Chapter Sixty-Eight: Mr. Lü's Reasoning

A night of drinking lasted until the rooster crowed thrice and the eastern sky began to brighten. Only then did the old man and the young man stagger into the Yellow Clay Alley.

They parted ways at the academy gate. Mr. Lu waved his hand, took a step forward, and vanished from sight.

He Chang’an felt a sudden tightness in his chest, his mind clearing a little.

He rubbed his eyes hard, gazing at the tightly closed academy doors, and anxiety sprang up in his heart: “Could it be I spent the whole night drinking with a demon?”

He reached into his robe and pulled out a small blue cloth pouch with floral patterns. Opening it, he found two books inside.

One was “The Three Cangs,” the other, “The Grove of Characters.” The scent of books was subtle and elegant. Flipping through a few pages, the winding, intricate text made He Chang’an’s head spin.

“No way, could Mr. Lu really be a master in disguise?”

“Lu Chen, Lu Boyong… I don’t know this man, doesn’t seem famous…”

“Scholars have such glib tongues—why are none of them reliable?”

A wave of drunkenness crashed over him, and He Chang’an stumbled deeper into the alley, soon arriving at the courtyard he rented. He thought to himself, “Ajiu still owes me a pair of shoes, a meal of meat, and several months’ rent. Surely she won’t really stab me with a sword…”

The door was unbarred, and he pushed it open easily.

Emboldened by wine, He Chang’an poked his head inside, looking around. The courtyard was quiet. He guessed Ajiu must have already gone to bed, so he crept silently toward the main room.

“Stop right there!”

His hand had barely touched the door before the tip of a bamboo sword pressed against the back of his head, the uncertain aura of sword energy so tangible he could feel it prickling his scalp.

Ajiu, catlike in her stealth, had crept up behind him without a sound.

And she was, after all, a tigress—a female one at that.

“I surrender,” He Chang’an slowly raised both hands. “Ajiu, can’t I just surrender?”

Ajiu didn’t answer for a long time. Her unremarkable chest rose and fell as her bright black eyes blinked, as if she were pondering how to deal with the surrendered He Chang’an.

He Chang’an kept silent too.

Sometimes, the things left unsaid are reason enough.

“So, who did you go drinking with this time?” Ajiu finally managed to squeeze out a question, pushing the bamboo sword forward until it touched his scalp.

“An old scholar. He told me to come to the academy and study tomorrow,” He Chang’an replied, his teeth aching as he spoke. He tried to turn his head but was held firmly in place by the bamboo sword.

“If you weren’t a woman, poking people with a sword like that would get you killed…”

---

“He Chang’an, give me five taels and eight coins of silver and this courtyard will be yours.” Ajiu tilted her head, sheathing her bamboo sword and speaking with utmost seriousness, “I bought this place for six taels from Alan. You’ve paid two taels in rent. The original owner deducted some, two coins converted to cloth shoes, wine, and meals…”

He Chang’an turned to look at Ajiu, who was counting on her fingers, her thin, tanned face grave with concentration, as if terrified of making a single miscalculation. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Ajiu, stop being so stingy. We have more than enough silver now.” He pulled out two ten-tael ingots and handed them to her casually. “Take these to settle debts, and use the rest to get us some furniture.”

Ajiu accepted the silver, weighed it in her hand, and nodded. “The silver is genuine.”

He Chang’an shook his head with a wry smile, about to make a joke, but Ajiu cut him off with, “My mother always said, no good ever comes from a man who spends money recklessly.”

Ajiu’s bright eyes stared straight at him, making He Chang’an a little uneasy.

“Is this silver clean?” she asked, clutching the ingots tightly.

“It’s an advance on my wages. Wouldn’t you say it’s clean?”

“I trust you.”

Only then did Ajiu relax, producing a deerskin pouch and solemnly placing the two ingots inside, tying it tightly and giving it a squeeze before letting out a long breath.

He Chang’an watched in amusement and laughed, “So you’re the real miser here.”

---

At noon, Mr. Lu, carrying a book, walked out of the lecture hall in precise, measured steps, not glancing left or right, following a group of children.

Looking up, he saw a middle-aged man with graying temples standing by a window on the second floor, giving him a meaningful smile.

Mr. Lu nodded slightly and turned to go upstairs.

From behind the window, the middle-aged man watched the children rush into the dining hall, chirping like a flock of sparrows scrambling for food, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s a shame, a great scholar of Jixia hiding in a shabby alley’s primary school,” he said as Mr. Lu entered, retracting his gaze.

“Teaching, resolving doubts, and passing on knowledge is a teacher’s duty. If one’s heart distinguishes between university and primary school, how can one hope to educate and nurture people?” Mr. Lu set his book down unhurriedly, walked to his seat, sat slowly, and sipped the cooled tea on the table.

“You’re right, Mr. Lu. I was being narrow-minded,” the middle-aged man said, taking a seat opposite him.

“Your lineage has never lacked for narrow minds.” Mr. Lu regarded him kindly. “Your own teacher was narrow-minded. You studied with me for a few years, but instead of improving, you became even narrower—and picked up the scholar’s shamelessness as well.”

The man burst out laughing, refilled Mr. Lu’s teacup, and said, “I once heard Zhao Zheng and the others say, ‘There are no bad students, only bad teachers.’”

“Did he really say that?” Mr. Lu asked seriously, taking a sip of tea.

“He did. I heard it with my own ears.” The man smiled, raising his bowl to his nose to savor the aroma.

“Du Shisan, Wen Taiyuan, and Li Yishan have said similar things,” he added.

Mr. Lu nodded slightly and murmured, “Oh,” offering no further comment.

The middle-aged man waited patiently for a while, but seeing Mr. Lu say nothing more, he said with a smile, “You’ve grown more even-tempered, sir.”

Mr. Lu sighed and shook his head with a bitter smile. “It’s not that I’ve grown more patient. I’ve simply come to understand something.”

“And what is that?” the man asked, carefully refilling Mr. Lu’s tea. “It’s been many years since I heard your teachings. Your student is all ears.”

Setting down the teapot, he stood to bow properly, then sat back down with perfect decorum—leaving nothing to criticize.

Mr. Lu gazed at him for a long, long while. Suddenly, he broke into a smile. “Is your teacher still in good health?”

The man was taken aback, replied absentmindedly, “Well enough, I suppose,” and was immediately rewarded with a heavy punch to the eye. Next, a dry, slender hand seized him by the hair and, as easily as one might flick away snot, threw him out the window.

A dull thud sounded, drawing the attention of the children fighting for food in the dining hall. They crowded around the doors and windows, peering out, trembling with fear.

“Who’s that? How is he so tough—not a scratch after falling from the second floor…”

“Right? And he landed face first—didn’t even get hurt?”

“Tsk, tsk, his skin must be thick as a wall…”

The man got up without a word, dusted himself off, blood streaming from his nose, hair full of splinters from the broken window frame.

“Zheng Xiaomei, next time you see your teacher, ask him for thirty copper coins from me—as tuition for educating his student,” Mr. Lu called out, half his body leaning out the window. “Also, you owe me one silver coin now—you broke the academy window and must pay for it.”

Wiping the blood from his face, the man grumbled, “But it was Zhao Zheng and Du Shisan and the others who spoke ill of you behind your back—why hit me?”

“Oh, so they were the ones gossiping about me?” Mr. Lu paused, a hint of apology in his expression. “Sorry, Zheng Xiaomei. I hit you by mistake simply because I don’t like you. When I’m in a better mood, I’ll go deal with them as well.”