Chapter 78: The Seeds of Arithmetic

Pi stands as the pinnacle of ancient mathematics, securing Zu Chongzhi’s place atop the field and granting the Zu family centuries of honor.

“Return it immediately after reading! Do not damage it!” Zu Mingjun hesitantly handed Merton an ancient, yellowed book.

Merton, startled, took it and glanced at the first page. He quickly closed the book, looking at Zu Mingjun in astonishment—it was the mathematical legacy personally written by Zu Chongzhi.

“This doesn’t seem appropriate,” Merton shook his head. This was the Zu family’s most treasured possession.

“It’s what you deserve,” Zu Mingjun insisted. This was their reward for Merton teaching them Arabic numerals and inspiring Zu Mingjun to discover the parabola.

“There are annotations on the ‘Jue Technique’ from our ancestor inside. I know your mathematical skill is high; I believe it will help you,” Zu Mingjun explained.

“Jue Technique annotations!” Merton’s interest was piqued. He had long heard of it; later generations recorded that even scholars couldn’t comprehend it and eventually abandoned it.

The Imperial Academy possessed textbooks on the Jue Technique. Merton had perused them and discovered that its essence was the method of limits known in later times.

With the current mathematical level of the Tang Dynasty, it was indeed obscure and difficult, lacking theoretical formulas and relying solely on massive amounts of data. It was laborious, inefficient, and the results were imprecise. Likely, apart from Shen Hongcai, others at the Imperial Academy could do little more than scoff.

Unable to restrain his curiosity, Merton flipped through the book. The wisdom of the ancients was truly astonishing. In Zu Chongzhi’s legacy, there were even references to highly complex mathematical problems and concepts resembling calculus.

Unfortunately, such advanced ideas had too few who could grasp them, which explained why the Jue Technique was eventually lost.

Merton skimmed through the secret manuscript and returned it to Zu Mingjun.

“The wisdom of our ancestor is awe-inspiring, but I advise you to forget what’s within and focus on studying the parabola. When you’re old and gray, you can revisit these things—don’t waste your precious youth,” Merton counseled.

“That’s what those old fellows studied anyway,” Zu Mingjun muttered softly, his gaze tinged with regret. Clearly, he had dreamed of unraveling the legacy and gaining fame, but with Merton—whose mathematical skill far surpassed his—offering such advice, he had no choice but to give up.

“You could understand it?” Zu Mingjun asked, unwilling to let go.

Merton smiled faintly, offering no reply.

Though he knew the methods, mathematics advanced step by step. If he tried to force progress, he would only undermine its foundation.

Moreover, these profound problems were of no practical use in the Tang Dynasty; the parabola at hand was far more valuable.

In the presence of the Imperial Academy’s scholars, Qin Huaiyu and his companions, who had recently shown extraordinary enthusiasm for mathematics, unexpectedly joined Zu Mingjun’s parabola experiment. Of course, it was likely because today’s experiment involved kicking a soccer ball.

“Attention, everyone! The ball is coming!” Yuchi Baolin shouted, took a running start, and kicked the ball skyward. With strength like an ox, he was tireless and brimming with energy.

Zu Mingjun, holding paper, watched as the ball climbed in the air, reached its apex, and then descended in a parabolic arc, landing with a thud and bouncing far away.

“Height: twenty-three feet.”

Merton stood in the middle, watching the ball pass between two lines marked at twenty and thirty feet, reporting a close estimate.

“Landing point: thirty-two yards!” Qin Huaiyu called out from where the ball landed, offering a precise measurement.

Zu Mingjun hurriedly recorded the data in his notebook, which was already crammed with entries from previous trials.

At the landing spot, Cheng Chumo retrieved the ball and kicked it again with a mighty strike, sending it soaring once more.

“Height: eighteen feet,” Merton called out.

“Landing point: twenty-one yards!” Zu Mingjun quickly noted the distance, his notebook growing ever denser with data.

Through repeated experiments, drawing closer to the true numbers, this was the Zu family’s hereditary Jue Technique. It had its unique calculation methods; though clumsy, persistence would surely yield results.

“Are we done yet?” Cheng Chumo kicked the ball again, shouting.

Though he and Yuchi Baolin were robust, even they were exhausted after kicking the ball a hundred times, each panting heavily.

“All right, ten more rounds, and I’ll treat you to fried chicken!” Zu Mingjun called loudly.

“You’re shameless, treating us at our own shop!” Yuchi Baolin scoffed, kicking the ball away.

“I’m just helping your business!” Zu Mingjun retorted confidently.

“Ha! As if we need your help!” Qin Huaiyu shouted from afar.

Ever since fried chicken cutlets and drumsticks were introduced, they received rave reviews, especially from the Imperial Academy’s scholars and children, who eagerly queued every day, making business worry-free.

The ball flew back and forth, and soon the ten sets of data were recorded. Zu Mingjun looked at his notebook—thanks to his friends, he had gathered enough data to analyze for days.

Merton wiped his brow and walked over, looking at the dense notebook and Zu Mingjun’s confident smile. He believed that the parabola would surely be deciphered by Zu Mingjun.

“Merton, may I learn your mathematics?” Kong Huisuo’s voice came from behind.

Merton had long noticed Kong Huisuo lingering nearby, but hadn’t expected him to approach.

The secret behind the rapid improvement of Cheng Chumo and the others’ mathematical skills was soon widely known, thanks to Qin Huaiyu’s boastful claims. Word spread that Merton had taught them exotic mathematics.

To turn mediocre students into top scholars in a short time was nearly miraculous, and this exotic math was close to being deified at the Imperial Academy.

Merton, a disciple of the Mo family, possessed this knowledge. Many felt too embarrassed to ask him, but Kong Huisuo was different. Since Cheng Chumo’s group had surged ahead, Kong Huisuo had become the lowest-ranked scholar and naturally thought of this exotic math that had transformed his peers.

“Of course you can! This mathematics was brought from India by Mo family ancestors, not exclusive to our family—anyone can learn it,” Merton replied.

“Anyone can learn?” Kong Huisuo was astounded; he hadn’t expected to acquire such knowledge so easily.

“It’s true. Brother Mo teaches us mathematics free of charge. Here are my notes; take them and read. If you have questions, ask me,” Zu Mingjun confirmed, handing Kong Huisuo his notebook.

“Thank you!” Kong Huisuo said sincerely, clutching the notes.

Watching Kong Huisuo leave eagerly with the notebook, Merton smiled. Whether guiding Zu Mingjun to study the parabola or teaching Arabic numerals and multiplication tables, he was sowing the seeds of mathematics.

He believed that Arabic numerals and the multiplication table would soon spread throughout the Imperial Academy and, from there, throughout the entire Tang Dynasty.

Only when mathematics was truly disseminated could Mo philosophy, grounded in mathematics, flourish.