I barely slept that night.

  Normally, I spent my evenings wrestling with mathematics, trying to claw my way toward understanding the theorems I had once feared. But tonight, I did no such thing. My candle burned low as I stared at it, the words ‘There exist infinities larger than other infinities’ that I had burned in those flames staring back at me like an accusation.

  I had thought I was free. That by leaving cultivation behind, I had left behind all the absurd, nonsensical dangers of this world. But now, I was faced with an entirely new horror: I was warping reality through pedagogy.

  That was, objectively, worse.

  I slumped in my chair, rubbing my temples. At this rate, I was going to give myself a stress-induced stroke before I even made it to thirty. If I had thought Zhang Xian was dangerous before, the realisation that my students were all becoming little mathematical anomalies in real time had pushed things into a completely different category of existential crisis.

  Because here was the real problem — one I hadn’t fully admitted to myself yet.

  I liked teaching.

  I liked seeing them learn. I liked watching their eyes light up when they grasped a new concept. I liked hearing them argue about paradoxes and debate infinities and the nature of zero. And that made this even worse, because if I wasn’t careful, my own excitement would push them even further, and I had no idea what the consequences of that would be.

  The ethical implications alone were staggering.

  I needed time. Time to think. Time to test. Time to figure out how, exactly, I was making my students into mathematical prodigies before they collectively discovered G?del’s incompleteness theorems and shattered their Dao hearts.

  So, the next morning, I did the unthinkable.

  I requested a leave of absence.

  -x-x-x-

  Song Junhai had seen many things in his years as headmaster of Qinghe Academy. He had seen bright students rise and fall. He had seen fathers push their sons toward the imperial exams with all the enthusiasm of a pig to slaughter. He had even, on occasion, been forced to mediate a dispute between two scholars over the proper interpretation of an obscure classical passage, a battle that had nearly come to blows over the use of a single comma.

  But he had never, in all his years, been as terrified as he was now.

  Jiang Lingwu stood before him, calm as ever, his hands tucked neatly into his sleeves, as if he were making a perfectly reasonable request.

  “I would like to take a leave of absence,” Jiang Lingwu said.

  Song Junhai did not hear these words as a simple statement. No, his mind, sharpened by years of survival in the treacherous world of academia, immediately converted them into a hidden message.

  I will be entering secluded cultivation.

  A thousand thoughts ran through Song Junhai’s head at once. Had he misstepped? Had someone offended this hidden master? Was Qinghe too small a place for a man of his talents? Had someone from a rival sect dared to interfere with his Dao? Was the Academy at risk of being obliterated by a single wave of the hand?

  Most were not yet aware, but he was sharp. He liked to know what was going on in his Academy, and he had heard the children talking in the courtyards during their breaks and after their dismissal in the evenings. This was a man who had, without even trying, ensnared the minds of his students with incomprehensible, esoteric knowledge. A cultivator who was running a strange experiment imparting profound Dao truths to children below the age of thirteen. A man whose presence alone had accelerated their thinking to unnatural speeds.

  Even the old scholars in the city would have balked at what his students were discussing. Concepts that should have taken decades of study — concepts that weren’t even in the realm of mortals — came as naturally to them as breathing.

  He’d thought Jiang Lingwu a failed scholar during their first meeting. How foolish he had been! Jiang Lingwu was no ordinary scholar; he had been deliberately testing Song Junhai during the interview. Over his two months of employment, Song Junhai had come to conclude that much.

  He was a hidden expert. And he was asking for leave.

  Song Junhai swallowed. His voice was very careful when he spoke. “Master Jiang,” he said, choosing his words with the delicacy of a man handling a lit fuse, “forgive my ignorance, but… is this leave of absence absolutely necessary?”

  Jiang Lingwu sighed. “I’m afraid it is.”

  Song Junhai’s mind reeled. That confirmed it.

  Something was happening. Something beyond the comprehension of ordinary men.

  Perhaps he had seen too much. Perhaps Jiang Lingwu had decided that Qinghe Academy was no longer suitable for his cultivation. Perhaps the students, their mortal minds straining under the weight of his wisdom, had become too much of a burden. Perhaps whatever experiment he was running had not proven fruitful. Whatever the case, Jiang Lingwu was preparing to leave.

  The only question was whether he would ever return. And if he did, in what capacity that would be.

  Song Junhai fought to keep his hands from shaking. “Might I… inquire as to the reason?” he asked carefully.

  Jiang Lingwu hesitated, as if struggling to find the words. “Let’s just say,” he said at last, “I need to… reflect.”

  Reflect.

  Song Junhai’s stomach dropped.

  That was how cultivators spoke when they had reached a bottleneck in their cultivation.

  This was worse than he had feared.

  Jiang Lingwu had been pushing the limits of something. He had been imparting truths that mortals could not grasp, and now, even he was uncertain. What had he touched upon? What great, unknowable principle had threatened his enlightenment? Was he in danger of Qi deviation?

  The answer, of course, was yes.

  Song Junhai had no doubt that Jiang Lingwu’s Dao was terrifyingly profound. Perhaps too profound for even him to control.

  “Of course,” he said immediately. “Master Jiang, if you require anything — funds, supplies, silence — you need only ask.”

  Jiang Lingwu frowned slightly. “Funds?”

  Song Junhai’s heart seized. Had he offended him? Was it presumptuous to assume a master of Jiang Lingwu’s level needed worldly wealth?

  “Only if it would be of aid,” Song Junhai said quickly.

  Jiang Lingwu gave him a strange look. “I will still be staying at the inn.”

  Song Junhai’s mind reeled.

  Still staying at the inn?

  That changed everything.

  Most cultivators, when entering seclusion, retreated to mountains, hidden valleys, ancient ruins — places far removed from mortal affairs, where the heavens and the earth would bear witness to their enlightenment. But Jiang Lingwu…

  Jiang Lingwu was simply staying at an inn.

  How terrifying.

  To cultivate among mortals, to enter a state of profound reflection in a place so mundane — it meant that for Jiang Lingwu, enlightenment was not confined to the isolation of nature or the depths of a sect’s forbidden grounds. No, for him, even an ordinary inn in a small town was sufficient.

  This was the mark of a true master.

  A lesser cultivator required heavenly treasures, mystical formations, and secluded environments to deepen their Dao. But Jiang Lingwu needed none of these things. His cultivation had long since transcended the physical.

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  Song Junhai tried not to tremble. “I… see.”

  Jiang Lingwu tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for something.

  Song Junhai scrambled to think. Was he expected to prepare something? Arrange an escort? Did Jiang Lingwu wish to leave quietly, or should the Academy formally recognise this moment?

  No. No, Jiang Lingwu was a man of mystery, a scholar hidden among mortals. He would not want fanfare.

  “Yes,” Song Junhai said, forcing his voice to remain steady. “Then, Master Jiang, if you need anything during your… period of reflection, the Academy will provide.”

  Jiang Lingwu gave a small nod. “I appreciate that.”

  Song Junhai exhaled. He had survived.

  But his relief was short-lived.

  Jiang Lingwu hesitated, then said, “Actually… could I say a temporary goodbye to my students?”

  Temporary?

  Song Junhai’s entire perception of reality shifted.

  Jiang Lingwu was planning to return.

  He wasn’t just leaving for a period of enlightenment, never to be seen again — he was coming back.

  That meant this was not a retreat. This was… something else. A test? A trial?

  Was he assessing the Academy? Was he testing whether Qinghe was a worthy place to continue his teachings?

  Or — worse — was he preparing them for something greater? Had he seen something coming?

  Song Junhai had once heard stories of sages who walked the mortal world, planting seeds of knowledge before disappearing, only to return years later to see which of their disciples had ascended.

  Was that what was happening?

  Was Jiang Lingwu preparing the next generation for something beyond the limits of this small town? Something they would have to rise up to face?

  The thought was both exhilarating and horrifying.

  “Yes, of course,” Song Junhai said quickly. “I will arrange for it immediately.”

  Jiang Lingwu nodded, as if satisfied.

  Song Junhai, meanwhile, was already sweating through his robes.

  -x-x-x-

  The classroom was unnervingly silent as I stood before them, hands clasped behind my back, trying to figure out how best to break the news.

  There was no easy way to say ‘I am concerned I may have turned you into a beacon of eldritch mathematical power and that old monsters who cultivate through arcane insights into reality may descend upon you like locusts.’

  So instead, I said, “I will be taking a leave of absence.”

  The response was immediate. Zhang Xian shot up from his seat like an arrow loosed from a bow.

  “No!” he declared. “Absolutely not. Denied.”

  I rubbed my temples. “Zhang Xian, you don’t get to —”

  “You can’t just leave us like this!” he interrupted. “We have questions! So many questions.”

  “That is precisely the problem,” I muttered.

  Chen Meili, ever the voice of reason, frowned. “Why are you leaving, Master Jiang?”

  I hesitated. I had already learned the hard way that giving them too much information was a dangerous game. These children had somehow managed to turn a simple discussion on zero into a full-blown existential crisis. If I even hinted that my departure was tied to the fact that their mathematical insights had grown in ways that defied the natural order, I had no doubt that within a week, they’d be running an underground number theory symposium complete with rival factions.

  So, I took a deep breath and said, “I need to… reflect.”

  Ru Lan, who had been sitting quietly up until now, tilted her head. “On what?”

  Damn it.

  “On…” I grasped for something. “On whether I am teaching you the right way.”

  That, at least, was technically true. If I was unintentionally pushing them toward some unnatural enlightenment, then I needed to figure out how to put a stop to it. Or at the very least, slow it down to mortal levels of gifted.

  Zhao Qiang frowned. “But… you’ll be back, right?”

  I swallowed.

  Would I?

  I had come here with no real plan, just the vague intention of finding work that didn’t involve sect politics or arrogant young masters challenging me to duels over minor offenses. And I had succeeded. But somehow, I had stumbled into something far worse.

  “I don’t know yet,” I admitted.

  Zhang Xian gasped as if I had personally betrayed him. “So it is a trial.”

  “It is not a trial,” I snapped.

  “A test of our mathematical fortitude,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “You are leaving us to meditate on the true nature of numbers, and then, one day, you shall return to see if we have ascended.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “For the last time —”

  “If I reach enlightenment before you return, I’ll wait for you at the peak.”

  I choked. “What peak?”

  He gestured vaguely toward the horizon. “The peak.”

  I was too tired to deal with the delusions of grandeur of a twelve year old child. “I will still be at the inn.”

  Then Ma Rui squinted at me. “So… it’s like a really short seclusion?”

  “No, it’s not a seclusion —”

  Zhao Qiang frowned. “But you’ll still be in town.”

  “Yes —”

  “And we know where you’ll be staying.”

  I shifted uneasily. “That’s not —”

  Zhang Xian nodded gravely. “It is a test.”

  I resisted the urge to groan.

  “Master Jiang,” Ru Lan said, tilting her head, “if you’re staying in town, why can’t we still have lessons?”

  “Because I need time to think,” I said firmly.

  Zhang Xian crossed his arms. “You can think while we ask you questions.”

  “Absolutely not.”

  Chen Meili furrowed her brow. “But you always say that thinking is most efficient when it’s challenged by new ideas.”

  I paused. I had indeed said that.

  I needed to stop giving them ammunition.

  “Look,” I said, “this isn’t forever. But I need to take a step back.”

  The words tasted bitter.

  I hadn’t wanted to admit it, but deep down, I knew this was more than just a precaution. If I had any lingering doubts about whether I was making a difference in these children’s lives, they had been erased over the past months. Even as I struggled with my own uncertainties, I had found genuine joy in teaching them, in watching them grasp new ideas, in seeing their faces light up when something clicked.

  And now, I had to leave them.

  Because I was afraid.

  Not of them, but for them.

  If there really were old monsters who cultivated through mathematical insights — if such a path existed — then what I was doing here was dangerous. I might as well have been lighting a beacon and inviting the heavens to strike us down. Someone would notice.

  And if history had taught me anything, it was that people who hoarded knowledge did not take kindly to outsiders stumbling into their domain.

  What if there were entire sects who cultivated mathematics, not just single old hermits sitting in caves? What if they guarded their insights like dragons hoarded gold? What if, right now, there was some ancient scholar-sage dwelling in a mountain stronghold, monitoring the world for anyone who dared approach their forbidden theorems?

  What would they do to a group of children who had begun questioning infinity?

  I didn’t want to find out.

  I couldn’t let them be noticed. Not when I didn’t have proper cultivation of my own. Not if I couldn’t protect my charges from the consequences of my own actions.

  My absence was the best way to slow things down — to let their enthusiasm settle before they crossed a line neither of us could come back from.

  At least, that was what I told myself.

  “Master Jiang,” Zhang Xian said suddenly, his expression uncharacteristically serious, “are you sure this isn’t about something else?”

  I tensed.

  He stared at me, eyes narrowed.

  “Are you dying?”

  “No!” I snapped.

  Zhang Xian exhaled in relief. “Oh, good.” Then he paused. “Wait, but if you were dying, would you tell us?”

  “I —” I choked. “Zhang Xian, what —”

  “Because it sounds like something a sage would hide from their students so they could struggle to reach enlightenment in time to save them.”

  Ma Rui frowned. “That does sound like something from a story.”

  I ran a hand down my face. “I am not a sage.”

  Zhang Xian looked unimpressed. “That’s exactly what a sage would say.”

  I could not do this right now. I cleared my throat. “Regardless of what you think, my decision is final.”

  There were a few murmurs of protest, but ultimately, they accepted it.

  Zhao Qiang, ever the practical one, furrowed his brow. “So… what do we do in the meantime?”

  I hesitated. “Focus on your other studies. Listen to your other teachers. And —” I sighed, “please do not try to figure out the secrets of the universe in my absence.”

  There was a long silence.

  “…define ‘secrets of the universe,’” Zhang Xian said.

  I shot him a glare.

  He looked away, whistling innocently.

  I sighed, rubbing my temples. “Just… focus on your other studies.”

  That was the best I could do. I had set this in motion, and now I could only hope that taking a step back would slow things down before they spiraled out of control.

  With that, I left the classroom.

  Back at the inn, I sat down at my desk, staring at my parchment-covered table. Equations, unfinished proofs, half-formed ideas — everything I had been wrestling with since coming to Qinghe Town. I had thought this would be my second chance, my quiet life of mathematics, free from cultivation and its absurdities.

  And yet, here I was.

  Somehow, I had left one path only to stumble onto another.

  I closed my eyes, steadying my breath, and focused inward once more. The shattered remnants of my dantian still lay there, utterly ruined, disintegrated so finely that it didn’t exist. The soul of a mortal; the soul that I had back on Earth.

  But if that was all it was, then none of this should have been possible.

  I exhaled and opened my eyes.

  I had thought that I was done with cultivation. That I would leave it behind, pursue mathematics, and return only when I was ready to pursue the hidden truths that immortal mathematical daoists had gleaned.

  But maybe — just maybe — cultivation wasn’t done with me.