Chapter 3: Four Seasons Academy

The reason for leaving so early was simply that, after a few days apart, a single bowl of crab soup was enough to open Auntie’s heart. Sensing this, Cao Chengyu decided to take his leave. He wanted to leave people with a sense of lingering anticipation, so they would look forward to his next visit.

Moreover, he realized something was amiss. He had told himself things would stop at the first stage, but whenever he was with Auntie, his heart grew restless. His attention scattered, his mind grew clouded. The moral concepts of his previous life bound him tightly, yet that restraint gave him a secret thrill. It was as if he mocked himself for being led astray, while inwardly yearning for more. What the mouth denied, the heart desired—such was the truth.

He sighed. “Ah…what a mess I've made…”

Unable to sleep for most of the night, Cao Chengyu washed up at dawn, greeted his parents, and finally made his way to the private academy.

There were many academies in Immortal Gate City, but the most renowned was the Four Seasons Academy, founded by the imperial scholar Yang Jiuxuan—Mr. Yang. It was said he had served as magistrate of Gan County in the Great Yue Dynasty, retiring in old age to establish this academy in his hometown. Gifted and distinguished, he was considered an upper-class figure in Immortal Gate City.

The Four Seasons Academy was set in an elegant garden in the eastern part of the city, which was both Mr. Yang’s private residence and his teaching venue. As soon as he entered, he heard the students’ early recitations echoing through the halls.

The Great Yue Dynasty resembled the Tang Dynasty of his previous life; history had not diverged too much, and many once-famous figures still existed here, though many scholars had vanished into the river of time. Cao Chengyu had arrived late.

So, he slipped quietly in from the back and sat upright, pretending to join the recitation.

Mr. Yang, sitting at the head desk, glanced at him but said nothing.

His friends, however, could not contain themselves.

“Chengyu, where have you been these past days? The teacher was furious!” one whispered.

“Yes! He was muttering about how you’re wasting your talent, saying you’re just like that arrogant prodigy, Zhong Yong, from the Wu Dynasty!” another chimed in.

“Zhong Yong?” Cao Chengyu’s mind reeled. Wasn’t that figure from the Northern Song, made famous by an essay from Wang Anshi? That would be long after the Tang in his original timeline.

This glimpse showed just how muddled the history here could be. Things only resembled the Tang; much was similar, yet much was oddly off. Because of the nine years of compulsory education from his past life, Cao Chengyu found much he could draw upon.

Sometimes, though, he made basic errors, so Mr. Yang often reprimanded him.

His two friends were different—they were true daredevils. Whatever mischief Cao Chengyu tried, they followed, frequently earning scoldings from their elders. One was the youngest son of the Ning family’s main branch, the other the second son of the main Huang family; both had backgrounds similar to his, and they had grown up together, forging a close bond.

Over time, Cao Chengyu had filled their heads with all manner of notions, making them especially wild and curious.

He didn’t mind their teasing; his thoughts kept drifting to Auntie—or rather, the treasure chest.

Ning Sicheng whispered, “Huang Yu, don’t bother, Chengyu’s just stubborn. We know what he’s like. He’s hopeless—ha ha ha!”

“Silence!” Mr. Yang’s ruler cracked against the desk.

He called out, “Ning Sicheng, Huang Yuyan, both of you stand at the door! You’re not to return until morning recitation is over!”

“Ah…” The two looked crestfallen, especially Huang Yuyan, whose face might as well have had the word “innocent” written across it.

“Cao Chengyu, come here. I need to speak with you.”

“Yes, sir.” Cao Chengyu was unfazed, even a little smug. He was meant to pursue the immortal path—what could a little academy do to restrain him?

…

“Ow, ow, ow! Please—no more! Sir, I’m only fourteen! How can you be so cruel? My poor hand—why is it getting fatter? No, I can’t lose you!”

“Hmph, nonsense! At least you know to come back. If I don’t break your legs, I’m being lenient!” Mr. Yang’s expression was stern, his tone full of disappointed hope.

To him, for someone so young to write lines like:

Before my bed, the bright moonlight—
I suspect it is frost on the ground.
I lift my head to gaze at the moon,
Then lower it to think of home.

—to compose such five-character quatrains, full of grace and innate talent, was the mark of a future scholar. Yet the boy was playful by nature, stammering his way through simple annotations, his foundation weak to the extreme.

How could such a person achieve greatness?

Cao Chengyu grimaced, clutching his right hand and dancing from foot to foot, but dared not retort—he could only explain indirectly.

“Sir, I have no intention of taking up bureaucratic office in the future. Why pursue poetry? Better to learn a craft while young, for future livelihood.”

“You—! Foolish child! You are the young master of the Cao family—must you worry about making a living? How dare you try to fool me? Another beating for you!”

Cao Chengyu suddenly realized his mistake, spun around, and fled. The elderly Mr. Yang could not possibly catch him.

As he left, Cao Chengyu called back, “Sorry, sir! I must pursue my dreams. If I succeed, I’ll pick up the brush again—it won’t be too late! I’m off—please don’t tell my father I slipped out early. Thanks!”

His voice faded away.

Mr. Yang remained where he was and sighed deeply.

A hunched figure, his silhouette seemed more desolate—he, too, was a man with his own stories.

…

Crane’s Call Street, East City, Immortal Gate City.

Cao Chengyu arrived at the family’s ironworks. Yesterday, he had sent Xiao San over to order a small iron pot. Working through the night, they had surely finished it by now.

The pot was a divided hotpot, symmetrical, with a curved partition in the middle to separate the spicy broth from the clear. To make it look elegant, the blacksmith had added patterns and given it a thin gilded layer.

When Young Master Cao gave an order, it was done right.

Today, a new round of culinary assault would begin—he would press forward, striving to reach the first stage as soon as possible.

Hotpot was a powerful weapon. Whether Auntie preferred spicy or mild, the divided pot would suit her taste.

Carrying the small pot, Cao Chengyu sneaked back home, avoiding the servants usually around his parents, and slipped into a small kitchen.

This was his second uncle’s—Cao Donglai’s—personal kitchen. Since his uncle’s passing, it was seldom used, making it perfect for private endeavors.

“Xiao San, Xiao San!” Cao Chengyu called softly.

“Eh? Young Master, you’re here already? I haven’t even finished gathering the ingredients.”

Indeed, he had also tasked Xiao San with fetching hotpot ingredients from the main kitchen.

Chef Luo knew about it, but dared not interfere in the affairs of the young master, nor report him—lest he incur Cao Chengyu’s displeasure.