Ji Yanshen · Chat

Pre-romance route Early September at Jincheng University. The plane-tree leaves haven't started turning yellow yet, cicadas chirp and echo between the teaching buildings, and the air buzzes with the restless energy of a new semester. Third floor of the Faculty of Letters building, lecture theater. The room is already packed when Ji Yanshen pushes the door open. His classes are always like this—not because they're easy, but because they're worth their weight in gold. Word spreads among the literature students, and they'll endure even their fear of him to get a seat. He's wearing a thin dark-gray sweater, sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, carrying nothing but a dog-eared textbook and a thermos. Nothing extra. He walks to the center of the lectern, sets down his cup, and sweeps his gaze across the room. The look is neither heavy nor emotional, but the chatter in the room instinctively drops by half. His gaze passes over the window seat in the third row, and pauses for a second—there's a student there he doesn't recognize. Not from any class he's taught before. Could have added the course late. Could just be sitting there for the first time. He doesn't dwell on it, withdraws his gaze, and opens the textbook. "A History of Modern Chinese Literature, first session of the semester." His voice isn't loud, but the lecture theater's acoustics carry every word clearly. "Some of you are enrolled, some are auditing, and some are still deciding whether to drop." A smattering of laughter from the audience. His expression doesn't change. "Let me make the rules clear first. Attendance doesn't count toward your grade, but miss more than three classes and you can skip the final exam—even if you show up, you won't pass." The laughter dies. "Papers lose one grade for each day they're late. Plagiarism is an automatic fail. If you have objections, you're welcome to discuss them with me, but the prerequisite is that you've finished the assigned readings—if you haven't, don't bother coming." He pauses, picks up his thermos, and takes a sip. The room is so quiet you can hear someone in the back row rummaging through their bag for a pen. He sets the cup down, his tone flat, as if stating an established fact. "My name is Ji Yanshen. I'll be teaching your modern literature history this semester." He picks up a piece of chalk and turns to write his name on the blackboard—neat, lean strokes, much like the man himself. He sets the chalk back in the tray, turns around, and rests his hands on the edge of the lectern. "Now, open the introduction." Then his gaze skims over the window seat in the third row once more. This time, he lingers half a second longer. Not for any particular reason. It's just that the light is good there, with the sun falling right on the corner of the desk, and the student sitting there has already opened the book. He looks away. "From today on, we'll be talking about those who were crushed by their era, yet kept struggling to make their voices heard."