Chapter 147: Subtle Transformation Through Influence

With the promotion of the Ink Gazette, Master Li spared no effort in flaunting his success and stoking resentment among his former rivals. The influence of the Three-Step Reading Method grew steadily throughout Chang’an.

As the imperial capital, Chang’an was undoubtedly the most educated region in the Tang Empire. Countless academies dotted the city, and every year, a great number of scholars journeyed here to study and await the triennial imperial examination.

Though the Tang dynasty opened the imperial exams wide, the number of successful candidates was dismally low—only a dozen or so every three years, and sometimes none at all. It was truly a fierce contest, like thousands of troops crossing a single-plank bridge.

Yet these scholars, repeatedly failing the exams, clung to their pride and refused to humble themselves.

“There are thousands upon thousands of scholars, but how many become officials?”
“Between the ages of fifteen and twenty-five, memory is at its peak—this is the best time to pursue learning. After thirty, memory and energy decline steadily.”
...

Zhou Chen put down the Ink Gazette, his heart heavy with turmoil. He had taken the imperial exams four times in a row, each time failing. Now past his thirties, he remained unrewarded, having never even passed the initial level to become a licentiate.

He could keenly feel his energy waning, and the burdens of household affairs weighed heavily on him, sapping his strength.

“Husband, are you troubled?” asked Mrs. Zhou with concern.

Zhou Chen shook his head. He glanced at his wife, whose prematurely grayed hair bore testament to their hardships. Their family was poor to the point of destitution, and only through enduring the scorn of her natal family had they managed to keep the household barely afloat.

“I have decided to give up the imperial exams,” Zhou Chen said in a low voice, summoning all his resolve. He dared not meet his wife’s gaze, knowing she had been his staunchest supporter. This decision seemed like a betrayal of all her previous efforts.

Unexpectedly, Mrs. Zhou did not react with anger. Instead, a look of relief softened her features.

“Husband, whatever your decision, I support you,” she said gently.

“You’re not upset?” Zhou Chen asked, hardly believing it.

Mrs. Zhou shook her head. “Whether you become an official or not does not matter to me. I supported you wholeheartedly when you were devoted to the exams, and now that you have chosen a different path, I will support you just the same. Have you thought about what you wish to do next?”

“I have decided to open a school,” Zhou Chen said firmly.

“A school?” Mrs. Zhou frowned. “Without any official rank, who would send their children to study with you?”

“No,” Zhou Chen replied. “I do not teach for the sake of official success, but to eradicate illiteracy.”

“Illiteracy!” Mrs. Zhou was taken aback. Although she rarely ventured beyond home, she knew well how harsh and piercing that word was.

“Many poor families wish their children to learn, but they cannot afford the tuition fees,” she worried.

Living in Chang’an was no easy matter, and tuition fees had been rising year after year. It was said that the venerable Master Tong of Taiping Ward, who had produced ten provincial graduates, charged each student a full string of cash annually.

“I will not charge so much,” Zhou Chen said, handing her two books. “One hundred wen every six months, teaching only two subjects: literacy and arithmetic.”

Zhou Chen had prepared well. One book was the classic ‘Thousand Character Text’ used for children’s literacy, the other the newly compiled first mathematics primer by Shen Hongcai. Though new, its contents were simple—basic addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division—no challenge for Zhou Chen.

Literacy and arithmetic, at an affordable price—he was confident many impoverished families would be eager to learn.

After discussion, the couple agreed to convert the largest room in their home—the former study—into a classroom and began openly recruiting students.

The news that the famously unsuccessful Zhou was starting a school caused quite a stir in Quchi Ward. After all, someone who had never even passed the initial imperial exam was well known locally.

“One hundred wen! I say Zhou’s not fit for scholarship, nor for business. Charging that much must be a losing proposition.”

“To me, Zhou’s knowledge is only worth a hundred wen. It’s a wonder he even has the sense to teach literacy. Otherwise, he’d only mislead the children.”

Amidst such jeers, Zhou Chen’s school finally opened.

To everyone’s surprise, it was wildly popular, enrolling over sixty students.

“Master, my boy is very mischievous. If he dares misbehave, please discipline him as you see fit.”

“Master, I have no other requests than for him to learn to read a few characters and master arithmetic enough to help with business.”

“I may be illiterate all my life, but my son must not be!”

...

Zhou Chen stood at the entrance of the courtyard-turned-classroom, gazing into earnest eyes and feeling certain he had made the right choice.

Mrs. Zhou wept tears of joy, clutching six strings of cash. A small fortune for an ordinary family in the Tang dynasty—and that was only half a year’s tuition.

Inside the classroom, Zhou Chen looked at the pencils in his students’ hands and pondered a new challenge.

“Master, these are pencils! They were given free with the purchase of the math books,” a timid student explained.
“But once they’re used up, you have to buy more—one wen each!”
“And here’s the pencil sharpener! Just turn it like this!”
...

Looking at the slender core of graphite embedded in a stick of wood no thicker than a chopstick, Zhou Chen knew this was the latest painting tool from the Ink School. He had read about it in the Ink Gazette, where it was said the core was made of screw ink, yet how could it be so cheap?

What Zhou Chen did not know was that the Ink Village, through relentless effort, had finally produced graphite cores at astonishingly low cost. To help Shen Hongcai promote arithmetic, they bundled the pencils with the textbooks.

“Master, the arithmetic books came with these pencils. Can we use them for writing the Thousand Character Text?” a student asked hesitantly.

Zhou Chen looked at each student, their clothes patched and worn. He nodded firmly.

One pencil replaced brush, ink, and inkstone—and for just one wen it could last over a month. Moreover, it allowed writing in very small characters, greatly saving paper—a tremendous boon for poor students. Henceforth, the cost of learning would plummet to its lowest point.

The pencil had many advantages, but one major drawback: the graphite was soft and easily smudged on sleeves. Watching his students carefully practice their characters from top to bottom, left to right to avoid smudges, Zhou Chen twice considered correcting their writing stroke order but finally desisted. Their primary need was literacy; they were not preparing for the imperial exams or literary composition. Learning as cheaply as possible was the true priority.

Soon, schools like Zhou Chen’s spread rapidly throughout Chang’an and across the Guanzhong region, with pencils becoming increasingly adopted by impoverished scholars.

As Morton had said, this was not about preserving rituals but about saving money and convenience. All of this unfolded subtly, imperceptibly transforming the culture—not just by influence, but by the power of ink itself.