Chapter 27: The Astute Scholar Who Could Not Be Deceived

Mr. Guo was an excellent man. Normally, as long as one completed the assignments he set, he paid little mind to other minor flaws.

At first, Tie Xinyuan thought that studying under this teacher would be a dark, joyless ordeal. He was wrong.

Though Mr. Guo was strict about his students’ studies, he placed little emphasis on their moral education. Thus, as long as one excelled academically, one would win his favor.

Tie Xinyuan once thought such a teacher could hardly be called a good one, but Mr. Guo himself seemed to feel no need for change.

Today, Tie Xinyuan was reading “On the Origin of the Way” from The Literary Mind and the Carving of Dragons, a work by Han Yu of the pre-Tang period. Mr. Guo did not demand that Tie Xinyuan fully grasp its essence; he only insisted that he memorize those passages concerning “benevolence” until he could recite them backwards and forwards.

Tie Xinyuan had inquired and learned that each student read a different text. Once a child learned to recognize characters, Mr. Guo would select a particular work as the student's foundational passage. The student was to memorize it by heart, so that even on the day of their death, if someone were to ask after their foundational text, they could recite it fluently and without pause. Only then would the words be truly engraved upon the heart.

When making choices in life, whether right or wrong, the teachings of that text would guide them.

The words of sages—worth more than gold!

Only then did Tie Xinyuan realize that Mr. Guo was not some drunken layabout, but hoped to shape his students’ futures through the power of righteous doctrine.

It was a lazy method of teaching, perhaps, but also a correct one. If not especially meritorious, at least there was no harm in it.

Perhaps he was right—after all, the words of ancient sages must surpass those of any old pedant.

Tie Xinyuan thought privately that this might well be Mr. Guo’s own foundational way.

He did not much like “On the Origin of the Way,” nor did he entirely agree with it. The text overly exalted sages and the elite, and Han Yu believed that without the guidance of ancient sages, people of old would have had no houses to live in, no clothes to keep out the cold, no weapons to fight beasts, and would have perished in the wild…

Yet Tie Xinyuan knew that social progress relied more on the labor of the many; houses, clothing, and weapons arose naturally from work, not from the sudden inspiration of any lone sage.

Of course, he would not argue with his teacher about such things. Instead, he chose the simplest path: memorizing the passage as quickly as possible and, after writing five pages of large characters, was allowed to go home early.

Shuizhu’er had been waiting outside the school for a long while, idly cuddling the fox and talking to herself. When Tie Xinyuan came out, she bounced over, grabbed his hand, and refused to let go, swinging it with all her might.

“No money means no schooling. What we must do now is earn money first. Once we have enough, you’ll go study at the academy,” he told her.

Shuizhu’er hesitated for a long time, then pulled a single coin from her pocket and held it up for him to see.

Tie Xinyuan pinched her drool-covered cheek and said, “I told you not to take money on your own. Why don’t you listen?”

Tears welled up in Shuizhu’er’s eyes and she began to sob, gasping for breath as she pointed to the doorway. “A lady bought me a bun just now…”

“Oh, then it’s fine. I’ll add some money and buy you some rice cakes later.”

“I don’t want rice cakes!”

Shuizhu’er, still sniffling, immediately refused.

“Rice cakes aren’t enough to pay for school anyway. When we reach the academy gate, I need you to cry loudly when I tell you. If those scholars strip my trousers again and hang them on the gate, I’ll never show my face again.”

“If they strip Shuizhu’er, I’m not afraid,” she declared.

“Nonsense. Who’d want to strip a little kid like you? Here’s your rice cake. Once we earn some money this afternoon, we’ll go have wontons at Xiaohua’s place.”

As they passed a rice cake stall, Tie Xinyuan bought a piece for three coins and stuffed it into Shuizhu’er’s little hand. Eating and chatting, they arrived at the academy gates.

It was midday, and the students were gathering for lunch. Poor scholars without money would eat the communal meals inside, unappetizing perhaps, but enough to fill the belly.

Tie Xinyuan had heard long ago of the academy’s “scholar’s buns.” He once tricked a student into sharing one—just a meat-filled bun, mutton at that, with a pungent smell. Who knew why the emperor called it a delicacy and claimed it could nourish scholars without regret? Still, Shuizhu’er liked it, and so did the fox.

“Yuan, you’re here again? Careful, if Lord Zhangba catches you, he’ll strip your trousers again. This time I won’t lend you my skirt to hide your shame,” called a girl from the brothel across the street with a teasing smile.

Tie Xinyuan flashed his teeth in a grin. The girls were kind-hearted; if not for their help last time, he’d have been thoroughly humiliated.

There were plenty of proud students at the academy gates, never looking where they stepped. If you didn’t trick some money out of them, it would be a crime against heaven.

But there was a problem. The students of Dongjing were getting harder to fool, and those at the academy had grown much wiser thanks to his “lessons.” The learned teachers, too, would not be duped again.

The last time, a failed “nine-linked ring” scam had left him with his trousers stripped, a lesson he remembered well. This time, he brought out a chess endgame to challenge them—surely they couldn’t win this!

Chess was no stranger to people of the Song; though the rules differed from later times, it was an age of competing schools, and the gentry were obsessed with the game.

Among scholars, it was said: better to lose sleep than to lose at chess.

Tie Xinyuan chose the most popular version, one with thirty-two pieces, just like later chess.

As for odd variants like Sima Guang’s “Seven Nations Chess,” those were dismissed by most scholars as mere eccentricities.

In his previous life, he’d been a mediocre chess enthusiast, but his head was full of endgame puzzles—more than enough for the current situation.

He found a conspicuous spot, set down his carved wooden board, arranged the pieces into a “king at leisure, soldiers at rest” endgame, and sat cross-legged, waiting for the fish to bite.

Shuizhu’er held up a banner reading, “Win two out of three, earn five hundred coins!”

Soon, a crowd gathered. Gambling was nothing new to the Song people; the novelty was someone daring to raise such a flag at the academy, the very fortress of chess—a move that seemed suicidal.

Many watched, but none dared play. Both Tie Xinyuan and Shuizhu’er were just little children—winning would bring scorn, losing even greater shame.

The scholars cherished their reputations more than life itself; who would risk disgrace for a mere five hundred coins?

“Anyone who solves this endgame wins five hundred coins,” Tie Xinyuan announced.

“You’re cheating, kid,” one scholar sneered after glancing at the board. “Black wins in one move. Red has no hope. Only a fool would play black for you.”

“Who said I’m playing black?” Tie Xinyuan shot back. “I’m red and move first. Well? Dare to bet?”

The scholar laughed aloud, patted Tie Xinyuan’s head, and said, “Go home, boy. If I won your five hundred coins, who knows what the others would say?” With a flourish of his sleeves, he strode off.

Tie Xinyuan sighed and signaled to Xiaoling in the distance. Immediately, Ling brought out a rag daubed with bold ink: “Academy Fools—Who Dares Face Me?”

At this, the scholars buzzed like angry wasps, bombarding Tie Xinyuan with scorn.

He repeated the challenge countless times, but they refused to play, merely denouncing his arrogance from the sidelines.

The noise drove Tie Xinyuan to despair at this Song-era obsession with gentlemanly conduct. These students would do anything behind closed doors, but in public, even the basest among them would defend their honor to the death.

Some began shouting for servants to drive them away, while others, having suffered at Tie Xinyuan’s hands before, suggested stripping his trousers again to banish him from the academy for good.

Seeing that Fuge and the others had already been seized by servants, Tie Xinyuan sighed and prepared to flee with Shuizhu’er.

Just then, a man in his thirties, dressed in plain clothes, parted the crowd, waved for silence, and tapped the chessboard. “You’re really red and move first?”

Tie Xinyuan, delighted, nodded. “Exactly so!”

The man flicked his own forehead in curiosity. “Red is just one step from defeat. Do you have some miracle move to turn the tables?”

Tie Xinyuan laughed. “If you lose, you owe me five hundred coins!”

The man waved a generous hand. “Money’s nothing. I just wonder how you could possibly turn this around. Is it even possible for red to win?”

“A draw!” Tie Xinyuan declared.

The man nodded. “If you play properly and force a draw, I’ll admit defeat. But…”

“If I can’t get a draw, I’ll pay you five hundred coins.”

The man laughed. “No need for your money. Since you’re literate, if you lose, you’ll copy out the Thousand Character Classic ten times.”

“Agreed!” said Tie Xinyuan.

With that, he quickly made his opening move—cannon to four…

PS: Yesterday an old friend came from afar. We agreed to share just one bottle of wine, but as he reminisced over our past struggles, he grew so emotional, pounding his chest and asking if I still remembered those bitter days. After that… well, when I awoke, it was already midday.