I had completely and utterly butchered that interview.

  Not in the normal way, where you stumble over your words a little or forget an important date. No. I had annihilated it, set it on fire, and then salted the earth where it once stood.

  And yet — somehow — I had still been hired.

  There was only one explanation.

  The riddle.

  I had seen the flicker of surprise in Headmaster Song’s eyes when I caught that it had more than just the obvious answer. I had seen the way he turned rigid when I mentioned looking beyond the straightforward interpretation. That moment — right there — was when I had turned things around.

  Which was… incredibly concerning.

  Because if that was what had impressed him, what did that say about the people of this world?

  I had never been particularly good at math. I liked it, sure, but I had never been brilliant. The kind of mathematician who actually understood the depths of the field — the proofs, the structures, the terrifying beauty of it all — was so far beyond me that I might as well have been a village farmer staring up at the stars.

  And yet, here I was. In a world where immortals existed. A world where sages had centuries, millennia, to devote to their studies. A world where Euler’s Identity surely had to go by some other name.

  And apparently, the basics of complex numbers that everyone knew was considered knowledge coveted enough that every other one of my failures did not matter.

  But if so… what about the other grand truths that they must have uncovered? Did not even a basic insight trickle down to the common man?

  What were the immortals doing with all that time? Playing chess on mountaintops? Meditating in caves for centuries just to realise that water flows downhill?

  I had expected to be out of my depth in this world. I had expected to be surrounded by knowledge so profound that I would be nothing more than a child staring at a wall of incomprehensible truth.

  Instead…

  Instead, I was the one who had just ‘enlightened’ a scholar.

  I struggled to keep my expression neutral as I sat in Headmaster Song’s office, still reeling from the sheer absurdity of it all.

  Across from me, the headmaster sat with his hands carefully folded in front of him. His movements were precise. Too precise. Every motion seemed deliberate, as if he was selecting his words and actions with great caution.

  Had he always been this formal?

  Or was he still contemplating my supposed ‘insight’?

  The silence stretched.

  I cleared my throat. “I… appreciate the opportunity, Headmaster Song.”

  His eyes flicked to me. He inclined his head, the motion slow and careful. “It is… an honour to have you join us.”

  An honour?

  That was a strong word for someone who had just failed every classical knowledge test imaginable.

  Was he still thinking about the math?

  I hesitated. “I imagine there will be an adjustment period. I don’t have formal experience teaching younger students.”

  Another nod. “Naturally. But I believe you will adapt.”

  That was… unexpectedly encouraging.

  I should have felt relieved. But something about the way he said it made me uneasy, like I had just unknowingly stepped onto a very precarious bridge.

  I needed to steer this conversation back to normal territory.

  I forced a self-deprecating chuckle. “Honestly, I was worried I’d made a fool of myself. My knowledge of the classics is lacking.”

  Headmaster Song blinked.

  Something shifted in his posture — just for a fraction of a second — before he resumed his usual composed demeanor.

  “I would not say that,” he said, voice perfectly even.

  Wouldn’t you? Because I definitely would.

  I frowned slightly. “I didn’t even understand half the proverbs you gave me.”

  A slight pause. “Proverbs have many interpretations.”

  “I guessed most of them.”

  Another pause. “An insightful scholar must rely on intuition.”

  I squinted at him.

  Was he… was he trying to rationalise my incompetence?

  I hesitated. This was a first. Usually, when I made a fool of myself, people either ignored it out of politeness or openly called me an idiot. No one had ever gone out of their way to justify my ignorance before.

  I decided to test the waters.

  “Well,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “I’m not sure ‘intuition’ is the right word. I was really just… trying to make an educated guess.”

  Headmaster Song inclined his head slightly. “A true scholar understands that knowledge is not merely reciting what is written but grasping the essence of what is not said.”

  I blinked.

  That was suspiciously generous.

  I wasn’t an expert on pedagogy, but I was pretty sure the ability to guess vaguely related meanings for proverbs was not the mark of an educated man. If anything, it was a sign that I had no idea what I was talking about.

  And yet, Headmaster Song seemed… satisfied.

  Something wasn’t adding up.

  But I couldn’t afford to question it.

  I needed this job. More than that, I needed time. Time to cram the classics, time to hammer the curriculum into my skull, time to become the teacher I had just very nearly failed to pretend to be.

  So I nodded as if I had gained some profound insight. “I see. That makes sense.”

  Headmaster Song made a low hum of agreement, looking at me with something almost like approval. It was deeply unsettling.

  I cleared my throat and, before he could reflect too much on whatever mistaken impression he had of me, quickly changed the topic. “So… regarding the curriculum, I should make sure I’m well-versed in the texts the students are learning. Do you have any recommendations on where I should begin?”

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  “Of course.” Headmaster Song reached for a stack of scrolls, selecting one and passing it across the desk. “This contains an overview of the subjects covered at different levels.”

  I unrolled it carefully.

  Literature, history, philosophy, arithmetic, writing, calligraphy.

  It was exactly as I feared. I needed to catch up on everything.

  My mind whirled. How much time did I have? One night? One night. I would have to spend the entire evening drowning in classical texts. There was no other choice.

  “This is very helpful,” I said, trying to ignore the mild panic creeping in. “I’ll review it thoroughly.”

  Headmaster Song gave a slow nod. “A good foundation is crucial.”

  I pressed forward. “I assume the students have varying levels of familiarity with the material. Are there particular areas where they struggle?”

  There was a pause.

  Something passed through his expression — brief, but difficult to decipher. “…discipline.”

  I hesitated. “Ah.”

  That was not the answer I was expecting.

  I had assumed the students might struggle with memorisation, or perhaps literacy rates varied across villages. I had not expected discipline to be the primary concern.

  Then again… I remembered the furious scholar outside.

  And the goat.

  I exhaled slowly. “I see.”

  Headmaster Song clasped his hands together. “Naturally, your presence will bring balance.”

  I almost choked.

  “My presence?”

  The headmaster nodded. “Your insight suggests a different way of thinking. A fresh perspective.”

  I stared at him.

  A fresh perspective.

  Was that really what he took from all this?

  I had assumed he was indulging me. That he had merely decided to overlook my lack of knowledge because I had one moment of mathematical competence. But no. He actually thought I had some kind of valuable intellectual approach.

  Oh no.

  This was so much worse.

  If I had been hired reluctantly, I could have faded into the background, spent a few months scraping by, and disappeared once I saved enough money.

  But no.

  He actually expected something from me.

  I needed to lower those expectations. Fast.

  “Well,” I said carefully, “I wouldn’t say I have any particularly profound methods. I just… approach things logically.”

  Headmaster Song made a quiet sound of agreement. “Naturally.”

  No, not naturally! That was the opposite of what I was trying to say!

  I pushed forward. “I mean, I don’t have much formal experience with teaching younger students, so I’ll be adjusting as I go.”

  “A willingness to learn is a mark of wisdom,” he said smoothly.

  I resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose.

  This was not going well.

  Still, I could recover. I just had to be careful.

  I exhaled, trying to reframe my priorities. The key was survival. I needed to learn enough to avoid immediate disaster. The classics, the proverbs, the literature—I would throw myself at them with the single-minded desperation of a failing student before finals week.

  Math would be my passion. I wouldn’t neglect it. But for now, it was separate from work. I couldn’t afford to lose my income stream just yet.

  I would be like Fermat, scribbling theorems in the margins of a notebook after his day job. That thought alone was enough to make me smile.

  I could do this.

  “Then I’ll begin preparing right away.”

  Headmaster Song gave a slow, approving nod. “That would be wise.”

  I stood, carefully rolling up the curriculum scroll and tucking it under my arm. “Thank you for this opportunity, Headmaster.”

  There was another pause. Then, in a measured tone, he said, “We are… fortunate to have you.”

  That was an odd way to phrase it.

  But I had bigger concerns.

  I bowed, making my exit, feeling the weight of my own foolishness settle over me.

  Tomorrow, I would be stepping into a classroom with no idea what I was doing.

  Which meant I had a very long night ahead of me.

  I exhaled sharply and squared my shoulders.

  Time to cram.

  -x-x-x-

  I stumbled back into my room, scrolls clutched under my arm like they contained the secret to immortality. In a way, they did — the immortality of my employment. If I didn’t figure out how to fake competence by morning, I’d be out on the street faster than a beggar who spilled wine on a noble’s robes.

  I threw the scrolls onto the desk and lit a candle. The dim light flickered over the wooden surface, illuminating ink stains and my abandoned math scribbles from the night before. That had been a different time. A simpler time. A time before I had volunteered for a job I wasn’t remotely qualified for.

  I took a deep breath, bracing myself, and unrolled the first scroll.

  “Proverbs of the Sages, Volume III.”

  That was promising. I could start with proverbs. I’d already demonstrated my utter lack of understanding during the interview—there was nowhere to go but up.

  I grabbed a brush, dipped it in ink, and set to work.

  Proverb One: ‘The jade carver does not sharpen his knife on soft wood.’

  My guess: A craftsman needs proper tools to do his work well.

  Actual meaning: A wise man does not waste effort on the unteachable.

  I winced. A little aggressive, aren’t we? I imagined Master Liu hurling this line at the students while dodging airborne inkpots.

  Proverb Two: ‘A crooked well still draws water, but a poisoned well draws none.’

  My guess: Even an imperfect system can function, but corruption ruins everything.

  Actual meaning: A man of bad character may still be useful, but an untrustworthy man will never be relied upon.

  Ah. So it was not a commentary on bureaucracy, then. Shame.

  Proverb Three: ‘The lantern that is never lit fears neither wind nor rain.’

  My guess: If you never take risks, you won’t fail.

  Actual meaning: A man without ambition may live safely, but he will never accomplish anything.

  I squinted at the text. That one hit a little too close to home.

  Proverb Four: ‘The fish that leaps does not look back at the water below.’

  My guess: Focus on moving forward, don’t dwell on the past.

  Actual meaning: A fool who leaps without thinking cannot undo his mistake.

  I stared at the sentence for a long moment. Was this… directed at me? Was this entire book judging me?

  I sighed, shaking off the paranoia and flipping to another page.

  Proverb Five: ‘When the dragon soars, the frog sees only the shadow.’

  My guess: Small minds can’t comprehend greatness.

  Actual meaning: Those without vision misunderstand the actions of the wise.

  Okay. That one wasn’t too bad. Though I had a creeping suspicion that, in this world, it might be used to justify a lot of terrible decisions.

  Proverb Six: ‘A sword with no edge still cuts in the right hands.’

  My guess: Skill is more important than tools.

  Actual meaning: A wise leader can make use of even the most useless subordinate.

  That didn’t feel comforting. That felt like a warning.

  Proverb Seven: ‘The ox does not ask why the yoke is heavy.’

  My guess: Hard work is expected, so don’t complain.

  Actual meaning: A loyal servant does not question his duty.

  I exhaled through my nose. Right. Not ominous at all.

  Proverb Eight: ‘The willow bends, the pine resists, and the storm breaks one but not the other.’

  My guess: Adaptability is key to survival.

  Actual meaning: A wise man knows when to yield, while a stubborn fool is destroyed.

  I frowned. Alright, but what if the pine was right? What if it had been a very small storm, and the willow was just being dramatic?

  Proverb Nine: ‘Even a grain of sand may tip the scale.’

  My guess: Small things can have a big impact.

  Actual meaning: A single moment of carelessness can ruin great plans.

  That was uncomfortably relevant to my entire existence.

  Proverb Ten: ‘A net with one hole catches no fish.’

  My guess: A single flaw can ruin everything.

  Actual meaning: A leader who cannot command absolute loyalty will achieve nothing.

  I set the brush down, exhaling slowly.

  If this was what I had to memorise, comprehend, and then be ready to impart before morning, I was in serious trouble.

  The interpretations weren’t impossible to grasp, but they were so much worse than I expected. They weren’t gentle words of wisdom — they were pragmatic, ruthless, and depressingly cynical. This wasn’t Confucian thought as I had vaguely understood it from pop culture. This was hard-edged philosophy designed for survival in a cutthroat world.

  It made sense. The scholars here weren’t just academic theorists. They lived in a world where power mattered. Where a single wrong word could lead to exile or worse. This was not a world where idealists thrived.

  I leaned back, rubbing my temples. I was going to have to unlearn a lot of assumptions.

  I flipped through more pages, trying to force the lessons into my skull. But then, halfway down a passage about how ‘A tiger in the mountains does not quarrel with ants,’ my thoughts began to drift.

  Because now I was thinking about actual tigers. And their predation patterns. And then, somehow, about ecological networks.

  And then — somehow — I was thinking about graphs.

  Because what was an ecosystem, really, but a giant directed graph? A vast network of interdependent relationships, each node representing a species, each edge the flow of energy and resources. I had never formally studied graph theory beyond a passing familiarity, but even I knew it was one of the fundamental mathematical structures underlying… well, everything.

  I sat up straighter.

  What kind of graph structures did this world recognise? Did cultivators model sect hierarchies as tree graphs? Did scholars understand optimization problems in large-scale planning? What about trade networks? Military formations?

  Was there an ancient sect of cultivators who had developed deep combinatorial insights into strategy? Was there a Dao of Graphs?

  And if not… why not? Hell, did they employ graph theory when considering qi flow in meridians?

  I shook my head violently. No. Stop it. This is how you end up unemployed.

  I forced myself back to the proverbs.

  I was not here to revolutionise mathematics. I was here to not be publicly humiliated by a group of children.

  I needed discipline. The same discipline I was meant to instill upon them.

  With renewed determination, I picked up the brush.

  Tomorrow, I would step into that classroom.

  And I would not make a fool of myself.