Chen Ping'an arrived at the east gate and saw the man sitting cross-legged on a tree stump by the fence, lazily basking in the early spring sunlight, eyes closed, humming a little tune, his hands tapping rhythmically on his knees. Chen Ping'an crouched beside him; for a boy, discussing debt was truly an uncomfortable matter. So, the youth quietly gazed eastward toward the broad, winding road stretching far like a thick, yellow serpent. Habitually, he scooped a handful of earth, clenched it in his palm, and slowly rubbed it between his fingers.
He had once trekked the hills around the small town with Old Yao, carrying a heavy pack stuffed with a machete, hoe, and various other tools. Under the elder's guidance, they would wander from place to place, stopping here and there. Chen Ping'an often had to "taste the earth," scooping handfuls of soil directly into his mouth, chewing and savoring its flavor. Over time, this practice honed his senses; even the slightest grind between his fingers could reveal the soil's texture. Later, when handling shattered porcelain shards from old kiln sites, Chen Ping'an could, by feel and weight alone, identify the kiln of origin or even the master who fired them.
Though Old Yao was cantankerous and harsh, prone to scolding and beating, once, in frustration at Chen Ping'an's slow comprehension, he abandoned the boy alone in a remote wilderness and returned to the kiln. After walking sixty miles of mountain paths, nearing the dragon kiln late at night amid a torrential downpour, the stubborn boy glimpsed a faint light ahead and, for the first time after struggling to survive alone, felt the urge to cry. Yet he never blamed the elder, nor harbored resentment. Born into poverty without schooling, he understood a truth beyond books: aside from one's parents, no one is ever obligated to be kind. And his parents had long since passed.
Chen Ping'an endured a moment of dazed silence. The slovenly man, sensing no escape, opened his eyes and smiled, saying, "It's only five wen—men who fuss over such trifles will never amount to anything." Chen Ping'an wore a look of helplessness. "Aren't you fussing about it yourself?" The man grinned, revealing uneven yellow teeth, chuckling, "Exactly. So if you don't want to end up a lonely bachelor like me, don't get hung up on those five wen."
Chen Ping'an sighed, looking up seriously. "If you're tight on cash, forget the five wen. But promise this: from now on, one letter for one coin—no shirking debts." The man, exuding a sour, rank odor, turned with a squinting smile, "Kid, with your stubborn temper, you're bound to suffer big losses. Haven't you heard the old saying, 'Suffering losses is a blessing'? If you won't tolerate small losses..." He caught sight of the dirt in the boy's hand, paused, then teasingly added, "Then you're destined for a life of toiling under the sun and dirt."
Chen Ping'an retorted, "Didn't I just say I don't want the five wen? Isn't that a small loss?" The man scowled, irritated, waving him off, "Go on, get lost. Talking to you is a headache." Chen Ping'an loosened his grip, dropped the soil, and rose, saying, "The tree stump's damp..." The man looked up, laughing and cursing, "As if I need you to school me. Young blood is strong; your behind could bake pancakes!"
The man glanced at the boy's retreating figure, twisted his mouth, and muttered what sounded like a curse on the heavens.
For some unknown reason, Master Qi had unusually ended lessons early that day. Behind the school stood a small courtyard with a low wooden gate leading to the bamboo grove. When Song Jixin and the maid Zhigui were listening to stories under the old locust tree, someone called them to play chess. Reluctant at first, Song Jixin only consented when told it was Master Qi's wish—to observe if their chess skills had improved.
Song Jixin felt an indescribable mixture of respect and fear toward the stern, unsmiling Master Qi, so when the command came directly from him, he had no choice but to comply, though he insisted on waiting for the storyteller to finish before heading to the courtyard.
The young messenger in a blue robe returned home first, reminding Song Jixin repeatedly not to be late, harping on the same old rules: Master Qi was strict about punctuality and keeping one's word.
Song Jixin, feigning impatience, assured him he understood.
When Song Jixin brought Zhigui to the school's rear courtyard, a gentle breeze stirred. The scholarly youth in blue was already seated on the southern bench, sitting upright with impeccable posture. Song Jixin sat opposite, facing south, while Master Qi sat westward, silently observing.
Zhigui, ever considerate, took a walk in the bamboo grove to avoid disturbing the "scholars" whenever the young master played chess—today was no exception.
In this remote town, where no so-called scholarly families thrived, true scholars were as rare as phoenix feathers and unicorn horns.
By Master Qi's old rules, Song Jixin and the blue-robed youth would guess the pieces to decide who played black and who white; the one holding black would move first. Though both began learning simultaneously, Song Jixin's talent and rapid progress earned him the privilege of selecting an undisclosed number of white stones from the box. The blue-robed youth would then pick one or two black stones and guess the parity of the white stones to claim the first move and its advantage.
In the first two years of their matches, Song Jixin remained undefeated, regardless of color. Yet, his enthusiasm waned, inconsistent at best. Conversely, the blue-robed youth, despite lesser talent, benefited greatly from constant proximity to Master Qi, even by mere observation, refining his skills from rarely winning to holding his own evenly against Song Jixin whenever playing black—a clear testament to his steady improvement.
Master Qi, ever silent, merely observed these shifts in balance.
Just as Song Jixin reached for a piece, Master Qi declared, "Today you shall play a game of 'Zuozi Chess,' with white moving first."
Both boys looked puzzled, unfamiliar with the term.
Master Qi explained the rules with measured clarity—simple enough, involving placing black and white stones at the four star points.
The middle-aged scholar's deft movements, placing pieces smoothly like flowing water, were a delight to behold.
The usually rule-abiding blue-robed youth was stunned at this "bad news," staring at the board dumbfounded before cautiously remarking, "Master, it seems many standard formations no longer apply."
Song Jixin frowned, pondered briefly, then brightened, smoothing his brow, "The board's layout is smaller."
He smiled with the pride of one claiming credit, "Isn't that right, Master Qi?"
The scholar nodded, "Indeed."
Song Jixin raised an eyebrow at his peer, teasing, "Shall I let you have the first two moves, or you'll surely lose."
The boy flushed, stammering, knowing full well his rising victories were as much due to Song Jixin's waning interest and deliberate errors—sometimes sacrificing a winning position for a risky big capture.
For Song Jixin, brilliance aside, enjoyment and challenge took precedence over winning.
For the blue-robed youth, from his very first move, the obsession was solely victory.
Master Qi looked at his students, then granted, "You may take white and move first."
The youth placed his stones carefully, cautiously advancing step by step, while Song Jixin played boldly and swiftly, the contrast between their temperaments stark.
After just over eighty moves, the blue-robed youth suffered a crushing defeat, head bowed, lips pressed tight.
Song Jixin rested his elbow on the table, chin in hand, fingers tapping lightly, eyes fixed on the board.
According to Master Qi's rule, surrender was silent—no uttering "I lost" was allowed.
Despite his unwillingness, the youth slowly conceded.
Master Qi instructed, "Practice your calligraphy. No need to clear the board. Write three hundred 'Yong' characters."
The blue-robed youth rose quickly, bowed respectfully, and departed.
Only after the youth's figure faded did Song Jixin softly ask, "Master, are you leaving soon?"
The silver-templed scholar nodded, "Within ten days."
Song Jixin smiled, "Then I can see you off."
After hesitation, Master Qi replied, "No need. Song Jixin, when you leave this town, remember to keep a low profile. I have nothing but three elementary primers—'Xiaoxue,' 'Liyue,' and 'Guan Zhi.' Take them with you and study often. Remember, reading a book a hundred times reveals its meaning. If you can read ten thousand volumes, your writing will flow like a divine inspiration. The true essence will become clear in time.
As for three miscellaneous books—on calculations 'Jingwei,' chess 'Taoli,' and essays 'Shanhaice'—peruse them in your leisure to cultivate mind and spirit."
Song Jixin was surprised, slightly embarrassed, and boldly confessed, "It feels like you're entrusting me with a legacy. I'm not used to it."
Master Qi smiled warmly, "Not so dramatic. Life is full of meetings and partings; we will meet again."
His smile was like spring sunshine.
Suddenly, he said, "Go see Zhao Yao. Consider it an early farewell."
Song Jixin rose cheerfully, "Very well. Then please tidy the board, Master."
The youth scampered away.
Master Qi bent to collect the stones, seemingly scattered randomly, but in truth meticulously ordered—starting with the last black stone Song Jixin had placed, then the last white stone.
He seemed both an artist and a strict teacher.
In the courtyard, sunlight filtered softly through the leaves, casting tranquil shadows.
Outside, the distant clatter of a game of chance echoed faintly.
A new chapter of growing, challenge, and parting had begun.