Even in my previous life, I had never seen a private individual with such a rich collection of books. I truly have no idea how Mr. Smith managed to preserve these books through the hellish political campaigns. Perhaps he had to thank his exile back to his hometown for that. There weren’t many literate cadres in the Ma Tangwan brigade, and they didn’t value books. If these precious books had stayed in the provincial capital, they likely wouldn’t have survived the disaster. For someone as obsessed with books as Mr. Smith, destroying his books might have been even more painful than killing him. This is what they call “a blessing in disguise.”

I searched through the piles of books with great joy, and my respect for Mr. Smith grew even more.

Although I had only managed to get a shabby associate degree in my previous life, I had always been passionate about reading. Entering Mr. Smith’s library (calling it a study would not do its scale justice) truly felt like stumbling into a treasure trove. Before I knew it, night had fallen.

“Xiao Jun, Xiao Jun…” It was Dad’s voice.

“Xiao Jun, what books did you pick out?” Mr. Smith asked with a cheerful smile. It seemed the two intellectuals were having a pleasant conversation.

I hugged a large stack of books and struggled to step over the threshold (back then, every room in rural houses had a tall bluestone threshold between them—who knows what custom that was). “Oh, you picked quite a few books. Come, let uncle take a look.” Mr. Smith smiled and took a book from the pile, but was immediately stunned.

“The Art of War?” It wasn’t a modern Chinese version, but the classical Chinese text.

“Xiao Jun, do you know what this book is?”

“I do. Uncle just mentioned it, The Art of War.” Dad was also surprised and took the books from my hands, looking through them one by one.

“Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio… Romance of the Three Kingdoms… A General History of China… The Book of Songs…” Dad almost exclaimed out loud.

“This… there’s even a foreign book…” Mr. Smith took a look and said, “It’s Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’…”

“Xiao Jun, did you pick all these yourself? Can you understand them?” Dad looked at me, his expression a mix of surprise and doubt.

Mr. Smith also stared at me intently, his expression odd.

I held back a laugh and answered earnestly, “I can’t understand them.” Dad first let out a long sigh of relief, then looked a bit disappointed.

Dad, do you really take your son for a prodigy? A seven-year-old kid reading The Art of War is one thing—at least it’s in Chinese characters, which look somewhat familiar. But reading Hamlet in English? Give me a break!

“If you can’t understand them, why did you take them?” I answered seriously, “I can’t understand them, but uncle can, and he can teach me!” Dad was once again shocked.

Mr. Smith laughed, “So Xiao Jun wants to become my apprentice?” I tilted my head and asked, feigning innocence, “I do want to be uncle’s student. I wonder if uncle is willing to accept me?” Mr. Smith was taken aback, his face turning serious as he looked at Dad and said solemnly, “Jincai, Xiao Jun is a promising kid. If you nurture him well, he’ll surely achieve great things. But I’m a rightist, so you need to think it through.” Dad hesitated, unable to make up his mind for a moment.

You have to understand, although the end of the Great Revolution was near, ordinary people living through it had no idea what huge changes were about to happen in China. Even after the fall of the Gang of Four, it would still take years for the real shift to occur. In an era where “class struggle” was the guiding principle, being labeled a rightist was no joke.

Only I knew clearly that the chaos was about to end, and a prosperous era was coming.

“Dad, don’t you always say that a student’s job is to study? Reading with uncle is a good thing.” Mr. Smith raised his eyebrows, and a faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Dad also smiled, “As long as your uncle doesn’t mind the trouble, I couldn’t wish for more. Mr. Smith, what do you think?” Mr. Smith laughed heartily, “If you’re not afraid, why should I be? I’m bored anyway, and Xiao Jun is smart and lively—I like him a lot.” I was overjoyed, “Uncle, you agree?”

“I agree.” Mr. Smith nodded firmly.

A scholar like him, who followed the teachings of Confucius and Mencius, usually also valued the gentleman’s code of “a promise is worth a thousand pieces of gold.”

Dad smiled and said, “Xiao Jun, aren’t you going to greet your teacher?” What I did next shocked the two adults again.

I actually knelt down, respectfully kowtowed three times, then looked up and called out crisply, “Hello, teacher!” In that instant, Mr. Smith was moved to tears.

I thought becoming Mr. Smith’s student was a huge gain, but who knew I was asking for trouble. This old scholar was no ordinary strict teacher—he took on the full authority of a master. If you want to know the details, just look at the following schedule.

Monday afternoon: one hour of English, one hour of Chinese.

Tuesday afternoon: one hour of Russian, one hour of arithmetic.

Wednesday afternoon: one hour of English, one hour of history.

Thursday afternoon: one hour of English, one hour of Chinese.

Friday afternoon: one hour of Russian, one hour of arithmetic.

Saturday afternoon: one hour of English, one hour of physics.

Sunday morning: review and a quiz.

Oh my god, this is total cramming! It seems Mr. Smith, after years away from the classroom, was planning to fully indulge his passion for teaching through me.