The book was thin, yet it recorded Li Ping's entire life.
Like his name, he had been utterly ordinary.
Through this simple diary, Xu Qingxiao saw an ordinary scholar, a very ordinary scholar.
He had been somewhat optimistic, perhaps a little old-fashioned, but above all, he had striven to better himself. He had been willing to bend his back for five pecks of rice, yet kindness remained in his heart. Though his own life had been bitter, he still thought of the suffering of others.
A gentleman, his sleeves swept clean of worldly wealth, with kindness in his heart. In office, he fulfilled his duties; without rank or position, he remained willing to contribute something to the people of the world.
He had taught and nurtured others, without earning even two taels of silver.
After a lifetime of toil, all he had in the end was a rolled-up straw mat.
Xu Qingxiao stood there quietly. At that moment, he seemed to have thought of something, yet also seemed to have thought of nothing at all.
He could only gaze silently at the straw mat on the ground.
Soon, many neighbors arrived, along with several people who appeared to be Li Ping's friends. They had originally come to arrange his funeral.
But they learned that Li Ping, having been ordinary in life, had wanted no fuss after death either. Finding somewhere to bury him would suffice.
His friends sighed, but said little more. They brought some spirit money and scattered a handful, then each offered Li Ping three sticks of incense.
Someone handed incense to Xu Qingxiao. He accepted the three sticks and paid his respects to Li Ping with solemn sincerity.
The common people could not quite make sense of Xu Qingxiao, but the other scholars inexplicably sensed something different