Scholar Li

Shen Hui was drinking his congee when he suddenly heard Scholar Li speak again: "You, Stationmaster, bring another plate of pickled cucumbers. Crisp ones."

The Stationmaster had just set down the hot congee. Upon hearing this, he acknowledged the order and turned to leave.

Shen Hui glanced at Scholar Li but said nothing.

Scholar Li seemed to sense something and turned his head, meeting Shen Hui's gaze.

He froze for a moment, then smiled—a smile tinged with a hint of dismissiveness: "What is the Taoist looking at? Do you find this Humble One meddlesome?"

Shen Hui shook his head and replied flatly: "I wouldn't dare."

But Scholar Li refused to let it go. He set down his chopsticks, leaned back, and fanned himself as he said:

"The Taoist doesn't understand—the Stationmaster's duty is to serve traveling officials. Though this Humble One holds no official post, I am still counted among the scholars, half a face in officialdom. His attentiveness is only proper."

Shen Hui gave a faint "mm" and lowered his head to continue drinking his congee.

Seeing this reaction, Scholar Li found it rather dull. He snorted and went back to ordering the Stationmaster about.

The Stationmaster was nearly fifty, his temples already white. He was run ragged by the commands, yet still had to force a smile on his face.

The Old Taoist never once looked up from start to finish, only sipping his congee slowly and deliberately, occasionally picking up a piece of pickled radish and chewing it with a crisp crunch.

Before long, the Stationmaster brought up a plate of freshly sliced pickled cucumbers.

Scholar Li picked up a piece with his chopsticks, chewed it, and immediately his brow furrowed into a knot: "What is this? Soft and mushy—how can this be eaten?"

With that, he threw down his chopsticks, and the half-eaten cucumber slapped onto the table with a wet thud.

This time, Shen Hui finally set down his bowl and looked up.

"Scholar Li."

He spoke, his voice not loud, yet it made everyone at the table pause in unison.

Scholar Li turned his head. Seeing Shen Hui's calm expression, he didn't take it seriously:

"Does the Taoist have some instruction?"

Shen Hui glanced at him, then at the sweating Stationmaster, and said in a flat tone: "Every grain of rice, every sip of congee—think of how hard they come. Every thread of silk, every strand of cloth—always remember the labor behind them."

Scholar Li was taken aback: "What does the Taoist mean by that?"

"I mean, I think this pickled cucumber is just fine. You'd better pick it up and eat it."

The smile on Scholar Li's face froze, as if he hadn't heard clearly. He stared blankly at Shen Hui.

Shen Hui didn't avert his gaze. His tone remained calm, even casual:

"I said, pick it up. And eat it."

Scholar Li's face gradually darkened, but he still forced down his anger as he spoke: "The Taoist puts on quite an air!"

The Stationmaster hurriedly stepped in to smooth things over, saying repeatedly: "The Taoist is joking. It's just a plate of pickled cucumbers. I'll go get another plate—it's not worth making a fuss over."

Shen Hui raised a hand to stop him, but his eyes never left Scholar Li.

"Don't make me say it a third time."

Scholar Li's face slowly flushed red, the heat spreading from his ears to his cheeks.

He was thirty-eight years old, prided himself on his talent, and had recently studied some yin-yang arts. In this county town, he had always been fawned over—never had he suffered such humiliation.

"You bastard, you go too far!"

He slammed the table and stood up, rattling the bowls and dishes. "I respected you as a man of the cloth and gave you some face, but you climb all over me? It's just a plate of pickled cucumbers—whether I throw it away or smash it, what business is it of yours?"

Shen Hui slowly rose to his feet.

He was half a head taller than Scholar Li, looking down at him from above.

"What business is it of mine?"

Shen Hui pointed at the plate of pickled cucumbers, his tone indifferent. "Let me ask you—from the moment the seed falls into the soil to the moment the fruit hangs on the vine, how many days does it take? How much blood and sweat does the farmer pour into carrying water, spreading fertilizer, bending over to weed? And when it's shipped to town and pickled in the jar, how much fine salt does it consume?"

He took a step forward, and Scholar Li involuntarily stepped back half a pace.

"You just said you hold a scholarly title?"

Shen Hui's gaze landed lightly on him, a hint of mockery on his face.

"Then let me ask—if you don't even understand the principle that 'success comes from thrift, ruin from extravagance,' what kind of books have you been reading?"

The barrage of questions left Scholar Li speechless.

His face was ashen, his lips trembling, his finger shaking as he pointed at Shen Hui: "I... I..."

"I what?"

Shen Hui said flatly. "I've wandered the martial world for many years. I've seen years of famine with corpses littering the fields, and the horror of people exchanging children for food. Other things I might let slide, but wasting food..."

He paused.

"That, I cannot tolerate."

"You... you..."

Scholar Li seemed to finally muster his courage, stiffening his neck: "What are you going to do? Are you going to strip me of my scholarly title?"

Seeing him like this, Shen Hui suddenly smiled.

He flicked his finger lightly.

A streak of white light shot from his fingertip, accompanied by a soft hiss like a wisp of wind passing by.

Scholar Li felt a chill on his scalp, and a few strands of hair drifted down before his eyes, landing lightly on the table.

He instinctively reached up to touch his left temple—above it, a neat chunk was missing, the cut as smooth as if shaved by a razor.

He looked at Shen Hui in terror, but Shen Hui didn't even glance at him, only said unhurriedly, "If you pick it up and eat it today, this matter ends. If not..."

Here he let out a cold laugh, his eyes turning fierce, "I may not be able to strip your scholarly title, but I can strip your head."

Scholar Li's face turned deathly pale in an instant.

It was as if he had just remembered—the man before him was no county school instructor, nor a yamen secretary, but the Daoist who had burned ghosts last night.

The entire table fell silent, so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Faming Monk looked at the severed strands on the table, then at Shen Hui, his brow slightly furrowed. In the end, he slowly leaned back against his chair and recited a Buddhist chant.

The Stationmaster huddled in the corner, his legs trembling uncontrollably.

Scholar Li stood frozen in place, wanting to say something to save face, but the bone-chilling cold on his scalp constantly reminded him—if that white light had been two inches lower, it wouldn't have been his hair that fell.

"I..."

His Adam's apple bobbed a few times, his voice hoarse beyond recognition, but in the end, he slowly reached out, pinched the pickled cucumber, and shoved it into his mouth.

He chewed a couple of times and swallowed.

"Can... that be it?" he asked, his voice raspy, his eyes red.

Whether from shame and indignation, or lingering fear, it was hard to tell.

Shen Hui gave a slight nod. "That's it."

Scholar Li didn't want to stay a moment longer; he turned and left.

But as he reached the threshold, his foot caught, and he barely managed to grab the doorframe to avoid a faceplant.

Caring nothing for dignity, he shook his sleeve and fled, even forgetting his treasured folding fan.

The sound of his footsteps gradually faded.

Shen Hui didn't sit down. Instead, he turned his gaze to Faming Monk.

The monk was lowering his eyes, counting his prayer beads. Halfway through, as if sensing something, he looked up and met Shen Hui's eyes.

Shen Hui stared at him, saying nothing.

His gaze was cold—not like he was looking at a fellow practitioner, but at a skeleton in a tomb.

"You were about to stop me just now?" Shen Hui asked.

Faming Monk's hand on the prayer beads paused.

He opened his mouth, as if to explain something, but Shen Hui had already looked away.

The monk sat there, his bead-counting rhythm broken, his face shifting between red and green.

After a moment, he stood up, pressed his palms together, and said quietly, "This poor monk is a bit tired. I'll return to my room to rest."

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out, his steps hurried.

Shen Hui watched him leave the door, then withdrew his gaze.

He turned to the Stationmaster, still cowering in the corner, and waved a hand. "Sorry for the trouble. Go about your business."

The Stationmaster, as if granted a pardon, bowed repeatedly and scurried out.

The door closed behind him.

Only the master and disciple remained in the room.

The layer of frost on Shen Hui's face melted away like spring snow, vanishing completely in an instant.

He walked over to where Scholar Li had been sitting, bent down, and picked up the severed strands of hair from the table one by one, holding them in his palm to examine them closely.