WSMTATMC C40

Chapter 40

Chen Qingyan cursed him harshly: “You shameless villain! You pawned off my inksticks, and I forgave you. But then you hid cheating notes inside my brush case and caused me to be disqualified from the Imperial Examination!”

But Zhang Shiqiu was no meek prey either. Sneering, he retorted: “Blame your lack of talent, not me. Failing the exam and then cursing others for it!”

Qingyan’s fury exploded. “Do you dare swear before Heaven that the cheat‑slips within my brush case were not placed there by you? If you lie—may you never, in this lifetime, pass the juren exam!”

Zhang’s lips curled into an empty smile. Of course, he dared not swear such a thing. “Say what you like. Anyone can see you merely seek to salvage your dignity. Cheating notes were found inside your own exam basket. Whether you or another placed them, I cannot know. But this much is fact—you are barred forever from the examinations.”

This wholly ignited Qingyan’s rage. He lunged forward and struck Zhang across the face with his fist.

Others scrambled to separate them. Yet Zhang seized the chance, snatching up a heavy porcelain teacup and hurling it straight at him. The thick cup smashed into Qingyan’s forehead, splitting the skin open in bloody gash. Blood streamed immediately down his brow.

When Wang Ying later pieced together the whole affair, he understood everything.

No wonder these past days Qingyan had been so weighted with gloom, refusing to confess. Such a blow—to be betrayed by a supposed friend, shamed before peers, and even injured.

His heart ached with grief and fury. “Stay home now. For some days, do not go out—and before your younger brother, never mention that licentiate’s name again.”

“…Mm.”

Back in his chamber, Qingyan still lay with eyes closed, uncertain if he slept or simply turned his face away.

“Mother, Third Aunt—you go back now. I shall tend to him myself,” Wang Ying said softly.

They sighed. Madam Li resolved to burn incense and pray at the mountain temple, convinced her son must be under ill fate this year.

When all had departed, Wang Ying sat by the bed and clasped Qingyan’s hand. His fingers were clammy, cold, and wet with sweat.

“I know you are not asleep. Qingsong has already explained everything. You should not have hidden it from me…”

Qingyan’s fingers twitched, as if to withdraw, but Wang Ying interlocked them firmly.

“I know your heart is wounded. But the thing has happened. Will you punish yourself endlessly for another man’s crime?”

Slowly, Qingyan opened his eyes, full of confusion and sorrow. “Brother… why can some men be so vile? To turn black white, to betray kindness with cruelty. I treated him a friend, and he returned me only deceit.”

Wang Ying had no scholarly wisdom to untie the knot. Instead, he told him the fable of the farmer and the snake—how kindness to the unworthy brings ruin.

“Men say that at birth, nature is good. Yet I think human nature tends to evil. Only when one chooses goodness is one a man; else, he is but a beast. Such people know not gratitude—they twist their spite upon others.”

Still Qingyan struggled. “Yet when first we met, he was not like that.”

“That was only pretense. Such men wear masks of grace while inside rotting with envy. He saw you living in decency, with coin to buy ink and brush—while his own meals were gruel. A single meal of yours was half a month of his food. Inwardly, he hated you. He decided your strength lay only in family wealth.

But when he found you surpassed him not only in station but in learning—fear struck him. He feared you would rise as xiucai or juren, soaring beyond his reach. That is why he schemed to destroy you.”

Qingyan’s eyes reddened, tears sliding, the weight of grievance breaking him. “But now… all too late. Today, before others, he accused me openly of cheating. Soon this tale will spread through the whole town. Then… none will send their children to my school again.”

Wang Ying’s heart twisted. He drew him close, wishing to tear Zhang Shiqiu limb from limb.

Because of Qingyan’s injury, Wang Ying closed the shop temporarily, guarding him always for fear that despair might drive him to harm.

After the morning meal, he helped change the bandage. Though the blood had gushed frighteningly at first, in truth the wound was small—no bigger than a fingernail—only deep. Still, lest it scar, he forbade water touching it.

“Does it still hurt?”

Qingyan shook his head silently.

“New Year is approaching. I will give Ershun and Dunzi leave to return home. Chen Bo will remain with you. Do not dwell on thoughts.”

“…Mm.” he murmured.

Sighing, Wang Ying went to the front court where Ershun and Dunzi awaited. He handed over their wages prepared in advance.

Ershun’s pay was monthly one hundred fifty cash, Dunzi’s one hundred. Yet both were diligent, especially Dunzi who had journeyed as far as the county with them. And Wang Ying, not a stingy man, had profited this year. He gave each man an extra reward of five hundred cash.

They stared, dumfounded by the heavy purses. Dunzi stammered, “M‑Master, this… this is too much…”

“It is reward,” said Wang Ying. “After the holiday, return and still work for me.”

“Thank you, Master Head!” they chorused together.

Wang Ying pressed his forehead, half amused, half weary of their constant formality. “Enough. Off with you. Go home while light remains—you will reach before night.”

At the mention of home, their faces lit. Especially Ershun: never before had he stayed away so long. Already he dreamed of mother and father, and grandmother. He planned to buy small gifts, too.

“Guard your purses,” Wang Ying admonished. “At year’s end, the markets are full of thieves.”

“Yes!”

“And you, Ershun—spend sparingly. Don’t squander, or your father will thrash you.”

He grinned and scratched his head. Without reminder, he might well have forgotten. When he left home, his parents had exhorted: save earnings for marriage, not pleasure.

“Go on,” Wang Ying waved them off. For he himself had business yet.

Donning plain garb and a hood, he slipped from the manor alone, walking a quarter hour to the Welcoming Guest Tavern.

At this hour, little custom filled the hall. Wang Ying had reserved a private room. A waiter led him in.

Before long, footsteps sounded. Then entered a heavy‑jowled brute—Teng Guang, a rogue infamous in Qingshui Town. A brawler by trade; indeed it was his blade that once severed Chen Qingfeng’s fingers when debts went unpaid.

Wang Ying had asked Chen Bo to find such a man. At last he had agreed to meet today.

“You are Shopkeeper Wang?”

“I am.”

The thug eyed him up and down before sprawling rudely, pouring himself tea. “What business?”

“I need a favor. This is the deposit.” Wang Ying placed a silver ingot of ten taels upon the table.

Greedy eyes bulged. He reached out—but Wang Ying’s hand pressed atop the silver. “Will you not ask what task first?”

Seeing the dark look in his eyes, Teng withdrew his hand warily. “Speak it, then.”

“Break the man’s legs. One will do.” He gave Zhang’s name and address.

“Ten taels after it’s done. But if you fail—I have silver aplenty, and men who can just as easily break your legs.”

The brute understood. Refusal meant his own body broken.

With obsequious grin he pocketed the silver. “Rest easy, Master Wang. It shall be done neat and clean.”

“Don’t strike the wrong man.”

“Heh—you insult me! I’ve never botched a job. Left leg or right?”

“Either. But leave him alive.”

“Fear not. I have a steady hand.”

Wang Ying merely nodded, lips tight. He waited until the man departed—then drained a cup of tea in one swallow. His back was drenched in sweat.

He, who once lived as a law‑abiding youth, had this day descended to such extremity—all because he could not let Zhang go unpunished.

But Zhang’s treachery left no evidence; the magistrate would dismiss it. Worse, Zhang, that hypocrite, might one day pass the exams and scrub clean his misdeeds—then would there be no stopping future malice.

Wang Ying was not a man to be trodden down. In his old life he had no parents to protect him, grew up hard with fists alone to guard him. If now he let another plant boots on his neck—what worth his soul?

Even if discovery came, what then? At worst, a beating redeemable by fine. In the Wu Dynasty, unless blood was spilled unto death, even broken bones could be commuted with coin—five hundred cash per stroke, a few strings and punishment gone.

Do not provoke me, and I will not provoke you. But if you cross me—I shall strike back tenfold.

That very week, Zhang Shiqiu grew restless. Ever since hurling the teacup at Qingyan, his eyelid twitched without cease. Even books could not settle him.

His mother bustled cheerfully outside. Since her son had passed as licentiate, kin flocked with gifts: rice, eggs, even chickens for broth. She bragged to all neighbors of her fine son, destined surely to rise further as juren and official.

“Qiu’er, stop reading and come eat.”

He rose reluctantly, scowling when he saw the chicken. “Why stew chicken again?”

“Your Fifth Aunt sent it! Better to eat than waste!”

“You should have sold it for cloth, to make me new robes.”

His mother chewed greedily, smacking lips. “Clothes still wearable, why new? A foot of fine cloth costs ten coins; to make one robe takes eight feet! We cannot afford.”

But Zhang recalled the debating meet: Chen Qingyan in stone‑green fine robe, embroidered with bamboo pattern, a garment worth much indeed.

Jealousy burned his eyes red. Why should one such as Qingyan live in silks, while he clung to rags? In county school he dared not even soil his only decent robe, for fear of mockery when forced into patched clothes.

Seizing his sleeves, he stormed out.

“You won’t eat?” his mother called. “Fine, more for me!” She gobbled the chicken with the greed of a hungry ghost, fearful of loss.

Outside, Zhang went straight to the home of a new acquaintance: Lu Chang’an, a man of a wealthy clan, older by some years, yet still no licentiate. The Lu were gentry with solid estate. Lu enjoyed befriending scholars, and had grown close to Zhang.

Hearing Zhang call, he hurried out. “Brother Shiqiu! You came!”

“Greetings, Brother Lu.”

“Come in, come in!” He dragged him into the main hall and personally called for his best tea.

“I just obtained fine Maojian leaves—take some home later.”

Zhang hesitated modestly. “Oh, how can I? I don’t know teas—waste upon me.”

Lu laughed. “Then see it as useless gift. Drink only for pleasure.”

Zhang no longer declined, gloating inwardly. Tea was costly—he could pawn it at once.

“I trouble you today because I face difficulty.”

Lu’s brows rose. “What trouble?”

“Brother Lu, know you Chen Family’s eldest, Chen Qingyan?”

“Of course! My mother and his are temple sisters; they burn incense together often.”

“Then you know he shall never sit exams again?”

“I did not! I only heard illness broke his studies, though lately he recovers.”

Zhang barked laughter. “Illness? No—cheating! He was unmasked and barred in disgrace. That is why he hides himself!”

“What! Such a scandal?”

notes

: Juren (举人) – degree earned after passing the provincial exam, qualifying the scholar for office.

: Wu Dynasty law– in many dynasties, non‑lethal assaults could be commuted by fines (赎刑). The author invokes this legal tradition to show Wang Ying’s calculation.