Headmaster Song blinked. He took in my appearance, eyes drifting from my slightly wrinkled robes to the ink stains on my sleeve — remnants of last night’s mathematical scribbling. His gaze settled on my face, squinting like he was trying to determine whether I was joking.

  “…You?”

  There was a certain tone of polite disbelief in his voice, the kind reserved for when a man dying of thirst is offered saltwater. I couldn’t exactly blame him. Master Liu had just stormed off in a fit of righteous academic indignation, and now some random, bedraggled traveler was offering to take his place.

  I coughed lightly, trying to channel the air of someone who definitely knew what they were doing and had not, in fact, woken up this morning with his cheek glued to a page of hastily scribbled equations.

  “I have some experience in teaching,” I said, which was only technically a lie. “And I imagine, with proper structure and discipline, the children can be managed.”

  Headmaster Song gave me another long, evaluating look. “You’ve taught before?”

  “Yes.” Also technically not a lie. “Though mostly older students.”

  This was where the internal battle began. Because, yes, I had taught before. Undergraduate lab sessions. A handful of postgrads who required occasional guidance. That was, in a sense, teaching. But I had never been formally trained as a teacher, nor had I ever taught children.

  Children were an entirely different species. They were smaller, less predictable, and had significantly less interest in engaging with my favourite icebreaker of what their favourite leukocyte was. The closest I had ever come to dealing with children was explaining simple biology concepts to new students, and even then, they were adults in theory if not in practice.

  But I needed a job. A reliable job that would keep a roof over my head.

  How hard could it be?

  I thought back to the previous conversation — the screaming, the ink throwing, the goat.

  …It couldn’t be that bad. Right?

  “Hmm.” Headmaster Song stroked his beard, still studying me. “You are not from Qinghe Town, are you?”

  “No, I recently arrived,” I admitted. Which was another point against me, I supposed. I was an unknown entity, and in a place like this, people trusted familiarity over credentials.

  Still, I had already committed to this course of action. There was no backing out now. I adjusted my expression into something I hoped conveyed competence and definitely-not-desperation.

  “I assure you, I am more than capable of managing a classroom.” Again, technically not a lie. Whether or not I would succeed was still up for debate, but I figured I could at least put on a good performance. “If you would allow me the opportunity, I would be glad to demonstrate.”

  Headmaster Song exhaled through his nose. “Very well. Follow me.”

  I had expected more resistance. Not that I was about to complain.

  We walked through the schoolhouse gates, passing a small courtyard where a few students were loitering — boys and girls from different backgrounds, their clothes ranging from modest to wealthy. Some of them looked up as we passed, their expressions ranging from disinterest to poorly disguised curiosity.

  The schoolhouse itself was… larger than I expected.

  I had assumed a single-room building, maybe two if they were lucky. Instead, the structure was multi-storied, made of sturdy wooden beams and slanted tiled roofs.

  A real school.

  It dawned on me that this was probably the central educational institution for not just Qinghe Town, but several nearby villages.

  Which meant the students would be diverse, their levels of literacy and knowledge inconsistent.

  Which meant teaching them effectively was going to be… complicated.

  I took a slow breath. One step at a time. First, get the job. Worry about logistics later.

  As we entered the hallways, a faint, earthy scent tickled my nose — something musky, with a distinct barnyard quality. I frowned.

  Then, I heard it.

  A long, drawn-out bleat echoed from somewhere in the building.

  I turned my head toward Headmaster Song, who sighed deeply. “Yes,” he said. “It’s still here.”

  I did not ask.

  We continued down the hall, passing doorways leading to individual classrooms. From within, I caught glimpses of organised chaos — children arguing, ink-stained desks, a boy attempting to balance his brush on one finger while his friend watched with bated breath.

  The remnants of Master Liu’s suffering were evident.

  We finally reached the headmaster’s office, a modest but well-kept space filled with scrolls, books, and a single wooden desk stacked high with papers.

  “Sit,” Headmaster Song said, lowering himself into his own chair with a weariness that spoke of years of patience tested beyond mortal limits.

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  I took the offered seat, straightening my posture.

  There was a pause as the headmaster studied me once more, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “Your name?”

  “Jiang Lingwu,” I answered smoothly.

  Headmaster Song hummed, rubbing his temple as though bracing himself for a headache yet to arrive. His gaze flicked to my robes again, taking in the travel-worn fabric and the faint ink stains. It was the look of a man evaluating the worth of a particularly dubious vegetable at the market — one that might be edible, but could also be riddled with worms.

  He exhaled through his nose. “Very well, Jiang Lingwu. Let us begin.”

  -x-x-x-

  Song Junhai sat back in his chair and studied the young man before him.

  Jiang Lingwu did not look like a scholar. That much was evident. His robes, though not in outright tatters, had the distinct creased look of someone who had neither the time nor inclination to properly fold them. The ink stains on his sleeves suggested someone who handled a brush often — but not necessarily for writing. There was something too careless, too unrefined about his posture, as though he had spent more time in odd corners scribbling on loose sheets than sitting before a teacher’s desk.

  He was young. No older than twenty-five, and likely younger. Inexperienced. That was the word for it. Inexperienced and unproven.

  Song Junhai laced his fingers together. “Tell me, Jiang Lingwu, what do you believe is the role of a teacher?”

  Jiang Lingwu straightened slightly, as if he had expected the question. “To educate,” he said confidently.

  “…And how does one educate?”

  There was a pause. Jiang Lingwu’s confidence flickered. “By… imparting knowledge?”

  Song Junhai inhaled through his nose. “And what is knowledge?”

  Another pause. A fraction longer this time. Jiang Lingwu’s expression took on the distant, unfocused look of a man rapidly recalculating an equation mid-sentence.

  “…That which is… known?” he ventured.

  The headmaster slowly exhaled.

  This was going to be painful.

  But he would be thorough.

  “Let us test your foundation,” he said. “A well-educated man must know the classics. Tell me — how does the Sage define the virtues of a ruler?”

  Jiang Lingwu’s expression brightened slightly, as though he had encountered a term he recognised. “Ah. Virtues. A ruler must… govern well.”

  Song Junhai stared at him.

  Jiang Lingwu nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “With wisdom. And fairness.”

  The silence stretched.

  “And how does one achieve wisdom and fairness?” Song Junhai asked, his voice carrying the patient strain of a man who had been through this conversation before.

  Jiang Lingwu’s eyes darted briefly to the side. “Through… good governance?”

  Headmaster Song closed his eyes for a brief moment.

  The boy had no idea.

  But perhaps this was a matter of familiarity. Perhaps Jiang Lingwu was simply unversed in formal philosophy but had some instinct for practical wisdom.

  He decided to test a different approach. “A scholar must understand proverbs,” he said. “They are the distilled wisdom of those before us. Surely, you are familiar with the saying, ‘When the wind shifts, so too must the branch.’”

  Jiang Lingwu nodded immediately. “Of course.”

  Song Junhai raised a brow. “And what does it mean?”

  Jiang Lingwu hesitated. “…One must be flexible?”

  Passable.

  But that had been an easy one.

  He pressed forward. “And ‘The bird that soars does not struggle against the sky; the fish that swims does not resist the river.’”

  Jiang Lingwu frowned slightly. “…One must not struggle against the natural course of things.”

  Marginally acceptable.

  He tapped his fingers against the desk. “Then what of ‘A rice stalk heavy with grain bows low, while an empty stalk stands tall.’”

  A long pause.

  Jiang Lingwu blinked once.

  “…Rice is… good?”

  He felt a slow, creeping headache forming.

  “Very well,” he said, schooling his voice into neutrality. “Let us try another. ‘The frost of early winter spares neither the peach nor the pine.’”

  Jiang Lingwu’s brows furrowed slightly, and then — unbelievably — he tried to explain it.

  “Yes, well, frost in early winter is quite… formidable,” he said, in the same tone a scholar might use to analyse military strategy. “And naturally, both peaches and pines are affected. A reminder that… one must be mindful of weather patterns?”

  Song Junhai stared at him.

  Jiang Lingwu stared back.

  “Last one,” he said. “‘The mountain does not bow to the river, nor does the river yield to the mountain.’”

  Jiang Lingwu’s expression brightened. “Ah. This one is easy. Mountains do not move, and rivers… flow?”

  The silence that followed had a distinct weight to it.

  The headmaster let out a slow breath through his nose.

  The boy was literate. That was, perhaps, the only mercy. But beyond that, he was not a scholar. Not in philosophy, not in literature, and certainly not in formal education.

  Perhaps he had other strengths.

  He decided to test arithmetic.

  “Let us try a simple riddle,” he said, voice carefully even. “Myself by myself by myself, I am eight. What am I?”

  Jiang Lingwu’s eyes widened.

  Then — the worst possible thing happened.

  For the first time in this interview, Jiang Lingwu

  Song Junhai felt a vague sense of foreboding.

  Jiang Lingwu cleared his throat. “Ah. A most… fascinating question. There are, of course, multiple possible interpretations —”

  His brow furrowed. .

  “One might be inclined to think of two, naturally —”

  He blinked. Had he…? Had he —

  “— but that would only account for the most straightforward case. If we consider broader implications, and we assume perhaps that we may be working in ‘Sea’, then naturally, we must expand our solution set —”

  … what nonsense was this? What was ‘Sea’? What did the ‘Sea’ even have to do with this question?!

  “— and, if so, one cannot ignore the —”

  Jiang Lingwu paused dramatically.

  “ solutions.”

  Song Junhai physically stiffened.

  He did not know what complex solutions were, but he knew nonsense when he heard it. Not only did Jiang Lingwu possess no knowledge of the classics and only a surface level understanding of the proverbs, he had absolutely no talent in the arithmetic.

  Jiang Lingwu, blissfully unaware, continued. “So, depending on the framing, we should also include negative one plus or minus the —”

  “.”

  The word came out sharper than intended. Jiang Lingwu stopped.

  Song Junhai inhaled slowly.

  This was it. He would let the boy down gently.

  “Jiang Lingwu,” he said, carefully. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, and I —”

  And then — the pouch slipped from Jiang Lingwu’s sleeve.

  It hit the floor with a quiet thud.

  Jiang Lingwu, barely reacting, bent to retrieve it.

  The headmaster caught a glimpse inside.

  His breath hitched.

  His spine locked straight.

  For a single, awful moment, Song Junhai forgot how to breathe.

  Jiang Lingwu was a .

  His mind raced.

  Why was he here? What did he want? No, what had the school done to deserve his attention? Was he here to punish someone? Had the students offended a hidden master? Was he a wandering master in disguise? A rogue from a fallen sect?

  Was he… was he an ?

  His mind raced through every possible explanation, each one worse than the last.

  His pulse thundered. If he rejected him — would he take offense? Would he decide the school had insulted him?

  Would he level the building out of sheer dissatisfaction?

  Song Junhai felt cold dread settle into his bones.

  He could not afford to offend him.

  Very, very carefully, he adjusted his expression into something neutral.

  Then, with the solemn gravity of a man surrendering to fate itself, he said:

  “…Jiang Lingwu.”

  Jiang Lingwu, stuffing the pouch back into his sleeve, looked up. “Yes?”

  A pause.

  Then, with the most deliberate voice he had ever used in his life, Song Junhai said:

  “…welcome to the school.”