First Class cabin, the air seemed to freeze, with only the low, steady clatter of the train’s wheels serving as background noise.
The gentlemen and ladies either held books, read newspapers, or sipped coffee from porcelain cups, their gazes drifting absentmindedly toward the same corner, their ears straining to catch every syllable within that small space.
A tacit silence enveloped the carriage, broken only by the clear sound of conversation from that spot.
Fang Yan could no longer contain himself and quickly scribbled a few words on the memo pad he carried, pushing it toward Song Qingyuan across from him.
The handwriting was messy, betraying his urgency: “World-shaking prodigy! Such a youth in our China! Brother Song, if we don’t act soon, this boy will be taken away by that foreigner!”
Song Qingyuan glanced at the hastily written note, his expression calm.
After a brief pause, he took up his pen and replied below in a strong and dignified Yan Style Regular Script, echoing the style of Yan Lugong himself: “Matters of apprenticeship should come from his own heart; one cannot force it.”
Fang Yan took the note, his eyes first drawn to his friend’s powerful calligraphy that seemed to leap off the page. Secretly, he praised it.
Though Fang Yan himself was poor at writing, having been exposed to calligraphy from a young age, his appreciation was keen.
Reading the content, a faint smile curved Fang Yan’s lips as he inwardly chuckled at Song Qingyuan’s stubbornness.
His gaze had drifted toward that young man several times already.
Just now, Jiang Mingchuan had thought he had misremembered something and recited it again, which made Song Qingyuan even more agitated than Lewis.
He angrily wrote on a slip of paper, “The foreigner is misunderstanding a gem!”
Fang Yan’s eyes twinkled as his pen scratched rapidly, adding another line with a mischievous smile before handing it back. “Are you really not going to accept him as a disciple? A prodigy like this only comes once in a hundred years. If you miss Jiang Mingchuan, you might never get another satisfactory apprentice in your lifetime.”
He paused, his tone growing more urgent, “The boy is still young and may not even have reached adulthood. You hold the authority for Beijing University Special Recruitment; why not strike first? Would you just stand by and watch such a prodigy slip overseas?”
Such reasoning did not need Fang Yan’s persuasion; Song Qingyuan had long contemplated taking on a disciple.
A genius like Jiang Mingchuan was every teacher’s dream— an extraordinary student beyond compare. Naturally, Song Qingyuan did not want to miss out.
However, on one hand, he struggled to find the right moment to intervene; on the other, Lewis had already informally established a master-apprentice relationship with Jiang Mingchuan.
If Song Qingyuan were to barge in recklessly, it would invite criticism and seem inappropriate, so he hesitated.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the carriage, the atmosphere grew increasingly intense.
There was no greater joy than teaching a genius.
Lewis only needed to explain once, and Jiang Mingchuan would draw analogies and reason by extension.
With just a brief elaboration on several English poems the boy had memorized before, he immediately grasped the basic framework of subject-verb-object in English and then eagerly self-studied more complex grammar such as predicate postposition and attributive clauses.
He soon began attempting to organize sentences using his limited vocabulary, progressing at an astonishing speed that left all onlookers in awe.
If Lewis were thirty years younger, he would surely be deeply shaken, maybe even envious.
But now at fifty-seven, in the twilight of his life, encountering such a breathtaking young talent stirred not jealousy but sincere admiration and joy.
Lewis sighed inwardly.
At his age, he had to admit two truths:
First, the world operated under cold, immutable laws.
Second, under these laws, true fairness rarely existed.
Geniuses, however, were allowed to transcend these laws and freely radiate their brilliance.
At this moment, the flame of curiosity within Lewis was fully ignited— he desperately wanted to explore the limits of this Eastern boy’s talent.
He leaned forward and took from his brown leather suitcase a finely bound English book.
Its edges were gilded, exuding a faint scent of ink and leather.
He casually flipped to a page, cleared his throat, and began reading aloud a passage in clear, slow English, pronounced with the impeccable Nobleman’s Accent of Paris.
This was a small print edition of a poetry collection published by one of his English cousins several years ago, with only a few dozen copies printed for family and friends.
His intonation echoed through the silent carriage.
After finishing, Lewis habitually paused, expecting the usual echo.
But this time, only silence answered him.
Lewis looked up in surprise.
The Eastern boy’s brow was furrowed, and for the first time, uncertainty and confusion flickered in his clear eyes.
The calm composure that had accompanied his English recitations vanished, replaced by a rare and subtle unease.
Lewis couldn’t help but wonder: Was Jiang Mingchuan’s linguistic talent limited only to English?
His reason told him the boy’s demonstrated talent was already peerless, but a cold wave of indescribable disappointment still swept through his heart like an icy tide.
Almost simultaneously, Song—
English, though an impressive skill, would be greatly devalued if it were the only language mastered.
Song Qingyuan himself was a prodigy with a photographic memory and knew well that China was full of hidden talents. Such gifts, though rare, were not unique.
Fang Yan anxiously passed another note: “Why can’t he recite it?”
At that moment, Lewis spoke with a tinge of regret and apology, “It’s alright if he can’t recite it. This is English—we agreed to teach you English, so it’s my fault. Don’t mind it.”
Fang Yan suddenly understood.
He muttered internally that indeed, it wasn’t very fair— this was like testing beyond the syllabus. It was only natural Jiang Mingchuan couldn’t answer.
Then he looked down at Song Qingyuan’s reply:
“If he were a true linguistic genius, even a different language would be within his grasp.”
Fang Yan looked up in surprise to find Song Qingyuan’s expression indifferent.
He had already withdrawn his gaze from the side and returned to his book, clearly having abandoned any thought of taking on a disciple.
Fang Yan pursed his lips, inwardly cursing Song Qingyuan’s harsh apprenticeship standards. He’d never get a suitable disciple like this.
“I know this is a foreign language; its flavor is entirely different from English. I can recite it too, but…” Jiang Mingxi hesitated, then swallowed the words she was about to say.
She took a deep breath and began reciting fluently and precisely.
Her pronunciation was unbelievably perfect, with natural rises and falls that imitated Lewis’s pure, aristocratic English accent so vividly it could fool anyone.
Fang Yan sharply noticed Song Qingyuan’s body stiffen!
His previously lowered eyelids suddenly lifted, his gaze like lightning, locking onto Jiang Mingchuan over the open book.
That usually stern, almost rigid face displayed a clear and rare smile.
At that moment, his eyes were so gentle toward Jiang Mingchuan they could only be described as loving.
Fang Yan rubbed his arm in a chill, muttering to himself that Song Qingyuan hadn’t even been this doting with his own daughter.
“Impeccable!” Lewis burst out, an English word meaning “flawless!”
There were many words for “perfect” in English, and the common one was “parfait,” but Lewis chose “Impeccable”—which emphasized a flawless, faultless perfection.
Song Qingyuan nodded silently in his heart; only that word suited Jiang Mingchuan’s impeccable English accent.
At the same time, Song Qingyuan recalled the boy’s brief hesitation and unspoken words earlier.
With such a unique gift, his life was bound to be smooth sailing. What was there to worry about?
“Sorry, Mr. Lewis, I have disappointed you.”
The young Eastern boy, who had just displayed a miracle, now lowered his head slightly.
His thick eyelashes cast a small shadow beneath his eyes, and his face was full of shame, unease, frustration, and loss.
“The book you’re reading is so exquisitely bound; it must be a masterpiece. I’m just… dull and shallow. I failed to grasp even a shred of the passage’s deeper meaning and have truly let down your teaching and expectations.”
His voice carried genuine confusion and self-reproach.
Lewis: …………
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
How could he begin?
Lewis was a straightforward man; he was too embarrassed to say that this finely bound book was actually the self-published work of his pretentious cousin— a source of amusement among insiders.
He had brought it along simply as light entertainment during the trip.
“Hmph! If anyone could find meaning in that passage, that would truly be a miracle!”
A sharp, cold voice pierced the delicate atmosphere of the carriage like an ice pick.
Jiang Mingxi turned in surprise to look at the silent gentleman sitting next to her.
When the translator had spilled the coffee pot earlier, everyone was startled— yet this man sat as steady as a rock, not even blinking.
He appeared to be about fifty, with a square face, stern features, and eyes sharp as a hawk’s.
His faded blue long robe was simple, resembling a rural private tutor.
But rural tutors didn’t sit in first class cabins.
At that moment, the man in the long robe still lowered his eyelids, slowly flipping the thread-bound book on his lap as if the harsh comment he just made was merely muttering to himself: “The content is rubbish, the English looks like childish scribbles, only barely fit for a comedy sketch.”
His companion across from him laughed heartily, clutching his stomach.
Soon the entire carriage broke into laughter.
Someone joked, “Thanks to this gentleman for clearing that up— I was just wondering about it.”
Jiang Mingxi belatedly realized that all the passengers in the carriage had been paying close attention to her conversation with Lewis.
Mr. Lewis smiled awkwardly, embarrassed, clearly conceding to the curt critique from the man beside him.
Jiang Mingxi bowed slightly in thanks to the gentleman next to her, “Thank you for your advice, sir.”
“Only unwilling to mislead a child,” Song Qingyuan lifted his eyes and glanced pointedly at Lewis, whose face flushed with shame as he lowered his head. “I’m really not a professional teacher.”
“I think you taught very well.”
Jiang Mingxi immediately defended her tutor, her gaze toward the man next to her growing cold. “Mr. Lewis is a true gentleman. I’ve benefited greatly; there’s no need for a stranger to interfere.”
Fang Yan’s expression changed drastically.
He knew Song Qingyuan’s fiery, proud nature well— he was the type who wouldn’t tolerate even a grain of dust in his eyes!
He cursed emperors and corrupt officials alike without fear.
Having finally extended an olive branch (even if it often made him disliked), for his friend to reject it publicly and speak back to him like that was an insult.
Could he just take it quietly? No way— soon he’d be cursing with full force.
Thinking quickly, Fang Yan suddenly raised his voice with exaggerated enthusiasm and interjected, “Ah! Young brother!”
He leaned forward, trying to draw Jiang Mingxi’s attention. “You’re still young; I wonder… where are you studying now?”
While speaking, he nervously glanced at Song Qingyuan from the corner of his eye.
To his shock, the anticipated thunderous rage never came.
Instead, Song Qingyuan’s stern face subtly lifted at the corners of his mouth into a faint smile.
He was initially confused but then realized: In Song Qingyuan’s eyes, Jiang Mingchuan was already his definite future disciple. The master was happy and eager.
Tsk, that old man was self-absorbed. With that temper, the kid might not even want to take him.
Fang Yan cursed inwardly just as Jiang Mingchuan said calmly, “I’ve never been to school.”
“Never… been to school?!” Fang Yan completely lost his voice, his tongue tied and eyes wide as if he had heard the most unbelievable tale.
Song Qingyuan understood and asked, “Were you tutored at home then?”
Only then did Fang Yan come back to his senses.
Indeed, many traditional scholarly families had their children tutored at home by parents or elders before sending them to the family’s private school as they grew older.
Jiang Mingchuan must be the same.
So even with extraordinary talent, he had remained unknown all along.
Fang Yan speculated silently that perhaps the Jiang family intended to emulate the story of “Three Years of Silence, One Roar of Thunder.”
“No, I have no family, and no one taught me.”
Jiang Mingxi’s voice remained calm but struck like a boulder thrown into a silent deep pond, causing ripples to surge.
She lifted her chin slightly and uttered the earth-shattering truth clearly: “I was born a slave. Someone was kind enough to teach me a few characters so I wouldn’t be a blind fool.”
An invisible thunderclap exploded inside the first class cabin; the air completely froze.
Time seemed to halt at that moment.
Passengers who had been quietly smiling suddenly stiffened, as if frozen in place.
Hands holding cups stopped mid-air, newspapers left unturned, mouths hanging open.
Every pair of eyes fixed incredulously, stunned, suspiciously, and inquisitively on the genius youth.
Outside the window, the scenery blurred as silence deepened within the carriage.
Jiang Mingxi met these gazes without flinching.
She never considered her origins shameful.
On the contrary, she was proud.
She was a slave who had signed a bondservant contract, a Two-Legged Sheep nearly devoured in famine years, a Murderer wanted for Ten Thousand Silver Dollars— and yet she had climbed step by step to this moment.
To sit in the same carriage drinking coffee alongside these gentlemen and ladies was proof of her success.
In the dead silence and countless astonished eyes, Jiang Mingxi straightened her spine and smiled calmly: “From this, it is clear — Man Triumphs Over Heaven.”