“Instructor, are you truly already one hundred and fifty years old?”

Li Diudiu ultimately couldn’t hold back his curiosity and asked directly. In truth, Yan Qingzhi’s earlier words weren’t wrong — Li Diudiu had more or less already come to believe it himself and simply wanted confirmation from Instructor Li’s own mouth.

But clearly Instructor Li had no intention of saying anything about it, because in his eyes, what Li Chi was currently fixating on was an entirely irrelevant matter.

“Whether I’m one hundred and fifty years old — does it have any bearing on what you need to learn right now?”

Instructor Li had reverted to that manner of his that seemed to hold no interest in anyone or anything. He sat at the table, writing and sketching, producing something that once again looked dense and impenetrable as a string of mystical symbols.

Li Diudiu said earnestly, “This student simply wanted to ask — if the instructor truly is already one hundred and fifty years old… then could it be you have seen Xu Qulü?”

Instructor Li gave a casual nod. “I have.”

Li Diudiu was stunned.

And immediately his eyes lit up. He couldn’t help edging closer to Instructor Li, in a tone bordering on flattery. “Instructor — please tell me about Xu Qulü.”

“Not interested.”

Instructor Li’s gaze hadn’t once left the paper before him. Li Diudiu instinctively glanced at it — the page was still filled with Instructor Li’s phonetic notation, though without any characters to annotate.

“Why are you so interested in Xu Qulü?”

Instructor Li eventually responded after all.

Li Diudiu said quickly, “He’s the War God of Dachu! Growing up, the stories my master told me most often were those of Xu Qulü — how he drove the Western Region peoples into crying out for their fathers and mothers, routing them in a single campaign and forcing them back beyond Dachu’s borders, with dozens of small nations submitting tribute.”

“False.”

Instructor Li looked at Li Diudiu. “There were only seven small nations that submitted. Claiming dozens — that’s simply the Dachu Emperor inflating the figures.”

Li Diudiu said, “But Xu Qulü’s military record can’t be false.”

Instructor Li said, “Not false — but not as impressive as you believe. In the Battle of the Tuolan Pass in the Western Regions, Xu Qulü unleashed six thousand fire oxen to shatter the Western Region formations. But he didn’t dare report it that way, because slaughtering oxen recklessly was strictly prohibited. Given the conduct of the officials in Dachu’s court — well, the character of those officials — they absolutely would have submitted impeachments against him, regardless of whether he won or not…”

“The Dachu Emperor already harbored significant suspicion of Xu Qulü for commanding troops. Even after a victory, the Emperor could only grow more suspicious. Xu Qulü was simply too naive. What he didn’t understand was that the more victories he won, the less the Emperor could tolerate him. If he had returned from the Western Regions and immediately resigned all his military posts, taken my advice, found somewhere to disappear and lived the quiet life of a wealthy gentleman — he might still have died peacefully.”

Instructor Li exhaled a long breath and shook his head. “What a waste… He never stopped harboring illusions about that Emperor. He always believed that by remaining loyal to Dachu, he could never be put to a miserable death. After returning from the Western Regions, I kindly offered to teach him pig-rearing. He refused to learn.”

Instructor Li looked at Li Diudiu and asked with complete seriousness, “Would you like to learn pig-rearing?”

Li Diudiu shook his head. “This student… also has no interest in learning it…”

Instructor Li said, “Pig-rearing is actually quite enjoyable.”

Li Diudiu: “…”

Instructor Li seemed to remember something. He pulled open a drawer and retrieved a booklet, which he passed to Li Diudiu. “This is the method I’ve written out for raising pigs. Take it — it may prove useful someday.”

Li Diudiu accepted the booklet out of politeness. It appeared to have been around for quite some years — the pages had already yellowed, and on the cover was a line of handwritten characters, rendered in neat, even, square-shaped script.

*Notes on Scientific Pig Farming*

Li Diudiu asked, “Instructor — what does ‘scientific’ mean?”

Instructor Li seemed too disinclined to explain. He reached over, took back the booklet, crossed out the word “scientific” on the cover with his brush, thought for a moment, and wrote the word “rational” in its place over the crossed-out portion.

Li Diudiu had little to say about that. He thought he might as well offer a compliment — flattery never goes out of style — so he said, “The instructor is most learned.”

“Not particularly learned — I’ve simply…”

Instructor Li looked at Li Diudiu, and then suddenly smiled. “I’ve simply learned differently from the rest of you.”

He looked at Li Diudiu and asked, “Your ambition is to join the military and command troops?”

“Yes!”

Li Diudiu nodded vigorously. “Xiahou intends to join the military, and I figured I’ll probably join up as well.”

“Xiahou Zuo?”

Instructor Li sighed. “Honestly, among everyone in this Academy, Xiahou Zuo is the one I like best. Pity he’s never taken the initiative to seek me out. He’s a remarkably spirited Academy student — quite similar to how I was in my own early days.”

Li Diudiu thought Instructor Li was truly a strange figure — strange in a way that demanded admiration, whether one liked it or not. His temperament was admittedly erratic.

The earlier booklet Instructor Li had given him — the one containing compiled military strategy — also had text on its cover. There should have been four characters originally, but the first two had been crossed out with several heavy marks, leaving only two visible.

**[Crossed-out] Military Strategy.**

Li Diudiu asked, “Instructor — what are the two crossed-out characters?”

Instructor Li glanced at it carelessly and said, “Whatever.”

“*Whatever* Military Strategy?”

Li Diudiu felt the name was admittedly very casual — yet in that instant, something lit up in his mind, and that light illuminated his entire train of thought.

“Whatever?”

Li Diudiu murmured. “Whatever… that’s profound philosophy, Instructor. The two characters *whatever* can be interpreted as adapting to circumstances, responding to conditions as they arise; or they can be read as composure in the face of change, countering all movement with stillness; or again as meeting the enemy with what the situation demands, as water takes the shape of its vessel…”

“Instructor — these two characters carry deep meaning.”

Instructor Li looked at Li Diudiu as one might look at a strange creature. He opened his mouth, then ultimately let out a sigh. “You do whatever… I wasn’t thinking that deeply about it.”

Li Diudiu and Instructor Li spent a full day together in the Book Forest Tower. What he learned from Instructor Li in that time was unlike anything he could have learned from anyone else. On every single subject, the way Instructor Li thought and the way others thought were simply different — his perspectives unconventional, yet always cutting straight to the heart of the matter.

The two of them ranged from astronomy to geography, from ancient times to the present day, from military tactics and formations to the governance of the common people. The more they talked, the more attuned they became. Instructor Li seemed to have gone a very, very long time without speaking this much, and so appeared somewhat energized by it.

“Instructor.”

Li Diudiu lowered his voice. “With such enormous talent, why not put it to use? If the instructor were willing, you could surely turn the tide of things.”

Instructor Li said, “I’m not willing.”

Li Diudiu was taken aback. “Why not?”

Instructor Li said, “I don’t want to die. The one and only goal I’ve pursued throughout all these years is simply not wanting to die. In order not to die, I — a person who thoroughly dislikes studying — have now mastered several hundred different methods of surviving. Why would I go looking for my own death?”

He looked at Li Diudiu and said, “If you want to topple this rotten dynasty, you go do it yourself.”

He paused for a moment, then said with a certain profundity, “As for the Bund — I am merely a passerby.”

Li Diudiu was completely bewildered. “Instructor — what is the Bund?”

Instructor Li smiled. “Never mind. Go on back — I’m tired today and want to rest early. When you leave, help me pull the door shut. I’d like to get a good night’s sleep.”

He pointed at a large trunk that had just been moved out from the inner room. “Take that with you. Consider it a fortunate encounter I’ve arranged for you, little one… thank you. I had a very enjoyable conversation today.”

Li Diudiu didn’t dare linger any longer. He bowed deeply in thanks, then hefted the large trunk and lifted it up. It was considerably heavy — he had no idea what was inside. He didn’t think it appropriate to open it now; he assumed it was probably more booklets. He’d return them once he’d finished — he simply couldn’t accept so many things from someone without giving anything in return.

Upon returning to his quarters, Li Diudiu eagerly opened the trunk. Inside were indeed many booklets — but what struck him with even greater force were the meticulously drafted diagrams, drawn one by one.

Among them was the blueprint for the modified repeating crossbow that Instructor Li had personally reworked, along with blueprints for other weapons and schematics for several large-scale siege engines. In the context of the imperial court, all of these would have been absolutely forbidden — discovery would mean complete ruination. Yet Li Diudiu felt no fear. Rather, he received them as if they were priceless treasures.

He noticed that beneath the blueprints lay several thick booklets. He removed them and took a look — they were covered in a layer of dust, which he blew off before picking up the topmost one. The cover was blank. He opened it and found on the first page a single line of text written horizontally — contrary to the Dachu convention of writing vertically from right to left.

There were only nine characters in the line, yet as Li Diudiu’s eyes rested on them, it felt as though something had struck a quiet blow against his heart. At first glance, the nine characters conveyed a kind of free-spirited confidence. But looking again, they were filled through and through with loneliness and fear — more like a phrase one whispers to oneself as reassurance.

*A bamboo staff, straw sandals, lighter than a horse — what is there to fear?*

Li Diudiu’s deepest feeling upon seeing those nine characters was of a young man walking alone through a place completely unfamiliar to him, holding a freshly-snapped thin bamboo stalk as a weapon, walking and walking, consoling himself… *I can do this. I’m not afraid.*

And yet — truly afraid. And utterly at a loss. All he had to lean on was a bamboo staff in his hands; all he had to stand on was a worn pair of sandals on his feet.

In that moment, for reasons he couldn’t explain, Li Diudiu felt a deep ache in his chest. It was a resonance he couldn’t articulate.

He let out a long breath. In an instant, a solitary stillness settled over his heart.

A long while later, Li Diudiu turned to the second page. Reading it carefully, he found it was a travel journal — written in considerable detail, but from the style of the prose, it appeared to have been composed long after the events, as a recollection.

When you pass through an experience, you are one person. When you have lived through a lifetime, you are someone else entirely.

Even when remembering your own past, the one doing the remembering and the self that lived through those moments are no longer the same person.

Li Diudiu sat in his room, drawn deep into the travel journal, losing himself utterly. Time slipped past him without a sound and without his notice. By the time he felt fatigue pressing in, he realized the outside world had long since gone dark, and he couldn’t even recall when he had lit the lamp.

With some reluctance, Li Diudiu closed the travel journal and lay down on the bed. Eyes shut, his mind was filled with the things from Instructor Li’s journal — the places, the events, the people.

He didn’t know why, but he suddenly sat up again, driven by some impulse he couldn’t name, and turned to the very last page of the journal. The last page, like the first, contained only a single line.

*The world kissed me with pain; I answered it with song.*

Li Diudiu’s eyes flew wide open. The only thought in his mind was: *Instructor Li — what is it you lost?*

He appeared so unhinged on the surface, so unburdened and free — and yet he must have lost something, something that mattered most of all.

He was in great pain.

The very next morning, Li Diudiu ran back to the Book Forest Tower. He called out several times at the entrance but received no answer. Unable to wait any longer, he pushed the door open and went inside — and found no trace of Instructor Li.

On Instructor Li’s desk lay a piece of paper. Li Diudiu picked it up. The words on it were left for him by Instructor Li. As Li Diudiu read, the hand holding the paper began to tremble slightly.

Even though there were only ten characters.

*Born to be a hero among the living; in death, a mighty spirit among the departed.*

Instructor Li had slipped away without a sound, as quietly as he had come — like a gust of wind passing through Li Diudiu’s life, appearing suddenly, disappearing just as suddenly. It was as though he had never come at all, and yet as though every breeze from that moment forward would carry some part of him.

—