Chapter 4: The New Trial School

The Xinshi School in Fenghua County sits at the east end of the county seat, a two‑story building of blue bricks, with a black‑backed gold‑letter plaque at the entrance bearing the four big characters of Xinshi School. Compared with the Private School in Xikou, it is indeed much more imposing, but to Jiang Ruiyuan it's just so‑so.

Little Yuxuan, is this the Xinshi School Mom talked about? He craned his neck to look at the plaque, curled his lip, and thought it didn't look that great—still not as spacious as the Family's ancestral hall.

Li Yuxuan followed behind, carrying both of their schoolbags, and couldn't help replying: "Young Master, you should be content. If it weren't for you, no one could keep the Private School in order; you're restless day and night, and the teacher is almost getting sick from anger. We wouldn't have to come here to suffer."

It was indeed the truth. Wang Caiyu, to get Jiang Ruiyuan into this school, pulled many strings and even donated a sizable sum for its funding, finally getting the principal to relent. Jiang Ruiyuan, however, was indifferent, kicking the stone steps at the entrance: "Suffering? I doubt it; it might even be more fun than the Private School."

Li Yuxuan said nothing, but his heart began to pound.

Xinshi School? He had never seen such a thing in any history textbook, had no idea what was taught or how. He glanced at the passing students, most dressed in uniform grey school uniforms, carrying canvas backpacks, walking with a scholarly air that clashed with Jiang Ruiyuan's silk brocade mandarin jacket.

But then again, what exactly is this Xinshi School? Jiang Ruiyuan stroked his chin, curious. It doesn't read the Analects, nor practice calligraphy—could it be all about arithmetic every day?

Li Yuxuan's questions outnumbered his own.

Could it be the predecessor of the Huangpu Military Academy? No! He recalled that the Huangpu Military Academy was clearly in Yangcheng, a decade later, so how could it appear in late‑Qing Fenghua? Was it a butterfly‑effect from his own time travel? Or perhaps the Jiang Ruiyuan before him isn't the principal he knows? Or maybe this is simply a parallel world?

The more he thought, the more chaotic it became; his mind felt on the brink of overload. He'd never heard of a Xinshi School in Fenghua while studying history—could he have simply missed it?

Ding—ding—ding—, a crisp bell rang, cutting off his thoughts. The students streamed into the classroom; Jiang Ruiyuan tugged him along, and they followed the crowd up to the second floor.

The classroom held neat wooden desks and chairs, the blackboard painted black, and a globe stood in the corner—something Li Yuxuan had only seen in a history museum. The two found seats toward the back; Jiang Ruiyuan turned a pencil on the desk curiously, as if it were a new toy.

Soon after, an elderly man in a long robe and round glasses entered. His hair was silver, yet his back was straight; he clutched a thick book, stepped onto the podium, scanned the class, and announced in a resonant voice: "Good morning, students! I am Gu Qinglian, your National Language and Self‑Cultivation teacher."

When he spoke, his voice was full of vigor and his eyes held a sharp edge—not like an ordinary schoolmaster.

In the days that followed, Li Yuxuan finally truly witnessed the prowess of the Xinshi School.

The curriculum here was indeed worlds apart from the Private School. Mornings covered National Language and arithmetic; afternoons surprisingly offered science (i. e., physics and chemistry) and foreign language (English). Jiang Ruiyuan had some interest in arithmetic—after all, his family ran a money shop, so he inherited a bit of accounting skill—but the foreign language class gave him a headache; the twisted letters made him frown, and he several times wanted to tear the textbook apart.

Li Yuxuan, however, studied with relish. Arithmetic was child's play for someone with nine years of compulsory education. The Gezhi lessons on sound, light, heat, and energy, though elementary, gave him a sense of finally touching the edge of modern science. Even in the foreign language class, his lingering knowledge of a few English phrases from his previous life let him grasp a bit more than his peers.

What surprised him most was Gu Qinglian's class.

The old man never dwelled on pedantic phrasing when teaching National Language; when discussing the assassins in the Records of the Grand Historian, he could link them to the rise and fall of nations, saying every commoner bears responsibility. When covering Du Fu's poems, he could turn them to the suffering of the people, insisting it wasn't the fault of a single individual. In the Self‑Cultivation lessons, he intensified further, constantly declaring that the old system was rotten and must be replaced, even daring to raise Civil Rights and equality in class.

Damn! This old man's lectures really have something to them! After a class, Li Yuxuan couldn't help whispering to the principal, "Listening to him is far more engaging than the pedantic ramblings of Private School teachers."

Jiang Ruiyuan, still fretting over the foreign language textbook, looked up at the comment: "Engaging is engaging, but he's too bold. Yesterday he said the ruler is light, the people are heavy; if my mother heard that, she'd scold him for treason."

Li Yuxuan felt an even larger turmoil inside.

What Gu Qinglian was saying was clearly revolutionary thought! In a late‑Qing school, to speak openly like that—wasn't he afraid of being seized by the authorities? Even stranger, with the old man's knowledge and daring, why do history textbooks never mention this figure? Was he later sacrificed? Or simply erased by history?

He observed Gu Qinglian covertly. Aside from teaching, the old man rarely interacted with anyone, often sitting alone in his office reading, sometimes staring dreamily at a world map, his finger tracing it, his thoughts unknown. Once, when Li Yuxuan went to the office to submit homework, he caught sight of an unbound book on the desk bearing the words "Drive out the Barbarians, Restore China"; startled, he quickly backed out.

This old man was definitely not ordinary. Li Yuxuan was certain of it.

Days passed one by one; Jiang Ruiyuan, though still occasionally skipping class, had become much more restrained than in the Private School, at least he could sit through arithmetic and Gezhi lessons. Li Yuxuan, like a sponge, greedily absorbed the new knowledge, while still not forgetting to ponder Gu Qinglian's background.

He tried asking an older classmate: "What did Gu Xiansheng do before?"

The classmate shook his head: "I'm not sure, but I heard he came from Modu, has seen the world, and even dealt with foreigners."

Then why did he come to our little place to teach?

Who knows? Maybe he's hiding from someone. The classmate lowered his voice and said, "My dad said that last year there was a Revolution Party uprising in Modu, many were killed; Gu Xiansheng might have fled from there."

Li Yuxuan felt a sudden thump in his chest.

Revolution Party? That fits! No wonder the old man talks about revolution daily—he must be one of them! Yet how could such a prominent figure be so obscure? The more he thought, the more uneasy he felt, as if a layer of fog shrouded the school.

That afternoon, after Gu Qinglian finished his lesson, he specifically called Li Yuxuan over.

"Li Yuxuan," the old man said, adjusting his glasses, his gaze landing on him, "your essays these past few times have fresh perspectives, especially the one titled 'On the Change Between Old and New,' which is quite insightful."

Li Yuxuan's heart tightened; he quickly replied modestly: "You're flattering me, sir; I just wrote them casually."

Gu Qinglian smiled, didn't press further, but shifted the conversation: "Did you and Jiang Ruiyuan come from Xikou together?"

"Yes, we grew up together from childhood."

"He's a bit unruly, but fundamentally good, just lacking some discipline." The old man sighed, "You should urge him more; in these times, reading more and understanding more is always beneficial."

Li Yuxuan nodded, but his confusion deepened. Gu Qinglian's words didn't seem purely caring; they felt loaded with hidden meaning.

When they left the office, the setting sun slanted across the school's blue‑brick wall, casting long shadows. Li Yuxuan glanced back at the office window; Gu Qinglian stood at the sill, gazing into the distance, his silhouette appearing especially lonely in the dusk.

He suddenly sensed that the Xinshi School, and this Gu Xiansheng, would likely leave a bold, colorful mark on both his and Jiang Ruiyuan's lives.