Chapter Thirty: The Gentleman Dies First

Since her confinement was lifted, Liu Qin resumed her routine of attending lessons in the morning and indulging in leisure in the afternoon. It wasn’t that she was particularly studious; rather, the days spent locked indoors had left her stifled, to the point where even listening to lectures and sitting across from Teacher Zhang seemed interesting.

Teacher Zhang’s attitude towards Liu Qin had shifted—not in words, but in essence. He treated her as though she were air, utterly invisible to him. It was hardly surprising; a lazy and mischievous student like Liu Qin, especially when compared to Hai-ge, the model pupil, would find little favor with any teacher.

Liu Qin, however, was unbothered. To her, school was merely a half-day excursion in an ancient academy—an opportunity to soak in the atmosphere, admire handsome boys, and, on occasion, take a little nap. It was all quite agreeable.

This pattern continued for several days. One afternoon, as the year drew to a close, Teacher Zhang began teaching the art of couplets, starting with one-character pairs and progressing to five-character lines. “Heaven and earth,” “wind and rain,” “mouse and rice,” “mountain flowers and sea trees,” “thunder rumbles, mist shrouds,” “high winds and autumn’s bright moon, rain clears and evening’s rosy glow”—such were the examples he gave.

After outlining the essentials of couplet-making, Teacher Zhang tested his students with a five-character upper line: “Rain in the season of yellow plums.” Hai-ge pondered for a long while before replying, “Southeast wind at dusk.” Teacher Zhang nodded, then turned to Jiang Li, who, confident and poised, immediately answered: “Frogs in the green pond.”

Teacher Zhang commented, “For beginners, you’ve both done well. Wenhai’s response is neat but rather plain; Jiang Li’s is not only tidy but also rich in imagery, surpassing Wenhai.”

Ever since Liu Qin had confessed her inability to follow Teacher Zhang’s archaic lecture style, he had curbed his manner of speaking, making his words much more pleasant to hear.

Ordinary neglect was nothing to her, but this time Liu Qin was particularly disgruntled. As soon as Teacher Zhang gave the upper line, she had her answer ready and waited eagerly for him to ask—she wanted to claim the top spot. Her lower line? “Roasting bullfrogs over the fire.” Thankfully, the teacher didn’t ask her; otherwise, he might have been driven mad.

Teacher Zhang presented more couplets, and Hai-ge and Jiang Li answered admirably. In high spirits, Teacher Zhang shared anecdotes and legends related to couplets, lamenting those whose lower lines had never been solved. Inspired, he laughed, “You may try as well. If you can stump your teacher, I’ll reward you handsomely.”

Hai-ge and Jiang Li’s enthusiasm was instantly piqued. They blinked and strained their minds, searching for a challenge, but their limited learning made it difficult to confound their teacher.

Liu Qin watched them in a daze: one adorable child, one handsome boy, both with large, dark eyes and long, curling lashes, brows slightly furrowed in thought. They looked so lovely that, were it not the classroom, Liu Qin would have rushed over to squeeze their cheeks hard and plant a kiss.

Teacher Zhang, smiling, looked at his two prized pupils—Jiang Li, especially, had won his approval for his intelligence and obedience—stroking his yellow beard, his face radiating an air of invincibility.

Liu Qin awoke from her reverie, and seeing Teacher Zhang’s smug expression, the anger of days of neglect surged within her. She muttered inwardly, “So you look down on me, do you? Think yourself extraordinary? Let me give you a riddle and see how you reply.”

With that, Liu Qin stood up, flashed a sweet smile at the teacher, and said, “Teacher, I have a couplet for you. May I recite it?”

Her action startled Teacher Zhang, but he quickly recovered, nodded, and replied, “Let me hear it.”

Liu Qin gave a sly grin. “Teacher, listen carefully. My upper line is: ‘Teacher dies first, dies first teacher.’”

Jiang Li and Hai-ge were dumbfounded. They looked from Teacher Zhang to Liu Qin, unsure what to say. Jiang Li, quick to react, sprang up and moved in front of Liu Qin, fearing the teacher might lose his temper and strike her.

But Teacher Zhang’s reaction was not what Liu Qin expected. Like Jiang Li, she had anticipated fury—perhaps a beating with the ruler, or at least a scolding. Instead, Teacher Zhang’s face first flushed with anger, then was replaced by astonishment; his face shifted from yellow to red, then black, then gray, as if a dye shop had opened, colors mixing and changing across his features.

His response startled Liu Qin as well. She instinctively stepped back, hiding behind Jiang Li. Teacher Zhang’s face flickered unpredictably, then he turned to his desk, tidied his books, and quietly announced, “Today’s lesson ends here.” With head bowed, he hurried away.

Only when the teacher’s figure had disappeared did the three come back to themselves. Jiang Li turned and cast a reproachful look at Liu Qin, yet could not bring himself to scold her, sighing instead, “Sister, how can you be so mischievous? How could you insult the teacher?”

Under his gaze, Liu Qin felt a pang of guilt, but quickly feigned bravado, puffing out her little chest and replying loudly, “I didn’t insult the teacher! Was I wrong? It’s just the way things are: whoever is born first dies first; whoever dies first is born first. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Hai-ge was easily swayed, his eyes reflecting agreement. Only Jiang Li, knowing her nature well, was not convinced, but there was little he could do. He tapped her forehead with his finger, sighing, “You, you—always causing trouble.”

Back in her own room, Liu Qin felt uneasy. After all, this was ancient times in the Han Kingdom; disrespecting elders or insulting teachers was a grave offense. So that evening, she skipped dinner with the old lady, sending Cui Liu with an excuse. Not that she feared her parents’ scolding—she dreaded seeing their disappointed eyes.

Unexpectedly, Cui Liu returned with someone else: her father, Master Liu. Seeing her father, Liu Qin felt ashamed and regretful, for the first time not rushing into his arms but standing before him with head bowed, whispering, “Father, I was wrong.”

Master Liu did not scold her. Instead, as before, he picked Liu Qin up, sat in a chair, and held her in his arms, dismissing Cui Liu and Cui Yu. Then, looking at Liu Qin, he said, “Qin’er, I know you don’t like Teacher Zhang. Truthfully, I don’t either.”

Liu Qin looked at him in surprise. He stroked her head and continued, “Teacher Zhang is learned, but he’s arrogant, sharp-tongued, and narrow-minded. He’s not likable. Did you know, with his scholarship, he could have become a court official? But his temperament kept him out. No one is born this way; his character is shaped by his past. When he was young, his father died, leaving him and his mother alone. Distant relatives bullied them for their inheritance, almost forcing his mother to remarry. Later, the county magistrate, appreciating his talent, protected his mother and preserved some property. But those early experiences left deep scars in his heart, which is why he is so dismissive when he knows you and Ah Li aren’t direct heirs of the Liu family.”

Master Liu looked at Liu Qin, his gaze profound, as if a glimmer of light shone within. “Qin’er, I don’t know if you can understand me. In my heart, you are the cleverest child in the world. But cleverness alone is not enough. If a person has only petty cunning and lacks true wisdom, they will never amount to anything. Your mother has always hoped you will grow up safely and live a simple, happy life. Of course, I hope so too. But if you wish for something different, I won’t oppose you. Whatever you want, I will support you.”