An Le Ju, the study.
The pot of daffodils on the windowsill was in full bloom, its white petals gleaming with a moist luster under the sunlight. A faint fragrance mixed with the scent of ink drifted through the room—neither too strong nor too light, just right.
Pei Cijing leaned over the desk, having just finished the last stroke.
He put down the brush.
He picked up the finished essay on the Confucian classics.
He read it carefully from beginning to end—the handwriting was neat, every stroke upright and proper. The page was clean and fresh, with not a single trace of correction. Even the shades of ink were as even as if they had been printed.
He let out a long sigh of relief, a satisfied expression spreading across his face.
These months of hard study.
Had truly not been in vain.
He recalled when he first started preparing for the imperial examinations. Every essay he wrote required seven or eight corrections. When he handed it to his wife, he couldn’t even raise his head to look at her expression.
Now, writing it in one go without a single change, even he had to admire himself.
Pei Cijing set down the essay, leaned back in his chair, and stretched lazily. His joints gave off a soft crackling sound, like a machine that had long been without oil finally relaxing.
During this time, he had truly mustered the energy he had back in his high school years.
Waking early and sleeping late, burying himself in his studies—classical texts, policy essays, contemporary affairs—he did everything Shen Ninghuan assigned him, never procrastinating.
It wasn’t that he had suddenly had an epiphany.
Or that he had become ambitious.
Nor was it simply for the rewards—but since his wife had already been granted the title of Sixth-Rank Noble Lady, he, as her husband, would look utterly pathetic if he couldn’t even earn a single scholarly honor.
Just imagine.
Going to a banquet.
First, they would introduce his wife: “This is Sixth-Rank Noble Lady, née Shen.”
Then they would turn to him: “And this is Lady Shen’s husband, the Second Young Master of the Weiyuan Marquis Manor.”
He would stand there, like a mere accessory.
The very image made his scalp tingle. Although he was usually lazy by nature—preferring to lie down rather than sit, sit rather than stand—in front of his wife, he still wanted to save face.
After all, he was a man!
He didn’t need to compete with others, but in front of his own wife, he had to stand tall.
Pei Cijing shook his head, casting aside these stray thoughts. His gaze fell back on the freshly written essay, and he couldn’t help but ponder the Great Qian imperial examinations.
To be honest, the Great Qian examinations were far more forgiving than those he had read about in history books from his previous life.
The classical text questions were basically taken from the Four Books and Five Classics—select a single sentence as the core viewpoint, interpret and expand upon it, and form an essay. That was all.
The questions were straightforward and proper, never pulling any tricks.
For example, if the question was “The gentleman understands righteousness; the petty man understands profit,” you focused on the distinction between righteousness and profit. You thoroughly explained the principle, clarified the argument, and structured it logically—then it became a good essay.
The main competition lay in the depth of the candidate’s thinking.
And the breadth of their insight.
As long as you had thoroughly studied the books and clearly understood the principles, the essay would naturally write itself.
Unlike the period he had read about in his past life—the Ming and Qing dynasties. Those exams were truly perverse. Over successive dynasties, all the complete sentences had been used up. To avoid repeating questions, examiners racked their brains and invented a type of question called “jie da” (cut-and-patch).
What was “jie da”?
It meant taking words from the Four Books and Five Classics that had nothing to do with each other and forcibly stitching them together into a single sentence. The candidate had to interpret it, not only identifying which texts these words came from but also connecting them and composing an essay around the phrase.
Sometimes the sources were worlds apart, and their meanings had zero connection. The candidate had to rack their brains to build a bridge between them, and the resulting essays were often forced and strained.
Pei Cijing remembered a famous joke from his past life. There was one particularly notorious “jie da” question: just a circle: “○”.
Yes!
Just a plain circle.
The candidate had to break it open. How did you do that? Where to start? Which classic text mentions a circle? The truth was, no text did. It was just a decorative mark printed at the beginning of a book.
And they still wanted people to interpret it, form an argument, and write an essay.
It was pure torture.
But legend had it that one incredibly talented candidate solved it, and his central theme was surprisingly lofty. His opening line read: “Before the sages spoke, they observed the celestial pattern.”
As Pei Cijing recalled this story.
He felt both amused and relieved.
Amused that the ancients could dream up such abstract questions for exams.
Relieved that he didn’t have to face them. With his half-baked scholarly foundation, he probably wouldn’t have even understood the questions.
Just then, the study door gently pushed open.
Shen Ninghuan walked in, carrying a cup of tea. Her lotus-root-colored jacket set off her snow-white skin. Her hair was loosely pinned up, adorned with only a white jade hairpin. Her entire bearing was gentle and poised, warm yet composed.
Her posture was flawless. Her steps were unhurried, like a cloud drifting softly, her skirt swaying slightly without making a sound.
She walked to the desk and set down the teacup.
“You’ve been writing for so long. Take a break and have some tea.” Her voice was soft and warm, like the spring breeze brushing past the ear.
Pei Cijing took the teacup and took a sip. The temperature was just right. He looked up at Shen Ninghuan, who was standing by the desk, her gaze fixed on the freshly written essay.
“Wife, take a look. Do you see anything that needs revising?” He handed the essay over, his tone tinged with anticipation, along with a hint of feigned composure.
Shen Ninghuan took the essay and sat down in a chair by the window, reading it carefully.
She read it very attentively.
The sunlight streamed through the lattice window and fell on her, casting a pale golden glow over her face.
She lowered her eyes, her long, thick lashes casting a tiny shadow beneath them, like two slightly closed little fans. Her nose was straight and delicate, her lips naturally a faint pink, with no need for makeup to exude an elegant grace.
When reading an essay, Shen Ninghuan had a little habit.
She would slightly furrow her brows.
Her fingers would unconsciously tap the paper lightly.
If she came across a brilliant part, her brows would relax, and the corners of her mouth would lift slightly, like a flower slowly blooming.
Pei Cijing sat beside her, resting his chin on his hand, quietly watching her. The corners of his own mouth curled up without him realizing it.
His wife was truly beautiful.
She was a thousand times more captivating than all those classical texts and policy essays.
Sometimes he felt that he was willing to sit in the study day after day, burying himself in books, not so much for fame or a future career, but for the sake of watching her concentrated expression as she reviewed his essays.
Outside the window, sparrows chirped and chattered on the branches. The sunlight slowly shifted, casting dappled shadows on the floor. Everything was quiet and beautiful, like a painting.
Pei Cijing couldn’t help but stretch again, loosening his muscles and bones. Writing essays was quite mentally taxing, and he wondered how it would be once he entered officialdom.
Speaking of which, he suddenly gained some admiration for his father-in-law, Shen Zhongcheng.
Originally promoted to Acting Minister of Civil Personnel, he had presided over the year-end evaluations. He had already straightened things out for the most part—who should be promoted, who should be demoted, who should be transferred, who should stay—everything had been planned, pending only a final formality.
But the Crown Prince’s coup had thrown everything into chaos.
A large number of personnel were purged.
Those who had followed the Crown Prince in rebellion, those who had known of it and failed to report, those whose attitudes were ambiguous—one batch after another was dragged out, sentenced to execution, exile, or dismissal from office.
Suddenly, a great many positions in the imperial court were left vacant.
From the Six Ministries to local governments, from officials in the capital to those in the provinces, there were shortages everywhere. The promotions, demotions, and transfers that had been decided earlier had to be overturned and redone.
After all, too many vacancies had appeared.
They could not remain empty indefinitely.
Government affairs could not be halted; the court could not be thrown into chaos. The vacancies had to be filled as quickly as possible.
This was no small task. One move affected the entire system. It required weighing seniority, assessing competence, balancing the interests of various factions, and doing it all in a way that left no room for criticism.
As the Acting Minister of Personnel,
the old father-in-law had been coming home very late each day during this period.
He often left before dawn and returned late into the night, yet, despite such a heavy workload, he still managed to find time to regularly set exam questions for his son-in-law and critique his essays.
A few days ago, the policy essays delivered to the Shen residence had not only been reviewed one by one, but had been accompanied by detailed comments after each piece, pointing out what was well-written, what needed improvement, and even marking every instance of inappropriate phrasing.
Those dense annotations were longer than the essays themselves.
And despite being so busy,
he had even managed to settle his eldest son’s marriage arrangements. As for such mental and physical stamina, Pei Cijing truly felt humbled.
That was right!
The marriage of his elder brother-in-law, Shen Mingxuan, had been finalized.
It was with that girl from the Green Cloud Taoist Temple—Gu Ruoli!
That girl from Shu Prefecture had a delicate appearance and seemed gentle and soft, but as soon as she made a move, she drew a seven-inch dagger, pressed its blade to a throat, and sliced through a strand of hair with ease, without changing expression or missing a heartbeat. At the time, Shen Mingxuan had been so frightened that he dropped to his knees, and even after kneeling, she had dragged him by the back of his collar to have their fortunes told.
That scene.
Pei Cijing still found it amusing whenever he thought of it.
According to Taoist Priest Ziyun, the junior disciple of Master Qingyun, the Green Cloud Temple master, the two were a perfect match—their birth charts aligned, their fates complemented each other, and their Five Elements were mutually reinforcing. It was a rare and excellent marriage.
Taoist Priest Ziyun was the most accomplished cultivator after Master Qingyun at the temple.
He had seen no fewer than ten thousand birth charts—eight thousand at the very least. When he pounded his chest and declared, “This is a match made in heaven,” it was probably genuine.
So the matter was settled.
As for this marriage,
Miss Gu was very satisfied with it.
According to Shen Ninghuan, after returning home, Miss Gu had specially sent someone with a letter. On the letter was only one line: “I want this man.”
Decisive and to the point, without a trace of hesitation.
The old father-in-law, Shen Zhongcheng, was very satisfied.
He felt that Shen Mingxuan’s refusal to discuss marriage all these years had become a thorn in his side, and now that it was finally settled, the woman’s family background was clean and she herself was sharp and open—there was nothing to fault.
Gu Ruoli’s parents, who had come to the capital to report on their duties, also met Shen Mingxuan and were very pleased.
Her father was a local official in Shu Prefecture, a straightforward man who judged people by their character. After talking with Shen Mingxuan for an afternoon, he came out and said to Shen Zhongcheng, “This child is honest and sincere.”
With that appraisal, everything was settled.
As for someone’s personal opinion, it didn’t matter. The minority always has to yield to the majority.
The elder brother-in-law was truly fortunate to be able to marry a sweet girl from Shu Prefecture, but Pei Cijing wasn’t envious. The rugged roads of Shu couldn’t compare to his own gentle and refined wife.
Miss Gu’s temperament was fervent; she spoke and acted with brisk decisiveness, loving and hating with clarity. If she liked you, she would treat you wonderfully; if she didn’t, she wouldn’t spare you a glance.
Pei Cijing felt this kind of personality was fine—direct and straightforward, without beating around the bush, so interacting with her shouldn’t be tiring. But if he had to choose a wife to bring home, he still thought his own wife was the best.
She was gentle and tender, spoke in a soft voice, and handled everything with thorough propriety.
She never got angry with him.
Even when he was lazy, stayed in bed, or wrote a terrible essay, she would just smile and say in a tone that made his whole body melt, “My husband can try harder tomorrow.”
A wife like this—
where in the world could he find another?
The thought made the curve of Pei Cijing’s smile grow wider, and his gaze lingered on his wife, unable to look away. Shen Ninghuan suddenly looked up, and their eyes met in the air.
Pei Cijing was caught red-handed.
But he wasn’t flustered.
Instead, he smiled back at her with utter confidence—a smile tinged with a bit of cheekiness, a trace of smugness, and an unabashed joy.
Shen Ninghuan looked at him like this and couldn’t help but curve the corners of her lips. Yet she said nothing, only set down the essay and gave a gentle nod.
“My husband, this is well-written.” Her voice was warm and soft, carrying a hint of praise. “It’s another step forward from the last piece. Especially this section—”
She pointed to a certain passage in the essay and said seriously, “Your interpretation of ‘cultivate yourself, regulate the family, govern the state, and bring peace to the world’ is insightful. It’s not just empty talk—you start from the self, expand outward layer by layer.
“The train of thought is excellent.”
“By putting ‘cultivate yourself’ first, you say that if a person can’t even manage themselves, how can they talk about regulating the family or governing the state? Though plain, these words hit the mark.”
Pei Cijing was feeling quite pleased with the praise and was about to modestly brush it off when—
“Second Young Master! Second Young Mistress!”
Yuan Bao’s voice sounded outside the door, filled with excitement and a hint of urgency, as if he had run over.
“Your maternal grandfather has arrived!”
Pei Cijing was stunned.
Maternal grandfather?
He blinked, momentarily at a loss.
His mother’s maiden family, the Zhou family, were merchants from the south of the Yangtze River. For generations, they had engaged in trade, amassing a considerable fortune.
His maternal grandfather, Old Master Zhou, was getting on in years.
In recent times, he had entrusted his businesses to his sons to manage. He and his wife had retired to their hometown in Jiangnan, enjoying their grandchildren and a leisurely life—spending their days in perfect comfort.
During holidays and festivals, letters and gifts were always exchanged.
But as for the old man himself, he hadn’t been to the capital for several years. After all, traveling long distances in these ancient times was no easy feat—no cars, trains, or planes; the journey always took ten to fifteen days or more.
Why had he suddenly come?
But regardless of the reason, the joy of seeing his long-unseen maternal grandfather was unstoppable.
Pei Cijing was both surprised and overjoyed. He leapt to his feet, grabbed Shen Ninghuan’s hand, and started heading out: “Grandfather has arrived? My dear, come on—let’s go welcome him together!”
Shen Ninghuan was pulled along, stumbling a little, but she wasn’t annoyed. Smiling, she just reminded him, “Husband, walk more slowly. Grandfather isn’t going to run away.”
