Day ten.

The tenth day Li Diudiu had been so eagerly anticipating had finally arrived. He woke early and busied himself at once, stripping off his academy robes and changing back into his own clothes — worn and tattered, but washed spotlessly clean by his own hands.

He gathered his things and was ready to head out, then paused. His master had never seen him in his academy robes, so he turned back and changed again. He packed up load after load of things — food, and wine. The food had been prepared for him the previous afternoon by Auntie Wu; the wine he had borrowed from Xiahou Zuo, who had made clear it would need to be returned.

Xiahou Zuo had also said something to him: everything you want in this life, you must fight for yourself — don’t grow accustomed to what others give you out of charity. Don’t think of it as getting a good deal. That kind of thinking turns a person into a servant.

With so many things to carry, Li Diudiu’s walking was clumsy and slow. From the academy to Wuwei Temple was at least four li, but he didn’t feel the hardship — if anything, he felt he hadn’t brought enough.

He had just reached the academy gates and was about to step out when he saw the instructor Yan Qingzhi standing there waiting. The sight of Yan Qingzhi made Li Diudiu nervous — children generally feel that way around their teachers.

Yan Qingzhi spoke in his usual flat tone: “I have business to attend to in that direction. It happens to be on the way to where you’re headed. Get in the carriage — I’ll give you a ride.”

Li Diudiu felt momentarily off-balance. Yan Qingzhi had almost never spoken to him with such an even, pleasant manner.

He climbed into the carriage waiting outside. Yan Qingzhi pointed at a bundle inside: “There are two sets of clothes in there. They’re old ones of mine that I no longer needed — I was going to throw them away, and throwing them away would’ve just been a waste, so you…”

“Thank you, sir.”

Li Diudiu took the cloth bundle and held it in his arms without another word.

After a moment of silence, Yan Qingzhi said, “You went to see Xiahou Zuo yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go less often in the future.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yan Qingzhi seemed to sense the awkwardness in the air, and both of them fell into silence for a stretch.

After a long while, Yan Qingzhi glanced at Li Diudiu and said, “You and Xiahou Zuo are not the same kind of person.”

“I know, sir.”

Yan Qingzhi said a sentence; Li Diudiu replied to each one. Yan Qingzhi appeared to lose interest in the exchange and said nothing more. The carriage moved slowly down the main street, and those four li seemed to pass even more slowly than walking would have. Neither of them spoke — the compartment was as silent as if it were empty, except that an empty carriage wouldn’t have felt this awkward.

“We’ve arrived.”

Yan Qingzhi’s carriage stopped. He looked at Li Diudiu: “The reason I brought you here by carriage was so your master could see you arrive that way — so he would know that you, having entered the academy, truly are different now.”

Li Diudiu felt a tremor pass through his chest. He climbed down from the carriage and bowed deeply toward Yan Qingzhi inside: “Thank you, sir.”

“Go on.”

Yan Qingzhi pulled the curtain closed with one hand, and the carriage continued on its way. In truth, Yan Qingzhi had no real errand and this was no detour — he had simply wanted to see what the old man who commanded his respect looked like.

The old man hadn’t come.

Li Diudiu stood at the gates of Wuwei Temple, scanning in every direction for any sign of his master. The area in front of the temple was an open expanse — you could see everything at a glance. Standing there with his heap of things, Li Diudiu looked less like someone searching for another person and more like someone who had lost himself.

A child alone in an empty wilderness, unable to see a single soul — that was probably the closest thing to what Li Diudiu felt in that moment.

“Master…”

Li Diudiu kept looking all around, but his eyes found no trace of his master anywhere within sight. Unwilling to give up, he ran to one side of the temple and looked — no master. He puffed his way to the other side and looked again — still no master.

Even the toughest child is still a child. Li Diudiu let out a wail and burst into tears.

In the distance, behind a large tree, the Changmei Daoist — filthy and disheveled — crouched in hiding, watching Li Diudiu carefully. At the moment Li Diudiu broke down sobbing, he came within a hair’s breadth of losing control and rushing over to gather the child in his arms.

But he couldn’t. If Li Diudiu saw him like this — the state he was in — how heartbroken would the boy be? He knew Li Diudiu too well. The moment Li Diudiu saw him living like this, with nowhere to call home, the boy would abandon the academy and come back to his side.

That couldn’t happen.

The child had already set foot on a different path — one with good things ahead. Even if great wealth and prestige were beyond reach, at the very least it was a clean road, a bright one. The old Daoist had already walked ninety-nine steps to get the child onto that road. There was only one step left.

Making this child give up on him entirely — that was the final step.

The Changmei Daoist wiped his tears and leaned back against the trunk of the tree, breathing deeply. He dared not look anymore. If he kept watching, his heart would crack open.

He looked down at the clothes he was wearing — still the same ones he’d had on when he brought Li Diudiu to Jizhou City. More worn now, dirtier, the color of the Daoist robes barely distinguishable. If only… if only he had one clean set of clothes, he would have already run over and swept the child up in his arms.

Li Diudiu had suffered through this wait. But had the old Daoist suffered any less? He had suffered more. The closer the day came, the worse the suffering grew. He had done everything in his power to find a clean set of clothes — but it was beyond him. He would sooner die than steal or rob, sooner starve than open his mouth to beg. He was a man of the Daoist order. He had to be worthy of the Patriarch’s teachings, worthy of the name Daoist.

All these years, he had made his living reading fortunes, and he had never cheated anyone of money that wasn’t his to take. How much he charged for a reading was how much work he put in, how much he said — he knew his own measure. He was aware that in some sense his livelihood was built on deception, but what he sold was fine-sounding words to those who wanted comfort — wealthy people, or people with troubled consciences, buying peace of mind from him.

He was a contradictory man. Sometimes so contradictory that he couldn’t even respect himself.

That very morning, he had nearly resolved not to come at all — to simply walk away and not go to the temple. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had tried many times. He couldn’t talk himself out of it.

On the road, he had come across a roadside ditch. He crouched down and carefully washed his face, even though the water was far from clean — he washed until his face was as clean as he could make it.

“Diudiu’er… don’t blame your master for being hard-hearted.”

The old Daoist leaned against the tree and murmured to himself. Both of his legs were trembling; he could barely stand.

“Your master has set you on the broad open road. But your master can’t walk it himself, and I can’t drag you back. I can’t be a burden to you. Child… may your future be bright. Your master bids you farewell.”

He raised his hand, scrubbed hard at his eyes, drew in a long breath, and walked forward with long strides.

The Changmei Daoist took long strides forward. Each step shook.

From behind him came the sound of Li Diudiu’s anguished, wrenching sobs. It was as though a knife were cutting through the old Daoist’s heart over and over, back and forth. Countless times, an uncountable number of moments — every breath brought the urge to spin around and run back. But he endured it. He kept enduring.

Li Diudiu would face hardship in the academy — of course he would. He wasn’t from a wealthy family. An eleven-year-old child bearing cold looks and cutting words every single day. And if people found out he had a master as destitute as this one — he would be looked down on all the more.

He’d cry for a while and it would pass. He would cry himself out and be all right.

As the old Daoist walked with his head bowed, he caught sight of the ragged, patched garment on his own body — and for the first time in his life, he felt something close to bitterness toward heaven itself.

Heaven, you thief. I have never wronged my conscience. I have done a good deed each day. And yet I cannot even have one shred of dignity?

The dignity he wanted was nothing more than one clean, presentable set of clothes.

He didn’t know how far he had walked. The old Daoist could no longer go on. He dropped to the ground with a thud and sat there, back against a wall, tears streaming down his weathered face — old tears, flowing freely. In the distance he could still hear Li Diudiu’s hoarse, sobbing cries. The old Daoist opened his mouth and wept — silently.

Thump. Something fell in front of him. On instinct he looked down. A passer-by had tossed a copper coin at his feet. He shook his head: “I’m not a beggar. I don’t ask for charity.”

“Heh.”

The passer-by glanced at him. “Take it or leave it. Is it too little for you?”

The old Daoist picked up the coin to give it back, but the person had already walked off — still grumbling as they went, clearly feeling that their act of kindness had earned them nothing but aggravation and wasn’t worth the trouble.

The old Daoist set the copper coin back down on the ground, braced against the wall, and pulled himself to his feet. He couldn’t keep sitting here. If Li Diudiu spotted him like this, everything would have been for nothing. He had only come to steal one last look at the child.

Steadying himself against the wall, he began to move forward — and at that moment, a figure appeared before him.

“Don’t cut off his will to live.”

Someone was speaking to him.

The old Daoist looked up. In one glance he recognized the man — it was that teacher from the carriage. When Li Diudiu had stepped down from the carriage, the old Daoist had been watching from a hidden vantage the whole time, and had seen clearly what the teacher looked like.

Diudiu’er in those bright, beautiful academy robes — so handsome. Sitting in that carriage — what a fine and spirited picture he made. That was the life he was meant to have.

Yan Qingzhi looked at the old Daoist. He was by nature a person of steady composure, but at this moment he felt a grief so sharp he wanted to cry out.

“He will lose the will to go on living.”

Yan Qingzhi said it again.

“I…”

The old Daoist looked once more at the clothes on his body, and shook his head. “I can’t see him looking like this. Better to be harsh than to keep him tangled up with me, unable to focus on his studies. Sir — please, step aside.”

“You are the person who knows him best.”

Yan Qingzhi spoke each word deliberately: “In the academy, I give him a hard time — that is to forge his character. I call him poor, that is to temper his patience. If he can withstand more from me, then when he goes back to the main classes and faces contempt from others, he will be better able to hold himself steady.”

“I forbid him from spending time with those of privileged birth because I don’t want him to become someone’s follower, someone else’s errand boy. There is pride in his bones. I won’t have him eye others’ charity and let that pride curdle into servility.”

“I forbid him this and that because I know how hard his entry into this academy was. In thirty-six years, the Four-Page Academy has never had a student like him.”

Yan Qingzhi continued: “And so I respect you. But right now I think somewhat less of you. What I am doing is not cutting off his road. What you are doing right now — that is.”

The old Daoist opened his mouth. He had no answer.

“You are the person who knows Li Chi best. If he loses even that bond — if he loses even that human connection — what reason does he have to keep living? You would plant the desire to die in the heart of an eleven-year-old child. Is that truly what’s good for him? I always tell my other students that you don’t read and study for anyone but yourself. But I cannot bring myself to say that to him. He is reading and studying for you.”

Yan Qingzhi shook his head and turned away. “Think it over yourself.”

The old Daoist watched Yan Qingzhi’s retreating figure, and in the end still chose to leave.

Then, from behind him, a hoarse voice called out.

“Master!”

The old Daoist’s shoulders jolted sharply. He wanted to turn around — but didn’t dare.

Li Diudiu came sprinting toward him, dropping everything he’d been carrying. He flung himself at the old Daoist from behind and wrapped his arms around him — holding on so tight, so tight.

“Don’t — you’ll dirty your academy robes!”

The old Daoist spun around at once, trying to push Li Diudiu away. But Li Diudiu would not let go. He held onto the old Daoist’s waist for a long, long time — and then suddenly bit down on his master’s arm. Hard.

The old man’s tears flowed freely.

“Master…”

“Your master is right here.”

“Master, were you trying to run away?”

“No… your master forgot to change clothes. Your master is pretending to be poor right now to trick people.”

“You only ever trick me.”

Li Diudiu wiped his snot and tears on his master’s clothes, and then he laughed. “Master, have you ever eaten dumplings? Pale and pretty dumplings?”

The old Daoist blinked. “…What?”

From the distance, perched atop a wall where he had been watching with a prickling sensation behind his nose — Xiahou Zuo burst out laughing.

What a ridiculous kid.

—