“As everyone knows, the earliest high-yield grain varieties in our country were brought out of a northern small town by a certain Daoist surnamed Ning, who later sailed overseas in search of new varieties, bringing them back to the north… Unfortunately, to this day, we still don’t know who exactly bred these original grains more than three hundred years ago; we only know it may be linked to a certain Magistrate Xue of that era. In ancient times, this was a colossal undertaking—as seen from Jiangnan historical sources, there was also a connection to Qiu Jing, who promoted sea trade and shipping. Thanks to three outstanding prime ministers in the Qi dynasty, high-yield crops weren’t just valued up north; even in southern regions, people conducted intensive research… Today, we’re going to talk about how agricultural transformation and maritime shipping influenced China’s ancient economy.
“All right, all right. It’s the first Monday class—everyone’s drowsy. Let’s say something to wake you up.
“We just mentioned Qiu Jing—himself a true eccentric. There are lots of legends about him. Official histories say he was once the underground emperor of Jiangnan, respected by everyone from the Southern Barge Guild to the Salt Guild, and even had a gentleman’s agreement with General Cheng Jingchuan, who actually controlled the south. There are many films and TV shows about him now.”
On the podium, the elderly professor pushed up his glasses and looked at the rowdy students, sighing, “Most of the show plots are absurd—so far, not a single one has presented a fair and accurate account of this remarkable person’s life, mainly because he was so mysterious—no one can clarify his background or achievements, and historians can’t even say for sure if Qiu Jing was a man or woman.”
If even the gender is in doubt, you can’t really blame the screenwriters for going wild.
Last year’s TV series had Qiu Jing as a cross-dressing beauty, courted by princes, southern warlords, and sea pirates alike—it was billed as a blockbuster ‘strong-female-lead drama,’ but in truth, every character did nothing but fall in love.
This year’s new series made Qiu Jing a dashing young man, pursued by—just flip the genders of last year’s cast—princesses, female generals, lady bandits, all sighing for him, master of sweet talk, always brushing past the female lead and making even the third, fourth, and fifth female supporting characters envious. He recruited followers wherever he went, won universal admiration, and amassed great wealth.
Trouble is, the Qi dynasty never had princesses.
Whatever—just make it all up. The Rebellion of the Tianshou King spawned an invented female bandit general for eighty episodes of love and war—at a glance, it all seemed sweeping and grand. The timelines were utterly mixed up; when Qiu Jing led shipbuilding and voyaging, the Tianshou King had already been dead for eighteen years.
“More than Qiu Jing, I’m actually more interested in Daoist Ning,” a student muttered to his neighbour.
His classmate rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right—Qiu Jing was a real reformer; no matter how wild the stories, you can’t erase the practical accomplishments. Your Daoist Ning is nothing but a supernatural legend!”
“What’s wrong with Daoist Ning? He travelled the world and saved so many! Super famous! Didn’t you learn those sentences in primary school? The ones about passing on the flame—how, grateful for a doctor who saved him, he swore to heal others for his whole life. Many of those he aided became famous, too!” the first student retorted.
“Doesn’t matter—he got turned into a comic-book wanderer like Ji Gong.”
“You…”
The student deflated. It’s true—even if the Qiu Jing TV dramas are dog-blood melodramas, they still sound prestigious.
For some reason, since ancient times, Daoist Ning has always been earthy; staged and retold through generations, he’s come to resemble Ji Gong, a waggish, righteous character known for helping the poor, scolding corrupt officials, righting injustices—and for some reason, most beloved folk heroes end up solving mysteries.
Legend says Ji Gong was a reincarnated Arhat, while Ning Daoist was a reincarnated sword immortal.
A monk and a priest, both always in rags and forever wanted by the authorities.
By modern times, regional operas had confused their legends, and events got swapped—Ji Gong’s “Flying Peak” tale was assigned to Ning Daoist, while Ning’s sea-dragon encounter ended up in Ji Gong’s story.
“Haven’t you seen the entertainment news? Some investor wants to make a costume drama with Ji Gong and Daoist Ning teaming up on the road. It’s already been greenlit.”
“…They weren’t even from the same era!”
At this moment, someone sneaked in at the back of the lecture hall.
Seeing the teacher bent over the lesson plan, he slipped in and rushed for a vacant seat, dodging an outstretched leg and a classmate’s stretching arm with a slipperiness that put a fish to shame. He slid into a seat, flipped open his book, and sat perfectly upright.
—From start to finish, he didn’t make a sound.
Though everyone was used to it, the students still couldn’t help but snicker; some made funny faces.
Even the professor, startled at the board, looked up, puzzled—yet saw nothing unusual.
The lecture hall was vast, with space left over even after seating two classes; hardly anyone would notice an extra student, especially when the slippery kid kept his head down, hiding half his face behind a book and the student in front.
No one figured it out, so the lesson continued.
Seeing the danger had passed, the latecomer slowly lifted his head.
“Meng Jie, late again?” whispered the student next to him, nudging him with an elbow.
Meng Jie was a head shorter than the other, looking about fourteen or fifteen, with a baby face that puffed up in anger and made you want to pinch his cheeks.
According to the class monitor, he was the easy-to-bully type—“fresh off the vine.”
But looks could deceive. Meng Jie seemed soft, but on the third day at school, walking by the road, he suddenly snatched a basketball from an upperclassman and, with a snap, hurled it aside, knocking a falling flowerpot off course.
If not for his quick move, things might have turned ugly.
Even so, department leaders were badly shaken and banned freshmen from placing flowerpots on roadside windowsills. The rule had always existed, but new students weren’t aware and, since nothing had happened before, it was loosely enforced—until it almost became a disaster.
Instinct thrown, the ball deflected high-up debris—such strength, aim, reflexes!
The basketball, volleyball, and track (shot put) teams all tried to recruit him, but found out he wasn’t just small—he wasn’t yet fifteen, a child prodigy who’d skipped grades to take the college entrance at Taijing University.
His exam score? Not sky-high, but eight points over the threshold for his major; at his age, definitely a prodigy, but not outrageous.
Taijing University wasn’t the country’s most famous school.
He could attend class, but not compete with grown men in rough sports.
It was tricky—no one was even sure how good he really was, so everyone just watched and waited.
What they found was: this kid was smart, but lazy.
He slept ten hours a day, could skip meals but must have a nap, and was once seen napping with his quilt on the rooftop railing. His relative was a professor in archaeology, the girls treated him like a neighbourhood little brother, and no one picked on him; even the teachers turned a blind eye to his tardiness, since he never actually missed class.
Meng Jie hurriedly stuffed a sticky rice dumpling in his mouth, cheeks bulging.
He held up his book as a cover, chewing, while his deskmate, for some reason, could sense a sadness about him.
“What’s wrong?”
“…It’s almost next month. The exams are coming, and after that, time to go home.”
Nearby students were speechless—this was late November, still two months to exams. What was so bad about going home for break? Taijing’s dining hall food wasn’t special, and you’re local! There’s a teacher in your family—what’s the difference between breaks and school?
There was a difference: dog food.
Meng Jie sighed.
Whenever the weather forecast was a bust, and the public cursed the meteorologist, whenever gales or downpours hit, he didn’t dare go home.
…Actually, he didn’t even dare step outside.
Who knew if, looking up, he might see something he shouldn’t?
No one understood his woes, but Meng Jie had a bellyful.
He just wanted to stay at school and not go home.
Every family has its troubles; his… were simply scientifically impossible, and all over the map.
His brother was technically a real brother, but, due to registration, was his adoptive parent.
That was one thing. But what kind of family, when there’s a precious child, doesn’t give a proper name? As a toddler, since he liked Tom & Jerry, his brother let him choose between “Meng Jie” and “Meng Rui” for the official record, calling it ‘democracy.’
Democracy—when there are only two choices, and even abstaining means one of them gets picked. His protest went unheard.
He’d clambered up, waving his arms in outrage, but his brother pointed at the TV: “That’s how presidents get chosen.”
The poor child didn’t have the words to argue and burst into tears.
“If you really don’t like it, change it in a hundred years, when you’re your own person.”
His brother’s partner had offered this “comfort.”
What the heck? Does being a family of non-humans entitle you to speak nonsense?
Meng Jie, cheeks puffed, dragged his yellow-duck backpack to kindergarten and, after two weeks, came home exhausted, declaring he’d had all the patience he’d ever have—he wanted to start school, now!
The two guardians both insisted on growing up year by year and fitting in, and without household registration or ID card (his brother claimed he’d been found abandoned in the wild), even if Meng Jie could transform into his thirties or forties, watch TV and shop online, he’d risk a slip-up in personal interactions, so it was best to be a normal child and go to school.
It made sense, so with his brother’s partner leading by example, he bravely entered kindergarten.
At the time, he wasn’t even three by official record—really, that’s a nursery, just somewhere to park kids. He was eager to make friends his own age, but all the kids cared about were snacks, cartoons, and toys, and the teachers just coddled him as a dummy, never answering any real questions.
There are child prodigies, of course, so people bought it.
But two-and-a-half, skipping up to primary school? Not a chance. No matter how clever, you can’t enroll that young. At least, there was no law forcing him to stay in the nursery, so Meng Jie came home again.
Meng Qi considered: with nothing else to do, and TV shows all nonsense these days, cartoons ever more childish, might as well teach him at home. Back in Chu, he’d been the state preceptor, read every book, and learned all his life—could a little dragon vein go wrong under his care?
The little dragon vein wasn’t grateful.
The little dragon vein had opinions.
Who gives First Year a pile of exam prep? Cruel!
Always bragging about yourself, no shame!
“Bro, your name appears in history for two lines, in other people’s records! I had to go half-blind finding it.
“And here, they even call you Meng Wei…”
Qiu Jing is so famous, Daoist Ning is so legendary, and even General Cheng, who cut down sea pirates by the blade sounds impressive.
Meng Qi’s name had been a rumor in the martial world, mentioned at Yunming Academy in Jingzhou, but historians later cut it for the inconsistency of years. So now, even scholars rack their brains to recall Meng Qi, the State Preceptor of Chu.
Scholars studying Chu search for Le Yanghou’s lost texts, retrace Marquis Jingyuan’s campaigns, and analyze Emperor Yuandi’s mindset—but Meng Qi’s name is always just filler, with the lowest exposure and attention.
Mo Li’s case is weirder: after “old age,” he treated the famous Qi minister, left a medical book, and by mentioning Qin Lu, both master and apprentice got famous. They were credited with the earliest hereditary disease theory and the first complete method for schistosomiasis control, among other things. But the academic world assumes “Mo Li” is a nickname, like Bian Que.
Some even idly speculate: in Chu and Qi, a black koi was a lucky omen—seeing one brought good fortune and health.
Mo Li: “…”
No, I was seriously unlucky!
In Pengze Lake, a township set up a “hometown of miracle doctors” for tourism. They pointed at an old house and claimed Mo Li and Qin Lu once lived there, researched schistosomiasis there, put up shrines and even built a ten-meter black koi sculpture as a landmark.
Mo Li’s hospital even arranged for staff tours. Everyone took pictures with the koi—group photos too.
Mo Li: “…”
I’d rather be as obscure as Meng Qi.
Now, Meng Qi used his real name, but Mo Li—since he’d written a medical book and wanted to keep learning, thanks to rapid advances in modern medicine—had changed his name. So there he sat, staring at a black koi charm bought on a tourist trip.
Recently, “share a koi, get good luck” has become an online meme; the Pengze statue always hit trending, turning up again and again.
Mo Li stared blankly at all the online wishes and reached only one conclusion: nowadays, anything might make a wish come true, or bad luck might strike; the picture didn’t matter—just join the fun.
He’d just have to go on like this—what, sneak out at night and smash the statue?
Author’s note:
That’s the end of the story =3=
Of course, the “black fish” needs black history—Mo Li: “I flinch at black koi.jpg”
The thank-you list ended before 27th 17:30 (T/N: Same with the previous one, I will not translate all those usernames and other stuff. It’s basically a thank-you list from the author.)
If you had changed your account nickname or used different nicknames under the same account to throw votes, the system recorded the nickname that was used at that time. The author might have seen the stats and consolidated them into one entry or might not have seen them and split them into two entries.
Thank you so much for translating this awesome story. I have alot of fun reading this book. The humour and dramas. The plots and characters were all so flesh out. The translation is wonderful. Thank you
Thank you for translating this sweet story 💕 Bittersweet moment when you realise that’s all there is as it’s finished 😭
Really appreciate all the hard work you’ve put in
Time to reread this tale!
Thank you so much for translating this awesome story. I have alot of fun reading this book. The humour and dramas. The plots and characters were all so flesh out. The translation is wonderful. Thank you