Chapter 532: Standing Like Bamboo at Master Sun’s Gate

After lunch, Zhu Ping’an picked up a jar of Zhuangyuan Hong wine, then tied together a bundle of fresh tea and a box of donkey-hide gelatin with a length of red cord. Carrying them all in hand, he set off at an unhurried pace toward Shanghe Village, a gentle breeze brushing past him, carrying with it the faint dampness of freshly turned earth.

This journey was to visit his teacher. The wine and tea were intended for his revered master, while the donkey-hide gelatin was for his teacher’s wife. Time had passed so quickly—since his last departure from Xiahe Village, it had been far too long since he had paid his respects.

Shanghe Village and Xiahe Village were separated by nothing more than a narrow stretch of water, and before long, he arrived at his teacher’s residence. As always, the gate stood open—no need for knocking, no barriers between host and guest.

Stepping into the courtyard, Zhu Ping’an was just about to announce himself softly so as not to startle anyone, when he paused.

There, by the stone table beneath the cluster of lush green bamboo, his teacher, Old Master Sun, was dozing lightly, his head resting forward in a peaceful nap. The bamboo leaves swayed gently in the breeze, rustling softly, their fragrance mingling with the air—cool, refined, and faintly aloof.

On the stone table lay a teapot, along with brushes, ink, paper, and an inkstone. Spread out before them was a partially completed painting—a Wind Bamboo composition. The bamboo itself had already been painted, its form alive with motion, but no inscription had yet been added.

His teacher had always loved bamboo. Judging by the scene, he must have been pondering what inscription to write when sleep quietly overtook him.

Old Master Sun was advanced in years. Zhu Ping’an could not bear to disturb his rest. Unsure whether the old man slept deeply or lightly, he even feared that the sound of his own footsteps might wake him.

So he simply stopped where he stood, remaining still in the courtyard, waiting silently for his teacher to awaken.

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Standing there, bathed in the soft breeze, gazing quietly at his resting teacher, Zhu Ping’an found his thoughts drifting back to his childhood—the days when he had herded cattle while secretly attending lessons.

“You little rascal… would you like to study under me?”

“No matter—I won’t charge you tuition.”

“What, you’re unwilling?”

Those words echoed faintly in his mind, as vivid as if they had been spoken only yesterday. Scene after scene resurfaced—moments of being taken into the school, of being guided, corrected, and nurtured.

It was easy to find a teacher.

But to find a responsible, capable, and truly good teacher—that was rare.

He had been fortunate.

Old Master Sun was precisely such a teacher—a man of both integrity and talent, one who truly embodied the calling of a teacher: to impart knowledge, to guide, and to dispel confusion.

Compared to certain so-called teachers of later times—those who abused their authority, who preyed upon their students under the guise of mentorship, who twisted learning into a tool for personal gain—such people could not even begin to stand beside someone like Old Master Sun.

He recalled, with a trace of irritation, how some would defend those individuals by saying, “Focus on their academic achievements, not their personal lives.”

Rubbish.

To be a teacher was to be a model—both in character and in learning.

If one had scholarship but no integrity, then one might as well bury oneself in research. Such a person was unfit to teach.

Zhu Ping’an exhaled softly, letting the stray thoughts fade.

Enough digression.

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The breeze whispered through the bamboo leaves, producing a soft, rhythmic rustle. Time slipped by unnoticed.

Creak…

A faint sound broke the stillness—the door of the main house opened.

His teacher’s wife stepped out, her eyes still heavy with sleep. In her hand, she carried an iron kettle, likely intending to draw water from the courtyard and set it to boil.

At first, she paid little attention. Seeing her husband napping at the stone table was nothing unusual—he often preferred to rest near the bamboo.

But then, her gaze shifted.

For a moment, she thought her eyes were playing tricks on her.

Was that… Zihou?

She rubbed her eyes, looked again—and this time she was certain.

Standing quietly in the courtyard like a wooden post was none other than Zhu Ping’an.

Zhu Ping’an saw her as well. With a simple, honest smile, he raised his hands in a respectful salute from afar. At the same time, he gestured subtly, indicating that his teacher was resting and that he dared not speak aloud—hoping she would understand.

In that instant, she understood everything.

From the fallen leaves scattered across his shoulders and hair, it was clear—this foolish child had been standing there for quite some time, all to avoid disturbing her husband’s sleep.

Such a silly boy…

Her heart tightened with a mix of warmth and concern.

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What if his legs grew numb? What if he fell ill from standing so long? Surely one less nap wouldn’t harm that old man…

Moved, yet unable to hide her worry, she strode forward without hesitation and called out:

“Old man, wake up—Zihou has come.”

Seeing this, Zhu Ping’an could only rub his nose helplessly, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

“You silly child, why are you still standing there? Come sit down—you’ve been standing for so long.”

After waking her husband, she waved him over with a mixture of affection and mild reproach.

“Mmm… Zihou has come?”

Old Master Sun stirred, shaking his head slightly as he lifted it, turning to look toward Zhu Ping’an.

“Not ‘just come’—he’s been here for quite a while,” his wife chided. “He didn’t dare wake you and has been standing there the whole time.”

Zihou… utmost sincerity.

Such reverence for one’s teacher was rare indeed—comparable even to the tale of Cheng standing in the snow to seek instruction.

Old Master Sun felt deeply moved. Stroking his beard, he nodded repeatedly, his gaze filled with approval. Then he shook his head lightly and beckoned.

“Next time, simply wake me.”

“Teacher, Madam.”

Zhu Ping’an stepped forward and bowed respectfully once more.

Only now did he feel it—the stiffness in his legs from standing so long. While standing still, it had not been noticeable, but as he walked, his legs felt oddly unsteady, as though they no longer quite belonged to him.

Still, he concealed it well. His expression remained calm, his smile as simple and honest as ever.

“Enough of that—sit down.”

His teacher’s wife reached out and pulled gently at his sleeve, guiding him to sit beside Old Master Sun on the stone stool.

“Thank you, Madam.”

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Zhu Ping’an expressed his gratitude after sitting.

“You child, why so formal?” she said with a smile, shaking her head. “Sit and talk with your teacher—I’ll go fetch some water.”

With that, she lifted the kettle and headed toward the water jar, preparing to fill it and set it on the charcoal stove.

“You stay seated. Come—take a look at this painting of mine.”

Old Master Sun raised his hand, pressing it lightly downward to stop Zhu Ping’an from getting up to help. Instead, he pointed toward the unfinished painting on the table.

Zhu Ping’an’s gaze fell upon the Wind Bamboo painting.

On the xuan paper, jagged rocks rose sharply, a shallow pond lay clear and still, and several stalks of bamboo stood by its edge. With varying shades of ink—dark and light—Old Master Sun had rendered the bamboo with remarkable vitality. The stalks were tall and upright, the leaves lush and layered, some tilting upward, others bowing low, overlapping in depth.

One could almost feel the wind itself—the way it stirred the bamboo, setting it swaying gently, graceful and alive.

And upon closer inspection, beneath the bamboo, faint strokes revealed clusters of young shoots pushing upward—full of vigor, brimming with life, as though the very spirit of growth surged forth from the paper.

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