Volume One: From a Farmer at Dawn Chapter 10: Open Sesame

“Here, take this book. With it, listening to the teacher’s lectures won’t tire you as much.”
Su Biao quietly slipped a copy of “The Thousand Character Classic” into Chu Liu’s hand. Chu Liu glanced down; it was Su Biao’s own textbook.
“If you give me your book, what will you do?”
Chu Liu quickly tried to push the book back.
He would never benefit at another’s expense. He had once saved Su Biao, and the Su family had repaid that kindness. If Su Biao let this sense of gratitude grow out of proportion, it would become a shackle in his life—and a heavy burden on Chu Liu’s own conscience.
“I have another one.”
Su Biao produced a brand-new copy of “The Thousand Character Classic,” his face beaming with pride. “Yesterday, I hid my old book and lied that I lost it. Without a word, my father bought me a new one. Clever, aren’t I?”
Chu Liu was left awkward and speechless.
As the beneficiary, any answer—affirming or denying—would risk shattering his persona!
“Chu Liu, you’re so smart and hardworking. You’ll surely become a top scholar one day. I want to be a scholar too, but I’m just not clever enough. I can’t focus on my studies…”
Is it stupidity?
No, it’s laziness.
Chu Liu wanted Su Biao to understand the importance of learning. He considered giving a speech about the role of diligence, about genius being one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.
But any seven-year-old would tune that out.
He had it!
A sudden spark of inspiration flashed in Chu Liu’s mind—a plan.
…
“Once upon a time, there was a village called Persia, where two brothers lived: the elder was Cassim, the younger, Ali Baba…”
As soon as break arrived, Chu Liu launched into a vivid storytelling session for the children.
He kept only the framework of the story, simplifying anything that needed explanation—like the mysterious village of Persia.
When the tale reached the part about weighing gold, he suddenly stopped.
“What happens next, Chu Liu?”
“Hurry up! Why did the sister-in-law smear butter on the bottom of the scales?”
Faced with a cluster of eager, expectant faces, Chu Liu smiled and said, “I don’t tell stories for free. Once you’ve learned all the characters the teacher taught today, I’ll continue.”
The children protested in unison at this, but their objections were useless.
They had no choice but to earn the rest of the story through hard work.
Even Wen Lan Cang, when he came to check their progress, was taken aback—today, every single student passed.
After thinking it over, he felt at ease.
Clearly, it was the scolding he’d given Su Biao that produced such results.
These boys—only a beating can make them succeed.
…
“Open, sesame!”

“Close, sesame!”
…
Whenever the students in the private school ran into a tree or a wall, they’d shout these words at the top of their lungs. Even going to the latrine, they couldn’t help but mutter the phrase.
“Chu Liu, what happened to Ali Baba’s wicked brother?”
Yesterday, the story had paused at the point where Cassim forgot the magic words and shouted, “Open, wheat!” “Open, radish!” “Open, beans!”—he called out every crop except sesame.
That’s when the thieves arrived.
The children had been enthralled—then, suddenly, the story stopped.
Their curiosity burned today, and they couldn’t help but ask.
Chu Liu refused to spoil the tale, shaking his head. “The same rule as always: study first, then you get the story.”
Jiang Ping swaggered over, putting on a fierce face as he gave Chu Liu a shove. “Don’t be ungrateful—tell us!”
Chu Liu tumbled off his stool, landing squarely on his backside.
He scrambled up, glaring. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Jiang Ping raised his eyebrows. “Tell the story. What happened to Ali Baba’s brother?”
“Why should I? Have you learned your characters?”
“Quit talking nonsense—just tell it, or I’ll beat you up!”
Jiang Ping raised his fist. At eight, he was half a head taller than Chu Liu, and bullying him would be easy.
With Su Biao absent today, he was itching to pick on Chu Liu.
He’d been annoyed with Chu Liu for a long time.
The teacher praised Chu Liu and punished the rest—why should a six-year-old be singled out for such honor?
So he wanted to use the story as an excuse to teach Chu Liu a lesson.
But before a fight, you must understand the situation.
Chu Liu surveyed the classroom slowly. Seven-year-old Zhang Qiang and eight-year-old Zheng Peng were Jiang Ping’s cronies—they loved roughhousing and never listened to discipline.
They were the usual suspects behind the wrestling matches in the schoolhouse.
Seeing Jiang Ping about to attack, they stepped forward too, trying to intimidate Chu Liu into submission.
Su Wei, realizing trouble was brewing, rushed to Chu Liu’s side, but had no idea what to do.
He was the worst at fighting.
But he couldn’t bear to watch his savior get beaten up.
Chu Liu said, “I’ve already told you—only if you study well will you hear the story. Today, I’m not telling it.”
“Then I’ll beat you until you do!”
Jiang Ping glared, closing in, trying to use his size to cow Chu Liu.
“Jiang Ping, if you’re a real man, let’s settle this one-on-one. No one else gets involved. If you win, I’ll tell the story; if you lose, you get nothing. Do you dare?”
Jiang Ping grinned.
Truth be told, he was afraid to hit Chu Liu—if Su Biao found out tomorrow, he couldn’t explain himself.
Now that Chu Liu had set the terms, it played right into his hands.
“Fine! I agree. Chu Liu, no one will help me, and you can’t tell Su Biao about this.”

Jiang Ping agreed without hesitation.
Chu Liu chuckled inwardly.
Don’t be fooled by the two-year age gap—when it comes to fighting, I’m your master.
A single decisive blow saves a hundred future troubles.
“Move aside!”
Jiang Ping ordered Zhang Qiang and Zheng Peng to push the desks to the back, clearing space for a makeshift arena.
Su Wei, anxious as an ant on a hot pan, wanted to intervene, but lacked the courage to stop them or the strength to fight.
Suddenly inspired, he dashed outside to fetch the teacher.
“Su Wei, if you dare snitch, I’ll beat you to a pulp!”
Jiang Ping’s threat sent Su Wei scurrying back into the schoolhouse.
Jiang Ping too felt a sense of urgency—if the teacher found out, a beating would be inevitable.
Better to strike quickly.
“Chu Liu, let’s get started—”
Before he could finish, Chu Liu sprang forward like a rabbit.
Thud!
He kicked Jiang Ping square between the legs.
With a howl of pain, Jiang Ping dropped to his knees, clutching himself.
All advantage of size vanished. Chu Liu pounced, straddling Jiang Ping and raining punches down.
Chu Liu knew his limits—he avoided the face, aiming only for the ribs and underarms.
It hurt, but left little visible mark.
Unlike a blow to the face, which would be obvious at a glance.
“Do you give up? Do you?”
Chu Liu pinned Jiang Ping, who struggled but couldn’t break free—partly from pain, partly from Chu Liu’s strength.
“Father! Mother!”
Jiang Ping’s voice was hoarse from crying, but Chu Liu refused to let go.
“Say it—do you give in? If not, I, Master Liu, will keep going until you do…”
“I give up… I give up…”
“Really?”
“I do! Boo-hoo, help…”
“Call me Master Liu!”
“Master Liu! Waaa…”