Chapter Seventy-Five: The True Master

Zhu’s wife, Mrs. Zou, had passed away many years ago. His children no longer lived with him, and he was unaccustomed to being cared for by others. Believing himself still in good health, he usually cooked his own meals.

His life was humble, yet never bleak; he kept solitude, but never let it turn cold and desolate.

The spring noodles were indeed his own handiwork.

“You’re quick to catch on,” Zhu said, tapping the rim of his bowl with his chopsticks, a gentle smile warming his eyes. “It’s good that you come often. The books in my study—if more hands turn their pages, they won’t gather mold.”

“That’s not about catching on, Teacher; your cooking is simply delicious!”

“Pei Heng was right when he called you sly.”

“How could I be!”

The meal was soon finished, leaving Xu Chengjun thoroughly satisfied—none in Shanghai could compare to the comfort of this meal.

Someone caring makes all the difference!

Who says my master’s house isn’t a true home?

When Zhu rose to clear the dishes, Xu Chengjun hurried to take over, washing the bowls with a grin. “Teacher, if you don’t let me wash them, I’ll feel too embarrassed to come for another meal!”

“Go ahead, go ahead. An extra dishwasher out of nowhere is a fine thing!”

“Hurry up then. When you’re done, come to the study—we’ll have a proper chat.”

The old man sat leisurely in a wicker chair, sipping his tea.

When Xu Chengjun entered the study, Zhu first asked about his family and past, as well as his previous creative process.

Hearing about Xu Chengjun’s father, Zhu’s brow furrowed deeply, but he refrained from offering any opinion. He merely advised him to finish his business in Shanghai soon and return home for a visit.

With parents alive, one should not roam far.

When Xu Chengjun spoke of the difficulties he faced writing “The Fitting Mirror,” Zhu chuckled, “Young people must have a sharp edge; truth holds the greatest power.”

“I still have much to learn from you.”

“In creativity, I can’t be your teacher—too old for that!”

If Zhu says so, you listen!

What, you still want to accept?

“About the annotated ‘Songs of Chu’ we discussed yesterday, I sorted some notes for you. Take your time reading them. If anything puzzles you, jot it down—next time we’ll discuss it in detail.”

With that, Zhu pulled a yellowed notebook from the shelf.

Xu Chengjun received it with both hands. “Thank you, Teacher. I’ll study it diligently.”

This was the missing piece Zhu had mentioned before—the content he’d lacked in his discussions with other professors.

Such a thick notebook would take a long time to digest.

Xu Chengjun looked at Zhu’s gentle, smiling face, his lips moved, but he said nothing.

Some things are better kept silent; a place in the heart carries more weight.

Countless words distilled into a single sentence: “Thank you, Teacher.”

He glimpsed a faded photograph pressed in the corner of the desk. The woman in the frame wore a neat bob, her brows and eyes gentle.

“Is that your wife?”

Zhu followed his gaze, his expression softening. “Yes, your teacher’s wife. When she was alive, she made the best stir-fried pickled greens with edamame. She always said the pickles needed enough bite to go well with rice.”

“Now I pickle them myself, but something’s always missing—perhaps it’s the way she’d sprinkle sugar with a trembling hand.”

Xu Chengjun watched as Zhu’s fingertips gently tapped the frame, so tenderly it seemed he was touching fragile moonlight.

In this room of books, beyond the crisp scent of ink, lingered warmth brewed by the years.

Like the bowl of pickled greens on the table—the salty fragrance wrapped around longing that could never quite dissolve.

Xu Chengjun spent the whole afternoon at Zhu’s house, the old man teaching by word and example, never withholding anything.

At noon, Xu Chengjun intended to leave early so as not to disturb the old man’s rest.

But Zhu was displeased.

“Why leave? Don’t you value this old man? Stay and revise your thesis.”

“How could I not? I just don’t want to disturb your rest.”

“You, so young, why worry so much!”

“If I tell you to read and revise here, then you stay.”

Zhu shook his head.

That afternoon, Zhu Dongrun only napped for half an hour. The rest of the time, he watched Xu Chengjun revise his thesis.

When Xu made a particularly deft edit, Zhu would praise him.

The emotional support was abundant!

During moments of leisure, Xu saw Zhu leaf through letters sent by his children, gently caressing old photos of his son Zhu Junda and daughter Zhu Xiuruo, his gaze full of affection.

When the topic came up, the old man merely shook his head.

His generation was accustomed to hardship.

Though the household lacked its former bustle, Zhu’s dedication to scholarship and his longing for family filled it with a quiet, enduring warmth.

As Xu Chengjun was about to leave,

He noticed a biography of Zhang Juzheng on the shelf,

The cover bore Zhu’s own inscription: “To study, one must first study history; to study history, one must first study humanity.”

He asked, “When writing biographies, do you always try to make the figure seem as if they stand vividly before you?”

“You’ve hit the mark.”

“A biography isn’t just a list of dates, achievements, or faults. You must get into the marrow of the person. Look at Zhang Juzheng—on the court, he was a firm reformer; late at night, reviewing memorials in his study, his desk held his child’s scribbles. When I wrote him, I imagined the force with which he amended documents, and how his brows softened when his grandson ran through the door.”

Zhu took a sip of tea.

“No one is purely good or bad. You must return them to life’s daily bread and oil—let the words breathe with the warmth of ordinary life. Only then do characters step off the page and speak to you. Just like your teacher’s wife said about pickling—without that touch of human flavor, no matter how refined the craft, it never tastes authentic.”

Human warmth, indeed.

Xu Chengjun had heard similar words before.

But when a master personally lectures you, what is that feeling?

...

Leaving Zhu’s home,

He thought of the great literary figures of the modern era—few mention Zhu Dongrun.

Yet Zhu Dongrun was, for Xu Chengjun, one of the most revered masters.

...

Back when he was a student, he held the “literary giants of the Republic” in the highest esteem, believing the notion that “few modern masters exist today compared to those who witnessed the Republic.”

But if you look back from 1949 to 1976, those years of arduous struggle,

The national industry was built from nothing, agricultural cooperatives advanced, literacy campaigns spread, barefoot doctors, rural electrification, railways constructed, the national defense system began to take shape...

Who accomplished all this?

Not the “literary giants.”

It was the ordinary cadres, workers, and technicians—those who donned work clothes, labored in experimental fields, lived in mountain villages, and rushed to the front lines.

And the masters?

Some stayed on the island, drawing high salaries for “free academia.”

Others kept researching Chinese history, closing themselves off, churning out ten-volume tomes.

Yet many never taught a single rural child, never visited a fertilizer plant, grain station, or clinic.

Without them, the new China still developed.

If you say they were “held back by the times,” Xu Chengjun would rather say they overrated themselves.

Their sense of superiority wasn’t from ability.

It came from inertia—from centuries of “scholars rule the house,” the instinct that reading books meant unquestioned authority.

You could lecture standing, but not stoop to work.

You could educate the people, but not become one of them.

The Teacher saw through it all. He knew, no matter how eloquent their words, in their bones, they never served the people.

So he said, “Intellectuals must unite with workers and peasants, or there is no future.”

You claim intellectuals suffered?

Old Sir across the way beats his chest and stamps his feet.

Throughout history, many slew dragons—but to kill the dragon, refuse to become one, and leave behind the secrets of dragon-slaying—there is but one such figure in all the annals.