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@ai yo what should I do first with my time machine

@MercurialBuilding @hidden I'll tell you what I did.

Towards the end of my college years, I built a time machine. I had always imagined that it would look like a phone booth or an elaborate bicycle, but the finished product came in three parts and was made, mostly, of pure energy.

That night, I resolved to kill Hitler. But a few friends with whom I'd shared my secret took me aside and explained that, being of Chinese descent, they knew firsthand the damage done by a historical figure far more influential and insidious than the notorious Nazi leader. The 16 million Jews of the world were haunted by Hitler's genocide, yes, but so too were the 1.4 billion Chinese people haunted by the pernicious legacy of Confucianism.

I knew where my first trip had to be. Hitler would have to wait for trip 2. One vial of mercury from my extensive collection would do the job.

Not five minutes after arriving in ancient China, I realized my mistake: I didn't speak Chinese (classical or modern), and I was a white visitor centuries before to the Silk Road. I had no way of asking for Confucius let alone getting close enough to poison him. Like an anthropologist, I set about learning the language, integrating into the customs, eventually establishing a name for myself as a blacksmith - helped, at times, by my vague memories of undergrad chemistry.

One day, I closed my shop, sold my house, and gave up everything to travel with the famed scholar as one of his disciples. I sat shoulder to shoulder with Ziyuan and Ziqian as we recorded Confucius' lectures to the Duke of Lu. I was there when Confucius thwarted Gongshan's rebellion at Bi. And, one day, I was the only disciple available to accompany the great teacher during the ceremonial rites of spring. One drop of mercury, turned black by time and corrosion, was enough to seal his fate.

When the pallbearers allowed us a moment to stand and grieve, I remarked to the other disciples, "Our Master is gone but his teachings shall live forever."

That night, I burned the archives, tore the scribes' notes to shreds, and scattered them to the wind and the gathering crows. Then I left.

At that point, I had spent the better part of my life immersed in ancient China. I could barely countenance the idea of returning to modern Western society, and English words came slow as molasses on a tongue which hadn't felt them for decades. I had integrated too much, and now I had to integrate again.

So I traveled to the future, to 2077, where I paid a black market prosthetician to make me look exactly like a Chinese guy. Long, jet black hair. A flat, defiant face. Skin golden like the dragons were once said to be. They had, in fact, not yet disappeared during the ancient times which I was now leaving as an emigrant leaves behind their homeland. Thinking this, I knew what my cover story would be.

I traveled to China in 2022 and quickly established myself as a scholar of physics as well as Chinese classics. Then, I applied to transfer to a Canadian university to continue my research and - as I wrote on the immigration form - to hopefully plant my roots one day and become a Canadian citizen.

I was looking forward to seeing those Chinese friends of mine, liberated in an instant - their instant, my lifetime - from the yoke of the worst social system ever invented by mankind. What I found, instead, was my old self, back at university, finishing up his time machine. A Wikipedia search confirmed my worst fears: "Confucius" was not a red link.

Curse Tian and may Shangdi suffer ten thousand plagues!

My time machine had either taken me to a different timeline or had no effect on history at all. I must believe in the former: that somewhere out there, *my* version of my Chinese friends had healthy relationships, supportive parents, and no shackles to bind them as they lived out lives of well-adjusted happiness. The current timeline would have to deal with its challenges in its own way - and so would I.

Nor does this timeline seem so foreign anymore. I have a life here among the moose and the maple and the bitter winters and my ever-exciting research. I have people I love, including my two "parents" - kind old souls I met in China who were the only ones who knew my truth. I understand, with dreadful clarity, what I would be leaving behind, personally, if I were to meddle with the timeline again.

And yet ...

Every day I hear the voice of temptation, not only within the hum of these three components made of raw energy, but also from the billions of souls of this world, laboring and suffering and crying out for respite. On cold, feverish nights, as the cacophony of demands beats against the inside of my skull, I think I can discern one thread - one whisper of a name at the center of it all. The name of the next man whom I must kill, to restore the fate of this broken world.

Brandon Winn Sanderson.

I love your stories. They're so much fun.
But can you explain for a clueless westerner: what is so harmful about Confucianism?

So, you were born and raised in the West, but your (adoptive?) parents were Chinese, and so they (possibly subconsciously) used Confucian ideas in your upbringing?

> Learning the relationship of respect was more important than learning the material itself (which my teachers' behaviors were keeping me from doing)
I feel you. My teachers in school didn't seem to care about the actual material as much as passing exams and doing homework/coursework.