In the great Confucian Gao Shaowei’s long life of teaching, he had cultivated how many accomplished figures — those of great literary renown, and those of great power and position alike. Whatever their origins, when had any of them, as students seeking learning, dared to utter a single word suggesting that reading was easy?

After being sharply rebuked by Gao Shaowei, Li Diudiu had no choice but to clarify: “My master could only find books for me to read that were easy to handle — which is precisely why he spared no effort to bring me here to the academy to study. The books here at the academy should be harder.”

“Harder?!”

Gao Shaowei was so infuriated his face had gone slightly pale. He was genuinely on the verge of ordering this odious little boy straight out the door. The words were almost out of his mouth — but then he thought of Zhou Huaili waiting outside, and of the priceless *Ascending Sparrow Tower* piece that Zhou Huaili had brought him. To throw the child out now would be to make an enemy of Zhou Huaili as well — not that the two of them were especially close, but matters of face between men of the world must be handled with care. One simply could not go so far.

It wouldn’t do to have people say he accepted the calligraphy and then threw the child out regardless. Undignified.

So Gao Shaowei drew a breath and said: “You should all understand — nothing about reading is easy. Reading does not mean reading words; it means reading the deeper meaning that those words convey. Young people may have a backbone of pride, but they should not have an air of arrogance. Know that on the mountain of learning, diligence is the only path…”

Li Diudiu, as if to himself, completed the line: “No matter what rain or shine or stars may come.”

Gao Shaowei’s next words lodged in his throat.

“No matter what rain or shine or stars may come?”

Gao Shaowei turned it over in his mind. The meter wasn’t perfectly balanced — but the more he thought about it, the more meaning seemed to unfold within it. A kind of unyielding persistence? An attitude toward things? There was an edge of reckless boldness to it — and that boldness was appealing.

“Li Diudiu, if you truly have that kind of perseverance, you can succeed at reading.”

Gao Shaowei’s expression eased considerably. Li Diudiu had not expected that a casual completion of a phrase would shift Gao Shaowei’s attitude. But then, had Gao Shaowei expected it either?

Gao Shaowei paced slowly through the room as he spoke: “Do you know why the four of you have been given the opportunity to stand here before me for this assessment? It is not the regular enrollment period. It is because several students have recently withdrawn from the academy — unable to bear the rigors of study and returned home. For students like that, as soon as they express the wish to leave, I give my approval without hesitation. I never try to hold them back.”

He paused, then continued: “To those who wish to climb the mountain of learning, I give them cloth shoes. To those who wish to cross the sea of knowledge, I give them a small boat. Those who descend the mountain before reaching halfway — those who turn back before crossing halfway — I do not look down on them. It is simply that they and I have no connection.”

He returned to his chair and sat: “Now I will ask you a few more questions. Answer to the best of your ability.”

“Do you know — into how many kinds is learning divided?”

The four children looked at one another. This question seemed difficult to answer.

Gao Shaowei, seeing that none of them responded, shook his head: “You have not yet entered the academy; it was unreasonable of me to ask this of you. Let me tell you now: at the Four Pages Academy, there are three main courses. Reading cultivates clear understanding; debate sharpens the ability to distinguish right from wrong; questioning builds a grasp of what is true and what is false. These are the academy’s three major courses. Instructors will teach you to read; you will be made to debate; and I will hold open sessions where I sit in attendance and hear your questions.”

He looked at Zhang Xiaolin: “What is the key to reading?”

Zhang Xiaolin thought, then answered uncertainly: “…Reading?”

Gao Shaowei shook his head: “It is thinking.”

He looked at Li Diudiu: “What is the key to debate?”

Li Diudiu answered: “Arguing.”

Gao Shaowei’s eyes went wide: “What?”

“Arguing — the art of stubbornly taking the opposing view. Back in my village we called people like that *stubborn contrarians*. Whatever you say, they won’t agree. Say something is good, they’ll say it’s bad; say it’s bad, they’ll say it’s good. Arguing is a kind of spirit — a kind of fighting will. So the key to debate is: forget right and wrong, argue first and sort things out later.”

Gao Shaowei raised a hand and gently pressed it against his own chest, silently reciting: *don’t get angry, don’t get angry — whoever gets angry loses.*

He exhaled slowly: “The purpose of debate is to exercise the mind — to broaden one’s perspective through argument, to find the gaps in the opponent’s logic and attack from there. What we call a clash of words and blades is the training of one’s intellect. So the key to debate is to… argue… pfft — the key to debate is to be sharp.”

The most childlike of the four, Liu Shengying, bowed to ask: “Master, can any topic be debated?”

Gao Shaowei replied: “The very question you’ve asked has a problem in it. Any topic that can be named can naturally be debated — but there are many topics in this world that cannot be named.”

Liu Shengying, without thinking, followed up: “Master, what topics cannot be named?”

In this era, in this realm, there were of course many topics that could not be named. The relationship between ruler and subject, for instance. The relationship between parent and child.

To debate the ruler-subject relationship was treasonous. To debate the parent-child relationship was unfilial. Great Chu had always promoted loyalty and filial piety as its twin pillars; to debate such topics was to be disloyal and unfilial — something that could not even be spoken of. In the present era of Great Chu, literati had grown especially guarded in their speech, choosing their every word with at least seven parts of caution.

Only last year, the Assistant Minister of Personnel Yan Kaixiao had been imprisoned for a single utterance: that the bond between ruler and minister is as that between parent and child. This was not, in itself, an unusual sentiment — people had said it for generations, and no emperor would take offense. But Yan Kaixiao had been reported by someone who argued that he was attempting to subvert the proper order and insult the imperial family, because Yan Kaixiao’s mother had been a palace maid who had been matched in marriage by the former Emperor to Yan Kaixiao’s father — meaning that when Yan Kaixiao said *ruler and minister are like parent and child*, the accuser claimed he was implying that he himself was the former Emperor’s son, an insult to the imperial bloodline, a transgression against both loyalty and filial piety.

And so Yan Kaixiao’s household was seized, and his entire family was sent in exile to a frontier labor posting.

Gao Shaowei, at the thought of this, shook his head: “The debate topics are assigned by your instructors. As for what can and cannot be named — your instructors will tell you in due time.”

The reigning Emperor was fifty years old, yet… ignorant and incompetent. Gao Shaowei knew this with absolute clarity and could say not one word of it. What was laughable was that after the Emperor had issued his edict punishing Yan Kaixiao, he had secretly sent an envoy to ask Yan Kaixiao: *Are you truly my half-brother by blood?*

The words in Yan Kaixiao’s heart at that moment could only be imagined.

With that thought, Gao Shaowei’s spirit sank. The sages had said: *why pursue literary learning?* Because through letters one can govern the nation. Martial prowess levels all under heaven, while literary learning carries the Dao. But now — of all the men of letters filling the imperial court, which of them still carried any true integrity of spirit?

So he no longer had the heart to speak. He had described only two of the academy’s three courses and had no desire to continue. He waved a hand: “The academy places reading first, with physical cultivation as a supplement. Which of the four of you have trained in martial arts?”

In Chu, martial training was considered a lowly pursuit. The children of noble families who trained in martial arts did so as a form of self-cultivation; for the children of ordinary families, martial training was done out of necessity — no other option. Even the children of small merchants who trained in martial arts were thought to have done so only because their literary studies had failed, leaving them to fall back on the life of an escort guard or a hired protector. What great heights could any of that produce?

Though Great Chu’s imperial examination system had both literary and martial divisions, a literary top-scorer received a sixth-grade appointment, honored with banners and garlands. A martial top-scorer received no appointment at all — he simply presented himself to the Ministry of War to await assignment. Great Chu had been founded through military power, but that was several hundred years in the past. Not once in all those centuries had a military officer risen above the third grade.

Gao Shaowei saw that they had gone silent, and sighed again: “Martial training is not lowly. Nor is it shameful.”

He gestured toward the courtyard outside: “Those of you who have trained may demonstrate in the yard — practice forms, or spar with each other. Let me see.”

Sun Rugong quickly shook his head: “This student has not trained in martial arts.”

Liu Shengying thought it over and replied: “This student has not trained either.”

Zhang Xiaolin glanced at Li Diudiu. Li Diudiu was looking at him too — and then Zhang Xiaolin visibly hesitated and shrank back. This disappointed Li Diudiu. *Martial training — what’s wrong with it? Does training in martial arts make a person lesser?*

Li Diudiu answered: “This student has trained.”

Zhang Xiaolin suddenly clenched his jaw: “This student has also trained.”

Gao Shaowei said: “Then the two of you go to the yard and show me something.”

Zhang Xiaolin’s lips curved slightly as he looked toward Li Diudiu: “You’d better be careful.”

Li Diudiu felt something like genuine appreciation for him, and nodded: “You too.”

Gao Shaowei had a private reason for this. His granddaughter, Gao Xining, had a nature far more suited to a boy — impossibly energetic, in ways that struck him as somewhat excessive. But Gao Shaowei’s son and his son’s wife had died in an accident years ago; it was just the two of them now, grandfather and granddaughter, making a life together. The girl had set her heart on martial arts, but Gao Shaowei — a great Confucian of the age — could hardly openly allow his granddaughter to train in fighting? Even Gao Shaowei did not dare challenge the world’s conventions. A woman’s virtue lies in having no learning; learning needlework and embroidery was enough. Perhaps some skill in lute, chess, calligraphy, and painting at most — but martial training? Unthinkable.

Yet he could not bear to refuse her anything; he loved her too dearly. He could not openly hire a martial arts instructor for Gao Xining, so at every enrollment assessment for the academy, he made a point of asking whether any of the candidates had trained — and then had them demonstrate in the courtyard, so that Gao Xining could hide nearby and watch secretly.

All these years she had groped her way through, training on her own — just practicing whenever she felt like it. Gao Shaowei didn’t know whether she was any good; he simply let her be.

Li Diudiu and Zhang Xiaolin walked out into the courtyard, stepped apart a few paces, and stood facing each other. Both brought their fists together in a salute. By tradition, men cup the fist with the left hand over the right; women do the opposite.

Zhang Xiaolin was taller than Li Diudiu by more than half a head. Li Diudiu, having gone hungry more often than not, was on the smaller side. Zhang Xiaolin came from a prosperous household and had been training for a long time — his build was strong and robust, with a height that clearly exceeded what his years would normally suggest.

“Little one.”

Zhang Xiaolin smiled: “You should understand — when we compete, there must be a winner and a loser. But don’t worry, I won’t bully you. If you feel you’re not my match, I can give you a handicap — fight with one hand, or name whatever terms you like.”

Li Diudiu was a little excited. All these years studying under his master, and he had never once fought anyone. His master had always said that martial training is for building a strong body, not for fighting other people — yet Li Diudiu always suspected that his master’s ability to come through every danger unscathed over all these years was due to more than just being a Daoist.

Li Diudiu asked seriously: “You really mean I can name any terms?”

Zhang Xiaolin thought it over. This small kid — even if he tried some trick, what could it amount to? In the face of absolute strength, all schemes and stratagems are meaningless.

Zhang Xiaolin raised an eyebrow: “Go ahead.”

Li Diudiu gave a small nod and said: “Don’t cry.”

“Huh?”

Zhang Xiaolin blinked: “What did you say?”

Li Diudiu: “No crying. Whoever cries comes off badly.”

Zhang Xiaolin: “Are you asking for a beating?”

He stepped toward Li Diudiu: “Let’s see if you’ll cry when you get hit!”

Behind the spirit wall, a tall, slender young girl was watching from the shadows, stealing glances. As she watched, she covered her own face with both hands over and over — she wasn’t watching the scene so much as reacting to it, and from her expression alone you could tell that every blow seemed to land somewhere on her.

Half an hour later, outside the Four Pages Academy gate, Changmei waited in a state of anxious suspense. Feeling his own disheveled appearance was too much to bring near the academy’s front gate, he kept his distance, pacing back and forth on the opposite side of the street. It felt like decades had passed before he finally saw Zhou Huaili and Li Diudiu emerging one after the other from the academy.

Changmei hurried toward them, first bowing deeply to Zhou Huaili: “You have gone to great lengths on our behalf.”

Zhou Huaili returned the courtesy with a cupped-hands bow, looked at Changmei, then at Li Diudiu, heaved a long sigh, turned, and walked away — without a single word.

Changmei read the man’s expression and knew immediately that Li Diudiu’s performance had not been adequate. He raised his hand and rubbed it gently over Li Diudiu’s head: “It’s all right. Didn’t do well — still all right. We gave it our best try.”

Li Diudiu nodded: “Just wasted all the money Master worked so hard to save.”

Changmei: “As long as you didn’t deliberately lose, that’s all that matters. I know you didn’t want to leave me — but you can’t throw it on purpose.”

Li Diudiu: “Heh heh…”

Changmei: “You actually did throw it deliberately?”

Li Diudiu: “No, of course not. I thought my answers were fine, actually. And I even won the sparring match.”

Changmei was taken aback: “Since when does the academy hold a sparring match? How did you win? Were you hurt?”

Li Diudiu raised an eyebrow: “It was easy to win. The big one walked face-first into my fist several times in a row. I’m not hurt — just my fist is a little sore.”