An Old Hei Under the Saints
Old Hei spoke Chinese quite clearly and fluently, without the flat, blunt tones that gave away most foreigners.
If you ignored his face and skin color, he was practically indistinguishable from a Chinese person.
"A scholar?"
The dark-skinned man beamed and immediately cupped his hands. "My dear friend, I am indeed a disciple of the Saints. A pleasure to meet you!"
Pfft!~
Now it was Fatty's turn to spit out his drink.
"Wait, what do you mean, a disciple of the Saints?"
Sun Nanzheng looked as though he'd just come face-to-face with a fake Li Kui. It was downright spooky.
Confucius was Chinese, and he was Chinese too. How the hell could this dark-skinned guy be a disciple of the Saints? Was Confucius black?!
Even the Koreans wouldn't dare say something like that!
"My name is Chaka Abuluta. I'm a scholar at the Confucius Institute. Meeting a kindred spirit today is a blessing I could hope for across three lifetimes!"
The dark-skinned man sounded quite proper.
The Confucius Institute?!
Holy crap!
Sun Nanzheng was completely bewildered. He was just a webnovel writer; he wasn't even qualified to attend the Lu Xun Literary Institute. Its prestige was nothing compared to the Confucius Institute—far, far beneath it. It might as well have been a rolling mudslide.
Otherwise, he wouldn't have come up with such a moving poem: "white hair" matched with "iron pot," "floating" with "stewing," and "green water" with "big goose"—the lines fit the scene, and the rhymes worked from beginning to end.
The teachings of Confucius and Mencius had flourished beyond China's borders. There were nearly as many foreigners as Chinese who revered them as teachers.
Confucius Institutes could be found all around the world. There were 548 Confucius Institutes and 1,193 Confucius Classrooms