In the West, stories of quick-witted courage — like Alexander cutting the Gordian knot — remind us that instinct can be as wise as intellect. In China, a similar tale has been told for centuries: that of young Sima Guang, whose clear mind and fearless heart turned panic into salvation.
Northern Song Dynasty, around 1030 CE
The courtyard of a wealthy household buzzed with children's laughter. They played hide-and-seek under the spring sun, darting around stone jars and willow trees. Suddenly, a sharp cry pierced the air — one boy had slipped and fallen into a massive water jar.
Panic erupted. Servants screamed. The other children froze, their faces pale.
Amid the chaos stood Sima Guang, barely twelve years old. His eyes flashed, scanning the courtyard. While the others shouted for help, he ran toward the jar, snatched up a nearby rock, and struck it hard against the base.
The heavy clay cracked open; water gushed out. The trapped boy tumbled free, coughing but alive.
Moments later, adults rushed in, bewildered. "Who did this?" someone shouted.
Sima Guang stood quietly, the rock still in his hand. "I did," he said. "The jar can be replaced. The child cannot."
That night, under the lamplight, his tutor asked him, "How did you think so quickly?"
Sima Guang replied, "Thinking takes time. But learning teaches us how to act without delay."
Years later, as a renowned historian and statesman, he would often tell this story not as pride, but as philosophy: Courage is not the absence of fear — it is the mastery of clarity in the moment of fear.
The echo of shattering clay faded into memory, but its meaning endured: that wisdom lives not only in books, but in deeds. And as centuries turned, the same courage would rise again — not in the playground of youth, but within the prison walls of despair. There, a man would face darkness with a light no chain could extinguish.