Volume One, Chapter 18: Trading Silver for Elementary Learning—A Worthwhile Bargain!

“Foolish!”
Mr. Fang let out a heavy, cold snort and flicked his sleeves.
“Young master, you are but a child, deceived by such tricks and heresies, yet you dare speak up for him!”
“Today, no matter what, I must have the master expel Chen Pingchuan from the Zhang household, to set things right!”
Chen Pingchuan bowed his head and furrowed his brows, rapidly calculating his options.
Today’s ordeal would not be easily overcome.
Just as Mr. Fang, burning with anger, was about to storm out and report to Zhang Shengcai, the study door creaked open from outside.
The plump, shiny-faced Zhang Shengcai, his countenance brimming with smug delight, appeared at the threshold.
“Hahaha! Mr. Fang, your teaching is truly remarkable!”
His booming laughter reached the room before he did.
“My useless rascal—usually getting him to recite three lines of poetry is like pulling teeth, but yesterday he recited over a dozen lines in a single breath!”
He strode in, flushed with joy, holding a piece of paper in his hand and proudly showed it to Mr. Fang.
“Look at this! The boy can even write his own name now! Though it’s as crooked as a dog’s scratchings, it’s unmistakably his own hand! Hahaha!”
Turning to Mr. Fang, his tone brimmed with irrepressible joy and admiration.
“This…”
Mr. Fang glanced at the paper bearing the bold characters “Zhang Jinbao,” then at Zhang Jinbao wiping his tears, and finally at Chen Pingchuan, who stood silent and bowed.
For a moment, he was speechless.
He knew better than anyone the true state of Zhang Jinbao’s studies.
Yesterday he had merely followed the usual routine, teaching basic lessons—how could it have such miraculous effects?
His gaze unconsciously shifted once more to Chen Pingchuan.
Could it be… was it truly this little bookboy…
At that moment Zhang Shengcai pulled from his breast a heavy pouch of coins, thrusting it into Mr. Fang’s hands without waiting for refusal.
“You’ve worked hard, sir! These ten taels of silver are but a token of my appreciation. Please, do not decline!”
“I hope you will continue to teach my son with such care. I am deeply grateful!”
Mr. Fang held the substantial money pouch, feeling it burn in his hand.
Such praise, such reward… he felt undeserving.
He opened his mouth, about to explain.
But the words stuck in his throat, swallowed back with effort.
If he told Zhang Shengcai the truth—that his son’s progress was thanks entirely to the “heretical methods” of an eight-year-old bookboy—wouldn’t he be admitting that a properly hired tutor was inferior to a mere servant?
If word got out, how could he ever show his face again?

After much hesitation, Mr. Fang finally gritted his teeth in secret.
He cupped his hands to Zhang Shengcai, forcing a smile.
“Thank you for your generous reward, sir. I… I shall do my utmost, never daring to slack!”
Zhang Shengcai nodded in satisfaction, offered a few words of encouragement to Zhang Jinbao, then, humming a tuneless ditty, left the study in high spirits, shaking his head with contentment.
The room fell silent.
The atmosphere was subtly tense.
Mr. Fang looked at the heavy silver in his hands, then raised his eyes to Chen Pingchuan, who stood bowed and quiet, his expression deeply conflicted.
After a long pause, he placed the money pouch on the table and gently pushed it toward Chen Pingchuan.
“This is your achievement. I… will not claim another’s merit. Take the silver.”
Chen Pingchuan raised his head, respectfully cupping his hands to Mr. Fang.
“Sir, I dare not accept such silver.”
Mr. Fang arched his brows, a trace of surprise in his eyes.
The boy did not covet wealth?
Ten taels of silver was enough to sustain a common farming family for a year!
For a bookboy sold into servitude, it was a small fortune.
“What do you want, then?”
He asked, curiosity softening his tone.
Chen Pingchuan again bowed deeply.
“I humbly ask, sir, that you grant me permission to attend lessons alongside the young master, to serve with brush and ink, listen in on the teachings, and learn some words and principles.”
“As for today’s matter… I ask that you keep it secret, and say nothing.”
Mr. Fang was truly surprised.
This child, born into servitude, even if he filled his head with learning, would never be allowed to take the civil examinations or enter officialdom.
Yet he forsook readily available silver, asking only for the chance to listen in on lessons?
He pondered a moment, his gaze sharp as he studied Chen Pingchuan.
The boy possessed a cleverness and composure beyond his years.
His teaching methods, though unconventional and improper in Mr. Fang’s eyes, had undeniably awakened Zhang Jinbao’s dull mind.
And now, the hunger and yearning for knowledge in his eyes seemed genuine, not feigned.
For a fleeting moment, Mr. Fang seemed to glimpse another frail child in Chen Pingchuan.
A boy of similar age, dressed in rags, from a poor home.

That child, too, had once stood humbly before an old teacher, eyes timid yet resolute, hands clasped, pleading for the chance to learn.
And that boy was none other than Mr. Fang himself, many decades ago in his youth.
Something deep within his heart was gently stirred.
So be it.
A barely audible sigh escaped Mr. Fang’s lips.
“You may stay.”
His voice returned to its usual calm, now less stern and more gentle.
“Remember this: the path of learning is vast and profound; there are no true shortcuts.”
“Your clever tricks may serve as a garnish and awaken young minds, but if you become obsessed with them, you will lose the essence and harm your foundation.”
“In time, you must diligently seek the subtle wisdom within the classics of the sages. That is the proper way to study. Do you understand?”
Hearing these words, Chen Pingchuan felt a great weight lift from his heart.
His face shone with genuine joy, and he bowed deeply once more, his voice clear.
“Thank you, sir, for your generosity! I will faithfully follow your teachings!”
From that day forward, Chen Pingchuan formally began his studies under Mr. Fang.
Each day he sat with Zhang Jinbao at the desk, attentively listening to Mr. Fang’s lectures.
From dawn to dusk, he studied diligently without pause.
When it came time to practice calligraphy, Chen Pingchuan gripped the thin brush, his brows furrowing unconsciously.
The characters on his paper were crooked and clumsy, resembling childish scrawls, even uglier than Zhang Jinbao’s so-called “dog scratchings.”
He inwardly lamented.
To deliberately write such unsightly words was far harder than writing them well.
Whenever his brush moved smoothly and he was about to reveal some flair, he had to quickly twitch his wrist, skewing the strokes and adding a few clumsy marks.
He feared that if he slipped and revealed his true skill, Mr. Fang would notice, which would be disastrous.
Whenever Mr. Fang paced to his desk and saw the “earthworm trails” on his paper, his brows would twist into a deep furrow, almost able to crush a fly.
He would then let out a long sigh, full of regret.
“Alas, rotten wood, truly rotten wood!”
The old teacher could not help but lament: in reading and calligraphy, talent is indispensable.
A thirst for learning alone, sadly, is not enough.