WSMTATMC C174

Chapter 174

After passing through a winding corridor, the group of scholars finally caught sight of the imperial palace. It was the time when morning court had just ended; rows upon rows of civil and military officials filed out of the grand hall in stately procession.

The civil officials wore scarlet robes, while the military officials donned robes of stone blue—two striking colors that clearly distinguished their ranks yet each possessed its own dignified beauty. The students stared at them wide-eyed, brimming with admiration.

Even if they were admitted into the Hanlin Academy, it would take many years of grinding toil before they were qualified to attend court. And before one could reach that stage, countless others would have already been demoted or dismissed from office.

When all the courtiers had departed, the palace attendants led the scholars onward—the palace examination was to be held in the main hall itself.

All one hundred and fifty tribute scholars entered the hall. They knelt in fifteen neat rows of ten, bowing their heads to the floor.

The palace examination was, of course, presided over by the Emperor himself. His voice resounded slowly through the vast hall:

“We summon you to this hall to assess your learning and virtue. Gazing upon such a gathering of distinguished talents and scholars of profound learning gladdens Our heart.”

His voice was not loud, yet in the stillness of the hall, every word fell clearly into each person’s ear. Upon hearing this, the scholars felt a surge of awe and straightened their backs instinctively.

“Since ancient times, the rise and fall of the realm has rested upon its people; and the strength of the people lies in the fairness of selecting the worthy and the diligence in cultivating the learned. You have all endured long years of study by lamplight, polishing yourselves through the classics and histories. To stand before Us today already marks you as the outstanding among men.”

The Emperor paused briefly, then continued,

“Yet the essays of the examination are not for empty ornamentation of words alone, but to measure the wisdom that lies beneath. Observing the cycles of order and chaos through the ages, none have not been bound to the moral integrity of the scholars.

You, who have read the books of the sages, must strive to bestow upon your ruler the benevolence of Yao and Shun, to bless the people with your virtue. As ministers, be loyal and diligent; as learners, seek to rectify your hearts. Should you one day stand in Our court, remember to worry before the people’s worries, and to rejoice after their joys—only thus will you not betray Our yearning for the worthy.”

“Your Majesty’s words—we shall remember them!” The scholars answered in unison, their chests swelling with passion.

When the time had come, the Emperor cleared his throat lightly and continued,

“Today, you shall be tested by policy essays—not for the sake of flowery rhetoric, but to discern your insight and capacity. I hope you will write with sincerity, expressing strategies that may benefit the world. Do not betray the learning you have cultivated through life, nor the expectations of this realm.

Should true learning reside within you, I shall surely elevate you, allowing you to fulfill your aspirations and share in the glory of this prosperous age.”

At a signal from his hand, an attendant announced in a long, ceremonial tone:

“Commence the examination—bestow the topic!”

In front of the hall, an incense stick as thick as a finger was lit to measure time—two full hours until it burned out. When the incense was extinguished, writing must cease, and the papers would be collected.

The scholars returned to their seats, grinding ink and contemplating the topic. The palace examination lasted only two hours, and the topic varied each year. Most were political or social in nature; the previous year’s topic had been “On the Malpractices of the Salt Administration and the Way to Reform.”

At that time, private salt trading in the southern regions had fallen into chaos. If the court imposed strict regulations, the common people could not afford official salt. A candidate named Wang Jun had proposed a policy of adaptive reform and won first place; he now served as Assistant Minister in the Ministry of Revenue.

To compose a profound and well-reasoned essay within such a short time was no easy feat.

It all depended on the candidate’s daily accumulation of learning. Many had prepared essays in advance—if the topic coincided, the writing became much easier.

At present, the greatest issue in the imperial court was the war with the Northern Qiang and the Turks. Hence, most had prepared essays related to military affairs. When the topic was revealed, it matched their expectations, and the hall was soon filled with the sound of pens scratching as all bent over their papers.

Two hours—neither long nor short. The Emperor could not remain seated the entire time; after the topics were distributed, he rose and withdrew to his study behind the hall.

Chen Qingyan read through the topic, then as he ground the ink, his mind began to turn swiftly. When his thoughts had formed, he took up the brush and began drafting upon the rough paper.

As time passed, several candidates had already finished their essays.

When Chen Qingyan wrote his final sentence, he blew lightly upon the ink to dry it and read carefully through the entire piece, ensuring that no errors or taboo characters remained. Only then did he transcribe it neatly onto the formal paper.

The palace examination papers were not written on ordinary rice paper, but on a kind of stiff, official-grade parchment similar to memorials. At the top were written the candidate’s place of origin, name, and salutation, followed by the essay proper.

The handwriting had to be impeccable—any smudge or stain was considered disrespectful, and regardless of content, the candidate would fail outright.

So absorbed was Chen Qingyan in writing that he completely forgot to check the time. Fortunately, he laid down the final stroke just as the incense burned out.

At the attendant’s cry of “Put down your brushes!”, everyone stopped writing and sat upright as eunuchs collected the papers. They were then led to a side hall to wait—within an hour, the results would be announced.

Out of more than a hundred papers, only the top ten would reach the Emperor’s hands. The rest were graded by Hanlin scholars, and unless a paper was exceptionally brilliant, its ranking generally followed that of the previous examination.

The Emperor first picked up the paper of Huang Yuanzhou, who had placed first in the earlier round. It was indeed an excellent essay—refined and elegant. Yet Emperor Wuping was not seeking mere excellence; he sought substance.

After finishing, he set it aside in the middle of the pile and picked up Chen Qingyan’s paper next.

The essay immediately drew his attention. From the opening lines, Chen argued directly that the matter of Xizhou could only be settled through war—that peace must be won by the sword.

The more the Emperor read, the more impressed he became. Every phrase struck precisely at the heart of the issue; every argument was sharp and resonant. The final line read:

“Not an inch of the borderlands shall be ceded. We seek not glory for our own time, but peace for a thousand years to come!”

Excellent. Truly excellent.

“Who is this candidate?” the Emperor asked. “Why have I not heard of him before?”

An attendant stepped forward. “Your Majesty, he is a disciple of Liang Liufang. Years ago, when he was falsely accused of cheating, it was Your Majesty who granted him another chance to sit for the examination.”

At this, the Emperor’s brows lifted slightly, and a knowing smile tugged at his lips.

He had once greatly admired Liang Boqing and had twice invited him to retake the imperial examination after his disgrace, but Liang, stubborn to the bone, had refused both times. Now it seemed he had finally let go of his pride and produced an outstanding pupil—not a waste of his brilliance after all.

Emperor Wuping was no shortsighted ruler. Had he been so, he would never have reopened the ancient trade routes for tea and salt.

A flourishing age breeds wise monarchs; a turbulent one, heroes. The Wu Dynasty had already endured five generations under his reign, and he was determined to emulate his forebears and restore the might of Great Wu!

After finishing the top ten papers, he personally designated the zhuangyuan (first place), bangyan (second place), and tanhua (third place), leaving the rest to the Hanlin scholars to rank.

By late noon, the results were finally announced. The Chuanlu official stepped forth to proclaim the names.

More than a hundred tribute scholars stood anxiously outside the great hall. With the crack of three whips, the announcement rang out:

“First of the First Rank—Zhuangyuan: Chen Qingyan!”

“Second—Bangyan: Liu Junshan!”

“Third—Tanhua: Xu Wei!”

…

Chen Qingyan could hardly believe his ears. Had they truly called his name first?

He turned around in disbelief—everyone was looking at him. The world seemed to blur as the sound of his own heartbeat thundered in his ears.

He had passed.

He was the zhuangyuan!

Meanwhile, Wang Ying was helping someone draw up a rental contract.

Recently, the number of people arriving in Jizhou Prefecture had increased rapidly. Aside from the common folk from Xiguan, nobles and merchants from Suzhou and Liangzhou were also fleeing inland to seek refuge.

That morning’s clients were a middle-aged married couple with two children and an elderly parent, looking to rent a courtyard house on Zhenghe Street. With only a few family members, a single-compound residence suited them perfectly.

Wang Ying showed them around the property, and once they agreed, they began to discuss rent.

Housing prices in the prefectural city had been climbing fast—what once cost thirty taels now fetched sixty-five, and even at that price, demand far exceeded supply.

The couple did not haggle; they paid the full amount upfront for a year. Being merchants, they were not short on silver—after all, those without means could not even enter the city.

Wang Ying received the money and drew up two copies of the contract, stipulating clearly that subletting or damaging the main structure was strictly forbidden.

Just as he sent them off, a familiar ding-dong sounded in his ears—his Spirit Field had leveled up to Level 7!

Wang Ying froze for a moment, then realization struck like lightning—Chen Qingyan must have passed the examination!

He hurriedly called for Lin Sui to close the shop at once.

“Brother Ying, now? We still have some vegetables left to sell…”

“Don’t sell them! I’ve got urgent business at home!”

“Oh, okay—then I’ll pack them up,” Lin Sui said quickly, stuffing the remaining produce into baskets to have Tianju cart them home later.

After locking up the store, the two rushed home.

Once inside, Wang Ying went straight to the bedroom, bolted the door, and entered the Spirit Field.

The moment he did, a message popped up—his field had just gained 500,000 experience points, boosting it halfway through Level 7 already.

So much experience? Could it be… his husband truly became zhuangyuan?

Suppressing his excitement, Wang Ying opened the upgrade rewards.

Spirit Field Level: 7

Milestone Reward: Transmission Function Unlocked — allows teleportation between two visited locations, three times only.

Wang Ying’s eyes widened. This… this is incredible!

And it wasn’t even random teleportation—he could set the destination in his mind, see the surrounding area in advance, and confirm before traveling.

He tried it once, setting the location as their old home in Chen Village. In an instant, the scene around him shifted to the desolate ruins, with the remnants of their old house standing forlorn under the sky.

At the very last second, he halted the transmission. The chances were too precious to waste!

Other rewards included faster crop growth, increased storage capacity, and one more acre of fertile land.

Though the rest were of minor use, nothing could match the joy of knowing his husband had passed as zhuangyuan!

Still, it wasn’t a joy he could yet share with others. That afternoon, he planned to go into town to buy food and then take the family for a spring outing—the weather was mild, neither too hot nor cold, perfect for a day outdoors.

When he stepped outside, the children were playing “Officials and Thieves” in the courtyard. Yuanbao and Qing’er were the officers; Mutou, the thief. They were running around, drenched in sweat and laughter.

“Father! Father!” Yuanbao called, running toward him with a grin.

Though Qing’er could not speak, she too came over, rubbing affectionately against Wang Ying’s leg.

“You’re both drenched in sweat,” Wang Ying said, wiping their foreheads with a handkerchief. “Later, I’ll go shopping with your uncle Lin, then we’ll take you out to play.”

“Yay!” Yuanbao cheered, bouncing in delight, while Qing’er clapped her hands, her eyes curved into joyful crescents.

Just then, Lin Sui arrived.

“These two sure get along well,” Wang Ying said with a smile.

“Indeed. Ever since Qing’er came, Yuanbao’s been much more lively.”

“Let’s go stroll the market. We’ll buy what we need and take the kids for a spring outing.”

“Sounds perfect.”

For the excursion, they needed hats—the sun could easily burn a child’s tender skin.

There were many kinds of hats in the old days. Women and ge’ers usually wore mili, veils made of gauze or fine cloth with a ring of silk draping down to cover the face.

Men mostly wore bamboo douli—wide-brimmed hats woven from thin strips of bamboo. Wealthier ones might have black cloth sewn around the brim or even precious stones attached as decoration.

As they were picking hats, a sudden commotion erupted outside. The two peeked out curiously.

A disheveled man was running through the street, shouting in panic:

“The Northwestern Army has been defeated! Marquis Wuping has fallen in battle! Yumen Pass has been lost! The Northwestern Army has been defeated—Marquis Wuping is dead!”