Back in her private dorm room, Mengying opened her laptop and searched for information about Sima Jing's family background based on what Jiajia had told her. But she found nothing useful. There wasn't much information online about the Sima or Yuwen families. Mengying only found a rumor from Daheng saying that Sima Jing, the youngest son of the Sima family and currently twenty-one years old, had recently and suddenly transferred to study abroad.
The current CEO of the Sima family was Sima Ji. The heir was the eldest son, Sima Chen. Sima Chen had his own independent company, Lingyun Investment. Lingyun Investment was a multinational company that had rapidly risen in recent years—Mengying had heard of it. She wanted to see what Sima Chen looked like, but there were no public photos of the family members online.
According to the information she found, the Sima family was a long-established financial dynasty. They kept vast wealth within the family, relying on private companies and investment portfolios rather than public financing through the stock market. Mengying knew that such families typically managed and passed down their wealth through family offices, trusts, or private companies, so their exact assets were unknowable.
The Yuwen family was even more secretive. The only information was an unconfirmed rumor saying that the Sima family and the Yuwen Group were related by marriage. Nothing else.
Mengying closed her laptop with some disappointment. The twenty-one-year-old Sima Jing was clearly not Brother White. But why did he look so similar? Could Brother White be his older brother, Sima Chen? Brother White had never objected to being called "Young Master Yuwen." The Yuwen family and the Sima family were related by marriage. She had always suspected Brother White wasn't actually surnamed Yuwen. So he was probably surnamed Sima. His grandmother was surnamed Yuwen. It all seemed to make sense now.
Just then, Mengying heard Jiajia knock on her door. "Xiaomeng, why are you taking so long to change? Come out and help us decide what to wear to the dance!"
The next afternoon's classical literature class was held in a small classroom. Being an elective course, it had few students—only about ten attended each session. Mengying was majoring in economics. Her classmates, including Jiajia, showed no interest in such literary subjects and hadn't enrolled. So Mengying attended alone every time.
Today she arrived five minutes early. As she entered, she glanced around—the few other students she recognized were already there, but there was no sign of the legendary transfer student Sima Jing. She took a seat in the front row.
Within minutes, the classical literature professor came in carrying a stack of papers. He set them down on the podium.
The professor was a plump, middle-aged man wearing glasses who always wore a pleasant smile during class. Mengying knew today they would discuss the classical Chinese writing assignments they'd turned in the previous week, and she was curious to hear his comments on her work.
Seeming to read her mind, after setting down the papers, the professor said, "Good afternoon, everyone. Today I'd like to discuss the assignments you submitted last week. First, let me read my favorite piece. It's by Zhuang Mengying. The title is 'The Illusionist.'"
The professor glanced toward Mengying with a gentle nod, then picked up the top paper and began to read:
"The Illusionist
On the street there lived an illusionist, a man in his thirties, skilled in the art of magic. His purse was always full of coins.
One day, a man passed by—around forty years old. Seeing the wealth in the illusionist's purse, greed awoke in his heart. He said to the illusionist: 'Are you new to this place? With nowhere to sleep tonight, why not stay at my home? I ask nothing in return—I merely wish to make a friend.'
The illusionist accepted.
At the man's house, he was shown to a guest room. Soon, the man sent a woman in, intending to seduce the illusionist and steal his money. The woman emerged shortly and said: 'The illusionist is immune to such charms. I got nothing.'
The man entered the room himself, and found the illusionist had set up several illusions—a red lantern floating in mid-air, its light eerie and faint. The man's eyes fixed on the purse on the desk. His face darkened with rage. He wanted to seize it and take the money. He rushed forward to grab it, but the illusionist dodged aside, vanishing in an instant.
The man looked back at the desk. The purse was still there.
His heart leaped with joy. He quickly grabbed the purse and opened it. It was empty—not a single coin."
After finishing the reading, the professor set down the paper, adjusted his glasses, and looked around the classroom before speaking in an appreciative tone:
"Zhuang's 'The Illusionist' demonstrates excellent command of classical form. The brushstrokes are clean and decisive, with a flavor reminiscent of classical Chinese tales. Especially the story structure—from greed, to scheming, to illusion, to the empty purse—each layer builds upon the last with great sophistication.
"But what deserves our deeper reflection is the philosophical foundation beneath the narrative."
The professor paused, then continued with emphasis:
"Change and greed are eternal themes. The man thought he could gain material wealth, but from the moment greed took hold of him, he was already trapped in the illusion. This is written very much in the spirit of Zhuangzi."
The professor looked directly at Mengying. "Zhuang, you've used the most economical prose to convey the most profound truth. You've achieved the perfect synthesis of narrative and philosophy—concise yet pregnant with meaning. Excellent work. I hope everyone can learn from this approach and weave philosophical reflection into classical narrative."
As soon as the professor finished speaking, the classroom erupted in whispered comments.
"Wow, this is incredible writing... and she's an economics major?"
"Reads like a professional author."
Someone muttered, "I wrote an assignment too, but I could never achieve this effect."
A student raised his hand and asked, "Professor, isn't this a bit too advanced? Are we supposed to write like this?"
The professor smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry. Zhuang's work exceeds our course requirements—it's not the standard we're aiming for. You'll be fine. Just do the assignments conscientiously, attend regularly, and you have nothing to fear grade-wise."
"It really is excellent. Like a modern 'Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio,'" a strange yet clear male voice suddenly came from the back of the classroom. Mengying turned to look and saw that the beautiful young man from the library yesterday was now sitting in the last row.
The student leaned back in his chair, his voice carrying a light, unmalicious confidence. "Though I'd say it's even more modern than the original. In the original tales, the spirits and demons deceive you. In this modern version, you deceive yourself. The man, seeing opportunity for profit, actively walked into a cognitive trap of his own making. The red lantern he saw was merely his greed made manifest."
The new student's commentary brought an instant silence to the classroom.
The plump literature professor noticed the newcomer and smiled. "Let me introduce everyone—this is our new classmate, Sima Jing. Sima, would you introduce yourself?"
Sima Jing stood and gave the professor a slight nod. "Thank you, Professor." He then smiled lazily and said, "Hello everyone. I'm Sima Jing. My major is architecture. I'm delighted to study classical literature with all of you. I look forward to your guidance."
The moment Sima Jing finished speaking, Mengying felt the atmosphere in the classroom ignite.
Two female students sitting diagonally behind Mengying began to whisper excitedly. "Wow, he's so handsome! That voice, that presence..."
"This look, this taste—definitely not the Anya style. A transfer student?"
Another male student muttered, "What he just said... cognitive traps, greed manifesting... he sounded more like a professor than the professor. Is he really from the architecture program?"
"When did architecture get a specimen like this?"
"He lectures better than my literature teacher..."
"His last name is Sima... could he be that Sima?"
Mengying examined this young master of the Sima family carefully. Sima Jing was wearing a high-necked sweater in high-tech gray today, paired with black casual slacks. Looking closely, he was quite different from the Brother White in her memory. His eyes were narrower and more slanted, like phoenix eyes. They weren't as large as Brother White's. Brother White's eyes had been closer to auspicious phoenix eyes. Brother White's smile had always been gentle, like soft moonlight, while Sima Jing's smile radiated brilliance—as if the whole world brightened when he smiled. Brother White had been serene and composed; Sima Jing was exuberant and bold. Perhaps it had been an optical illusion caused by the library's atmosphere. Mengying wondered why she had thought they looked alike. Looking at Sima Jing's beautiful, carefree face, she seemed to have heard the sound of countless hearts being broken when encountering him.