The first day Ye Caiqian stood at the market square to teach, he felt an odd flutter in his chest—a blend of anticipation and anxiety. He was only a child, not yet seven, but in the eyes of the villagers he already possessed the wisdom of an adult, perhaps even more. His father's faith and the visible improvements in trade records had lent him credibility. The promise of payment—five bronze coins for every lesson—had ensured that the traders and a handful of curious villagers would show up, clutching their rods, bones, or makeshift slates.
It was, without question, the first true "school" the village—and perhaps the whole world—had ever known.
Each morning, as the dawn mist still lingered in the valley, Caiqian would walk with his father to the square. He'd find a stone or a patch of smooth dirt and use a stick to draw numerals, explaining their shapes, their meanings, and how they fit together to form any number, great or small. For many, the concept of "zero" was the most difficult. Some joked about "counting nothing," others frowned, but most grew silent and thoughtful as Ye Caiqian patiently demonstrated its usefulness.
He taught them to write each numeral clearly, how to line them up to create larger numbers, and—slowly, day after day—how to add, subtract, multiply, and divide. His lessons were simple, practical, grounded in the familiar world of trade and daily life. He showed them how his system made it easy to tally furs, grains, debts, and coins. He set simple exercises: "If you have three bundles of pelts and sell two, how many do you have left?" or "A hunter brings you seven hares, and you already have four—how many can you sell at the market?"
Some mornings were full of laughter and good-natured teasing; other days, frustration simmered as older men and women struggled with the new ideas. But Caiqian never lost patience. He remembered his own first struggles with mathematics in his past life, the long centuries it had taken for such ideas to spread. He encouraged, repeated, and reassured. His extraordinary comprehension allowed him to explain concepts in a dozen ways until the lesson took root.
Word spread quickly. Before long, people from nearby villages—traders, herders, weavers, even a few hunters—came to see the "child teacher." They brought bronze coins, salted meat, fruit, or whatever they could spare to pay for his lessons. The Ye family's standing in the community soared, and Ye Shentong, ever the businessman, quietly arranged for those who could afford more to sponsor the lessons for the poorest children.
For two months, Ye Caiqian taught every morning, never missing a day except during heavy storms. He watched as his pupils' eyes lit up with understanding. He saw the subtle pride in his father's gaze, the satisfaction of traders tallying their goods with confidence, and the joy of children showing their parents how to add numbers using just a stick and a patch of dirt.
The changes were subtle at first, but unmistakable. No longer did traders squabble over miscounted furs or overpaid debts. The tally marks and counting rods faded away, replaced by slates marked with crisp, clear numerals. Village elders began to keep records of births and harvests; hunters marked the number of successful hunts with a single sign instead of a handful of stones.
Caiqian's school was imitated in neighboring villages. The Ye family trading stall saw an increase in business as more traders visited to learn the new system. His brothers, Xuan and Rong, who once teased him for "playing with dirt," soon found themselves using the system to count their game and profits.
Time passed—two years, filled with steady progress. Caiqian's lessons spread further than he could have dreamed. Traders who roamed between villages carried the knowledge with them, teaching others for a small fee or simply for the pleasure of being seen as "wise."
During this time, Caiqian's understanding of his world deepened. He realized, through conversations with his father's trading partners and passing travelers, just how vast and dangerous the land was. Humanity, he learned, was sparse. By carefully tallying the numbers of families in each village, and estimating the size of distant settlements, he concluded that the total population was perhaps only a few tens of thousands, scattered across great wildernesses.
The world itself was untamed. Dense forests stretched for miles between villages; rivers and mountains acted as natural borders. Most people never traveled more than a day or two from their birthplace, and even the bravest traders only ventured along known routes.
Sometimes, Caiqian accompanied his father on short trading trips. These journeys were both thrilling and perilous. The family's cart, laden with smoked meats, furs, and hand-forged bronze tools, rolled slowly along rough dirt paths, watched by wary eyes from the trees. At night, by the fire, Ye Shentong and his son would talk quietly, the elder Ye teaching his youngest the subtle art of negotiation, the reading of faces, the unspoken rules of barter.
But the dangers were real. More than once, their caravan was forced to take shelter as the cries of beasts echoed through the forest. Traders spoke of wild dogs, wolves, and the occasional great bear—animals large enough to tip a cart or scatter a group of men.
Caiqian listened, learned, and watched. He noticed the nervous glances between the older men, the careful preparations before each journey, and the sighs of relief when a trip ended safely. He soon understood why most people never strayed far from home.
Still, there were always stories—the whispered rumors that passed from one traveler to another around a smoky fire. Tales of beasts with glowing eyes and scales as hard as stone. Old men muttered about the "ancient lords of the sky," dragons whose shadows could blot out the sun. No one Caiqian knew had ever seen such a creature, but every village had its legends, and every trader seemed to know someone who had once seen a "miracle" in the wild places of the world.
Caiqian listened carefully to these stories, curiosity kindled. He wondered whether dragons truly existed or were simply legends born from fear and awe. Deep down, he suspected there was more to this world than met the eye.
The more Ye Caiqian learned, the more he realized how fragile and primitive society truly was. Most families lived by hunting, gathering, and simple farming. Tools were crude, weapons basic. Travel was slow, dangerous, and infrequent. There were no great roads, no formal laws—each village governed itself by custom and tradition.
Trade, though vital, was perilous. Beast attacks on caravans were common, and more than once Caiqian heard of entire groups disappearing on the road, never to be seen again. His father's success depended as much on luck and strong allies as on cunning deals.
Yet despite the hardships, Caiqian saw hope. The spread of his numeral system had already changed lives, making commerce, record-keeping, and communication easier. He could only imagine what further changes might come.
Sometimes, after a long day of teaching or traveling, Caiqian would sit on the threshold of his family's home, gazing out at the horizon. He'd think of his past life, the long journey of civilization from fire to iron, and feel both awe and responsibility. In this world, so much was still unwritten.
It was during one such journey, as he sat listening to a group of seasoned traders sharing tales by the campfire, that Caiqian first heard whispers of people with strength beyond the ordinary.
"They say Old Li, from the southern hills, killed a wild bull with a single stone," one man claimed, his eyes wide.
"Nonsense," another scoffed, "but I heard about a girl who could outrun a deer, and her father could lift a boulder as big as a cart."
An old hunter leaned forward, voice low: "There are some…not many, but a few, born different. Some say it's a blessing from the sky, or a curse from the earth. Either way, you'd best not cross one."
Caiqian listened, heart pounding. Was this the first hint of extraordinary power in this world? Perhaps not yet martial arts or magic as he knew from his previous life's novels, but something. Something that marked the beginning of greater possibilities.
He quietly resolved to investigate further—watching, listening, and, when the time was right, experimenting with practices from his old world. He thought of the slow, graceful movements of taichi, the stretching and breathing of yoga, the invigorating sun salutations he'd learned in youth. If there was even a thread of hidden energy in this world, perhaps these practices could help him find it.
For now, though, he remained patient. Each morning, he continued to teach. Each evening, he shared stories with his family and planned quietly for the future.
By the time two full years had passed since that first lesson in the square, Caiqian could see the ripples of his teaching spreading. Villages far beyond his own now tallied with his numerals. Hunters counted game and calculated profits with ease. Trade grew more efficient, and a new confidence stirred among the people.
His father's name, and by extension his own, became known in distant settlements. Traders brought him news of the world—some joyous, some troubling, all fascinating. In every story, Caiqian looked for clues, searching for signs that would help him understand the nature of this world, its dangers, and its hidden strengths.
And still, the shadow of the unknown lingered. Beasts prowled the wilds. Legends of dragons haunted the dreams of men. And in every village, whispers of extraordinary strength hinted at a world where, perhaps, humanity was only beginning to discover its true potential.