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

In another place, the scholars and officials under the canopy of the Imperial Academy were a few steps behind Guan Hanqing.

Guan Hanqing was directly stunned by the structure and power of the play. He started to applaud it in his heart from the very first act, but the people in the Imperial Academy did not see it that way.

As dawn broke, several old scholars were still muttering, "It's that female teacher again. What kind of play is she telling this time? What kind of behavior is this?"

That was their instinctive reaction. For a woman to lecture was already presumptuous, and to tell a play was even more frivolous. To tell a play about a stepmother having an affair with her stepson was simply outrageous.

But as Shen Moyan continued his explanation, those breaths gradually became lighter, less frequent, and eventually disappeared.

It wasn't that they had come to a realization; it was that they had never heard of the things Shen Moyan talked about—ancient Greece, tragic fate, and comparisons between Chinese and Western literature.

Not only had I never heard of it, I had never even considered it.

A young teacher stood on the podium, casually discussing Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides; the patricide and incest in Oedipus Rex; how the geographical environment of ancient Greece influenced literary creation; the ethical undertones of Chinese literature; and the existential questions of ancient Greek literature.

These things were not taught in the Imperial Academy, nor in the classics, histories, philosophical works, or commentaries of past Confucian scholars.

Where did she learn that?

This question evoked a complex and indescribable emotion in every scholar present.

There was curiosity, shock, confusion, and something they were unwilling to admit but that did exist: envy.

An elderly scholar with white hair wrote the words "Sophocles" in his notebook, then crossed them out, then wrote them out again.

He didn't know what use it was for him to remember this name; he didn't own any books by this person, and he would never be able to read "Oedipus Rex" in his lifetime.

But he still wrote it down, because if he didn't, he would feel like he was blind.

A younger student next to him asked in a low voice, "Sir, where is this ancient Greece?"

The old scholar was silent for a moment: "The far west, further west along the Silk Road."

"And their knowledge..."

"They're just barbarians," the old scholar blurted out, but then realized it wasn't right.

How can the knowledge of barbarians be compared with that of the Book of Poetry and the Analects?

He didn't want to admit that Shen Moyan wasn't comparing "superiority" and "inferiority," but rather "difference."

She never said that ancient Greece was better than China, nor did she say that China was better than ancient Greece.

She was referring to two roads, two directions, and two kinds of scenery.

This was a perspective he had never seen before.

It is not about the center of Chinese civilization, nor is it about distinguishing between Chinese and barbarians, but rather a comparison that is equal and symmetrical.

It's like standing on a very high mountain and seeing two rushing rivers, one flowing east and the other west.

That perspective made him feel an unprecedented sense of insignificance.

He looked down at his own handwriting, "Sophocles," the ink still wet.

The pen tip trembled, and a stroke went out, like a fork in the road, its destination unknown.

The scholars and officials listened silently to Shen Moyan's words, neither refuting nor agreeing with him.

They were stuck in a very awkward position.

Rationally, they knew that Shen Moyan was right.

Those analyses, those comparisons, those layered interpretations—the logic is rigorous, the evidence is extensive, and every conclusion is well-founded.

But emotionally, they can't accept it.

They couldn't accept that someone who talks about opera was more knowledgeable than those who talk about scriptures; they couldn't accept that the knowledge of later generations had reached a point where they couldn't even understand the road signs.

What's even more unacceptable is that what Shen Moyan talked about wasn't "strange skills and tricks".

This time, she wasn't talking about farming, rice, or those "techniques" that they could comfortably despise.

She was talking about "the Way," the Way of literature, the Way of tragedy, and the Way of how people face fate.

If your skills are inferior to others, you can learn.

What does it mean if one's way is inferior to others?

The Chancellor of the Imperial Academy remained silent.

He sat in the front row, holding a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, his fingers unconsciously stroking the rim of the cup.

It's not that he has nothing to say, it's that he doesn't know where to begin.

Shen Moyan's class today was like opening a window in a room that had been sealed for many years. The wind outside blew in, stirring up all the dust on the desks. Some people were choked by the dust and couldn't open their eyes, some complained that the wind was too cold, and some were speechless as they looked at the scenery outside the window.

He belongs to the last category.

He had studied for fifty years and believed he knew the classics, histories, philosophical works, and literary collections inside and out.

But he only learned today that under the same sky, there was another place called ancient Greece, where people wrote things that were unlike anything he had ever read.

It's not better, nor worse, but completely different.

It asks "why," while I ask "what to do."

Yes, he spent his whole life studying "what to do," and suddenly realized that he had never seriously asked "why."

Why must we be loyal to the emperor? Why must we observe propriety? Why must we obey? Why should women be driven out? Why should sons kneel before their fathers?

These questions are not unanswerable.

Instead, no one ever allowed him to ask.

He lowered his head and wrote two words on the paper: fate.

Fate is just an explanation people give themselves when the principles of Heaven are no longer apparent.

He suddenly felt very uneasy. He had been reading the Analects since he was a child, and when he read the line "Whether the Way will prevail or not, it is fate; whether the Way will be abandoned, it is fate," he felt that Confucius was right.

But what is fate? Who determines fate? If fate is determined by heaven, then what is heaven?

He asked these questions when he was young, but he stopped asking them later.

Because there will be no answer if you ask, because you will be laughed at by your teachers and friends if you ask, because if you ask too many questions you will not even pass the imperial examinations.

But Shen Moyan kept asking, even after hundreds of years and across a celestial barrier, she was still asking those forgotten questions on their behalf.

These scholars have forgotten even the questions, leaving only a bunch of answers and a bunch of answers that don't even have questions, like a rusty key locked in a cabinet, not knowing what it can still open.

The Chancellor of the Imperial Academy picked up the cold teacup beside him, took a sip, and found the tea to be bitter.

The Imperial College was completely silent.

No one got up, no one spoke.

Everyone stared at the darkened sky, waiting for it to light up again, or perhaps waiting for something else entirely.