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

The sky darkened.

Manager Feng was still holding the teacup in his hand, hanging in mid-air, forgetting to put it down.

"Zhou Puyuan isn't pitiful," he began, but his tone was no longer as certain as before. "He's just..."

He was only halfway through his sentence when he realized he didn't know how to describe it. An empty shell? He didn't like that word. Alienation? He didn't understand at all.

But Master Shen's words, "I survived but lost myself," are like a fishbone stuck in my throat, impossible to swallow or spit out.

"He's just... a character in a play." He said this in a very low voice, as if he didn't want anyone to hear him.

The shopkeeper sitting opposite him didn't respond. He lowered his head and twirled his teacup, the tea swirling at the bottom of the cup, making two circles.

The old shopkeeper didn't argue with them. He picked up his teacup, took a sip, and looked past the teahouse window towards the direction where the sky had once been lit.

After a while, he slowly said, "Fine, let each person settle their own accounts."

Manager Feng grunted in agreement and took out a few copper coins, placing them on the table.

"Let's go, there's still a shipment at the dock." Manager Qian followed behind, carrying his abacus. He paused at the door but didn't say anything.

The apprentice stood in the corner, clutching a rag, and waited until everyone had left before whispering, "Old manager, do they still not believe me?"

"It's not that I don't believe it, it's that I don't want to believe it." The old shopkeeper sat down on the threshold. "If I believed it, their accounts wouldn't be able to be settled."

"Then all that talk by Master Shen was for nothing?"

"Who said it was all for nothing?" The old shopkeeper turned to look at him. "Didn't you listen to what I said?"

The apprentice paused for a moment, then gripped the rag even tighter.

"I...I'm just a junior apprentice."

The old shopkeeper turned to look at them, his eyes bright.

"What's wrong with being a junior apprentice? How old are you?"

"sixteen."

"It's precisely because you're only sixteen that you should listen to these words. I'm old, so I can just listen and forget about it. What's wrong has already been wrong, and what's owed is too late to repay. But you're different. You know now that Zhou Puyuan is an empty shell, Xiangzi was crushed, and Sifeng didn't deserve to be struck by lightning."

When you become a shopkeeper in the future, when you hire employees, you will think: I can't let people become like Xiangzi (a character from a Chinese folktale known for his exploitation of his family).

Once you have a family, when you're taking care of your children, you'll think: I can't live like Zhou Puyuan. That's change. Change isn't just about words; it's about every little thing you do over the next few decades.

Before they knew it, several young apprentices had gathered around. One of them was clutching a rag, his eyes a little red.

"But we don't know what the future holds."

"No need to know." The old shopkeeper pointed in the direction where the sky disappeared. "Didn't you notice? Master Shen was standing on the platform, with dozens of students, both boys and girls, sitting together, listening to her tell the story. No one caused trouble, no one put up any seals. They talked about fate, about order, about crushing and picking people, and they finished telling the story smoothly."

He stood up and walked to the door.

"A world that can tolerate a classroom like this can't be too bad."

-

Guan Hanqing sat on that bench, motionless. After the sky darkened, the people outside the brothels gradually dispersed.

The apprentice brought over the teapot and cautiously asked, "Uncle Guan, what do you think of this play...?"

Guan Hanqing did not answer immediately. He took the teacup, held it in his hands, but still did not drink it.

After a long pause, he finally spoke, "I've written plays my whole life, and this is the one I've always wanted to write."

The apprentice was stunned. Who was Guan Hanqing? The most famous playwright in Dadu, whose plays such as "The Single-Blade Meeting," "Saving the Courtesan," and "The Pavilion Overlooking the River" were all renowned throughout the land. How could he say such a thing?

Guan Hanqing did not explain. He stood up, went backstage, lit the oil lamp, and sat down at the table.

On the table lay an unfinished new play, weighed down by a paperweight. Beneath the paperweight, a corner of the manuscript was visible: the third act of "The Injustice to Dou E," the scene at the execution ground. He had revised the line, "Heavens, you have wrongly judged the wise and foolish, and are unworthy to be Heaven," no less than ten times.

He moved the paperweight aside, laid the entire roll of manuscript flat, and without changing a single word, he simply read that one sentence over and over again.

Then he spread out a new sheet of paper, picked up a pen, and what was written on the paper was not a play, but a letter.

"To Mr. Cao Yu."

After writing these words, he paused for a long time, the pen tip hovering above the paper, before finally putting pen to paper.

"I was born in the Yuan Dynasty and spent most of my life writing plays. I had no one to talk to about this art. Today, watching 'Thunderstorm' on the sky, it was like hearing thunder, drinking fine wine, and seeing an old friend."

The apprentice stood quietly to the side, grinding ink, not daring to make a sound.

Guan Hanqing continued writing.

"When the author writes about Zhou Puyuan, he doesn't describe his treachery, but rather his hollowness."

The master wouldn't let him die, wouldn't let him go mad, wouldn't let him kneel down and repent. He only made him sit alone in the living room facing three corpses and two madmen. Then, when dawn broke, he was still Master Zhou.

Such writing is more ruthless and more real than killing him. Evil people in this world do not die from being struck by lightning; they die because the world sees their evil but dares not speak out.

The gentleman does not act on behalf of Heaven, but merely erects a monument to Heaven's will. Once this monument is erected, for a thousand years to come, all those like Zhou Puyuan who sit in their halls claiming to be perfect will have nowhere to hide.

He paused, then continued writing.

"When you wrote about Zhou Chong, I was particularly moved. This boy was innocent and carefree, unaware of the dangers of the world. When I first saw him say 'everyone is equal,' I thought to myself that this boy was doomed."

As expected, he died from electrocution. However, Mr. Ran arranged for him to die while running. He went to pull Sifeng away, but he wasn't pushed out; he ran into the rain on his own.

Sir, this last stroke represents the final bit of reluctance we playwrights feel.

You killed off Zhou Chong, which gave the play immense power; I understand this principle.

Yet, before his death, he was not allowed to kneel, not allowed to regret, not allowed to awaken to the so-called "reality," but allowed to remain innocent until death, to run until death. The master had light in his heart, and I see it in this writing.

He paused, glanced up at the flickering flame of the oil lamp, and then continued writing.

"When Master Shen talked about the ending of Thunderstorm, he said that it was not despair, but compassion. When I heard this, I was moved to tears."

Having written plays for decades, I know that plays have three levels: the first is about events, making them lively and entertaining. The second is about people, portraying them with emotion and righteousness. The third is about the heavens, questioning fate and order, questioning why people are crushed, and how they do not turn to dust in the process.

At the age of twenty-three, the gentleman has fulfilled all three realms. The so-called "order" seems to be more culpable than the Way of Heaven, but in reality, it is more difficult to shake than the Way of Heaven.

Heaven's ways can be complained about and cursed, but order is ingrained in people's bones. Those who rebel go mad, those who endure in silence also go mad, and those who do not go mad become nothing more than empty shells.

Such an ending, colder than death, is the most striking aspect of "Thunderstorm."

"In the end, Mr. Ran left a light on. It wasn't a happy ending, nor was it a wise judge solving a case. It was the few steps Zhou Chong took while running, the glance Shi Ping gave before saying 'It's fate,' and the heart-wrenching cry Fan Yi uttered before going mad."

Having written plays for decades, I only realize one thing today: a playwright need not act as a righteous judge of Heaven. If Heaven is unjust, why act as a righteous judge? It is enough to depict Heaven's injustice, allowing viewers a thousand years from now to judge for themselves.

He put down his pen.

"Across generations and a thousand years, to find such a kindred spirit, what more could I ask for?"