Eighteen.

Wei Guangde was walking home from the private school, six children hopping along the riverside path.

The journey was over ten miles, a bit far for kids, but since they played along the way, it wasn’t too difficult.

On the road, Wei Guangde spotted the Taoist priest who had visited the teacher’s house yesterday.

Since they met along the way, the children politely bowed and greeted the old Taoist.

They had seen the teacher personally escort him to the door at noon and naturally could not pretend not to notice.

If the Taoist went to see the teacher again, it would be troublesome to be labeled disrespectful to their elders.

China has long been a land of propriety, placing great importance on etiquette. The teacher’s lessons included this, educating them on what should be done and how to behave.

“Greetings, Master Lin,” the children said respectfully, bowing slightly in unison.

“You all as well,” the Taoist replied, recognizing them as students of Master Sun’s private school, especially the boy in the middle—Wei Guangde.

Coming from a household of a hundred households’ chief, Wei Guangde had better living conditions than the other children around him.

At this age, Wei Guangde’s face was still round and childlike; his nose and mouth resembled Wei Meng’s, though his face shape was different—Wei Meng had a square face.

This was simply because Wei Guangde was still young and had not fully matured.

Wei Wencai had looked similar at that age but had undergone marked facial changes by sixteen.

Among the children at the school, Wei Guangde wasn’t the most outstanding in appearance—just above average—but among these few, he certainly stood out.

Clothes make the man, and though Wei Guangde’s clothing material was similar to the others', the difference wasn’t obvious at a glance.

Still, his posture was straight, carrying his clothes with a spirited air.

“Are you all heading home?” the Taoist asked curiously since they were already seven or eight miles out from Madang Town, and he hadn’t seen many homes along the way.

“We’re from the Hundred Households’ post at Bengshan, almost home now,” Wei Guangde answered.

In the distance, farmers were tending fields, part of the Hundred Households’ cultivated lands.

“You’re from the Hundred Households’ post? Your name is Wei Guangde, and your father is Chief Wei?” the Taoist inquired, connecting the dots.

After exchanging a few more words, they parted ways; unfamiliar and with an age gap, there was little left to say.

When relatives from various families came to the fortress, the children wouldn’t have much adult interaction, but if they were close in age and temperament, they would quickly become playmates.

After bidding farewell to the old Taoist, Wei Guangde and the others continued bouncing along the path toward home, unaware the Taoist kept watching Wei Guangde intently before sighing and muttering to himself, “My cultivation is insufficient—I cannot see through this child.”

From the moment he first saw Wei Guangde at the school, the Taoist had thought the boy’s fate was short. Normally, a child of about ten with such signs would be expected to die young, yet Wei Guangde, now eleven, was thriving, showing no sign of an early demise.

The Taoist could only conclude his own divination skills were lacking; his insight into physiognomy was not profound enough.

As they entered the military fortress gate, one child spoke up, “Fish Head, want to go out to play later?”

“Yeah, bring that bird gun—we’ll go bird hunting.”

“Are you bringing the slingshot?”

Hearing the chatter, Wei Guangde thought for a moment and said, “This afternoon, the teacher assigned us a composition to write based on our understanding. It’s like practicing calligraphy. If we don’t hand it in well, we might get the ruler tomorrow morning.”

Wei Guangde recalled the afternoon’s lesson. The teacher’s expectations seemed low, but he had never written such a piece before.

The teacher’s “composition” was not like modern essays but the traditional Eight-Legged Essay.

Usually, their afternoons were for reading and calligraphy practice, but today the teacher introduced the structure of the Eight-Legged Essay.

He briefly explained its fixed format—eight parts: breaking the topic, continuing the topic, beginning the discussion, entering the topic, and the four legs—each of the last four comprising paired, parallel sentences.

Since they had only studied the “Great Learning,” the teacher did not give a specific topic but let the children choose any passage they found suitable from the text.

During the lesson, Wei Guangde only half understood what was expected.

He had heard of the Eight-Legged Essay before; it appeared in textbooks, but he had never learned to write one, nor was it required in his previous education.

At this moment, Wei Guangde was unsure if he could write it at all.

Reflecting on historical accounts he had read online, many predecessors in similar situations were top scholars in the humanities—archaeologists, historians—exceptionally talented.

Though they struggled with the Eight-Legged Essay, they had read many exemplary works from the Ming and Qing dynasties. Their time-travel memory was sharp enough to reproduce the texts perfectly, achieving top honors.

Privately, Wei Guangde felt his own time-travel ordeal was difficult, with no preparation, envying those who could move freely between eras.

Still, he was grateful not to have been reborn as an animal or plant.

If one transmigrated as something other than a human, that would be truly unlucky; at least he retained his humanity.

He felt uncertain and nervous, having developed a mental block after previous punishments with the ruler, not wanting to suffer again.

“Enough for today; I’ll go home and think carefully about how to write this assignment,” he said.

“Don’t be afraid. The teacher said just write whatever you understand. Even if it’s bad tomorrow, it should be fine,” Zhang Ji said. He was tougher-skinned and didn’t mind a few strikes, preferring to go bird hunting instead.

“You all go if you want. I’ll go back and think it over. We’ll see later,” Wei Guangde replied, not wanting to spoil his friends’ excitement.

Once inside the fortress, the children soon dispersed to their homes.

Wei Guangde entered his family gate and found no sign of his father or elder brother in the front courtyard, where they were usually present at this hour.

Not thinking much of it, he headed to the backyard, only to see several maids and elder servants standing near the gate, which struck him as odd.

“Aunt Li, why are you all standing here? Why aren’t you inside attending to things?” he asked.