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

The sky lit up again at dusk on the tenth day.

Emperors and generals of all dynasties ceased their duties.

Ying Zheng put down his writing brush, Liu Che suspended his military discussions with Wei Qing, Li Shimin leaned forward slightly from the dragon throne in the Taiji Hall, Zhao Kuangyin put down his teacup, and Zhu Yuanzhang also put down the messy edict.

The last time Tianmu talked about the An Lushan Rebellion, those words about the rise and fall of civilizations were still swirling in their minds.

Everyone instinctively sat up straight, waiting to hear the next grand discourse on the fate of the dynasty.

Shen Moyan's figure appeared in the sky. She stood on the podium, and two large characters were written on the blackboard behind her: Thunderstorm.

It is Master Shen, not someone who has something to say but can't stop.

Regarding the three masters who have appeared in the sky so far, the emperors have also discovered some patterns. Shen Moyan mainly talks about things in the future, and only when he has more to say will he talk about history in detail.

However, later explanations are equally important, especially after the shock of the last grain yield.

So even though they were a little disappointed, everyone still took it seriously.

thunderstorm?

Are you going to talk about celestial phenomena? Water conservancy? Or natural disasters?

An old farmer was squatting on the edge of a field drinking water when the sky began to brighten, and the earthenware bowl in his hand paused for a moment.

"Is it that female tutor again?"

His son, who was next to him, squinted for a moment, then nodded and said, "It's her, the one who talked about grain last time."

As soon as the words "talking about grain" were uttered, several farmers who were taking a break gathered around.

During this period, countless farmers continued to work in the fields as usual, but their eyes would occasionally glance at the sky, still remembering the more than 1,000 kilograms of grain produced per mu.

Some people tried to select seeds in the fields according to the methods seen on the canopy, some learned to draw the pattern of the bamboo cart, and in some areas the imperial court had already sent people to distribute farm tools in a unified manner and guide production.

The old farmer squinted at it for a long time, then asked his son, "What's written on the blackboard?"

The son scratched his head: "It looks like... a thunderstorm? Thunder and rain."

"Thunderstorm?" The old farmer paused, then asked, "Referring to the weather?"

"have no idea."

"Last time you talked about grain, this time you're talking about the timing of the weather, that's right." The old farmer nodded, quite satisfied with his judgment. "Farming depends on two things: seeds and the weather. Mr. Yuan talked about seeds, but today you should talk about the timing of the weather. We should also listen carefully to what God has to say."

Shen Moyan, positioned on the sky, glanced around at the students below and began the lesson.

"Today we will learn a new text, Cao Yu's 'Thunderstorm,' which is one of the most outstanding works in the history of modern Chinese drama."

Ying Zheng frowned slightly, Liu Che tapped his fingers lightly on the table, and Li Shimin picked up his teacup and took a sip.

A play? What is a play? It's not about the rise and fall of dynasties, nor about the gains and losses of systems; it's about a play written by a man named Cao Yu...?

Shen Moyan, of course, had no idea how many people under the sky were confused.

She rested her hands on the podium, her tone casual and natural: "Before we begin the lesson on 'Thunderstorm,' I want to ask you a question: What do you think is the greatest tragedy for a person?"

The classroom fell silent for a moment. For most students of this age, they were still like flowers in a greenhouse, and their greatest tragedy was nothing more than failing an exam or being heartbroken.

Under the sky, all was quiet.

Ying Zheng narrowed his eyes slightly. The greatest tragedy? The fall of a kingdom. Is there even a question about that?

Li Shimin was obsessed with fratricide; he killed his own brothers, and he never forgot that.

Zhu Yuanzhang's answer was starvation. In the winter of the fourth year of the Zhizheng era, his father starved to death, his mother starved to death, and his elder brother starved to death. He couldn't even afford a coffin, so he wrapped the bodies in a tattered mat and dragged them to a mass grave. The greatest tragedy in the world is starvation.

The old farmer on the edge of the field was taken aback when he heard the question.

The greatest tragedy?

He thought for a long time but couldn't figure it out.

Does flooding of crops count? Does a wife running off with someone else count? Does an unfilial son count?

He scratched his head; the question the teacher asked was more difficult than farming.

Shen Moyan did not wait for the students' answers.

She wrote two words on the blackboard: fate.

Then he turned around and looked at the whole class.

"The story I'm going to tell you today takes place on a stormy night, and there are eight people in the story."

She raised her hand and began writing names on the blackboard.

"The owner of the Zhou Mansion, Zhou Puyuan."

His wife, Fanyi.

His eldest son, Zhou Ping.

His second son, Zhou Chong.

"Butler, Lu Gui."

Lu Gui's wife, Shiping.

Lu Gui's daughter, Si Feng.

Lu Gui's son, Lu Dahai.

Eight people, eight names, arranged in two rows on the blackboard.

"These eight people live in a mansion."

Shen Moyan paused.

"Among them were husbands and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and sons, lovers, and enemies."

"But until tonight, no one will know the whole truth."

She turned around, drew a line on the blackboard connecting Zhou Puyuan and Shiping, and then drew another line connecting Zhou Ping and Fanyi.

Thirty years ago, Zhou Puyuan abandoned his wife, Shiping.

Shiping bore him two sons.

Zhou Puyuan kept his eldest son, but drove Shiping and his newborn second son out of the house.

He thought Shiping would die, but she didn't.

Thirty years later, Shiping's daughter, Sifeng, entered the Zhou mansion as a maid.

"Shi Ping's son, Lu Dahai, became a worker at the Zhou family's coal mine and led a strike."

Zhou Ping, the eldest son of Zhou Puyuan, had an affair with his stepmother Fanyi and also fell in love with the maid Sifeng.

Zhou Puyuan's second son, Zhou Chong, also fell in love with Sifeng.

She put down the chalk and looked at the whole class.

"Today's story begins here."

Under the sky, there was a deathly silence.

Ying Zheng was the first to react, his pupils suddenly contracting.

He abruptly raised his hand, signaling all the clerks recording the events to stop writing.

But it was too late; several minor officials had already written the words "stepmother and eldest son had an affair" on the bamboo slips.

They looked at each other, their pens hovering in mid-air, unsure whether to drop them or not.

Ying Zheng didn't say a word; his face was expressionless. He simply muttered, "Absurd."

What is Tianmu about to say?

They weren't just there to watch the spectacle; perhaps they were genuinely discussing something important.

In the end, he waved his hand and told the clerk to continue recording, to just write it down first.

Liu Bang, who was ordered by Ying Zheng to deal with Tianmu's unfavorable remarks, was actually pleased. Tianmu's talk about such trivial matters should not have much of an impact this time.

In front of the Taiji Hall.

Wei Zheng dropped the pen in his hand with a "thud" to the ground, but didn't pick it up.

All eyes were fixed on the sky.

Li Shimin's expression froze for a moment when he heard the words "his stepmother had an affair with his eldest son".

His mouth was slightly open, as if he wanted to say something, but he didn't say anything.

a long time.

"Is this... the text we're going to discuss today?"