The official distributing exam papers saw Guo Feng slumped over the desk and initially thought the candidate had fallen ill before even starting the test. Alarmed, he quickly nudged him.
"Wake up."
Song Yu lifted his head at the sound, locking eyes with the official.
"Here’s your exam paper. The questions will be announced shortly," the official said, realizing the man had been asleep. He couldn’t help but twitch his lips, silently urging Song Yu to stay awake.
"Thank you for the reminder, sir."
Song Yu brought a mint-scented sachet to his nose. The sharp fragrance shot straight to his brain, jolting him fully awake.
He spread out the paper and ground ink.
Glancing up at the high platform where Ye Shijie stood, Song Yu propped his chin on his hands, mimicking Song Shihuan’s usual posture. Old Man Ye, let’s see you witness my prowess once again.
Meanwhile, in the capital...
Plagued by nightmares for days, Shen Hua'er was exhausted but still mustered the strength to escort Song Yanzheng to the examination hall. The crowded streets outside the hall instinctively parted at the sight of the Ping Manor carriage.
"Look at these people, scrambling early just to squeeze forward. Yanzheng, you were born a royal grandson, noble by birth. Except during the imperial exams, these commoners aren’t even fit to share the same courtyard as you," Shen Hua'er remarked disdainfully, peering out the carriage window.
"You’re absolutely right, my lady. Earning this title will bring me closer to claiming all of Da Qi. As for them..." A mocking smile curled on Song Yanzheng’s lips. Ten years of grueling study, yet how many could ever rise to the rank of Grand Tutor like Shen Mingwen?
After alighting from the carriage, the identity-checking official dared only a fleeting glance at Song Yanzheng before bowing deeply and ushering him inside.
"Your Highness, please proceed."
Song Yanzheng took his satchel from a servant, nodded to Shen Hua'er, and strode into the examination hall.
The musty stench that greeted him made him instinctively wrinkle his nose.
"Your Highness, the exam cell assignments are here."
Even within the hall, special attendants guided him—proof of imperial privilege in full display.
Exam cells were randomly assigned. An official would blindly draw a slip from a wooden box, determining the candidate’s designated cell.
Recognizing Song Yanzheng, the official’s hand trembled as he reached into the box.
First draw:
Cell Bing-80.
The foul-smelling latrine cell.
The official’s face paled. Seeing no other candidates nearby, he stammered and stuffed the slip back, shuffling the contents before drawing again.
Second draw:
Cell Yi-80.
Still the latrine cell.
By then, other candidates had begun queuing for assignments. With no room left to maneuver, the official steeled himself. "Your Highness, your cell is Yi-80."
"A latrine cell?!" gasped a candidate behind him.
Song Yanzheng, finally grasping the official’s earlier hesitation, turned livid. Him? Assigned to a latrine cell? Twice?!
The exclamation drew stares. Under the weight of scrutiny, Song Yanzheng had no choice but to trudge toward the foul cell.
"Silence!"
Proctor Qiu Ri on the high platform felt his heart quake. Now the entire hall has earned the royal grandson’s resentment.
...
Half an hour later, gongs echoed simultaneously in Ji’an Prefecture and the capital, marking the official start of the Yuanyou 40th-year provincial exams.
The only difference? Song Yu’s cell was fragrant, while Song Yanzheng’s reeked.
Song Yu stared at the questions held up by an official and cursed Ye Shijie inwardly.
The exam comprised two Four Books essays and one regulated poem.
One of the essay topics was a juxtaposed excerpt—the most devious format in imperial exams, stitching together unrelated lines from the classics, demanding candidates discern their origins, interpret hidden connections, and craft a coherent argument.
The topic read: "Yu thought of the drowning people of the world... not worth debating with."
A chorus of sharp inhales followed. Many candidates couldn’t even parse the disjointed lines.
Song Yu gritted his teeth. This mashed Mencius (Lilou II) with Analects (Wei Ling Gong). Had he not memorized these texts, he’d have been stumped too.
"Yu thought of the drowning people of the world, as if he himself drowned them."
"Those who follow different paths cannot strategize together; those with clashing ideals are not worth debating."
The essay likely required weaving Yu’s compassion for the people with scholars’ steadfast principles. After careful deliberation, Song Yu finally dipped his brush and began writing.
His calligraphy was now impeccably neat, yet with a hint of wild flair. By the time he finished both essays, many candidates were still frowning in frustration.
For the poem, Song Yu set down his brush and meditated for a quarter-hour.
Poetry demands serendipity—the mind must be perfectly still.
When he reopened his eyes to the poem’s prompt, inspiration struck. His brush flew across the page.
Meanwhile, Song Yanzheng’s ordeal was dire.
The latrine cell stank unbearably. From the moment he sat, nausea clawed at his throat. He fantasized about slaughtering every candidate who visited the adjacent privy.
To make matters worse, Qiu Ri’s questions were unexpectedly difficult. Beads of sweat rolled down Song Yanzheng’s forehead.
"Could I have a sachet to clear my mind?" he begged.
Shen Hua'er had packed only delicately perfumed sachets—pleasant in daily life but cloying in the fetid cell. The stench and the sachet’s sweetness churned his stomach violently.
"Your Highness, the hall doesn’t provide such items," a patrolling official apologized.
Song Yanzheng retched, vomiting violently. The stink sent even the official fleeing.
Clutching his thigh with his left hand to stay conscious, Song Yanzheng scribbled answers with his right, half-delirious, unsure what he was writing.
He barely finished before collapsing unconscious.
"Proctor Qiu! The royal grandson... he’s fainted from the stench!"
"Protocol forbids opening the gates prematurely. Doing so would void the entire exam."
Faced with canceling the whole event, Qiu Ri decided letting Song Yanzheng lie unconscious for a few more hours was the lesser evil.
"No one may enter his cell, or his paper will be disqualified too."
He added, almost cheerfully:
"This is for his own good."
