Ordinary

Zhang Ling fashioned a support himself, affixing a rough sheet of rice paper onto a wooden board. Unable to find anything as convenient as chalk, he resorted to a coarse bamboo brush to dab and mark, its gentle rustling echoing through the small hut. Below, only Xu Ying lay asleep at the desk, not making a sound.

Zhang Ling pulled over a stool and sat, a faint smile lingering at the corner of his lips. So this is how it felt—surprisingly pleasant.

As the dawn crept in and the mist began to fade, the little girl at the desk raised her head and rubbed her eyes. Seeing her awake, Zhang Ling teased, "You're the first student to arrive—sit up straight now."

She set her coat aside, and as instructed, assumed a proper posture. After a moment, several burly men filed in one by one. There was no rowdy commotion; evidently, Hou Liu had warned them in advance. Soon, five or six little boys hopped in, each choosing a seat far from her.

Zhang Ling paid no mind, beginning his lesson by teaching these illiterate mountain bandits how to write, one brushstroke at a time. When he saw their crooked, winding characters, he would brandish his ruler to correct them.

Most of those older than him found joy in writing, while the children remained stiff and reserved. Suddenly, one boy with rosy cheeks stood and raised his hand, pointing at Xu Ying. "Sir, why is a girl in the classroom? That’s against propriety."

Zhang Ling did not refute him immediately, but countered, "Where does this propriety come from? Where do these rules originate?"

The boy replied solemnly, "Girls may not be officials, nor attend school—it's been so since ancient times."

Zhang Ling answered calmly, "I've never heard such rules, at least not from my teacher. Do you believe yourself superior to him? In what way, exactly? There are no such rigid rules here. If you feel humiliated, you’re free to walk out of this door."

Throughout, Zhang Ling spoke with quiet reason, never exerting authority or dominance. The boy did not sit or leave; he merely stood and listened, which surprised Zhang Ling. He asked, "What is your name?"

Straightening proudly, the boy replied, "To answer, sir, I am Ruan Xiaoqi."

From that morning onward, Zhang Ling would see a crowd of eager mountain bandits arriving early to study. Those who came late sat at the door, happily sketching and scribbling. After several days, Zhang Ling observed that not only could they not form sentences, they struggled even to write characters. Gradually, the children with differences began to sit together, but Zhang Ling noticed Xu Ying growing increasingly silent. When he spoke to her, she said only that she wished to learn boxing. After much thought, Zhang Ling decided not to teach her the Cloud-Breaking Fist. Each day, he lectured for only an hour before everyone went about their tasks.

There were several fields on the mountain, tended daily—picking pests, pulling weeds. To the west, an elderly man with grey hair was planting in one such field, wearing tattered cloth shoes. Corn seeds had just been sown, barely sprouting tender shoots, while the weeds flourished. The old man painstakingly uprooted them, tossing handfuls outside the field. Straightening his aged back, he noticed the wandering Zhang Ling, paused his work, and greeted the young man with a smile that revealed a mouthful of jagged yellow teeth. "Master Zhang."

Zhang Ling bowed in return, shaking his head. "Grandpa Ruan, whether it’s self-cultivation or governing a nation, I’ve accomplished neither. That title of 'master' is hardly appropriate."

The old man's name was Ruan Qian, grandfather to Ruan Xiaoqi, though which 'Qian' he was, he himself never knew. Zhang Ling took it upon himself to write the character for him—not for its meaning of migration, but in hopes he could walk more in his twilight years. Ruan Qian stopped working, found a bundle of dry straw for Zhang Ling to sit, and perched himself on the field’s edge. In his thick, old-fashioned dialect, he said, "Others hear this is a bandit den and spit in disgust. Though the chief forced you up the mountain, I can see you sincerely teach the people of Qingfeng Fort to read, and you helped those children resolve their conflicts. I’m stubborn, but that’s enough for everyone here to call you ‘master.’"

Zhang Ling gazed at him, momentarily lost in thought, then smiled. "My own teacher used to say something similar: ‘Where ordinary folk won't go, fierce spirits dare not tread; if the earth offers no path, still I won’t abandon it.’ He explained that wherever the sound of writing echoed, he would be there. Back then, I thought he was boasting, but he was my teacher, so I couldn’t expose him."

The old man’s eyes crinkled with laughter. "A true master, indeed."

Zhang Ling avoided speaking of the past. "And then? Once people broaden their knowledge, their hearts wander. The children may not remain content in a mountain fort. Could you bear that?"

The old man answered frankly, "If they leave, so be it. I don’t wish them to be bandits for life. They should have their own path."

Zhang Ling nodded with a smile. "True, learning expands the mind and stirs desires. After reading too much, one always longs to roam the world."

He chatted with the old man a while longer, then rose to take his leave. The old man returned to his work, for this field was his entire world.

...

Deeper into the woods, the trees grew sparse, and few people passed that way. In recent days, blades flashed through the shadows, and many robust cypresses had been felled. The young man wielded a sword with twin fire patterns, moving agilely between the trees, each day improving slightly.

That twin-patterned blade was none other than Forged Heaven, and the young man was Song Linjie. Gripping the sword, he swung it at a tree three meters away. The trunk crashed down, leaving a smooth cut. Forced to jump down from the tree, Zhang Ling scolded, "In my hometown, you'd be sued for chopping down trees at will."

Song Linjie ignored him and continued practicing. Zhang Ling laughed, "What have you been up to these days?"

Song Linjie stopped, sheathed his blade, and grumbled, "Thanks to you, I’ve been playing dumb and begging for sweets, so I have to come here to train. What about you—are you healed yet?"

Zhang Ling glanced toward the woods’ edge. "When I fought Cheng Yu, I bruised two meridians. Normally, I could use medicine to mend them, but I found my body-forging technique has a peculiarity. If I let it heal naturally, my physique grows stronger. So if we leave, you’ll have to wait a few more days."

Switching to a casual tone, Zhang Ling continued, "This is my first time as a teacher. I can't abandon them halfway. Bear with me a few more days, and I’ll buy you drinks in the capital."

Song Linjie waved him off, persistently practicing. Zhang Ling returned to the fort, night falling, and climbed onto the rooftop with a jug of wild mountain tea. The roof was old and in disrepair; the first time he climbed up, he fell right down. Sitting on the eaves, he sipped hot tea to ward off the chill, gazing at the silent surroundings.

After half an hour, the tea cooled. Zhang Ling jumped down, only to find a bundle of black-haired man sidling up with a sycophantic grin. Zhang Ling pushed his face aside. "Wu Hei, shouldn’t you be robbing the rich to help the poor? What brings you here?"

Wu Hei, barely visible in the night, flashed an ingratiating smile. "Sir, my skills are so poor—I wouldn’t dare! I heard the chief say you know martial arts. Could you teach me a move or two?"

Zhang Ling turned away, refusing, "No."

"But just now—"

"Just got lucky and didn’t fall, that’s all."

"Sir, please teach me a couple moves!"

"Not teaching!"

"Sir—"

"Fine, if you ever pull off a job on your own, I’ll teach you."

"Thank you, sir."