The process of meeting with the Chancellor of the Hanlin Academy went more smoothly than Pei Cijing had anticipated.
Chancellor Zhao was a seasoned Hanlin scholar past sixty, with a gaunt face and graying hair. He wore a slightly faded crimson official robe and sat in a spacious armchair. His demeanor did not resemble that of a deputy second-rank official, but rather an old tutor who had taught in a private school for decades.
But his eyes were another matter.
Murky yet sharp, they seemed to weigh whoever they looked at, as if assessing something. Not just anyone could hold their ground under that gaze.
Still, Pei Cijing felt it wasn’t too bad.
The pressure Chancellor Zhao exerted was, in his personal estimation, not even a tenth of what he endured when his father-in-law, Shen Zhongcheng, tested him on his studies.
He stood before the desk.
His expression calm.
One by one, he laid out the ideas he had presented to Administrator Wang the day before—starting with the establishment of an early warning system, moving through the procedures for post-disaster coordination and resettlement, and finishing with strategies for inter-bureau cooperation. He spoke methodically, each point clearly structured.
After finishing his last sentence, he bowed slightly,
took a step back,
and waited quietly.
Chancellor Zhao leaned back in his chair, fixing his gaze on the young man. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Administrator Wang, standing to the side, felt a ripple of tension. He stole a glance at Chancellor Zhao’s face, but that gaunt countenance revealed nothing—neither approval nor displeasure.
The room was silent for a moment.
Then,
Chancellor Zhao spoke: “Not bad.”
Two words, flat and plain, like a comment on a passable essay. But Administrator Wang knew that hearing “not bad” from Chancellor Zhao was uncommon.
This chancellor had weathered decades in the imperial court, seen countless young talents, and was not quick to praise. A “not bad” from him was rare recognition.
Chancellor Zhao picked up his teacup, took a sip, set it down, and turned his gaze back to Pei Cijing. His tone grew more earnest: “You’ve only been in the Hanlin Academy for a few days, yet you’ve seen through these intricacies from archival records. That’s rare.”
Pei Cijing clasped his hands and replied, “You flatter me, Chancellor. I merely stumbled upon this angle while reviewing the files. It’s hardly worth mentioning.”
Chancellor Zhao waved a hand.
“No need for excessive modesty.” He paused, his eyes carrying both scrutiny and appreciation. “To have thought of this is your ability. Others have reviewed the same archives and revised the Grand Qian Waterways Commentary multiple times—why didn’t they think of it?”
It was a blunt statement.
Administrator Wang felt a faint flush of embarrassment.
He had been in the Hanlin Academy for over a decade and had revised the Waterways Commentary more than once, yet he had never approached it from this angle.
Chancellor Zhao paid no attention to Administrator Wang’s subtle change in expression. He simply looked at Pei Cijing, inwardly nodding with approval.
This young man.
He had brought him an unexpected delight.
He had originally thought that today’s meeting was merely a routine introduction of a new recruit, at most someone with a bit of cleverness trying to impress his superior.
But instead, he heard a weighty civil governance framework—one concerning the people’s livelihoods.
Early warning, coordination, resettlement.
Three pillars.
Together forming a complete flood response strategy.
If this proposal could be implemented, its benefits would extend far beyond a single province or prefecture. It would reach the countless commoners across the entire Great Qian Empire.
Chancellor Zhao had spent most of his life in the Hanlin Academy, handling countless documents and records. In all those years, few young people had really caught his attention.
But this nineteen-year-old Tanhua—number three in the imperial examination—was one of them.
He silently calculated in his mind.
If this strategy could be compiled into a formal document, the Hanlin Academy would gain another achievement to present before His Majesty. And he, as the Chancellor, would share in the glory.
And the origin of that achievement was the young man before him.
Chancellor Zhao’s gaze lingered on Pei Cijing for another moment, and a sudden sense of admiration welled up inside him. That Shen Zhongcheng—what good fortune he had.
Back then, the scandal of the betrothal swap at the Weiyuan Marquis Manor was known to everyone in the capital.
Nobody spoke of it openly.
But behind closed doors, it was a laughingstock.
A legitimate daughter of the Ministry of Personnel’s Vice Director marrying the second branch of the marquis’s family—a son who hadn’t even passed the imperial exams. Many pitied the Shen family, thinking Shen Zhongcheng must have lost his mind to agree to such an absurd swap.
But now?
Pei Cijing had become a Tanhua at nineteen, entered the Hanlin Academy, and within just a few days of work, had produced a strategic concept worthy of being recorded in history.
When one door closes, another opens.
The world is unpredictable.
Truly, you never know.
Reclaiming his thoughts, Chancellor Zhao looked at Pei Cijing, his tone even warmer than before: “Editor Pei, I find your proposal feasible. However, drafting such a strategy is no small matter and requires careful deliberation. Do you have any further thoughts?”
Pei Cijing paused for a moment, then lifted his head, his gaze candid.
“I do have some ideas, though I’m not sure if I should speak them.”
“Say whatever comes to mind.”
Pei Cijing organized his thoughts and began: “In my view, since we intend to draft a strategy, we ought to aim for the best. This plan concerns the survival and safety of the people across the empire. It is not a matter for any single person, nor can it be perfected by a few behind closed doors.
“I suggest that all Hanlin scholars, regardless of seniority, be allowed to submit their suggestions on this matter, writing out their own ideas. The best proposals will be selected and used. By pooling everyone’s wisdom, we can fill in gaps and collectively refine the most comprehensive emergency response strategy possible.
“Only then can the strategy gather diverse insights and leave no blind spots.”
For a moment, the study fell silent.
Administrator Wang listened, and his admiration deepened.
He had initially thought Pei Cijing merely wanted to share credit with his colleagues, but the young man had thought further—not dividing the merit among a few, but spreading it across the entire Hanlin Academy.
Giving every scholar a chance.
Even if a suggestion wasn’t selected, the opportunity had been given. No one could complain, and everyone would owe Editor Pei a debt of gratitude.
That level of vision was truly uncommon.
Chancellor Zhao leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping softly against the armrest, producing a faint rhythmic sound. His eyes rested on Pei Cijing, a mixture of assessment and appreciation.
Pooling wisdom.
Letting all the Hanlin scholars participate.
This proposal was naturally good for him.
The better the final strategy, the more credit he would earn before His Majesty. And mobilizing the entire academy was hardly a bad thing—submitting suggestions wouldn’t disrupt normal duties. As for whether individuals could seize this opportunity—that would depend on their own ability.
As for the idea of diluted credit?
Chancellor Zhao shook his head inwardly. At his level, he was long past the phase of competing with subordinates for recognition. No personal achievement could overshadow the title of “Chancellor of the Hanlin Academy.”
After a moment’s thought, he nodded.
“Proceed as you suggest.”
He turned to Administrator Wang, his tone becoming serious: “You will take the lead on this matter, with Editor Pei assisting. Notify everyone: all personnel in the Hanlin Academy, regardless of their position, may submit written suggestions. Select the best, consolidate them, and once the draft is complete, I will review it personally.”
Administrator Wang quickly clasped his hands: “I obey your order.”
Chancellor Zhao cast another glance at Pei Cijing, the admiration in his eyes growing even deeper.
This young man—he didn't covet credit, didn't rush blindly ahead, knew when to advance and when to retreat, and understood that individual strength was ultimately limited, while many hands made light work.
Such clarity of insight was not something everyone possessed.
"Go on then." Chancellor Zhao waved his hand. "Do it well."
Pei Cijing and Administrator Wang both bowed in unison and withdrew from the study.
News traveled swiftly.
Before half the day had passed, the entire Hanlin Academy knew: the newly arrived Tanhua scholar, Pei Cijing, had proposed a framework for revising an emergency disaster response strategy during his meeting with the Chancellor. Not only had the Chancellor highly praised it, but he had also ordered that everyone in the academy could offer suggestions and ideas, with the best to be selected for implementation.
The news swept through every corner of the Hanlin Academy like a gust of wind.
Some were astonished, some were impressed, others felt a twinge of envy, and some brightened at the thought—this was a rare opportunity.
In the duty room.
Liu Zhixing and Chen Wangbei had, of course, heard about it too. The two sat at their desks before the same piles of documents, but their thoughts had drifted.
Liu Zhixing set down his brush, leaned back in his chair, and gazed at the few green bamboo stalks outside the window. The leaves swayed gently in the wind, rustling softly.
His mood was complicated.
It wasn't envy.
Nor jealousy.
Rather, it was an indescribable, inexplicable feeling of reflection.
He, too, had worked on revising the "Comprehensive Commentary on the Great Qian Waterways"—paging through those files from beginning to end, reading each entry, copying out excerpts one by one until his eyes ached from fatigue and his wrists throbbed from writing.
But what he had seen were just numbers—how many miles of dikes had been built, how many sections of river channels had been dredged, how many floods had occurred.
Pei Cijing, however, had seen far more: early warnings, resource coordination, resettlement—a complete strategy capable of rescuing the people from disaster.
That breadth of vision, that depth of concern—Liu Zhixing felt himself unworthy by comparison.
Liu Zhixing sighed inwardly.
He was a zhuangyuan, the top scholar in the imperial examinations three times consecutively. Since childhood, everyone around him had said he was a genius, a once-in-a-century prodigy destined to bring glory to his ancestors.
He had once believed that too.
Until now, he had always thought so. But this seemingly easygoing Brother Pei had accomplished something so significant that it made him realize for the first time—perhaps he was the zhuangyuan, but that only spoke to his examination skills. There was a wide gap between him and Pei Cijing.
Not a gap in knowledge.
It was the height and scope of perspective that came from the very core of one's being, the way Pei saw problems.
Chen Wangbei sat nearby, his square face marked with a similarly complex expression. He was a straightforward man by nature; whatever crossed his mind showed plainly on his face. The look he wore now, as Liu Zhixing saw it, spelled out just one word—defeat.
Liu Zhixing turned his head, glanced at him, and asked in a low voice, "Brother Chen, what are you thinking about?"
Chen Wangbei scratched his head and said gruffly, "I was thinking—he's several years younger than us. How is it that he can think so far ahead, while all we know is to do our work mechanically?"
As he spoke, he looked down at the stack of files before him, his gaze carrying both grudging resignation and reluctant acceptance.
"I used to think," he continued, "that as long as I could keep my head down and work steadily, I wouldn't fall behind. But now I see: steady effort alone isn't enough. You need brains, too."
When he said this, there was no sourness in his tone—just an honest, heartfelt reflection.
Liu Zhixing listened, fell silent for a moment, and then slowly nodded.
Yes.
Steady effort alone was not enough.
But the problem was that Pei Cijing's ability to discern deeper patterns from dull files wasn't something you could learn just by wanting to. It was a gift, a kind of vision, a capacity for seeing issues from a higher vantage point.
The two were lost in their own thoughts when the duty room door swung open.
Pei Cijing walked in.
He had been called away by Administrator Wang earlier to discuss further details about drafting the strategy, and had only now managed to return. As soon as he entered, he sensed something off about the atmosphere.
Liu Zhixing was leaning back in his chair, staring out the window, lost in thought. Chen Wangbei sat with his head down, his brush set aside, and the documents before him left untouched for some time.
Neither spoke.
The room was silent—a heavy, subdued quiet.
Pei Cijing walked to his own desk, set down his official case, turned around, and looked at the two men. "Brother Liu, Brother Chen—what's wrong? Why is no one speaking?"
Liu Zhixing withdrew his gaze, looked at him, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a self-deprecating curve.
"It's nothing," he said, his tone open and without pretense. "I just heard about your meeting with the Chancellor, and I'm feeling a bit pensive."
He paused, his eyes meeting Pei Cijing's with no trace of jealousy—only genuine, heartfelt respect.
"Given the same assignment from Administrator Wang, Brother Pei was able to see so far and think so much. I admit I fall short."
The words were spoken frankly, without the least bit of reluctance.
Chen Wangbei nodded vigorously beside him, adding gruffly, "I feel the same way."
Pei Cijing was taken aback.
He hadn't expected the news of his meeting with the Chancellor to spread so quickly—and even less that Liu Zhixing and Chen Wangbei would react this way.
No acidic sarcasm. No congratulations masking inner resentment. Instead, they straightforwardly and generously admitted they felt unworthy.
Such open-mindedness, such candor—it wasn't something just anyone possessed.
Pei Cijing admired them privately for it. On the surface, however, he appeared a little embarrassed, clasping his hands respectfully and saying, "Brother Liu, you give me too much credit. I happened to think of this angle; it's nothing special. It's not that you two couldn't have thought of it—you were simply too focused on the revision of the Waterways Commentary itself and didn't extend your thinking in that direction at the time."
He was telling the truth.
There was no need to question the scholarship and ability of Liu Zhixing and Chen Wangbei.
The reason neither of them had thought of this angle wasn't that they weren't clever enough, but that they hadn't been able to break free from the mindset of merely "completing an assignment."
Still, there were some things Pei Cijing didn't say.
Namely: "Thinking of it is one thing, but actually pushing it forward is another."
He had been able to advance the strategy proposal so smoothly because he had background—married into the family of the Minister of Revenue, the son of the Marquis of Weiyuan. With these two identities backing him, even if others had objections, they had to show him some respect on the surface.
He was a newcomer!
But his was not a newcomer without any foundation.
Administrator Wang had been willing to listen to him patiently. Chancellor Zhao had given him the opportunity to present his ideas. When it came down to it, his status had played a role.
If it had been Liu Zhixing or Chen Wangbei proposing the same plan, how would it have turned out?
Pei Cijing didn't know.
But he knew it probably wouldn't have gone so smoothly for them.
A newcomer without connections, just a few days into the job, daring to make suggestions to his superiors over their heads—in most people's eyes, that would likely be seen as "aiming too high" or "lacking patience."
Best-case scenario, a superior would acknowledge it halfheartedly and then shelve the proposal, treating it as if it had never been raised. Worst case, he might get chided with something like, "First, focus on the work assigned to you."
Of course, it wasn't entirely impossible, just highly unlikely.
To gain recognition.
It wasn't that His Excellency didn't value talent, but in the official arena, rules and propriety mattered more than brilliance.
Pei Cijing understood these principles well but found them difficult to articulate.
Speaking frankly with someone of shallow acquaintance.
That was a grave taboo!
Though he shared the bond of having passed the imperial examinations with Liu Zhixing and Chen Wangbei, they had not known each other long. Saying too much might make him seem boastful, or give the impression that he looked down on others.
Pei Cijing retracted his thoughts, walked to his desk, and sat down. He picked up a half-finished case file and continued his revisions, burying himself in his work.
The office fell silent once more.
Liu Zhixing and Chen Wangbei exchanged a glance. Saying nothing further, they picked up their brushes and resumed their tasks.
The rustle of pages as case files were flipped through, the soft scratching of brush tips on paper—these sounds interwove into an atmosphere of quiet, focused concentration.
When the drum signaling the end of the workday sounded, Pei Cijing closed his case file promptly.
He tidied his official documents, stood up, and bowed to Liu Zhixing and Chen Wangbei: "Brother Liu, Brother Chen, I'll take my leave now. Tomorrow is my day off, so I’ll see you in two days."
With that, he strode briskly toward the door, his steps as light as if treading on clouds.
Tomorrow was a day of rest—a rare chance to sleep in—and he had no intention of taking work home. Matters concerning the strategy could wait until after the break. Nothing mattered more than a good night's sleep.
Pei Cijing’s figure vanished through the doorway, and his footsteps gradually faded away.
Only Liu Zhixing and Chen Wangbei remained in the office.
Liu Zhixing stared at the empty doorway for a moment, then withdrew his gaze to the pile of unfinished case files before him.
He did not rise.
Neither did Chen Wangbei.
As if by unspoken agreement, they both picked up their brushes and continued their work.
Their minds might not be as sharp as the younger man's, but at least they could handle these routine tasks properly and with care. They couldn't let the strategy matter distract them; they must not neglect their current duties.
Liu Zhixing dipped his brush in ink and began copying the data, stroke by stroke, his handwriting even neater than usual.
As he wrote, he suddenly spoke, his voice low, as if talking to himself or to Chen Wangbei: "For these two days off, I plan to ponder the strategy. How about we work together? Brother Pei has given us a chance. Since we can participate, we shouldn't let it go to waste."
Chen Wangbei looked up, his eyes brightening, and nodded firmly: "I was thinking the same thing."
They exchanged a glance and saw the same thing in each other's eyes—not envy, not resentment, but a sparked drive to do something meaningful.
Pei Cijing’s strategy proposal had been opened to suggestions from the entire academy. Anyone could contribute, anyone could write.
And so could they.
Though the original idea was Pei Cijing’s, the final strategy would be the collective achievement of the entire Hanlin Academy. As long as they wrote well and insightfully, their contributions could still be selected, and their names would appear in the strategy scrolls.
This opportunity for recognition was something Pei Cijing had willingly shared with everyone.
They would remember this debt of gratitude.
Liu Zhixing lowered his gaze and continued copying data, but in his mind, he was already calculating—early warning, coordination, resettlement. Which of these three areas could he focus on?
Chen Wangbei was thinking the same thing. His square, honest face bore an expression of profound earnestness, along with a hint of eager anticipation.
