Chapter Thirty-Six: The Chilling Wind Sighs, A Silent Night Passes

Li Zisheng gazed at the burly student before him with regret, his face etched with sighs, as if disappointed by one who had failed to meet expectations.

"Brother, your behavior is no different from that of a three-year-old child." With that, he glanced into the distance, giving no chance for the student to speak, and continued on.

"When the host sends an invitation and greets guests at the door, proper etiquette must be observed. Upon the guests' arrival, they exchange greetings and are led to the drawing room for tea and refreshments. Once everyone has arrived, guests are ushered to their seats—always to the left first, which is considered the place of honor, with the seat opposite as the second, then the third below the first, and the fourth beneath the second. After the guests are seated, the host offers wine and dishes, and the guests respond with proper courtesy. Even the pouring of wine and serving of dishes follows strict order: first to elders and guests of honor, and finally to the host. When the feast concludes, guests return to the drawing room for tea until it is time to depart.

"Food is heaven-sent, won by countless labors, and so we must recognize the hardship behind every grain. Why, then, do you squander this hard-earned sustenance? Such waste not only chills the hearts of our farmers but also the people of our mighty Tang Empire."

Li Zisheng spoke with deep feeling, assuming the tone of an elder addressing a misguided youth. The look of bitter disappointment on his face only further provoked the stout student, who could barely contain his anger.

Having finished, Li Zisheng ignored the student's mounting indignation and signaled to the young maid leading the way that it was time to go. Li Zisheng had an excellent memory; though there were sixteen passages here, each looking identical, he immediately recognized the tunnel he had entered by.

He led Eight Taels onward, paying no heed to the fuming student left behind. The maid, seeing Li Zisheng stride ahead, hurried to catch up, soon overtaking him to lead the way.

As Li Zisheng's figure receded, the stout student stood seething, while the elder nearby wore a dark expression. With a signal to his attendant, they too departed in silence.

"I wonder if Xiaosan’s judgment is accurate this time—whether Li Zisheng is truly a man of great potential," the elder murmured, his earlier smile vanishing.

Guided by the young maid, Li Zisheng soon left the tunnel behind.

Once more he found himself outside the military camp, dusk already beginning to deepen.

The camp was still and quiet. The guards, recognizing Li Zisheng, did not stop him and Eight Taels, letting them pass without question.

They returned to their tent, encountering almost no familiar faces—only the occasional patrol of soldiers crossed their path.

Li Zisheng took it all in, realizing that with tomorrow’s grand competition approaching, everyone was girding themselves for the challenge.

Deng Qing and the others were likewise preparing diligently, all determined to win.

Outside, yesterday’s rain had left deep puddles. Though the rain had ceased, the sky remained oppressively gray.

The dark weather left Li Zisheng with a vague sense of unease. Though he would not compete in the martial contests tomorrow, he could not shake the feeling that something momentous would occur.

Back in his tent, he lit the kerosene lamp, its dim glow filling the space. He took out the new brush he had long kept in reserve, along with precious sheets of paper he carried with him.

The flourishing Tang Dynasty's demand for writing materials had driven prices high, making good paper and ink a luxury. Li Zisheng had always been reluctant to use them, but tonight, with darkness already fallen and a longing to practice calligraphy, he decided to use his treasured rice paper.

Under the lamplight, the young boy held his brush with solemn reverence. As he wrote, elegant small characters danced across the page. People say that writing large characters calms the mind, but Li Zisheng knew that, for him, writing small ones brought the greatest relaxation. Moreover, it saved paper—an important consideration, making it a doubly wise choice.

Embracing these virtues, his writing flowed ever more smoothly, each character appearing with practiced ease.

Before long, he had copied the "Memorial Before the First Northern Expedition" by Marquis Zhuge, a classic text he deeply admired. The words came fluently, each line an outpouring of his affection for its wisdom.

He reflected: "Heaven has endowed me with virtue, so my cultivation must come from within, not from outward seeking. Since it is found within, it is always attainable.

"Thus it is said: 'The noble man finds satisfaction wherever he goes.'

"Again it is said: 'The noble man conducts himself according to his station, whether in wealth or poverty, hardship or ease, among his own people or in foreign lands.'

How many draw their swords and ride out, dreaming of poetry and wine in their short youth—yet how few realize that youth is but a fleeting moment? If one does not wish to chase moonlight in the well or flowers reflected in water, one must cherish every passing moment. Work hard when it is time to work, strive when it is time to strive, so that when the time comes to enjoy life, one is not lacking in love or coin.

Li Zisheng understood well: wherever, whenever, only effort is the true path, the best way to live. As the saying goes,

'A sword's edge comes from honing, plum blossoms' fragrance from bitter cold.'

He knew his own situation—surrounded by hidden dangers and countless obstacles. If he relaxed his vigilance even a little, the abyss would await. So for his own sake, he must push himself ever harder; that was the only way forward, the only thing that truly mattered.

He left his written pages spread out on the table, glanced at his handiwork, and went to rest.

The wind whispered outside, the night deep and still; the lamp’s flame guttered and faded as another lonely night passed.