one hand, chopsticks in the other. “In these times, one with a skill can always eat.”

Lu Chen devoured his wontons. “Long ago, in the Sapphire Continent, a great swordsman, Li Tuanjing, believed the练气士 dominated the peaks because Heaven deemed them worthy. He said the bowl of the练气士 was the biggest, and the wontons transformed to heavenly energy. What if Heaven instead deemed shoemakers worthy?”

“Why tell me these things?” Ning Ji wondered.

Lu Chen drained the last of his broth. “We do too much, and think too little. We eat too much, and have nothing to do. My master said that a true Daoist ‘has excess to give to the world.'”

Ning Ji tentatively spoke: “Is it like how my belly was empty, and you gave me a bowl of wontons?”

Lu Chen laughed, startled. “So quick to understand?”

Ning Ji hesitated, glancing towards the kitchen. “But the food and the kitchen belong to Master Wu.”

Lu Chen threw his head back and laughed. He wiped his eyes and fixed the boy with a playful gaze. “Between hunger and fullness, what did I do?”

Ning Ji glanced at the empty bowls. He felt an answer on the tip of his tongue, but was it right?

“To lend is like giving, to collect is like begging,” Lu Chen said.

Ning Ji collected the bowls and utensils, cleaned them, and returned them to their place in the kitchen.

Lu Chen focused his gaze on the green-robed figure at the schoolhouse.

Lessons began at mid-辰 every day, with two刻 of memorization.

Laggards were punished, forced to stand against the wall. Repeat offenders were struck with a wooden ruler. Those who had not completed their assignments were sent to a special desk to make up for their failings.

The students were divided into three rows based on age: six to eight, eight to ten, and ten and older.

There was plenty of room for all the students.

Chen Ping’an sat on a chair, facing the children. He seemed to be lost in thought, but he was listening closely to their recitation.

“Do you know what 书声琅琅 is?” Lu Chen asked.

Ning Ji shook his head.

“Readers read. Reading is a careful saying of words.” Lu Chen leaned against the wall, explaining: “It means ‘the sound of striking stone,’ clear and resounding. In time, people realized that this word, and other such repeating characters, can be beautiful, and started using it to describe reading aloud.”

Chen Ping’an tailored the lessons to each age group.

Those who felt confident would raise their hands and recite their lesson to him. If they succeeded, he would then have them explain its meaning.

Lu Chen said, “Do not underestimate this final task. It is the essence of learning. It is there that students will cultivate the skills to stand apart from the crowd, and carve their own path.

Teacher reads, student memorizes, student explains; each step leading to knowledge. To know why, and when, is to be close to enlightenment.

“Do you teach at the White Jade Citadel?” Ning Ji asked.

Lu Chen smiled. “I am too lazy. The Citadel has too many clever souls. Why bother teaching when they can already learn?”

There have not been, in thousands of years, so many scholars of great mind. The distance between them and Lu Chen is just the length of Lu Chen himself.

Ning Ji thought that Lu Chen just thought the spirits too smart for his teachings.

The truth was that Lu Chen knew his teachings were too advanced for most.

When memorization was complete, formal lessons began.

Chen Ping’an would lead the students in reading new texts for half a 时辰.

The remaining children would read on their own, keeping their voices low, or listen to the lesson.

It was common in the villages for parents to have low expectations for their children. So most teachers would just march through a book, and help the students learn to write. The best teachers would help students learn how to hold a brush, and help them write the characters. The students who mastered the fundamentals would copy examples, and begin to develop their own style. Those students who had also learned the Confucian classics would begin composing prose. It was a far simpler task to learn handwriting at this low level, which used a charcoal pencil or a stone on slate or a shallow box of sand with a stick to practice writing on.

Here, each desk had a bamboo pen holder filled with fine bamboo brushes, and a flat box of sand in its drawer.

There was also a thick booklet titled “Not Two,” Chen Ping’an’s own compilation of 3,000 characters from the various primers. Each entry included a large brush character, a small-script pronunciation, a definition, and several examples of the character in use.

Ning Ji admired the “Not Two” booklet, and Lu Chen, sensing his thoughts, gave him a copy along with the sundial.

“Must I know all these characters before leaving the school?” Ning Ji asked.

Lu Chen said: “Of course. With three to four thousand characters, what can you not read?”

“Is it possible?”

“You can surely do it. Most students can learn them in five or six years. Those who do not apply themselves will not.”

Ning Ji paused.

“After class,” Chen Ping’an told Zhao Shu over dinner, “ask him.”

Those students who do not have the talent for reading… what to do with them?

Chen Ping’an smiled. “Learning is hard, but what is harder than ‘trying’?”

Learning to try would be enough for a lifetime.

At the dinner table, Chen Ping’an said, “Is trying a gift?”

Zhao Shu thought for a moment, and could not answer.

Chen Ping’an nodded. “Stricter teaching. Tomorrow, the ruler will strike harder.”

Zhao Shu muttered, “The girls have not forgotten their lessons, but you do not punish them. It is a crime to have the students stand, but they are so eager to learn, and you are too soft.”

Chen Ping’an glared. “They are girls, and they only sometimes forget their lessons. Can you compare them to the boys?

Zhao Shu went quiet. His teacher never looked so fierce.

After reading the new, there would be memorization, with time divided among the age groups.

In these villages, Chen Ping’an would, rather than just marching forward, make sure to take the best parts of the texts and emphasize basic etiquette for both children and adults.

“Reason is empty, propriety is real,” Lu Chen said from his place on the schoolhouse’s roof, propping up his head with his hands. “Ning Ji, have you noticed that even the worst ruffians are respectful to their fathers, and fear being accused of impiety? Even the most terrible students will treat their old teachers with reverence.

Ning Ji, seated on a stool, listened to the lessons.

“Are the lessons that Chen is giving very different from what you showed me at first?” Ning Ji asked.

Lu Chen said, “He discarded that plan, deciding that it was too difficult. He wants the children to enjoy their lessons, if at all possible. Learning is hard, but it need not be boring.”

Lu Chen reached into the drawer and took out a book, then handed it to Ning Ji. “See the differences.”

Ning Ji opened to a page and saw Chen’s small writing covering every blank space on the page, more annotations than text.

Lu Chen said, “These are Chen’s notes. The students will never see them.”

Ning Ji asked, “Are all teachers like this?”

Lu Chen answered: “Most teachers feel this way, but they vary in dedication and talent.”

Lu Chen shook his sleeve, and a pile of papers fell into Ning Ji’s hands. “These are the collected writings of the Sage of Characters. Take them. Give them away if you like. Do not feel indebted, for we will meet again.”

Other than substituting a few books, the morning’s reading was roughly the same, but he removed the “giving lesson” section, and noted to himself to be “patient.”

The assigned reading was also adjusted, shifting from classical essays to illustrated stories that covered nature and the lives of the people.

These illustrations covered farming, harvests, and common animals.

Also, Chen started teaching characters using the earliest forms: starting with 小篆, and then隶书, and then楷书. It was a bold idea, but he was not certain how it would work.

He also had a book of notes for himself, and a set of aphorisms.

Some were verses taken from the poems that Chen had composed on the road to桐叶洲.

He selected thirtysix essays describing great landscapes, divided into three sections.

Chen taught the children to write their own names, and then taught them verses from their village’s temple.

While they wrote, he stood and watched, occasionally adjusting a student’s grip to help them learn.

At midday, the children were dismissed.

Lu Chen and Ning Ji watched the excited children.

Zhao Shu then demonstrated a set of boxing techniques, making sure to kick up dust and shout.

Chen Ping’an ate his lunch on the front porch and watched Zhao Shu.

Three of the girls would play踢毽子, and Chen had made several new sets for them.

Chen Ping’an would also invite a thin child to eat lunch with him, but the boy always refused, and Chen gave up.

Because his school was so cheap, Chen cultivated a plot of land where he grew vegetables. He also raised chickens and ducks, and rented a bamboo grove and a tea garden. He had wanted to raise pigs, but feared they would stink.

To improve their diet, Chen could set traps and hunt.

Lu Chen, resting against the sundial, drew a symbol in the air, which hung in the air like wet ink.

He explained: “This symbol is ‘at,’ as in ‘at rest.’ A Daoist spirit will make a great journey, and he has the name of this symbol.”

He then took out two bamboo staffs and handed them to Ning Ji. “Come, I will show you these mountains.”

Ning Ji said, “I can walk.”

Lu Chen laughed as they set off. “One tires. Even if one has good feet, what of the heart? Take it.”

The young Daoist, wearing a莲花冠 and carrying a black bag, used the staff to steady himself. “Young men must study, and must also nurture their 元气, train their bodies.”

“识神 must yield to 元神. Those who cultivate Dao must always be as a newborn. The distinction will be clear when you begin, and you may ask your teacher about 元神 and 元婴.”

“In your life, you will meet people with hearts that are not steady.”

“Those who make mistakes must say sorry, and those who are asked for too much must be able to say no. 元神 must be free.”

By the creek, Lu Chen washed his face. He pulled out a copy of Chen’s notes, and said: “Do not worship the ancients, and do not bury yourselves in books. Do not go in, and do not come out.”

“Chen Ping’an reads deeply, and then widely, to discover a handful of truths. In the classics and even in worthless trash, if one can find a single truth, it is worth the effort.

He made a circle in the air, and suddenly the green of the trees seemed concentrated around him. He pointed at the creek, and a rock jumped up. He took it and scraped away its mud. Now there were two green stone stamps. He carved them. “开卷有益” – “Reading is Beneficial” – and “宁吉读过” – “Ning Ji read here.” He smiled. “When you find a book that you enjoy, you can stamp them in its pages.”

Ning Ji was delighted.

After thanking the master, the two traveled on. The skies darkened, and thunder rumbled.

They came to a mountain known as送驾岭.

The rain fell like a hole torn in the sky.

Lu Chen handed Ning Ji a paper umbrella.

“What is a perfect man?” Lu Chen asked. “One that leaves nothing untouched.”

“The best scholars pave the road of civilization.”

“The second best will dedicate their lives to reason.”

“The third best will bury themselves in their studies, but still benefit civilization.”

“After that are those who only have a smattering of knowledge, but who have no wish to harm others. And then are the pedants. And worst of all are the ones who twist the words into evil and destroy the world.”

The raindrops beat against the paper umbrella.

Ning Ji saw a figure rushing towards them through the rain.

He immediately recognized Zhao Shu, and that this was not the赵树下 he knew.

Lu Chen said, “Zhao is here to train. He is too restrained at the school.”

崔诚 of the literati has a technique named cloud蒸大泽式.

Zhao came to the peak, planted his feet, and shouted, then raised his fist to the sky.

Lu Chen explained: “It comes from a folk tale, of a long-ago time when the world was in drought. A goddess of rain pitied the people, and broke the heavenly laws to bring rain. She was captured and imprisoned on打神台. 崔 heard it, and flew into a rage. It was the rainy season, and the heavens opened up, and he stepped out and made a fist.”

Ning Ji asked, “Is it true?”

Lu Chen laughed. “I do not dare to travel back and see.

The boy of泥瓶巷, the娘娘腔, and 崔诚, had all come together in that moment.

The storm came and went.

Zhao handed out ten fists and then, exhausted, he set down his legs and returned to the school.

Lu Chen then led Ning Ji to乌泥潭, a pond of fish with golden stripes.

In drought, the village would come here to pray for rain.

Ning Ji asked, “Did the goddess of rain live here?”

Lu Chen laughed. “Who can say? Local legends say that it has something to do with dragons, and say nothing of the goddess.”

In the afternoon, school was in session from 未时 until申时.

The students had three and a half 时辰. In addition, each month, there would be three additional classes, where陈 would show the students various texts and objects, such as rubbings from steles, seals, and porcelain, so the children could learn to put what they read in a meaningful context.

During the harvest, school would be just a half day.

Chen would go out and help, and the villagers would chuckle at how much better he was at farming than at teaching.

The villages would fight over water, and Chen’s village was nearly always at war with浯溪村. One of Chen’s students had a father who Chen saw was being brutally beaten. Chen rushed to the man’s aid, but Chen’s help just enraged the warriors.

The women rushed and tried to block 陈, but 陈 ran faster. Chen managed to get the other man on his feet and to safety.

The next day, the teachers from 浯溪村 scorned陈, saying that his actions were unseemly.

Lu Chen and Ning Ji stood by the roadside and watched.

Lu Chen laughed. “It’s the same on the mountain as it is down, you fight or you run.”

Ning Ji could not understand. “Is not Master Chen a cultivator of Dao?”

Lu Chen answered, “He is learning from someone.”

Ning Ji asked: “Who is it?”

Lu Chen smiled. “He is to Chen what Chen is to you. You will learn who he is in time.”

In this region, neighboring villages may form alliances for marriage. Those villages would honor each other’s temples. Chen once saw 陈’s village, which had a alliance with a village farther away, being beaten by the neighboring villages, so they sent a signal. Then the distant village rushed to their aid.

Lu Chen once led the boy on a journey to see the county lines being moved. He had heard men singing to each other in the streets to impart the village’s rules.

A student who had a family of some wealth in the village would be beaten frequently.

The child did not complain, but his parents saw the marks on his hands and told 陈 not to hit him again.陈 agreed, but the child rushed back to 陈 and told him that he would get a beating still, but not one that would leave as big of a mark.

Every day after school, 陈 would fish in the stream and Zhao would cook dinner.

A few of the students would come fishing and leave Chen a fish.

陈 would toss it in his basket. And the child would get the ruler the next day. But the child would smile.

陈 would then ask the child to show him on the pages what he had caught, and if they were more than what he had seen in the paintings.

Sometimes, the younger children would get scared and piss themselves in the classroom.

The entire class would laugh. Then the teacher would take the kid to the creek to wash off, and then let him know to hold up a signal if they needed to go, so they wouldn’t wet themselves.

One student was sad, and said that his parents had hit him for giving them “reason.”

On that day, Chen taught with a smile.

One of the students who lived in the mountains, far away, would never miss a day, despite the weather. Chen sent Zhao to escort him when the mountain’s creeks rose.

After class,陈 walked with the child up the mountain. He ate dinner with the family and shared some wine.

Chen began collecting the序跋 from various texts.

陈 also prepared paper and ink, to teach them poetry, and give the best a copy, as well as福 for the new year.

Chen made three or four hundred wooden tablets, each with a saying on them.