Chapter 25 – The Small Exam
Xie Jing arrived together with Master Huang.
He stood behind Huang Mingyou, dressed in the plain clothes of a household servant. When he entered the classroom, he lifted his head and glanced inside; Bai Mingyu was desperately making eye signals at him. Xie Jing merely lowered his eyes and followed quietly behind Master Huang as if he hadn’t seen anything.
The clan school’s teacher saw Master Huang coming and immediately stood up, politely giving up his spot, his face showing barely concealed excitement.
Huang Mingyou, however, had not the slightest bit of arrogance. Smiling kindly, he waved a hand and walked forward to glance at the blackboard. “I’ll see—where have we gotten to?”
The teacher replied, “We’re studying poetry. Today we reached Li Bai’s ‘Climbing High Hills to View the Distance’, and I’ve just gone over half of it.” His voice trembled slightly as he tried to steady it—after all, one didn’t often get to see such a great scholar. Scholars might be proud, but before a true master, all that remained was reverence.
“Good, then I’ll continue from that half. You take Little Xie to find a seat—thank you.”
The teacher led Xie Jing to sit, but all the seats in the classroom were full—except for the one beside Bai Mingyu. The teacher hesitated a little, but Xie Jing spoke first: “Sir, I’ll sit here.”
He took the seat. As soon as the teacher turned away, Bai Mingyu leaned over eagerly and whispered, “You didn’t bring a book, did you? Here, look at mine.”
He handed over a book.
Xie Jing took one glance—it was the same book from yesterday, full of underlined phrases and circled passages, the “crib book.” He lifted his eyes toward Bai Mingyu.
Bai Mingyu, thick-skinned as ever, urged, “Go on, take a look! You’ll need it for the exam later.”
Xie Jing said, “Today’s lesson is on poetry.”
“What poetry?!” Bai Mingyu was getting anxious. “This teacher won’t test poetry—but when Master Huang gives out his papers, you’ll need it! I’m telling you, I’m doing this for your own good. Hurry, look at it while class is on—you can memorize as much as possible. You’ve got to appreciate how good I’m being to you! And when the exam starts, just let me copy a bit—”
He muttered on and on, but Xie Jing simply looked at him without replying. Finally Bai Mingyu scratched his cheek awkwardly, lowered his voice, and said, “Alright, alright—about yesterday, I apologize, okay? I was just trying to scare you, didn’t mean anything else. Let’s say we were both in the wrong. You step back a bit, I step back a bit. Don’t stay mad at me, alright?”
Xie Jing didn’t think he had done anything wrong at all. He simply thought Second Young Master Bai had the thickest skin he’d ever seen.
Bai Mingyu, more sensitive by nature, still felt half-wronged and half-embarrassed. After all, that incident had made him cry for real—several times, in fact, “like Feng’er.” But it was far too humiliating to admit; he’d rather die than tell Xie Jing.
On the platform, Huang Mingyou had taken the book and was flipping through it.
All the students in the room sat upright, looking toward him. The newly arrived teacher wore a clean, well-washed but old scholar’s robe of dull gray. He was slightly plump and short, with a small round belly—he looked like any ordinary accountant, with not the faintest air of a great master.
Huang Mingyou finished glancing through the book, stroked his long, thin mustache, and said kindly, “Your teacher has already gone through half a poem, so if you don’t mind, I’ll continue from there. But my way of teaching is a little different—if you wish to study literature, you must first understand the characters themselves.”
He turned and wrote several large characters on the wooden blackboard, speaking as he wrote, “From bronze inscriptions to seal script… but as time is short, I shall discuss only the first character today.”
On the board appeared powerful, vigorous calligraphy—‘The First Emperor of Qin and Emperor Wu of Han strove in vain.’
Master Huang had written an entire poetic line but chose to focus on just one word: ‘Qin’.
The students below were all bewildered; even the resident teacher at the back stood frozen.
Yet Huang Mingyou’s mind held ten thousand volumes. Learned in politics and philosophy, fluent in history, his lecture came alive with vivid insight. The students listened, rapt, realizing it was far more captivating than any storyteller’s tale. Those storytellers outside spoke for entertainment—but this teacher’s words carried the weight of mountains, the blood and spirit of the Chinese people.
Without a single book before him, he lectured from memory alone, weaving a whole cultural history out of one word.
He spoke all the way till noon before pausing. Seeing the servants waiting outside, he smiled and said, “Everyone, just one more word before we break.”
Outside, the servants and attendants waiting with lunchboxes quickly stepped back, smiling and urging, “Please, Master, continue; we can wait.”
Inside, not a single student moved. For the first time, the classroom was completely silent. Even the teachers in the back row didn’t stir—only sat up straighter, listening intently.
“History is the soul of a nation,” said Huang Mingyou. “To destroy a people, one must first erase its history. When history is lost, the nation ceases to exist. We who study must not do so for fame, nor for power, nor to pander to falsehoods. You must know the roots of Chinese civilization, know where you come from—know what it means to be China.”
The school was utterly still. After a long moment, students rose together and bowed, their voices firm and resonant: “We shall heed the teacher’s instruction!”
Master Huang’s lecture on the meaning of words was, in truth, a lesson on finding one’s roots.
Xie Jing also stood and bowed, but his mind was elsewhere—thinking of those years he’d traveled south, of the scholars he’d met, professors both domestic and foreign-trained. They’d argue fiercely among themselves, red-faced and heated—but when facing foreign aggression, they always turned as one, shoulder to shoulder.
They never said it aloud, but deep down they all believed the same thing—They were China, the children of China. And they had a duty to their homeland.
By noon, most people had left the classroom. Master Huang stayed behind, sitting in the side room reserved for teachers to eat his lunch—and to give his two students a small exam.
Today, Li Yuan had brought his meal. Granny Kou had cooked a rich spread; knowing that Master Huang loved noodles, she’d made a bowl of tossed noodles with seven or eight side dishes and a large bowl of fried bean sauce. The aroma of stewed meat filled the room.
Huang Mingyou ate happily, peeling two cloves of garlic—one bite of noodles, one bite of garlic, absolutely delighted.
All the while, he invigilated the test, his small eyes glancing occasionally at the two boys. “Write faster,” he said between bites. “Don’t delay the afternoon lesson.”
Bai Mingyu was straining so hard to write that his face flushed red. He vaguely remembered seeing similar questions before—but now that he was sitting here, he couldn’t recall a single answer.
When Master Huang lowered his head to slurp noodles, Bai Mingyu took the chance to sneak a look at Xie Jing’s paper—only to have Xie Jing instantly cover it with his hand.
Bai Mingyu: “…”
You hypocrite!
You used to do my homework for me— Now you’re pretending not to know me?!
Xie Jing refused to let him copy, and Bai Mingyu didn’t dare hand in a blank sheet either. Master Huang’s ruler wasn’t for show—and with his father and older brother always eager to “help the teacher” by disciplining him, he wasn’t afraid of beatings, but that didn’t mean he wanted to get one every day!
He cast a furtive glance at Master Huang, then, hidden behind the long tablecloth, slowly extended his foot to tap Xie Jing. The first tap missed, so he stretched further and nudged again.
Suddenly, Xie Jing stood up and said flatly, “Young Master, please mind yourself.”
Bai Mingyu: “???”
