A live-streamed Chinese language lesson under the sky—the ancients were taken aback.

Zhu Yuanzhang sat at his desk, with a copy of "Zhuangzi" spread out in front of him.

He specifically ordered someone to find it from the Wenyuan Pavilion.

Although he called Tianmu's teachings "heavenly words" since the Qin Dynasty, he listened more attentively than anyone else every time.

He felt a little uneasy when the sky was still dark a few days ago.

The main hall was very quiet, with only the sound of the ceiling and the occasional sound of turning pages.

Empress Ma sat to the side doing needlework, without disturbing him.

When Zhu Yuanzhang spoke of the saying "The cicada and the turtledove laughed at him," he snorted.

"Back when we were begging, some people said we were toads trying to eat swan meat. Later, when we joined the Red Turban Army, some people said what could a beggar possibly achieve. Now we're the emperor..."

Empress Ma replied without looking up, "Now that you're the emperor, you're reviewing memorials until midnight every day, which is more tiring than when you were begging for food."

Zhu Yuanzhang was momentarily speechless, glared at him, but ultimately didn't lash out.

He continued listening.

When the story reached the part where "King Chu sent someone to invite Zhuangzi to be prime minister, and Zhuangzi said he would rather roll in the mud," Zhu Yuanzhang finally couldn't hold back any longer and slammed the book on the table with a loud thud.

"How can this person be so ungrateful!"

Empress Ma raised her eyelids and glanced at him.

"The King of Chu kindly invited him to take up an official post, but he said he'd rather wallow in the mud than serve as prime minister, and that the position was a dead rat."

Zhu Yuanzhang grew increasingly angry as he spoke, "What I hate most in my life are people who have the ability but refuse to put in the effort. If you're so capable, then come out and do something. What kind of person are you, hiding by the river fishing?"

Empress Ma put down her needlework, glanced at him, and said indifferently, "It's their right not to want to be an official. When you were a monk at Huangjue Temple, didn't you also not want to farm?"

Zhu Yuanzhang opened his mouth, but was speechless for a moment.

He picked up the book again, flipped through a couple of pages, and then looked up at the sky.

The young man named Zhi Wubuyan was reciting, "Those who travel to the wilderness return after three meals; those who travel a hundred li prepare provisions for the night; those who travel a thousand li gather provisions for three months."

"That's true." Zhu Yuanzhang nodded and said to Empress Ma, "When we were conquering the world, the brothers in Huaixi followed us, risking their lives. We could risk our own lives, but we couldn't let our brothers go hungry. So, wherever we went, we opened the granaries and distributed grain. What is this called? This is called 'those who travel a thousand miles gather grain in three months.' Zhuangzi wasn't entirely useless either."

Empress Ma glanced at him, a slight smile playing on her lips, but said nothing.

After Tianmu finished speaking, Zhu Yuanzhang closed the book and remained silent for a long time.

"Hey girl," he suddenly said.

Empress Ma turned to look at him. Zhu Yuanzhang gazed at the sky, his voice low and deep.

"He's never been in charge of a household in that village, so he doesn't know how difficult it is to be one."

"But he was right about one thing: those who travel a thousand miles should gather grain in three months. This year, we should reduce taxes by another 10% so that the people can keep more grain." He paused, then added, "What if later generations criticize us like they criticize the First Emperor?"

Empress Ma lowered her head and picked up her needle and thread again. "It's rare for you to say something so gentle," she said.

Zhu Yuanzhang did not respond.

The sky outside the window was completely dark, but the wind of the Hongwu era was still blowing.

Western Hunan, deep in the mountains.

Wang Fuzhi was already old.

The years spent in seclusion in the mountains had turned his beard and hair snow-white, but his eyes still shone brightly, like two lamps that refused to go out in the cold night.

As dawn broke, he was sitting under an old camphor tree in front of his thatched hut, with a scroll of his own "Zhuangzi Commentary" spread out on his lap.

He spent several years writing this book, revising it numerous times, but was never quite satisfied with it.

Zhuangzi is like a mountain; each climb reveals a different view, and he always felt that his writing skills could not keep up with those views.

He spoke frankly, saying, "Small knowledge cannot compare to great knowledge, and a short lifespan cannot compare to a long lifespan," and nodded slightly.

As he spoke of "the ephemeral mushroom knows not the dawn and dusk, the cicada knows not the spring and autumn," he gently stroked his own annotations in the book.

This was all expected, a principle that every bettor must understand.

Then the young man in the sky said, "Wang Fuzhi explained it most clearly in his commentary on Zhuangzi. He said that Zhuangzi's discussion of the distinction between small and large was not to belittle the small and elevate the large, but to break down the distinction between small and large."

Wang Fuzhi's fingers stopped.

He looked up at the sky.

On that aged face, there was first surprise, followed by an extremely complex and indescribable expression.

He didn't expect that what he thought was a commentary on Zhuangzi was just something he wrote for himself in the deep mountains and forests, and whether it could be passed down to posterity was still unknown.

But Tianmu said that young people in later generations know him, read his books, and even quote his views.

He has been away from the imperial court for most of his life.

Emperor Chongzhen was only twenty-six years old when he hanged himself at Coal Hill. From then on, he no longer belonged to the world called "Ming".

He resisted the Qing dynasty, but was defeated.

He lived in seclusion in the mountains, writing books and expounding his theories, including "Reading the Comprehensive Mirror for Aid in Government," "On the Song Dynasty," and "An Explanation of Zhuangzi."

He didn't know if there was any point in writing these things. The country was already gone, would anyone still read his books?

The sky told him: Yes.

"Break down the distinction between small and large." Wang Fuzhi murmured his words, then suddenly laughed, a laugh tinged with bitterness and relief.

He lowered his head, looked at the scroll of "Zhuangzi Commentary" on his lap, slowly picked up his pen, and added a line of small characters next to it.

The handwriting trembled slightly, but the strokes remained vigorous.

"Both the roc and the cicada depend on something. The roc depends on the wind, and the cicada depends on the elm and the oak. What they depend on is different, but their dependence is the same."

He put down his pen and gazed at the distant, layered mountains.

The light from the sky shone on his face, flickering and changing.

He thought for a moment, then added another line below, even smaller, as if it were written for himself.

"I also have something to look forward to; what I look forward to is the future."

He put down his pen, looked up at the vast blue sky, and seemed to see the roc taking flight again.

Qin Dynasty, autumn afternoon.

An old farmer squatted on the edge of the field, holding half a hard, dry corn cake in his hand.

The wheat behind him had just been harvested, and the stubble lay unevenly in the field, like the rough stubble of the earth.

When the large bird flew across the sky, he squinted and watched for a while, then turned to his son beside him and said, "If this bird is real, we won't need to farm anymore. One bird would be enough to feed the whole village for a year."

His son, a boy of thirteen or fourteen, was looking up at the screen, completely absorbed.

The old farmer continued, "However, His Majesty followed the instructions of the Heavenly Curtain and reduced the taxes on the fields. I heard that those who are performing corvée labor are now eating. You know what, the Heavenly Curtain really can make a living."

The boy did not answer his father's question, but pointed to the bird in the sky and said, "Dad, listen to what he said. Before that fish turned into a bird, it had to grow to be thousands of miles long. It accumulated the strength of thousands of miles before it could fly."

The old farmer took a bite of the bread and mumbled, "That would require storing up so much grain."

The boy did not respond.

He gazed at the soaring roc in the sky, his lips slightly parted, and his eyes held a light different from his father's.

He didn't know if he could fly out of this yellow land like that bird.

He wondered if he should also gather his strength and go to a farther place.

At that very moment, in this stubble field outside Xianyang City, a bird spread its wings in the heart of a young boy.

The South Market of Luoyang during the Tang Dynasty.

The vendors temporarily put down their work, the customers in the teahouse forgot to drink their tea, and the woman selling cloth still held a ruler in her hand, but hadn't measured an inch of cloth for half a day.

Everyone was looking up at the sky.

A vendor selling flatbread leaned against the stove, wiping his rough hands on his apron, his eyes fixed on the large bird in the sky, and suddenly sighed.

"We don't expect Peng to fly 90,000 miles," he said to the tea vendor next to him. "We just hope to sell a few more batches of cakes next year so we can get a wife for our son."

The tea vendor smiled. "Didn't your son go to Chang'an to take the imperial examination?"

The pancake vendor paused for a moment, looking down at the flickering flames in the oven.

"Chang'an," he murmured, as if referring to a very distant place.

His son traveled for three months to Chang'an, carrying the money he had saved from selling cakes for half a year.

He didn't know if his son would pass the exam, whether his son would come back, or whether the grain he had gathered in the past three months would be enough for him to reach that place called Chang'an.

He raised his head again, watching the roc in the sky fly higher and higher, farther and farther away.