Chapter Twenty-One: The End of Autumn, the Beginning of Winter (Part One)

After the Cold Dew of September, the drop in temperature became more pronounced. When heavy rain fell, Jiangning City seemed shrouded in drifting mist. The autumn rain lacked the boisterousness of summer, carrying the chill of impending winter, seeping into one’s clothes with every trace. As he crossed the small wooden bridge opposite the narrow alley, Ning Yi casually patted the water stains from his long robe. On days like this, wearing such a robe was rather cumbersome. By contrast, Xiaochan, who came trotting from behind, was far more at ease. Out in the rain, she wore not a skirt but a lake-green, flower-trimmed blouse with long trousers, her hair in its usual adorable bun, light blue embroidered shoes on her feet—a lively and nimble outfit. She must have lagged behind to buy something, for now she hurried over, oil-paper umbrella in hand, skipping over roadside puddles like a swallow.

"Young Master, wait for me!"

"What is it?"

"I bought something." She ran up to Ning Yi, grinning as she showed him a small booklet. "I passed a shop just now and saw this new release. You probably haven’t read it yet, so I brought it for you."

It was a newly published vernacular storybook titled "Strange Tales of Ghosts and Foxes." Such storybooks were common at this time, written in simple and accessible language—some told legendary histories, others folk tales of romance, especially love stories involving spirits and monsters. The popular ones would soon be retold in teahouses and taverns by storytellers. Ning Yi had been reading a lot of these lately, and Xiaochan, remembering his interest, would sometimes bring home new ones she found.

Though not as entertaining as modern stories, these novels were the best available, and flipping through them in idle moments, he found that reading the old language helped immerse him further in the atmosphere of this era. Ning Yi smiled as he took the book and flipped through it, Xiaochan following and chatting beside him as they walked.

"That man at lunch today really said something awful! I wanted to scold him on the spot."

"Mmm."

"He knows nothing, just guessing wildly, and dares to boast in the restaurant about being a scholar. Such a man won’t even pass the preliminary exams."

"Mmm."

"Young Master, I’m standing up for you, you know! He was speaking ill of you."

"What does it matter?"

"How can it not? That man… Hmph! Fine, I know you don’t care about the opinions of such vulgar people, but I still feel upset—he was insulting your reputation. If you had written a poem to scold him right then, I’d have smacked him over the head with it!"

"He doesn’t even know me," Ning Yi said, turning another page. "I was sitting right beside him."

"That’s exactly why it’s infuriating…"

The Mid-Autumn poetry gathering had been nearly a month ago now, and the discussions sparked by "Prelude to the Water Melody" continued to evolve. In the first ten days or so, praise for the poem peaked, as did curiosity and speculation about Ning Yi. But soon after, the fervor quickly subsided, shifting to deeper and more specific circles.

Such public excitement always had its time limit. For the ordinary townsfolk, perhaps for ten days after Mid-Autumn, they would pay some cultured attention to the poetry gathering, but then life’s busyness took over and the talk faded. As the frequency of mention dropped, so did the chance of hearing any gossip about it.

Increasingly, admiration and questions clustered among scholars and literati. The influence of "Prelude to the Water Melody" spread outward through their correspondence and conversation, but doubts about Ning Yi’s identity and authorship remained mostly local to Jiangning. For example, a scholar in the capital might hear the poem and be impressed, but wouldn’t much concern himself with who Ning Yi was or whether he really wrote it—it was simply too far removed to matter.

The Wu Dynasty, much like the Song, saw Confucianism reach its peak, and scholars made up a significant part of society. Significant, that is, compared to previous millennia; even in this age, when there were more scholars than ever, the proportion was still minuscule compared to the modern world Ning Yi had known. So, in less than a month, the commotion had largely quieted—though, as today’s lunch proved, one could still occasionally overhear a few scholars casting aspersions.

After discussing his thoughts with Elder Qin and Elder Kang, the latter, perhaps feeling he had fanned the flames a bit too much during the festival, helped Ning Yi smooth things over afterward. Some students who sought an audience with Ning Yi reportedly received a scolding from their teacher. Invitations to gatherings poured in during the past month, but Ning Yi ignored them all, and only three groups actually came to call. One found him absent; the other two caught him teaching the children Confucian Analects. They would open with, "It’s said half the Analects suffice to rule the world. Hearing your explanation today, sir, your understanding must be profound. May I ask how you interpret such and such…?"

This was a typical approach. Seeing him lecturing, they’d try to engage on that subject. Ning Yi had reviewed the Four Books and similar texts several times and, seasoned by the information explosion of the modern era, could easily offer insight and highlight key points, often leaving his questioners unable to argue. These visitors came prepared with other, more obscure questions, but Ning Yi’s presence and manner—enough to unsettle even a woman like Nie Yunzhu—kept them in check. After fielding a few questions on the Analects, there was no chance to raise the rest. Ning Yi would take his leave after a while, and the visitors left thinking him either erudite or inscrutably profound, only to realize later that most of their questions had gone unasked.

Aside from these group challenges, there were also individuals. One named Li Pin came daily, apparently interested in Ning Yi’s offhand stories, and stayed to listen. After a recent lesson, he asked Ning Yi for his views on those tales, seeking guidance; but every question ultimately circled back to the Analects. Since he didn’t mean to challenge, Ning Yi talked with him for over half an hour. After that, Li Pin didn’t return.

To Ning Yi, as long as no one could prove him ignorant, the doubts surrounding "Prelude to the Water Melody" could never become a stain on his reputation. When he needed the fame, proving himself would be simple. There was no need to worry about it now—he didn’t take it to heart.

Among the rumors, there were also faint whispers that a Daoist’s poem had been plagiarized by Ning Yi, but few believed it. The origins of such talk were impossible to trace. Ning Yi had expected as much and just smiled it off.

As for chalk, within half a month of mentioning it, Kang Xian’s side had produced a batch of good quality. Thus, the whiteboard had quickly evolved into a blackboard in just over ten days, making teaching much more convenient. The results would take time to show, but his routine remained: reading, explanation, storytelling. That was all, but the children’s enthusiasm for learning was clearly growing.

Such lively classroom atmosphere was rare in this era. The students loved it, though most teachers shook their heads. Su Chonghua again hinted at his disapproval, but after a brief discussion, Ning Yi explained the potential benefits and he dropped the matter. For one thing, Ning Yi now had a reputation as a celebrated scholar, the glow of "Prelude to the Water Melody" making him hard to criticize. For another, the academy had never achieved much anyway, so letting him try his way seemed harmless—perhaps something good would come of it.

Mornings were spent teaching; afternoons strolling about, or playing chess with Elder Qin—of course, only when it wasn’t raining.

Most of the time, Xiaochan still accompanied him, sometimes attending the academy’s lessons—she enjoyed Ning Yi’s strange and wonderful stories, eager to retell them to her sisters at home. Ning Yi suspected her increased attentiveness had Su Tan’er’s encouragement behind it, understandable since he’d composed "Prelude to the Water Melody." He didn’t mind.

What puzzled him more was that his wife must have found some reason to explain how he could have written such a poem. In the first few days, her gaze at meals was probing, but soon she returned to her work, her daily routines and tone reverting to normal, with no more hints of suspicion in her words. This intrigued Ning Yi: what explanation had she found and accepted? He couldn’t quite grasp it.

Apart from the unchanged rhythms of his days, Ning Yi occasionally inquired about martial arts and inner cultivation. The Su family had several household guards, some said to be skilled in hard training, but that was only on par with the hard qigong of modern soldiers—able to break bricks with their heads, perhaps. As for the more mystical inner skills, he’d heard that they did exist in this era, practiced by famous masters of major sects, though learning them would be exceedingly difficult.

For now, Ning Yi was only beginning to gather information—this interested him most. In this world, whether as an official, a businessman, or even a rebel, all were systems he’d already played with in the modern era—just interactions between people. Only martial arts offered something novel. If the chance arose, he truly wished to experience inner cultivation—if only it wasn’t just as fake as in his own time. He wasn’t greedy; even being able to leap three meters from a standstill would suffice—though two meters would be fine, too.

To practice martial arts, one needed a fit body. Seeking out some master right away was not realistic; it was best to build a foundation first. So, on rainless mornings, his exercise routine continued daily, now doubled in intensity for maximum effect—sit-ups, push-ups, long-distance running. The other day, passing by Nie Yunzhu’s house, he saw her standing outside in simple dress. As he ran closer, she lowered her eyes and bowed slightly. "Master Ning."

Dripping with sweat and out of breath, Ning Yi managed a strained smile, waved, but couldn’t even utter a greeting before running on.

Nie Yunzhu stood there, stunned for quite a while.

After all… she had worked up the courage to come out and greet him.

***************

I love recommendation votes the most ^_^