The next three hundred years!
The moment those light words fell into the ears of tens of thousands, the once-quiet Nanshan erupted in a roar.
Even with the Imperial Guards nearby, the crowd could not suppress their shock. Ministers seated in the front rows forgot themselves, unable to hide their loss of composure.
The stir was irresistible.
Though Lin Tuo's tone had been calm, the meaning behind those five words was enough to shake everyone present.
Many exchanged looks, and in each other's eyes saw the same thought:
"Could it be… this third lecture will foretell the great events of the next three hundred years?"
In every era, prophecy was a power both feared and revered.
Even in Chiguo's markets, powerless shamans eked out a living by claiming to predict marriage, fortune, or children.
And now, the "Saint Lin" before them spoke not of trivial futures, but of Chiguo's fate for the next three centuries.
How could that fail to stir their souls?
Lin Tuo, watching from below the academy wall, was not surprised. He merely lifted a hand, pressing downward. The swelling noise faded, and silence returned.
Then he said slowly:
"I can guess what you are all thinking. But regretfully, what I speak today is not prophecy.
From the perspective of scientific thought, I do not believe that man—or even entire nations—possess some predetermined fate.
If destiny itself is not fixed, then what is there to predict?"
At his words, confusion only deepened in the eyes of tens of thousands.
"But Master Lin," the young king in the front row raised his hand, bewildered, "you did say just now…"
Lin Tuo smiled. "Yes, I did say I would speak of the next three hundred years. But this is not mystical sorcery.
It is, rather, a matter of scientific thinking—using logic to reason about the future, to make judgments on social development and transformation. At most, it is deduction. Nothing more."
"Logic… deduction?"
The students' blank expressions made Lin Tuo sigh inwardly.
This final lecture, in truth, was nothing more than retelling the history already walked by mankind outside the Sand Table—disguised, reframed.
What he spoke of was historical inevitability.
After agricultural reform, countless farmers lose their land and turn to handicrafts, spurring trade.
As light industry cultivates skilled workers, machines replace hands. Heavy industry and factory systems emerge. Populations flow into cities in response to industrial clusters…
This chain of events was not chance. It was a great trend, a trajectory of history itself. And along the way, countless problems were bound to arise.
Lin Tuo's role was to point out this path in advance, to highlight the obstacles sure to appear, and to give them corresponding solutions.
Thus, when Chiguo reached those stages, they could avoid detours—walk straight ahead, without trial and error, along the correct road.
There was another reason as well: to give Chiguo a clear direction.
Suddenly gifted with such vast foreign knowledge, its people might otherwise lose all sense of orientation.
But the words of a "saint," at least in this generation, could carry enough weight to guide the nation forward for decades to come.
I only hope what I teach today will not be completely abandoned by later generations…
For in truth—
The only lesson mankind has ever learned from history is that it never learns from history.
Perhaps what he said would be ignored. Perhaps Chiguo's technological tree would branch elsewhere.
But even if only a fraction was carried forward, it would not have been in vain.
As for "three hundred years"—that was because, outside the Sand Table, only two to three centuries had passed since the Industrial Revolution.
Pulling himself back to the present, Lin Tuo cleared his throat, gathered their attention, and began with a smile:
"Very well. Let us begin. Concerning the next three hundred years, I divide them broadly into the 'Steam Age,' the 'Age of Electricity,' the 'Era of Computing and Information,' and…"
On Nanshan, the sound of his voice drew thousands of pens to paper. Even those who understood little wrote earnestly.
Some could not grasp the concepts of these eras or their transformations.
But others—eyes burned bright, hearts surged, almost trembling with excitement.
In Tao County below, taverns and teahouses were deserted. Shopkeepers stood in their doorways, cloths in hand, gazing at the empty streets with furrowed brows.
The sun traced across the sky. Clouds gathered, scattered, then gathered again.
"…In summary, this is my projection—or rather, my plan—for the next three hundred years. Beginning with agricultural reform as the prerequisite, then moving step by step.
Establish vocational schools, transition into light industry, found state-owned factories, open commerce, initiate industrialization and urbanization…"
At last, Lin Tuo set down the chalk, clapped his hands lightly, and faced the crowd.
"That concludes today's lecture. Now—it is time for questions."
In an instant, thousands of hands shot up in unison.
Lin Tuo soon realized he had underestimated their intelligence—and their passion for asking questions.
Fortunately, he had prepared thoroughly, with real history as his reference. Most questions he could answer.
For those he could not, he discreetly switched his consciousness back to his real body, searched the computer, and returned with answers.
And if even the internet failed, he simply smiled mysteriously, as though the matter were "beyond words"—and the questioner, satisfied, dared not press further.
Thus he answered one by one, tirelessly.
Unnoticed, another night passed.
When the rising sun painted the mountains in red light, Lin Tuo finally addressed the last question.
"Does anyone else have something to ask?" His voice was hoarse, but steady.
He looked out. Across the sea of people, no one spoke.
"Very well. Then let us end here." He exhaled silently, then smiled.
"Master Lin, will you now return with me to the capital?" the young king asked suddenly, his face earnest, sleepless eyes burning with hope.
But Lin Tuo shook his head.
"In these past days, I have passed on all I have learned. What comes next is for you to decide. As for me… it is better that I leave."
"Leave?"
The young king froze. "Not to the capital? Then where will you go?"
"The capital may be fine," Lin Tuo chuckled softly, "but it is not my home. And so—I must return to where I came from."
Before the king could react, Lin Tuo swiftly switched his consciousness back to his real body.
Lishan Martial Hall.
Lin Tuo stood, dispersed the clouds above the Sand Table, then gently lowered a finger onto the miniature mountain peak.
His avatar leapt.
Nanshan, Tao County.
The young king saw "Master Lin" close his eyes, stand still, then suddenly rise into the air.
The saint who had brought divine guidance now hovered in midair, arms spread wide, bathed in strange radiance that lit the land, drifting slowly toward the heavens.
"Ah!"
"This… this is—"
"Look! Master Lin—no, Saint Lin—he…"
Exclamations erupted.
Tens of thousands of students rose to their feet. Desks overturned, brushes scattered, yet no one cared.
All eyes were wide with awe, hearts pounding, as they beheld the figure walking upon the sky.
"Farewell to the Saint!"
Suddenly, a minister reacted first. He dropped to his knees, raised both hands, and cried out.
The next moment, the stunned masses woke from their trance.
Without command, tens of thousands—including the king himself—fell to their knees in unison, arms lifted high, and shouted as one:
"Farewell to the Saint!"
"Farewell to the Saint!!"
"Farewell to the Saint!!!"
From afar, Lin Tuo drifted upward, bathed in "divine light."
At the foot of the mountain, Tao County's citizens felt it too. As though blessed, they turned toward Nanshan, bowed deeply, and joined their voices to the rolling tide of reverence that echoed for miles, lasting days.
At that moment, the Sand Table's panel flashed with a new log entry:
[Spring of the 561st Year of the Great Chi Dynasty. 'Saint Lin' preached on Nanshan for five days and four nights. On the morning of the sixth day, he ascended in divine light and departed. On that day, a hundred thousand officials and citizens bid him farewell, their voices carrying for ten miles, echoing for days without end.]
(End of Chapter)