WSMTATMC C90

Chapter 90

Upon arriving at the prefectural academy, Chen Qingyan and Chen Qingsong were stunned once more.

Laizhou Prefectural Academy was even larger than Jizhou’s.

Just inside the gate stood a massive carved stone screen etched with Confucius and Mencius; beside it was the founding dean’s inscription: “Even deadwood at spring’s return may flourish again; but man has no second youth to live anew.” The vigorous brushwork sent a shiver through the reader.

Circling behind the screen lay a broad flagstone path lined with neatly pruned ornamental trees, thick with summer shade.

It was not yet class time; here and there, groups of students sat in discussion, the air dense with learning.

Because notice had been given in advance, the carriage rolled straight into the academy and, with practiced ease, arrived before the dean’s offices.

The dean, Fang Yunxiao, was a man in his early forties—short, slightly stout, clad in a dark blue scholar’s robe and cap, with a neat short beard and a kindly face.

Seeing Liang Boqing arrive, he went forward warmly. “I must trouble the venerable Master Liang to come in person.”

Liang, for once, smiled and patted his arm. “I was passing by to see you—many years gone. How do you fare?”

“As ever. These three must be the beloved disciples you mentioned.”

The three bowed. “Greetings, Dean.”

“No need for formality—come in and sit so we can talk at leisure.”

Tea had already been set out. A young student served, pouring and replenishing cups for the two elders.

The three stood respectfully by Master Liang’s side as the two men spoke.

“We parted three years ago,” Fang said. “My teacher told me you were bound for Lord Chen’s hometown. I was worried then, but now I see you have taken two fine pupils.”

“Three blocks of elm-wood,” Liang waved it off. “They must be pared and shaped before they’ll make timber.”

Fang, an old acquaintance of Chen Jing, naturally recognized Qinghuai. He studied him briefly. “So grown already. The last time I saw you, you were but a child—now a young gentleman. Your father’s transfer to Shanzhou—he is well?”

“My father is well.”

“Good. He’s been too busy for correspondence; with mountains high and waters long, who knows when there will be time to meet again.”

Fang turned to Qingyan and Qingsong. “And these two? Also of the Chen clan, it seems—one can see it from their features alone.”

Liang stroked his beard. “Yes. The elder is Chen Qingyan, the younger Chen Qingsong—both nephews of Chen Jing.”

“Good—three brothers of one heart. Study diligently, and when you enter service, you’ll find mutual support at court.”

The three bowed assent.

“Jingqi,” Fang said to the young attendant, “take them to the dormitory. Let them join Class C for a few days to get used to the routine; we’ll place them by the monthly exam results.”

“Yes.”

When the boys had gone, Liang said quietly, “Yesterday, I went to see Elder Cai. He… he did not recognize me…”

Fang sighed deeply. “Not only you—he no longer knows me or Cai Yun.”

“How could it have worsened so much? When I left, it wasn’t like this. Have physicians examined him?”

“Many, to no avail. We can only tend him as best we can.”

Elder Cai’s illness was what the modern world would call Alzheimer’s—without remedy even in the twenty-first century, much less in antiquity.

“In the past few years, he began with forgetfulness but still knew faces. Since the start of this year, he recognizes no one, and his temper has grown childlike. He must not be left alone—lest he wander off.”

Liang dabbed his eyes. “To suffer such an illness, and Cai Yun bears the burden with him. Even his own hair is half white already.”

Elder Cai had four sons; Cai Yun, the eldest, tended him at home. The other three were posted afar and could not return with ease.

By midday, Fang proposed they dine together.

“I’ll forgo the meal and not detain you further,” Liang said. “We’ll be here more than two months. When you have leisure, we’ll meet.”

Fang escorted him to the carriage. “If you have a free hour, please visit my teacher often… perhaps it will stir an old memory.”

“I surely will. And I leave those three children in your care.”

“Rest assured. I will look after them well.”

He watched Liang depart before returning to his duties.

Meanwhile, Cai Jingqi led the three toward the student quarters.

He was Elder Cai’s grandson, sixteen years old and already a provincial student (bingsheng), preparing for next year’s provincial exam.

Because Liang and his grandfather were dear friends, Qinghuai had often visited as a child—thus, they were old acquaintances.

Open and talkative by nature, Jingqi struck up conversation. “Do you remember me, Qinghuai? Once your teacher brought you to our house, and we quarreled over a gourd.”

Qinghuai couldn’t help laughing. “How could I forget.”

They’d been eight or nine—at the most mischievous age. Visiting the house, they’d seen gourds drying on a frame in the courtyard. Elder Cai had sent servants to pick some; Cai Jingqi had arrived and forbid them to cut any; the quarrel escalated until they were both wailing.

In the end, Liang compromised—one gourd each.

They laughed, and the old familiarity returned.

Jingqi brought them to the dormitory. “Here is your room. Your uncle wrote ahead to have the tutors place you together—so you can look after one another.”

“Thank you.”

“No thanks needed. Stow your luggage, and I’ll show you around.”

The room was not large: four plank beds, with one berth empty aside from the three brothers. Opposite stood a row of wooden lockers for personal items and books. Near the window was a table with several chairs for reading and copying.

Jingqi handed over the key. “Lock the door when you go out. With many people in the academy, hands may be light. Keep valuables put away so no one rummages them.”

Qingyan accepted the key with a nod.

“Next, we’ll go collect student uniforms—what I’m wearing. During lessons, the uniform is mandatory; slovenly dress earns penalties.”

Qingsong asked anxiously, “What kind of penalties?”

“Oh, fetching water, sweeping courtyards, cleaning the latrines—such things.”

Hearing the penalties weren’t severe, the three relaxed a little.

With luggage set and the room locked, they followed Jingqi through the bathhouse, the privies, and the classrooms in turn.

He explained each rule patiently, helping them integrate quickly into academy life.

Near noon, the four went to the refectory.

Much like Jizhou’s, the hall was large with benches and tables. Students queued with bowls and chopsticks for their meals.

The fare, however, differed by region. Laizhou was by the sea; with a thriving fishery, fish was cheaper than pork—thus, nearly every meal included fish.

At first, Qingyan and Qingsong were delighted—until a month of steamed fish, boiled fish, braised fish, fried fish left them ready to flee at the sight.

Over lunch, Jingqi ran into good friends and brought them to make introductions.

“This is Sun Yan, that is Pang Heming, and here is Zhao Lan—all classmates and friends.” He then introduced the brothers: “These three are visiting from Jizhou—and disciples of Master Liang: Chen Qingyan, Chen Qinghuai, and Chen Qingsong.”

At the mention of Liang’s name, their eyes lit up. In Laizhou, the master’s renown exceeded even Jizhou’s; many had once sought to be admitted to his tutelage.

But regardless of brilliance—or pitiful pleas at his gate—he had refused all.

People had said he kept a single closed-door disciple who was the prefect’s son; now there were two more.

“Has Master Liang begun to accept students?” Pang whispered.

“I don’t know,” Jingqi said. “Ask them.”

“Master is old,” Qinghuai replied quietly. “He says he will take no more pupils.”

The group sighed in regret—and grew more curious about the Chen brothers. They sat together, eating and talking.

Of the three, Zhao Lan was oldest—twenty-one, with wife and two children—closest to Qingyan in age, and thus they had more to discuss.

The others—sixteen or seventeen—not yet married—while Qingsong was youngest. He spoke little, but their talk amused him.

They four were in the same class. The academy had five: A (jia), B (yi), C (bing), D (ding), and E (wu).

These were not fixed; assignments shifted monthly by rank. Class A held a fixed forty seats with last-place elimination in monthly exams.

If a B-class student outscored someone in A, he rose to A; conversely, A’s stragglers were demoted to B.

A and B enjoyed stipends—study with pay. Competition was fierce and pressure high.

C and D were less intense—no headcount limit. Any xiucai could enter if he paid; but those who performed too poorly might be persuaded to leave.

E-class consisted largely of military-track students—riding and archery foremost; academic courses were secondary and separate from the first four classes.

After lunch, Jingqi guided them through Class C.

It held nearly sixty students, mostly xiucai from Laizhou’s various counties, ages ranging from thirteen or fourteen to thirty or forty.

“Each day, morning reading begins at the third quarter of the Yin hour. Tardiness earns punishment. Our tutor is strict—latecomers must stand outside and listen; C-class tutors have tempers.”

“Oh—and apart from regular lessons, you must choose two of the Six Arts every ten-day cycle: rites, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, arithmetic. Choose in advance—or the tutor will assign at random. Last time, someone ended up in charioteering and fell from the carriage—broke a leg.”

The three shuddered as one. “Thank you for the warning, Brother Qi!”

“Call me Jingqi. If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave.”

“You’ve troubled yourself.”

“Not at all—we are classmates now. If anything confuses you, come find me in Class A.”

After seeing him off, the brothers hurried back to the dorm to rest and prepare for their first day of lessons.

Footnotes:

“Bingsheng” (禀生) — A provincial-level student status, typically indicating advancement beyond the basic licentiate in some regional academies.

“Six Arts” (礼、乐、射、御、书、数) — The canonical curriculum in classical education: rites, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, and mathematics.