The morning air was crisp, but I barely noticed. My mind was too occupied with one singular, all-consuming thought:

  I was marching into battle.

  There was no other way to describe it. I had spent the entire night cramming proverbs, philosophies, and whatever semblance of authority I could possibly scrape together, and now, I was heading toward a classroom full of students who had already broken one teacher’s spirit.

  Failure was not an option.

  I clenched my fist. No bending. No breaking. If I showed the slightest hint of weakness, I would be devoured whole. This was not a scholarly endeavor. This was war.

  I walked with measured steps, my borrowed robes billowing slightly behind me, my expression carefully neutral. I had read once that some animals puffered themselves up to appear larger to predators. That was what I was doing now. My back was straight, my gaze was sharp, and my every step carried the deliberate weight of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

  I, of course, had no idea what I was doing.

  But if I had learned anything from my previous life, it was that bluffing was a fundamental survival strategy. You did not need to be competent. You just needed to look competent long enough for people to start assuming you were.

  I had seen it happen in academia all the time.

  I reached the schoolhouse, stopping just before the entrance. The students hadn’t arrived yet — I could hear the occasional voice in the distance, the town slowly waking up. I took a deep breath, letting my fingers brush the worn fabric of my sleeves. I had spent the last several hours drowning in classical wisdom, absorbing as much as I could, forcing every lesson into my exhausted brain.

  Somewhere in that delirium of knowledge, I had stumbled upon a revelation:

  Fear is the greatest weapon.

  Not mine — theirs. I was the one who needed to instill it.

  The children had broken Master Liu because they did not fear him. They had disrespected him because they did not take him seriously. But that would not happen to me.

  Because I had spent the entire night meditating on the most profound and deeply unsettling proverbs I could find.

  And now, as I stepped into that classroom, I would wield them as weapons.

  I entered the room with a slow, measured gait, surveying the battlefield — no, the learning environment. Wooden desks, ink-stained surfaces, benches slightly askew. The faint scent of old parchment and candle wax lingered in the air. A goat was nowhere in sight, which I took as an encouraging sign.

  I approached the teacher’s desk and set down my things.

  Silence.

  For now.

  But soon, the students would arrive. Soon, they would test me.

  And I would be ready.

  They entered in clusters, some in pairs, some alone. I did not greet them. I did not acknowledge them. I simply sat, hands folded neatly atop the desk, watching.

  One by one, they filled the room, their chatter growing, their glances flickering toward me, toward the space where their previous instructor had once stood that I now occupied.

  I could see it in their eyes—the assessment. Who is this new one? Will he break as easily as the last?

  They did not say it, but I could hear it.

  I had seen that look before. It was the same look undergraduates gave to a fresh TA, the same calculating gaze of students deciding whether their instructor would be a tyrant or a pushover.

  I exhaled slowly, fingers curling over my sleeve. They would not get the chance to decide.

  I stood.

  The room quieted.

  Good.

  I let the silence stretch, allowing the weight of their anticipation to settle before I finally spoke. My voice was steady, my tone even.

  “The tree that does not bear fruit is cut down.”

  They blinked. Some exchanged glances. One boy straightened slightly in his seat.

  I let the words settle before continuing.

  “The lion does not explain itself to the gazelle.”

  A girl frowned slightly, her fingers curling over the edge of her desk.

  “The river does not wait for the stone.”

  A shuffling sound. Someone adjusting their posture.

  I clasped my hands behind my back, scanning their faces with calculated slowness.

  “If you seek kindness, you will find it outside these walls. If you seek patience, you will not find it here. If you seek mercy…” I let my gaze settle on a boy who had been chewing on a brushstick. He swallowed, lowering his hand. “You are in the wrong room.”

  More silence.

  I allowed a brief pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. Then, I picked up a piece of chalk and turned to the board.

  “Lesson one.”

  I wrote a single character with deliberate strokes. “Discipline.”

  The classroom was still.

  Good.

  Very good.

  I turned back to face them. “Now. Who among you will challenge this lesson?”

  No one moved.

  No one spoke.

  Perfect.

  That was the first step. I had established control. But I knew better than to be complacent. Control was not maintained by a single decisive victory. It was a battle waged every moment, a constant war against doubt, against the inevitable question: Does he truly know what he’s doing?

  Because the answer was no. Absolutely not.

  I cleared my throat. “Very well.” I picked up the class ledger, glancing at the names. “Let’s begin. We will start with proverbs.”

  A rustling of fabric. A few exchanged glances.

  I lifted my gaze. “Who among you considers themselves skilled in interpretation?”

  Silence.

  Then, hesitantly, a hand rose.

  It was the sharp-eyed boy. The one who had been watching me the most carefully.

  “I do,” he said.

  Of course you do.

  I nodded, feigning approval. “Then you will explain this first proverb to the class.” I turned, brushing chalk against the board, writing the phrase I had memorized last night.

  A crooked bow does not shoot straight.

  I gestured toward the boy. “And its meaning?”

  He hesitated. His brow furrowed slightly. “… a flawed tool cannot produce a perfect result?”

  “Incorrect,” I said smoothly.

  A few of the students stiffened.

  The boy blinked. “…But —”

  “A flawed man cannot achieve righteousness.” I tapped the board with the chalk. “The bow is irrelevant.”

  Another pause.

  Then, hesitantly, another student nodded in agreement.

  I suppressed my own internal sigh of relief.

  This was dangerous. I had studied these proverbs, yes, but I had no idea how much variance existed in interpretation. If they started debating me, I was doomed. My only defense was absolute confidence.

  I turned back to the board. “Next.”

  I wrote another.

  The fox that waits in the burrow starves.

  I glanced at the room. “Interpret.”

  A girl raised her hand. “One who does not act will miss opportunity?”

  I inclined my head. “Correct.”

  A flicker of satisfaction passed over her face.

  Interesting. I would need to keep track of who was more engaged. If I played this correctly, I could create an illusion of teaching without actually needing to do much. Guide them into discussing the meanings amongst themselves. Redirect. Deflect.

  Bluff.

  I wrote again.

  The eagle does not fight the ants.

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  Another raised hand. “A wise man does not waste his time on the unworthy?”

  I nodded. “Good.”

  I was walking a thin line here. There was a limit to how long I could keep this up before I was asked to explain something I hadn’t studied properly. I needed to move forward — establish a routine where the students carried the discussion.

  I set the chalk down. “The greatest enemy of wisdom is stagnation,” I said, folding my arms behind my back. “So we will not simply recite these proverbs. We will test them.”

  The room shifted, subtle confusion creeping in.

  I picked up the brush from my desk. “Each of you will write a proverb of your own, and another will interpret it. Your understanding is not in reciting the old, but in creating the new.”

  A murmur.

  Then — uncertainty.

  This was dangerous. Unorthodox. If they questioned me, I had no fallback.

  But uncertainty was my ally. If they were uncertain, they could not challenge.

  The sharp-eyed boy narrowed his gaze. He was watching me too closely. Testing.

  I turned my gaze to him. “Do you hesitate?” I asked, voice measured.

  He stiffened slightly. “No, sir.”

  “Then begin.”

  Another pause.

  Then, slowly, they picked up their brushes.

  Ink scratched against paper.

  I exhaled internally.

  This was… working?

  No — this was holding. It was not a victory, not yet. But it was stable footing.

  I walked between the desks, peering at their work. Some of the phrases were surprisingly thoughtful. Some were nonsense.

  One boy wrote: A dragon’s wings are not for walking.

  His partner hesitated. “It means… strength must be used for its proper purpose?”

  The boy nodded, looking pleased.

  Another pair.

  The mountain stands because the valley does not rise.

  “… balance is necessary?”

  Again. Again.

  And then —

  The river does not ask why the sky is blue.

  I paused.

  Something about that struck me, deep in my bones.

  A flicker of memory. A moment of thought. It was such a strange phrase, so removed from the usual structure of these lessons.

  The river does not ask why the sky is blue.

  There was something almost mathematical about it.

  A question unasked. A property accepted. The axiomatic nature of things.

  I felt a strange, creeping sensation in my chest. A curiosity. An itch.

  I turned back to the student. “Your interpretation?”

  The girl hesitated. “… some questions have no answers?”

  I exhaled.

  “Yes,” I murmured. “Perhaps.”

  She blinked.

  I straightened, pulling my thoughts back from the dangerous precipice of mathematical tangents. No distractions. Not now. I still had a class to control, a persona to maintain, and at least a few hours left before I inevitably lost whatever authority I had managed to bluff into existence.

  “Well done,” I said, nodding to the girl. “We will continue.”

  The room settled into a quiet rhythm, each student writing, interpreting, correcting. The uncertainty had passed; they were too engaged now to challenge my authority. This was good. Very good.

  But I had learned enough in life to know that success — however minor — was always temporary.

  The real test was yet to come. They would challenge me. Probe my defenses.

  I would not break.

  -x-x-x-

  The lesson continued. Proverbs were written, dissected, debated with the quiet intensity of scholars who had yet to realize that their interpretations were mostly guesswork. Calligraphy was practiced, ink was spilled, sleeves were ruined, and a boy in the back spent most of the time trying to balance his brush on the tip of his finger. I said nothing. I had learned to pick my battles.

  When the break came, I slumped into my chair the moment they filed out, rubbing my temples. I had survived. Somehow. Against all odds, I had made it through the first half of the day without being ridiculed, challenged, or run out of the classroom.

  It was a delicate house of cards, but it was standing.

  I exhaled slowly, staring at the board. The proverbs were still there, faint chalk smudges of phrases I barely understood myself. The students had taken to it well enough. Most were eager to provide their interpretations, a few had even tried to be clever with their own original proverbs, and only one had attempted to test me by asking what happened if a tree did bear fruit but was still cut down anyway.

  I had met his gaze, unwavering, and simply said, “then the roots were rotten.”

  That had silenced him.

  I leaned back in my chair, glancing toward the door. Outside, I could hear muffled chatter. The sound of students running, laughing, arguing over whatever trivial nonsense mattered to children. The break would be over soon. The next lesson loomed.

  Arithmetic.

  I took a slow breath.

  This one, at least, should be easier.

  Numbers were numbers. Absolute. Objective. There were no shifting interpretations, no abstract meanings to argue over. Just calculations. Facts. Structure.

  I would be fine.

  Probably.

  -x-x-x-

  They returned, mildly rowdy but settling quickly when I stood at the front of the room, hands behind my back. The earlier tension had faded somewhat. They had measured me and, for the most part, accepted my presence.

  Good.

  “Arithmetic,” I said, writing the character for it on the board. “We begin with a review.”

  There were a few groans. Someone muttered something under their breath. I ignored them and began.

  Single-digit addition and subtraction. Simple equations. To my surprise, most of them handled it well.

  I increased the difficulty.

  Still, most of them kept up.

  That was unexpected.

  I had assumed a wide range of ability levels, but a good portion of the class was moving through the calculations quickly, some even scribbling answers before I could finish writing the next problem.

  I frowned slightly.

  Interesting.

  I pushed further — fractions, remainders, short word problems. There were some hesitations, some furrowed brows, but they worked through it.

  Some of these children were good at this.

  Not all, of course. A few struggled, pausing to count on their fingers, erasing and rewriting answers. But for the most part, they were competent. More competent than I had expected.

  Encouraged, I moved forward, introducing a slightly more complex problem. Then another.

  A small part of me began to enjoy this.

  It was math. Real math. Not just rote memorization or philosophical ambiguity. There was a right answer. There was logic, patterns, structure. For the first time since I had arrived in this world, I felt a spark of something familiar. A problem to solve, a puzzle to untangle.

  I was caught up in it. Too caught up in it.

  Because when I glanced around the room, I failed to see it in time.

  A girl, sitting near the middle. Small, shoulders hunched, brow furrowed, brush hovering hesitantly over her slate.

  The answer wasn’t coming to her.

  She was lost.

  And then — before I could even register what was happening — her expression crumpled.

  Her eyes welled up.

  And then, with a horrible, stifled sniffle —

  She burst into tears.

  I froze.

  The room went silent.

  Every single student turned to look at me.

  I stared at the crying child.

  She sniffled again, hands gripping the edges of her slate, shoulders shaking.

  I had made a child cry.

  My mind went blank.

  I had prepared for defiance. For arrogance. For students who might try to undermine my authority. I had not prepared for this.

  What was I supposed to do?

  I scrambled through my mental library of responses. I knew how to handle misbehavior. I could handle skepticism, criticism, outright disrespect. But I had never made a student cry before. Not even in my past life. Not even when I had to figure out a way to an undergrad proudly showing me their western blot that they had contaminated their entire experiment and wasted three weeks of work.

  This was different. This was awful.

  I had humiliated her.

  I had become the exact kind of teacher I hated.

  I felt a sharp pang of guilt, an echo of something old. Of a younger version of myself sitting in a lecture hall, staring down helplessly at a proof. Of hours spent agonising over textbooks, convinced that math was for other people, the smart ones, the ones born with some innate understanding that he lacked. Of quietly, resignedly, changing courses away from the field I was interested in, to the field I was good at.

  Of telling myself: I’m not good enough.

  Of believing it.

  I clenched my jaw.

  No.

  That was not what I wanted. That was not why I had chosen to live a life without regrets in this life.

  I took a slow breath.

  Then, in a movement that startled even me, I sat down at the desk across from her.

  She sniffled, looking up at me with wide, teary eyes.

  I exhaled. “This problem is a bad problem.”

  She blinked.

  I picked up her slate and tapped the scribed question. “This is too difficult for right now. I should have explained it better.”

  A few of the students exchanged glances.

  I continued, calm but firm. “Math isn’t about getting everything right the first time. It’s about figuring things out.” I tapped the slate again. “This? This is just a puzzle. We solve puzzles together.”

  She hiccupped. I picked up a spare brush, scribbling a much simpler problem beside the original. “Try this one.”

  She hesitated.

  I nodded. “Go ahead.”

  Slowly, hesitantly, she wrote an answer.

  I smiled. “That’s right.”

  She sniffled. The tears stopped. The tension in the room eased.

  I stood, turning back to the class. “Math is not about memorisation. It’s not about getting the right answer immediately.” I folded my arms. “It’s about learning how to think.”

  I picked up the chalk again, turning back to the board. “So. We’re going to play with math.”

  The students shifted, some frowning.

  I nodded slightly. “Yes. Play. That means if you mess up, it doesn’t matter. We’re going to explore numbers, not just drill equations.”

  The mood in the room shifted.

  Curiosity.

  Skepticism.

  But… interest.

  I turned back to the board, a familiar excitement settling into my chest. Math should be fun.

  And if none of their previous teachers had figured that out yet — then I would just have to show them.

  I stood at the front of the class, my grip on the chalk tightening as I reeled from what had just happened. The crying girl had settled now, her slate in her lap, sniffling but no longer on the verge of complete emotional collapse. The other students had gone back to scribbling numbers on their own slates, some peeking at their neighbor’s work, others still warily watching me out of the corner of their eyes.

  I had dodged a catastrophe. Barely.

  But as I exhaled, rubbing my forehead with my sleeve, another realization hit me.

  I had never even introduced myself.

  For the past several hours, I had been a nameless, looming specter at the front of the class, wielding proverbs like a cudgel, demanding discipline, hurling math problems at them with increasing difficulty. Not once had I told them who I actually was.

  A normal teacher would start with introductions.

  I had started with fear.

  I sighed internally. I needed to fix this. Now. Before they collectively decided I was a soulless, unfeeling math tyrant.

  I cleared my throat. “Before we continue, I believe I should properly introduce myself.”

  The students looked up.

  “I am Jiang Lingwu,” I said, drawing my name on the board with steady strokes. “You will address me as Instructor Jiang, or Master Jiang.”

  There was a brief silence, then a few nods. No one protested. That was good.

  I set the chalk down, folding my arms. “Now that I have given my name, it is only fair that I learn yours.”

  A rustle of movement. A few exchanged glances.

  I gestured to the sharp-eyed boy who had been testing me since the start. “You first.”

  He met my gaze, hesitated for a fraction of a second, then straightened. “Zhang Xian.”

  Zhang Xian. Noted. He was going to be trouble.

  I nodded, then turned to the next student, a girl with neatly tied braids and an ink-stained sleeve. “And you?”

  “Lin Fen.”

  I continued down the rows, one by one. Some were confident, others muttered their names so quietly I had to ask them to repeat themselves.

  Some names stood out immediately — Zhao Qiang, the burly son of a blacksmith who already had the beginnings of calluses on his hands. Chen Meili, a shy girl from a merchant family who had clearly been raised with strict etiquette. Wu Liang, a mischievous boy who had spent the morning balancing his brush on his fingertip instead of writing.

  And then there was the girl who had cried earlier.

  When I reached her, she hesitated.

  I waited.

  She glanced down at her slate, fingers curling slightly over the edges. Then, barely above a whisper: “…Ru Lan.”

  I nodded, not pressing further. Instead, I turned to the rest of the class. “You come from different backgrounds. Some of you are the children of farmers. Some of you are the children of tradesmen. Some of you will go on to take the imperial exams. Others will not.”

  I let the words settle.

  “But all of you,” I continued, voice even, “are here to learn. That means I will hold you to the same standard.”

  A few shifted in their seats.

  I leaned against the desk, expression calm. “This is not just about memorisation. I am not here to force you to recite things you will forget the moment you leave this schoolhouse.”

  Another pause.

  “I want you to think.”

  Zhang Xian narrowed his eyes slightly. Lin Fen tilted her head. A few others looked uncertain.

  Good. That meant they were actually listening.

  I straightened. “That is why, from this day forward, we will be learning differently.”

  Silence.

  Wu Liang’s hand shot up. “How is it different?”

  I exhaled, nodding toward the board. “We are not just going to study math. We are going to use it.”

  A few skeptical looks.

  I picked up the chalk. “Tell me. What do you know of division?”

  A few students answered, reciting the basic rules. I nodded, then wrote a new problem on the board.

  “Now,” I said, “what happens if you try to divide by zero?”

  Blank stares.

  I could hear the wind outside. A single cough. Someone shifting on the wooden bench.

  Then, finally, Zhao Qiang frowned. “…You can’t?”

  “Why not?” I challenged.

  His frown deepened. “Because… there’s nothing there?”

  “Explain.”

  He struggled for an answer. So did the others.

  I smiled slightly.

  “Good,” I said. “This is the correct response.”

  Confusion.

  I gestured at the board. “The best mathematicians do not simply accept rules. They question them.”

  Wu Liang frowned. “But the teacher before said —”

  “I am not the teacher before.”

  Silence.

  I let the words settle.

  Then, more gently: “I will not punish you for getting things wrong. But I will push you to ask why things are the way they are.”

  A few students glanced at each other.

  “From now on,” I said, setting the chalk down, “this classroom is a place for questions.”

  I met their gazes, one by one.

  “Do you understand?”

  Another pause.

  Then, slowly — hesitantly —

  Zhang Xian nodded. The others followed.

  I exhaled. Finally. This was a start.

  I picked up the brush again, my mind already racing with the next lesson. For the first time that day, I wasn’t just trying to survive.

  I was teaching.

  And maybe — just maybe — I could actually be good at it.