ITIEQ C70

Chapter 70 – You Are Not Worthy

Overnight, the maple blossoms outside the window blurred into a deeper hue, like tufts of red cloud rising with the swell of autumn.

The dossiers on Shen Qinghe’s desk no longer piled to small mountains. The Engineering Division had recently developed a new paper resistant to mold and insect damage: the cost acceptable, far cheaper than the pricey stationery sold outside, with hopes to launch within the year; academy students would be the first to enjoy it, with sales through the major education markets.

As for external sales, he had already leased a storefront on the most prosperous avenue in Danyang Prefecture; with minor renovation, it would become the first offline “Qingbei Manufacture” shop.

Shen Qinghe flicked his brush and fixed the opening date on the planning sheet. He still had to drag the Pingyun Princess out of her soot‑smudged research topic, tidy her up for the ribbon‑cutting, and drill the remarks so she could show her face properly.

He leaned back against the chair and balled several discarded proposals, pitching them into a porcelain jar not far away.

Qingbei Academy already had its first graduating classes: some returned home to build, some prepared for the examinations, some were rehired back to campus—there were all sorts. Shen Qinghe never forced any particular path; at graduation he simply led the chant, “A year a Qingbei student, a lifetime a Qingbei person.” Regardless of birth, regardless of where life led, the mark of Qingbei Academy would be forever imprinted, alma mater the eternal harbor.

At once, many graduates were in tears, sobbing without quite knowing why—

When they rose to prominence in future, donations to the alma mater would surely be plentiful.

With Xiao Yuxi’s staunch support, business‑school parents’ generous purses, and “Qingbei Manufacture’s” brisk cash flow, he should, by rights, have amassed a healthy fund. Yet to keep Danyang’s local literacy push abreast, money flowed out as quickly as it came in, like water.

Plop—another paper ball dropped into the porcelain jar.

Slow, slow—still slow.

He sighed and shifted to a new lounging angle.

Three feet of ice do not form in one day; in the end, patience would be required.

Still, at both Qiuquan and Danyang campuses he had already raised several PIs capable of independently running projects: the first five who had followed him—Dan Bowen and company—the forever lab‑bound Xiao Yuxi, several elite picks among the students tapped for independent tracks; coupled with the System’s vast built‑in resources, the research fields remained a wide blue ocean. Every month brought good news. Not to boast, but his teams and their tech transfer stood at the pinnacle of Great Yong—indeed, of the whole world.

Such sterling academic repute had begun to draw talent nationwide as a matter of course. Tan Ping, Chao Chuke and the like needed no comment; the unexpected one was the venerable Master Baoshan—

Shen had expected it would take effort to “wear down” such an old guard; yet Xiao Yuxi merely smiled and produced a pair of reading glasses, inviting him to truly see and truly try. However stiff Master Baoshan’s mouth, how could he say “no” to a world, clear and beautiful, unseen for nearly ten years?

So the staff‑bearing Master Baoshan, under the pretext of “inspecting his disciple’s future teaching environment,” forcibly remained at Qingbei an entire month. He and Xiao Yuxi were “old acquaintances,” and with a small, tail‑flicking pride she showcased a handful of the academy’s completed micro‑patents, igniting the scholarly passion that had been banked in the old man for half a lifetime. Only when Baizhang Academy realized the party had been gone a very long while did they send an urgent summons to call him back.

Upon departure, the man past sixty found his back no longer sore, his legs no longer aching; he could, leaning on a cane, mount a carriage alone. Before he left, he grasped Tan Ping’s hand—no lingering sadness, only declaring, “I will definitely return,” which left Shen Qinghe, who was doing his best as host, half laughing and half exasperated.

But Master Baoshan’s final words were for Shen himself. Though nominally this campus was “run by that slip of a girl from Pingyun,” he knew very well who the backbone was. The little old man’s eyes, beneath the lenses, threw back a shine.

The people he’d admired across his life were few, and every one a sainted sage or giant of the age. But this youngster…

The tower bells pealed again; uncountable students appeared, gathering in the central square: men and women, old and young, every walk and station… Master Baoshan had witnessed this scene many times in a month. The clever crafts alone were not what moved him; yet each time he saw this, his feelings surged anew.

Education for all, the world held in common; knowledge is not hard—only practice is hard.

He had long thought the younger generation mixed and middling, unfit for great use—that all still rested on their old bones.

One must yield to age, after all.

Folding his hands together, Master Baoshan suddenly bowed toward the black‑haired youth.

“Eh—eh…?!”

“Teacher! You…”

Students stood stunned.

Shen Qinghe was struck dumb, then hurried forward to support him.

“You’ll shorten my years!”

With a long sigh, Master Baoshan—old now, knowing he might never again come to Qingbei—pried open the mouth that Princess Pingyun had once called iron‑toothed:

“Young talent keen as a blade—and yet in fear of those to come. On the four characters ‘peach and plum throughout the world,’ I am not your equal.”

Shen Qinghe’s sleeve was caught, his wrist held; Master Baoshan’s words rang like metal, the old bearing of a man who had once strode the court faintly visible.

“But having lived half a lifetime more, this old man still must say—this road is not easy. Though it is not easy, I still hope you… hope you…!”

It was already a pouring out of heart and lung. Shen Qinghe understood the unspoken weight behind it, and clasped those furrow‑ridged hands in return.

“Rest easy, sir. I know.”

Returning from the drift of thought, the maple‑tinged clouds moved outside the window; a curtain of clear autumn. Shen Qinghe gave a soft laugh to himself. He was only just past twenty—could he truly already “fill the world with peach and plum”?

The System poked its head out. “Host, when rewards are handed out, remember mine.”

Shen Qinghe smirked. “Right—nearly forgot you. What—‘Reincarnate Founder of the Eight Great Cuisines’ isn’t good enough?”

The System was the best tool on earth: never tired, never sleepy, capable of running eighteen directives at once, never needing a wage. Now that the academy’s processes were clear and polished, Shen no longer needed to micromanage. With its massive database, and as the living encyclopedia of the age, whenever Xiao Yuxi’s projects hit a bottleneck she ran straight to it—she had even eagerly built the System its own “laboratory”—

A private kitchen with full top‑end cookware and ventilation.

The System felt the title barely suitable. “Host, no discrimination—people live by food. My topics are important too.”

“Yes. When will you write a study on adapting the Eight Great Cuisines to Yong? If we can produce a series of exact recipes, perhaps we could open a chain of restaurants. The aristocrats seem to love novelty; I think they’d pay dearly to taste pre‑prepped dishes.” Shen liked it; he jotted a note, swished it in the air, and told the System: “Then this new topic is yours.”

System: “…”

Knock, knock, knock.

The door sounded. Shen answered “come in.” Xue Bufan stood at the threshold, brows faintly knit, expression complicated.

What catastrophe now, for our Director Xue to wear that look?

Shen shed his lazy air, lowered his propped legs slowly, and asked soberly, “…What is it?”

“Gongyang Ci is here.”

Shen blinked. Then his lips parted into a smile of unclear meaning.

“Ha.”

…

Xiao Yuxi had changed into plain dress. The long hair that usually fell to the floor when seated had become a nuisance—she had lopped half off and bound the rest high, clean and neat, her brows sharp—like a lady general.

Gongyang Ci sat properly opposite, a dark headpiece on his crown, shaped like an inverted cup; layered long robes, every pendant in place—formal to the utmost.

Xiao Yuxi: “What do you want with me?”

No one visits the ancestral hall without cause. She wore no pleasant face for Wei clan folk across the river.

Catching the thorn in her tone, Gongyang Ci neither angered nor flustered.

Xiao Rou and Xiao Yuxi’s late husband had been paternal cousins; by seniority, he should have called her “aunt‑in‑law.” But the lady of this house would likely detest the term. He turned the thought over and addressed her with respect: “Your Highness, Princess.”

It was laughable. Of the seven prestigious houses, two had come under the charge of outsiders. In the old days, even as a joke, others would have found it absurd.

Gongyang’s lips curved faintly.

“Mm.”

Xiao Yuxi snorted through her nose. She disliked the Yunzhong Wei and would not speak peaceably with anyone from there. But with Shen Qinghe’s methods, her flotillas were transformed—speed more than doubled; every saved hour rang like coin. And with the branch campus bearing her name, merchants along both banks, who had once wavered, now either had sons studying at the academy or were breaking heads for slots next term—standing firmly at her skirts.

She had not anticipated this layer of benefit.

Xiao Yuxi could scarcely hold herself back; she burned to see the Wei faces soured and stinking. With her side strong, what face had Wei Hongbo to call himself head of the house?

Alas, it wasn’t the sour old man—only a pale scholar.

Boring.

“Who are you? Why not Wei Hongbo?” She leaned back against the couch, playing idly with her fingers. Her vermilion lips arched, wicked. “Don’t tell me I angered him to death?”

Shen Qinghe had enmity with Yunzhong folk. They were in the same boat; she was still waiting to make the front page. At such a juncture, even if the Heavenly King came, she would not yield.

She had already let her mind wander.

Hm… they said a portrait could be carved for the front page—what pose would she strike?

Gongyang answered with precisely measured courtesy. Yet whatever he said, Princess Pingyun remained cool, plainly impatient—one more empty phrase and she would likely flip the table—quite within her character.

He lowered his eyes; when he lifted them again, they still held a warm smile. “In former days, my lady often spoke of Your Highness’s bearing. Today I see it truly—stunning, as the tales said.”

“My lady?” Xiao Yuxi slanted a glance. “And who is that?”

Gongyang dipped his head, light shining under thin lids. “My wife, Wei Qiong—style name Rouze.”

“Xiao Rou?” Xiao Yuxi straightened.

Gongyang feigned surprise. “Your Highness knows her?”

Wei Qiong was beautiful and kind, though frail; few in Wei were any good—she was one. Pity that, after the split, they had not met again. Xiao Yuxi shed her slouch, looking him up and down. “So you’re the retainer who ran off with her?”

Gongyang smiled downwards, voice gentle. “The climb was hard; now, at last, the clouds part and sun breaks through.”

Xiao Yuxi had heard rumors and found herself mildly curious. “You’re half a Wei head now, aren’t you?”

“Young Master Wei Sheng is gravely ill… I am favored by the old house head.”

Xiao Yuxi trusted no man’s deep love; yet this death‑to‑life attachment—she clicked her tongue.

He had some ability, at least. Since the eyesore would not be at the helm, for her poor, helpless little sister‑in‑law’s sake, she might as well hear him out.

Gongyang raised his gaze and broadly outlined his purpose. It was as she had suspected: matters tied to the Dan‑Yun River, with generous terms. If truly joining jade with pearl, she might reap quite a harvest.

Seeing her tempted, he smiled, all aristocratic grace. “If you refuse, it’s no matter. I know the Wei once showed you disrespect. I only wish from now that we put aside the sword. Xiao Rou thinks of you often; when her health improves, I will escort her across the river to call upon you.”

A fine speech. Xiao Yuxi felt soothed.

Building Qingbei had drained her coffers; to stumble upon free money and not take it would be foolish.

She swung her arm, ready to agree—when the painted screen behind her knocked. Turning, she saw Shen Qinghe step out smiling.

“Having a nice chat.”

Both looked over. The youth stood tall and jade‑slender, hands folded in sleeves, arm braced—careless grace. Gongyang’s pupils tightened and then eased. The black‑haired youth, exactly as remembered, was already walking over.

His pupils shrank, lips pulling into a slow smile, voice dipping low. “I knew Lord Shen was no ordinary man.”

Shen Qinghe lowered his eyes, looking at him as one might look at a hollow clay idol.

“It has been many days—Lord Shen, you are well? You are still a prefectural governor—best return to your post soon, lest tongues wag.”

“Thanks to Lord Gongyang’s blessings, I have never been better. You, on the other hand, resigned office and chose to remain in Yunzhong—quite the nerve.”

Gongyang’s eyes slitted. With such a man, if you became enemies and failed to kill in one stroke, all calculations were lesser schemes.

Barbs traded, Xiao Yuxi sensed things between them were ill. She tapped the chair with manicured nails. “Since Lord Shen is displeased, I can’t help you.”

Shen Qinghe—founder of “Pure Yong,” favorite at the Emperor’s side—she went to him for project approvals. Xiao Yuxi knew large kings from small.

She rubbed her nose. Much as she wanted gossip, this excitement was truly most inauspicious.

Grievances and debts were best settled by the parties themselves.

“You two talk. You two talk.”

Skirts lifted, she ran off at speed.

Under a gaze that could be called dissecting, Gongyang felt a twinge of discomfort.

His mind spun through a hundred turns. Wei Sheng on the brink; Wei Hongbo gravely ill. Though he had borrowed Yue Zhi’s nomination to serve temporarily as clan head, he could not shake old prejudices. Affairs piled high drained him; collateral lines and elder clansmen eyed him like tigers, eager to drag him down. To secure the seat, he needed one stunning achievement to shut their mouths. He knew it might be hard in Danyang—he still had to come.

The anticipated major obstacle—Xiao Yuxi—had softened. He had not expected—had not expected—Shen Qinghe!

He had not fled in defeat; he had stayed within arm’s reach in Danyang—and even become an honored guest of the Princess’s house. Gongyang drew a deep breath, pushing down the dark in his gaze, forcing his tone level.

He could no longer tell what twisted growth rose in his heart—resentment, or jealous hate.

“Lord Shen truly—no matter the straits—wins noble aid and stirs fair winds. I am envious. Have you ever had your fate read? It must be perfect fortune.”

Fortunate? First time he’d heard that.

But Shen would not bandy gods and ghosts with him. He took the seat Xiao Yuxi had vacated, elbow on raised knee, chin lifted. “What fate—born to toil, perhaps?” He sneered. “Your ‘lady’ on your lips day after day—how deeply you love.”

Gongyang’s face did not shift; he held his tongue.

So—knowing he was unmasked, he would not even bother to pretend.

Shen stared at him, seeming nearly to watch, with his own eyes, how a talented man of low birth, in a warped era, was devoured bit by bit by power into a demon of congealed desire.

Everything to be used. Everything a chip on the board.

Within his sleeve, Gongyang’s fist loosened, then clenched. His peripheral glance slid to the doors and windows. His attendants were withdrawn without; though he had brought many, this was Danyang now. If Shen meant to make things hard—or take his life—there would be no escape.

“Hmph.” Shen watched him for a long moment—then let out a light, mocking laugh, airy as cloud. “You come to talk business—and bring neither plan nor decision brief?”

Gongyang froze.

Reclining, Shen wore a look Gongyang could not parse—only find offensive.

“You want to talk business with me?”

“If you offer concessions—why wouldn’t I nod?”

Money that entered the Danyang Wei would be money flowing indirectly to his hands. If someone wished to hand him coin, why refuse? Should he swear the chastities of nine and three, see an enemy and go red‑eyed, never rest till revenge?

As for him?

Not worth it.

So far from expectation, Gongyang did not dare believe it at first. He suspected deeper plots: that Shen meant to pay back old betrayal with some elaborate scheme—perhaps to fell him in an instant as at Xiechun Tower, with gods‑and‑ghosts devices.

His mind roiled, eyes flickering. Still, he laid out the pre‑planned profit splits. Shen listened intently, flagged a few points for revision. Gongyang, in unease, agreed without much thought. Shen was surprised at his readiness.

“Then settled. I’ll have a contract drafted—no, signature and seal.” Was the man addled? Fine—saved him the tongue‑work.

Gongyang sat stiff, incredulous, fine webs of blood rising in his eyes.

Just like that? He knew very well what that private dungeon was. Did Shen truly not want revenge?

As if reading him, Shen rolled the words on his tongue, light as drifting cloud: “What’s strange? You’re not worth it. To like, or to hate—you’re not worth either.”

Ha—not worthy? I’m not worthy?

“The entire Wei bends to my command—and you say I’m not worthy?!”

The mask tore. He no longer feared whether Shen would act. Perhaps he was mad—perhaps had long been so.

The black‑haired youth watched his frenzy; all rancor had fallen away—not forgiveness, but a clear, placid understanding.

Across the table, the true opponent had never been one particular man.

“Give my regards to your lady.”

Blood‑rimmed eyes watched him glide away, back straight as pine and bamboo. Old wounds and hardships seemed not to have left a speck upon him.

He left.

He did nothing.

Gongyang collapsed against the couch; sweat soaked hair beneath the cap.

Blank‑faced, he thought of the “grading” the scholars loved—the old “fixed‑rank” appraisals. However he had striven, at best he had earned a “sixth rank, lower.” As for the very top grades—beyond family background—one required that “clarity is not muddied by clarity, disturbance not turbid by disturbance—broad and brimming as ten‑thousand‑acre waters.”

He had never believed such men could exist. Take Yue Zhi, chief of the scholars’ hall: for all the brilliance of his public name, his inner methods were nested and nested, toying with hearts.

Disgusting.

Shen Qinghe.

Why?

Why could he so easily possess everything?

If sunk in a mire, how was one to gladly choose to sink?

His eyelids dipped. On the table—one teapot, one porcelain cup.

Not even a cup of tea’s respect.

Gongyang could not hold himself; he swept the scattered objects to the floor.

He laughed in a daze, as if draining a jar of years‑old liquor—part relief after disaster, part the heavy ache of a hangover—finally all congealing into a chest‑heaving, gut‑turning poison.

Impossible to swallow; impossible to spit.

Footnotes:

1. “Education without class distinctions” (有教无类) and “the world held in common” (天下为公): Classical Confucian ideals that the academy actively embodies in its admissions and mission. 
2. “Peach and plum throughout the world” (桃李天下): An idiom praising a teacher whose students (peach and plum) are spread everywhere, i.e., widespread, successful disciples. 
3. “Fixed‑rank appraisals” (定品法): A traditional scholarly habit of grading men by talent and moral quality; the “sixth rank, lower” (六品下才) indicates middling ability in old literati parlance. 
4. “Ten‑thousand‑acre waters” metaphor (澄之不清，扰之不浊，汪汪如万顷之陂): Evokes a mind so broad and stable that clarity does not over‑clarify and disturbance does not muddy—an ideal of cultivated equanimity. 
5. “Xiechun Tower” (携春楼): The pleasure house where a previous confrontation left Wei Sheng gravely injured; referenced here to underscore Gongyang’s fear of Shen’s “gods‑and‑ghosts” methods.