Chapter Thirty-Two: The Daily Life of the Young Sage

Some days had passed since the examination, and Li Zisheng had gradually grown accustomed to the teaching methods of Huile Academy’s Heavenly Grade.

The teaching model here was a combination of instruction and self-study, with particular emphasis on the latter. Each month, there was a set day for resolving doubts and answering questions.

There was nothing particularly unique about the Heavenly Grade classes; their function was much the same as any other academy, focusing primarily on Confucian classics—the Four Books, Five Classics, Thirteen Classics, and so on were the basic texts. What differed was the increased attention paid to historical records and ancient writings.

Teachers in the Heavenly Grade were not fixed; they were often prominent local scholars of high virtue and profound learning.

This arrangement seemed only natural; after all, the essence of knowledge lay within the sage texts, and the teacher’s main role was to dispel confusion.

Thus, over the past few days, Li Zisheng had not seen many instructors or classmates from the Heavenly Grade. Not being a particularly curious person, he was content with the quiet—no one disturbed him.

Tomorrow was the monthly designated day to visit the library. Each student could select three ancient books to read, transcribe, or copy by hand, but if books were taken out, they had to be returned within five days. Failure to return them on time would trigger a series of penalties.

Li Zisheng bathed in a wooden tub, ate a simple dish of pickled vegetables and two steamed buns, then retired early to rest.

At dawn the next morning, the pale glow of sunrise stretched across the eastern sky, and the world was still dim.

Dressed in a scholar’s robe of blue, with the satchel his mother had sewn slung across his shoulder, full of vigor and spirit, Li Zisheng closed his door and strolled toward the library.

In ancient times, people valued auspiciousness. Upon arriving in Huile County, Li Zisheng noticed that most buildings were nestled by mountains and water. Behind the academy’s library flowed a small river, its origin unknown; both banks were paved with flagstones, and moss grew lushly in the cracks.

“Huile Library.”

Li Zisheng ascended the steps and opened the door. A sense of antiquity filled the air, prompting him to unconsciously stand more upright and solemn.

The person on duty was reading an ancient book. Students served as library attendants, and those assigned could read the books within the library and receive a small silver stipend each month.

Hearing the door open, the attendant looked up. A child was standing at the entrance, but the backlight made it hard to see clearly. Upon a closer look—wasn’t this the prodigy Li Zisheng, who had composed a remarkable poem during the recent exam?

The attendant’s expression changed dramatically. It just so happened he was on duty; now that he had met the prodigy, he was eager to make his acquaintance.

“Hello, I’m here to register and borrow three ancient books.” Li Zisheng approached the desk, gazing at the somewhat stunned attendant.

“Are you Li Zisheng?” The attendant’s tone was excited, though he kept his voice low out of respect for the library’s quiet, yet the excitement made his words louder than intended.

His voice carried throughout the library.

“What? This is Li Zisheng—the eight-year-old prodigy who wrote that poem?” Voices echoed from different corners.

Li Zisheng was not a proud person. Hearing this commotion, he could only smile wryly. Things had gotten out of hand; fame attracts trouble. Though he hoped for some recognition among the high ranks, this incident would surely disturb his quiet pursuit of learning.

“Yes, I am Li Zisheng. May I register, senior?” Knowing time was precious, he did not wish to delay further.

“Yes, yes, which books will you borrow?” The attendant picked up a bamboo brush for recordkeeping.

“Li Zisheng, Heavenly Grade, number twelve. Borrowing the ‘Spring and Autumn Annals.’” Li Zisheng introduced himself. The attendant pointed him to where the Annals were shelved, noticing Li Zisheng’s reluctance to waste time and refraining from further conversation.

The shelves were divided into four sections: the first labeled Classics, followed by History, Philosophy, and Literature.

The Annals were shelved in the Classics section.

Li Zisheng couldn’t help but reflect—the cataloguing system of ancient libraries was somewhat lacking. Classifying only as Classics, History, Philosophy, and Literature inevitably led to confusion and unnecessary loss of books. But it was not his place to correct this, so he could only sigh inwardly.

“Five days for borrowing—return by the deadline.” The attendant deliberately recorded a later return date, then handed Li Zisheng the borrowing slip with a smile.

Li Zisheng saw this kindness and accepted it; after all, one does not quarrel with a smiling face.

“Thank you, senior.”

Having succeeded, the attendant smiled and said no more, returning to his book.

Li Zisheng took his book and left.

It was still early, the world quiet, the dawn just past, and visibility high.

Li Zisheng sat on the flagstone platform by the small river behind his dormitory, pulled a simple brush from his satchel, and began practicing calligraphy, wrist held high.

He owned two brushes—one issued by the academy, the other purchased himself.

In the past, every time he went to the back mountain, he would use a twig to scribble and practice his script on the ground.

Now at the academy, the supplies of brush, ink, and paper were not unlimited—only one set provided, and afterwards, he would have to purchase his own.

The old saying held true: “Scholars are poor, warriors are rich.” Nowhere in Tang was this rule broken; studying was the occupation of the wealthy. When Li Zisheng used the last bits of silver his grandmother had given him to buy a brush, he looked at the empty purse and sighed, feeling the pain acutely.

The imperial examinations demanded high standards in calligraphy, especially in Tang, where requirements were strict. The ancients believed that one’s handwriting reflected one’s character—thus, handwriting was as important as appearance, and the standards nearly exacting.

Calligraphy could not be cheated like other exam subjects; it demanded diligence and practice—one could only improve through hard work.

So, with his limited supplies, Li Zisheng never slackened. He changed his habit from going to the mountain to practicing by the river on the flagstone platform. Since paper and ink were scarce, he dipped his academy brush in river water and wrote on the stones.

For copying and transcription, he used his purchased brush; for daily practice with water, the academy-issued one.

He favored running script, and so, even in Tang, he had not abandoned his semi-cursive style.

To Li Zisheng, running script was agile and convenient, not requiring strict brush technique or emphasis on pressure and stroke form, only fluid lines and skillful movement.

For someone who valued efficiency, it suited him perfectly.