3

Chapter 1. Q.E.D.: Quit Every Duel

I woke up to pain.

A deep, all-encompassing pain that suggested my body had recently been used as a testing ground for advanced blunt force trauma techniques. My ribs ached. My limbs felt like they had been independently disassembled and haphazardly put back together. My mouth tasted like blood and failure.

And, most concerningly, I had no idea where I was.

The ground beneath me was stone — cool, unforgiving, and utterly indifferent to my suffering. As I blinked the haze from my eyes, I became aware of people. Many, many people.

I was not supposed to be here.

Which was a problem.

Because here was a massive, open-air courtyard, packed with people. Rows and rows of robed disciples surrounded me, forming a loose semicircle of varying expressions — some pitying, most entertained. I could see smug faces, bored faces, and even a few outright gleeful ones. Further back, seated on raised platforms like judgmental statues, were sect elders — their long beards practically vibrating with disappointment.

Memories — not mine, but mine — slammed into me like a badly aimed battering ram.

Jiang Lingwu. That was me. Now, anyway. A disciple of some esteemed martial sect. A man who had spent years cultivating his strength, training for this one moment.

A fated duel.

An arrogant young master.

A months-long struggle to bridge the gap in power through sheer hard work, culminating in a miraculous fortuitous encounter. 

And then, the most important part:

I had still lost. Spectacularly.

The noise of the crowd faded into a dull murmur as I processed this. I was in a cultivation story. A bad one. A world where the author undoubtedly got so much hate comments from readers that they took away their protagonist's plot armour and killed them off.

A shadow fell over me.

"You truly are worthless, Jiang Lingwu."

Ah. There he was.

Zhao Feng.

If there were a Platonic ideal of an Arrogant Young Master, Zhao Feng had perfectly optimized his parameters to fit the mold. He stood above me in his immaculate blue robes, golden embroidery practically screaming 'I have never worked a day in my life.' His hair was long, his posture was effortless, and his eyes were practically twinkling with condescension.

He even had a folding fan, which he tapped idly against his palm — because of course he did.

"You talked such a big game," he continued, voice ringing through the courtyard, clearly enunciated for maximum public humiliation. "You boasted that you could defeat me. That you would surpass me."

He took a step forward. The crowd leaned in.

"And yet, in the end, this is all you amount to."

A pause. A slow shake of the head. "How utterly pathetic."

The audience loved that.

A few disciples scoffed. One even spit on the ground. Sect elders murmured to one another, shaking their heads at my tragic downfall. A group of junior disciples in the back were already exchanging bets on whether I would try to fight again or just collapse into sobbing, shameful regret.

I barely noticed any of it.

Because I was having an existential crisis.

I had always loved math. Sort of. Not just in the casual, oh, I like numbers way, but in the staying up late trying and failing to read nineteenth-century proofs I barely understood way. But I had never been good enough. Not enough to study it in university. Not enough to risk everything on it. So I had settled.

Biology. A safe choice. A respectable choice. A practical, employable field where I had built a decent, modest career. And yet, no matter how many papers I published, that lingering what if? had never left me.

What if I had chased math? What if I had been brave enough to take the plunge?

And now, here I was. Given another chance at life.

A world where immortals lived.

A world where truth and knowledge and insight were not just intellectual pursuits, but literal sources of power.

What kind of absolutely absurd mathematical discoveries had been made in such a place where immortals could dedicate centuries to a single problem?

I shivered.

Somewhere out there, an old monster had surely spent millennia cultivating the Monster Group.

Probably had a hidden disciple he called the Baby Monster.

Together, they formed the Happy Family.

A giggle slipped out before I could stop it. Group theorists were such weirdos.

The crowd went silent.

Zhao Feng blinked.

"You dare to laugh?"

From their perspective, a man who had just been soundly defeated and publicly humiliated was now chuckling to himself on the ground like an unhinged lunatic.

It was so, so stupid.

Another laugh bubbled up.

"He's gone mad," someone whispered.

Zhao Feng's expression twitched. "Enough." His voice rang out, sharp as a blade. "You have eyes but cannot see Mount Tai."

There it was. The stock phrase. The scripted insult every arrogant young master was contractually obligated to say at least once before delivering the final humiliation.

I was supposed to refuse. To grit my teeth, eyes blazing with defiance. To shout, 'I will never surrender!' and then promptly get beaten within an inch of my life, barely surviving to start my long and arduous revenge arc.

Instead, I took a deep breath.

I searched my memories. I examined my cultivation base.

And immediately wished I hadn't.

Because what in the fresh hell was this?

The Raging Dragon Tyrant Fist.

The foundational method I had trained in. The martial path that had shaped my body and meridians.

It was all about destruction. Brute force. Martial dominance. Crushing your enemies.

No elegance. No curiosity. No creation. No beauty.

Just power for power's sake.

Selfish. Ugly. Pointless.

I stared down at my hands, feeling the raw, graceless, meaningless qi that had been cultivated for years in pursuit of what? A duel? A tournament arc? A meaningless rivalry?

Why the hell was I clinging to this?

Why not start from scratch?

I sighed. Pushed myself up. Dusted off my robe.

And did something no xianxia protagonist had ever done before.

I agreed.

"You know what?" I exhaled slowly. "You're right."

Silence.

Pure, deafening silence.

Zhao Feng's smirk froze. The crowd collectively stopped breathing.

Even the sect elders, who had up until now been half-asleep, suddenly looked very awake.

I closed my eyes. Reached inward.

And dispersed my qi.

-x-x-x-

My dantian fractured.

A shockwave rippled through my meridians as years of cultivation collapsed.

Someone actually screamed.

A junior disciple fainted.

Zhao Feng staggered back like I had personally slapped him.

Oddly enough, I didn't feel any pain. Wasn't that supposed to happen when someone crippled their cultivation? Didn't they begin vomitting blood and aging?

A deep, unnatural silence followed my actions, stretching so long that I wondered if I had somehow broken the sect.

It wasn't just Zhao Feng standing there like I'd personally rewritten reality with a single move — it was everyone. The disciples. The sect elders. The spectators who had come here expecting a nice, traditional public humiliation session.

Even the wind seemed to have stopped.

I looked around. Blinked.

Had… had I actually won?

Not in the traditional sense, of course — I was still technically the loser, seeing as I had just willingly uninstalled my cultivation base like a poorly optimized mobile app. But in another, far more satisfying way, I had achieved total and utter victory.

Because no one — not even Zhao Feng with his vast, self-sustaining ego — knew how to respond.

I had derailed the script.

Zhao Feng finally broke the silence. "You… you actually… did it?" His voice cracked on the last word, which was deeply gratifying.

A nearby disciple inhaled sharply, his face a shade paler than before. "No one has ever voluntarily dispersed their own qi before…"

Another disciple grabbed him by the robes. "There must be a reason! A deeper meaning!"

The first disciple swallowed. "He… he must have achieved a higher enlightenment…!"

Ah.

There it was.

The inevitable, tragically unavoidable misunderstanding.

I should have seen this coming. These people were cultivators. They didn't operate on logic; they operated on narrative convenience and grand, fate-driven assumptions. And apparently, the idea of someone just quitting because he was tired of this nonsense was too incomprehensible for their feeble, battle-hardened minds to grasp.

Zhao Feng, however, was still struggling between horror and rage. "No, no, no! There's no enlightenment! He's just a fool! A spineless coward!"

One of the elders, a thin man with sharp eyes and an even sharper mustache, rubbed his chin. "But Zhao Feng, he did exactly what you demanded. You told him to disperse his cultivation, and he did. Does this not make you, in some way, his master?"

Zhao Feng's expression froze.

Then contorted into an unspeakable level of disgust.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!"

"Hmm," the elder hummed. "But you did guide him to this action."

"No, I — " Zhao Feng visibly fought the urge to start screaming. His elegant, arrogant persona was hanging on by a thread.

Somewhere in the crowd, a junior disciple mumbled, "Maybe… maybe Senior Brother Jiang saw through the illusion of martial power itself?"

Another disciple, eyes wide, clutched his robes. "Is… is martial cultivation meaningless?"

"No!" Zhao Feng snarled.

But the whispers were spreading.

The sect elders looked increasingly disturbed. One of them, an older woman with sharp features, massaged her temples like she had a headache forming. "Enough." She turned to me, fixing me with an unreadable gaze. "Jiang Lingwu. What is it you seek?"

I hesitated.

This was a very dangerous question.

I couldn't say, 'I just want to go somewhere far, far away from this ridiculous sect nonsense where my chance of dying an early, spectacularly violent death is significantly lower.'

Nor could I say, 'I want to study math,' because then they'd start assuming I was chasing some esoteric Dao of Numbers, and that was an entire problem I did not want to deal with.

So I did what any reasonable person would do in my situation.

I rolled with the misunderstanding.

I sighed, putting on my best impression of a weary scholar who had glimpsed something profound beyond mortal comprehension. Then, in the most mysterious, noncommittal voice possible, I said:

"There are some things that cannot be explained in words."

A full-grown man collapsed to his knees in shock.

Another disciple choked on his own spit.

One of the sect elders audibly muttered, "Oh no."

Zhao Feng, meanwhile, looked like he was experiencing a profound personal crisis.

"This is ridiculous," he hissed. "You're all being ridiculous! He's not enlightened! He's running away!"

A disciple looked up at me with absolute reverence. "Senior Brother Jiang… have we all been blind?"

I gave him my best cryptic, all-knowing smile and said, "Perhaps."

He promptly fainted.

The sect elder with the headache rubbed her temples harder. "Enough. Jiang Lingwu, you are determined to leave the sect?"

"Yes."

Another wave of whispers. As if it was truly that simple.

The elder sighed. "Normally, we do not allow disciples to abandon the sect so easily. It is an insult to the great legacy of the Azure Sky Sect."

I nodded slowly. Here it comes. The part where they refused to let me leave. Where I'd be forced to navigate absurd bureaucratic nonsense just to walk out of a gate.

"However," the elder continued, "since your decision has already stirred such… profound disturbance…" She cast a glance at the disciples, several of whom were still whispering about me like I was some wandering immortal in disguise. "It may be best to let you go before this gets any worse."

I blinked.

Wait.

That actually worked?

Zhao Feng, still reeling, blurted, "You can't be serious."

The elder raised a hand. "It is not entirely unheard of. Many great sages have chosen to temporarily dwell among lesser mortals before returning as something greater."

Zhao Feng physically recoiled. "You're saying you think he'll come back as —"

"Let's not entertain hypotheticals," she interrupted swiftly, clearly wanting this entire conversation to end as soon as possible. "Jiang Lingwu, since you are choosing to abandon your path, the sect will allow you to leave."

Finally. Finally.

I gave her a polite bow, channeling every ounce of gracious exit energy I could muster. "Thank you, Elder."

The sect gates loomed in the distance—an open door to a new life. A life where I wouldn't be forced into duels, where no one would try to kill me for bumping into them in a hallway.

Zhao Feng gritted his teeth. "Jiang Lingwu," he spat. "I hope you regret this."

I turned back, flashed him the most infuriatingly serene smile possible, and said, "Oh, I won't."

Then I walked through the gates.

And into freedom.

Chapter 2. Base Case

By the time I arrived in Qinghe Town, I had gained a newfound appreciation for the conveniences of modern transportation.

No, really. I had never once in my past life sat down and thought, 'Wow, I sure am grateful for airplanes, high-speed trains, and the simple pleasure of not spending days bouncing around in a carriage that smells like unwashed feet.'

I thought it now.

The journey had drained both my patience and my coin pouch. The fastest, most direct route would have taken me through a major city, but that was absolutely out of the question. If novels had taught me anything, it was that big cities were walking death traps filled with cultivation clans, young masters with zero conflict resolution skills, and hidden old monsters waiting to impart life-changing cultivation insights to some clueless street rat who bumped into them.

That was not going to be me.

Instead, I had taken the long way around, spending a painful amount of money on carriages and boats to avoid anything remotely resembling a plot-relevant location. By the time I reached Qinghe Town, I was exhausted, broke, and one more terrible meal away from losing all faith in the culinary arts of this world.

Qinghe Town was perfectly ordinary.

Small enough that no major sects would bother with it. Large enough that I wouldn't be trapped on a mountain with five families who all married each other. The streets were dusty but well-kept, lined with modest wooden buildings, market stalls, and the occasional idle old man who was probably an ex-expert in disguise. A river cut through the outskirts, feeding irrigation ditches and the small fishing industry.

The most dangerous thing I saw was a particularly aggressive chicken chasing a child down the street.

This was exactly the level of excitement I wanted in my life.

I didn't waste time sightseeing. Hunting for a job could come later. After days of travel, the first order of business was finding a place to sleep.

After asking around, I found an inn with reasonable rates — by which I meant I could afford to stay here for maybe a week or two before becoming homeless.

The innkeeper was a woman in her fifties with a permanent scowl and the air of someone who had long since stopped tolerating nonsense. She barely glanced at me before shoving a key into my hand.

"Room's upstairs. Supper's extra. Don't break anything."

A woman of efficiency. I respected that.

I climbed the stairs, found my room, and shut the door behind me.

It was… modest.

Which was a generous way of saying it was barely above a storage closet.

The bed was small and hard, the walls were unadorned, and the only window looked out onto a suspiciously loud chicken coop. There was a wooden desk, a stool, and a single candle.

And most interestingly — a brush, ink, and sheets of paper sat neatly on the desk.

I stood there, staring at them.

Then I stared at the bed.

Then back at the desk.

The exhaustion in my body screamed at me to collapse and not move for the next ten hours. But the sight of actual writing materials — of paper — stirred something in me.

A strange, absurd hope.

I had thrown away my cultivation. I had left behind a world obsessed with strength, conflict, and power struggles. And now, for the first time since coming to this world…

I could finally begin.

I took a seat, dipped the brush into ink, and carefully wrote the first thing that came to mind:

sum_{k=1}^{n} k = n(n+1)/2

I exhaled slowly, watching the ink dry.

It wasn't much. Just a simple formula. Something I had learned long ago. Something even the most casual math enthusiast would recognise. Something so trivial a seven year old child would understand it.

No, really. Just ask Carl Friedrich Gauss.

Indeed, nothing more than a simple formula.

But it was mine.

The ink dried as I watched, the brush still poised in my fingers. The simple equation sat there, unassuming, utterly harmless, and yet something about it felt… profound. Not in the way cultivators spoke of enlightenment, where they mysteriously vanished into the mountains only to return decades later with glowing eyes and cryptic one-liners. No, this was something else.

For the first time since waking up in this ridiculous world, I had done something deliberate. Not out of necessity, not to avoid being beaten, not to escape a sect full of people who thought jumping off cliffs in search of enlightenment was a reasonable thing to do. No, I had chosen this.

I had written it.

And that meant something.

I let out a slow breath, set the brush down, and stared at the paper. A sum formula. Simple. Elementary. Something that would make a real mathematician scoff and toss me out of their office if I tried to pass it off as deep thought. But that was fine. I wasn't writing to impress anyone.

I was writing to start over.

I reached for another sheet.

What next? Something I knew. Something I had seen, over and over, throughout my life. Something that had stuck with me even when I was buried under research papers about cell signaling pathways and experimental failures.

The Pythagorean theorem? No, too easy. Too well known.

Euler's identity? Tempting. Beautiful, even. But not tonight.

I hesitated, then dipped the brush into the ink again, pressing it carefully to the paper.

sum_{k=1}^{n} k2 = n(n+1)(2n+1)/6

A small smile tugged at my lips. The sum of squares. Another simple equation. Nothing groundbreaking. A piece of knowledge known for thousands of years, before humanity had even invented the language that formalised mathematics. 

But again, this was mine.

I let the ink settle, watching the characters take form under the dim candlelight.

Mathematics was supposed to be a universal language. Even in my past life, before I had ever imagined something as absurd as transmigrating into a xianxia world, numbers had always felt eternal. Nations could fall, civilisations could vanish, languages could erode, all of humanity could be wiped out by an alien invasion or nuclear holocaust — but the truths of mathematics endured.

They were eternal. Absolute. Invariant. 

So what did this world know?

Had they developed calculus? Did they have a concept of limits, of convergence, of prime distributions? Was algebra in its geometric, static equation-solving, dynamic function, or abstract stage? Had anyone here stared at an infinite series or an expression of nested radicals and felt that creeping, terrible certainty that it was hiding something just beyond their reach?

What if —

I stopped myself.

It was too soon to think about that. Too soon to wonder if, in some far-off sect library, a scroll existed that contained knowledge beyond anything my world had ever dreamed of.

I wasn't here for that.

I was here to study. To understand what I never gave myself the chance to. I knew my experiences from Earth well enough — if even the nineteenth century mathematics of Riemann and Poincaré may as well be nothing but indecipherable hieroglyphs to me, what hope did I have of the knowledge immortals held? Of ones who weren't constrained by limits of mortality?

I trembled. If this world had an Abel, a Galois, a Ramanujan, a Ramsey, an Eisenstein… what sort of absolutely monstrous insights could they have developed in a world where they weren't unfortunately cut down before their time?

No, I was utterly unprepared to bear witness to such knowledge. To quote the locals — I was a frog in a well, a toad lusting after swan meat, an ant who does not know the heavens. If I wanted to even glimpse a morsel of those grand truths, I would have to work my way up.

I reached for another sheet.

sum_{k=1}^{n} k3 = (n(n+1)/2)2

My brushstrokes grew steadier, my mind sharper. The exhaustion of the day lingered in my muscles, but it no longer weighed me down.

For the first time in who knows how long, I wasn't running from something.

I was moving forward.

And so, I kept writing.

-x-x-x-

I woke up with my face stuck to paper.

This was not a metaphor. My cheek was quite literally adhered to a sheet of calculations via a thin layer of dried ink, the kind that would definitely leave a mark if I peeled away too fast. I blinked groggily at my surroundings, the world shifting into focus as my brain slowly booted up.

It was morning. Sunlight filtered through the small window, casting sharp lines across the wooden desk. My candle had long since burned out, leaving only a stub of wax. I could hear the sounds of Qinghe Town waking up outside — vendors calling to each other, the distant clatter of hooves on stone. The shrill war cry of a particularly aggressive chicken.

I lifted my head and squinted at the desk.

What… had I even been doing?

My handwriting sprawled across several sheets of paper, neat columns of numbers and symbols interwoven with increasingly erratic diagrams. The longer I stared, the more I realized that at some point, I had completely zoned out.

The first sheet was orderly. A simple table of approximations, trigonometric functions calculated from their infinite series expansions. I traced the numbers with my finger, the memory slowly returning. Right. I had started with that. Just testing the waters, seeing what I could derive from scratch. Something simple I could whet my teeth in.

The next sheet… was different.

It was covered in circles.

Not just circles, but elaborate geometric constructions—bisected arcs, intersecting chords, careful tangents meticulously drawn with what appeared to be a self-fashioned compass.

I frowned.

At some point in my sleep-deprived haze, I had evidently decided that compass-and-straightedge constructions were my new passion. There was even an entire page dedicated to constructing a regular pentagon, a feat I was certain I had last attempted when I was, what, sixteen?

I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my eyes.

Well. That happened.

I had completely lost myself in the math last night, which, in another world, would have been a wonderful sign of passion and dedication.

In this world?

It was a fast track to starving in a ditch.

I sighed, stretching out my sore limbs. As much as I wanted to stay here, work through every theorem I could remember, and attempt to reconstruct as much mathematics as humanly possible, I could not afford to.

I needed money.

Reluctantly, I turned my attention to the reality of my situation.

I had a few silver taels left from my journey, but not enough to sustain me for long. My room at the inn was paid for — for now — but without a steady income, I was living on borrowed time.

My possessions were minimal. A few spare robes, plain and travel-worn. A dagger, mostly for utility rather than combat.

…a handful of low-grade spirit stones.

The last item was theoretically valuable.

Spirit stones were used by cultivators to supplement their qi and were a common currency in sects. In theory, I could exchange them for silver, but there were several problems with this.

One: Spirit stones were not commonly used in small towns. The kind of people who could buy them were usually cultivators or merchants with cultivation connections.

Two: That meant I would have to go to a city to trade them.

And cities were where plot happened.

I exhaled slowly. Selling the spirit stones was my last resort. I needed to find work first. Anything that could keep me afloat.

My skills, however, were not promising.

Martial arts? Out of the question.

Alchemy? Had no experience.

Scribing? A viable option, but I knew if I started working as a scribe, I would be dragged into some kind of scholarly nonsense that would eventually involve angry cultivators. No thanks.

Mathematics? Not marketable at my level.

Biology? Absolutely useless unless someone needed mice surgically implanted with tumours, and then research ways to treat them.

I ran a hand through my hair, sighing. This was going to be difficult.

But I had no choice.

I had walked away from a life of cultivation. I had left behind sect drama and martial rivalries. I had chosen a new path.

Now, I just needed to figure out how to survive it.

Pushing aside the scattered papers, I stood up, straightened my robe, and prepared to face the day.

The morning air was crisp as I stepped out of the inn, the faint scent of frying dough and boiling porridge wafting in from the street. Qinghe Town was already bustling—merchants setting up their stalls, villagers haggling over vegetables, and somewhere in the distance, an old woman loudly berating her ox for stopping in the middle of the road.

I, however, was not here to enjoy the atmosphere.

I needed a job.

Preferably something low effort, low risk, and unlikely to result in someone trying to kill me. Unfortunately, this was proving to be far more difficult than anticipated.

The local apothecary had a sign posted outside looking for an assistant. For a brief moment, I considered it — I had studied some pharmacology before, after all. But then I imagined trying to explain that, no, I had never actually prepared a medicinal decoction before, and, no, I didn't know anything about spiritual herbs or whatever mystical nonsense these people used instead of proper active ingredients.

Something told me they wouldn't be impressed if I asked whether they had metformin, lisinopril, clotrimazole, or atorvastatin in stock.

So that was out.

Next, I checked a few shops. The butcher was hiring, but I was fairly sure I'd clumsily chop off my own fingers within a week if I tried that. The blacksmith needed an apprentice, but the moment I stepped inside, I realised I would die of heat exhaustion before my first lesson ended. The fisherman's guild had an opening, but I had spent enough time on boats recently to never want to see open water again.

It was beginning to dawn on me that I was tragically unqualified for nearly every form of employment in this town.

I rubbed my temple, exhaling slowly. Okay. Think. I needed a way to make money that wouldn't kill me. Teaching? Maybe. But I had no connections. Manual labor? Absolutely not. Gambling? Definitely a fast way to get stabbed in a back alley.

Lost in thought, I almost didn't notice the commotion happening ahead.

A furious-looking scholar was storming away from a schoolhouse, his expensive silk robes billowing dramatically behind him. Behind him, an older man — round, balding, deeply distressed — hurried after him.

"Master Liu, please reconsider! The children need your guidance —"

"I am finished!" the scholar roared, spinning on his heel so fast that his hat nearly flew off. His face was red with rage, and judging by the way his veins were bulging, he was one more bad interaction away from an aneurysm. "I have tolerated these undisciplined hooligans for long enough! These little demons are beyond salvation! Not one of them respects the Confucian classics! Not one of them has a shred of decorum!"

"They're just a bit unruly — "

"Unruly?!" The scholar whirled around, eyes blazing. "That was not unruly, Headmaster Song! That was a coordinated assault on my dignity! One of them threw an inkpot at my head! Another stole my brush while I was writing on the board! And then — then they had the audacity to ask why they needed to study at all!"

The headmaster clasped his hands together in desperation. "They are young! Surely, with time, they will —"

"Time?!" Master Liu nearly strangled himself with his own sleeve. "Time will not make them literate! Time will not make them stop throwing ink at each other in the middle of lessons! Time will not remove the goat they smuggled into the classroom last week!"

I blinked. 

Well.

That sounded… promising. 

The scholar took one final, seething breath. "I am done! I am finished! I wash my hands of this wretched school! Good luck finding another dignified instructor in this forsaken town!"

And with that, he stormed off, kicking a stray chicken out of his way as he left.

The headmaster watched him go with the defeated air of a man who discovered twenty steps later that he'd evaluated an integral wrong on step two.

Then, very slowly, he turned and saw me.

I stared at him. He stared at me.

A strange moment passed between us.

Then, before I could stop myself — before I could even think through what I was about to do — I opened my mouth.

"…Do you need a teacher?"

Chapter 3. Proof by Intimidation

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.

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 grinned. 

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. No, there are not.

"One might be inclined to think of two, naturally —"

He blinked. Had he…? Had he actually —

"— 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.

"…complex 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 —"

"Enough."

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.

Spirit stones.

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

A cultivator.

Jiang Lingwu was a cultivator.

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 outlaw?

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."

Chapter 4. An Approximation of Competence

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?"

"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.

Chapter 5. The Art of War (Against Children)

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 professor 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.

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 brush 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.