Twilight enveloped the surroundings, and the lanterns before the Shen residence had already been lit. The orange-red glow spilled onto the bluestone steps, softening the outlines of the two stone lions. Pei Cijing helped Shen Ninghuan down from the carriage and looked up at the plaque inscribed with the words "Shen Residence" above the lintel. It glimmered with a dark gold light in the dusk, its bold strokes bearing the personal calligraphy of Shen Zhongcheng himself.
"Let's go," Shen Ninghuan said softly, straightening his collar with a natural, practiced ease. "Father has probably been waiting for a while."
As they stepped through the second gate, a young servant hurried over, bowed, and said, "Master Pei, Eldest Miss, the master is waiting in the flower hall. Dinner has been prepared."
Pei Cijing nodded and walked with Shen Ninghuan toward the flower hall.
Shen Zhongcheng was already seated in the flower hall. That evening, he wore a simple navy-blue robe, a plain cloth belt tied around his waist, and his hair was pinned up with an ebony hairpin. He had no extraneous adornments, yet he carried the steady, commanding air unique to someone long accustomed to officialdom.
When he saw them enter, he set down his teacup and nodded slightly. "You're here? Let's eat first."
The family gathered around a round table as dishes were brought out one by one, most of them favoring Pei Cijing's taste. Shen Zhongcheng ate in silence, occasionally picking up a piece of food to place in Shen Ninghuan's bowl with a naturalness that spoke of long-standing habit.
Shen Ninghuan lowered her eyes, eating slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
Pei Cijing also ate quietly, but he knew the real business would come after the meal.
And so it did.
Once the table was cleared, maidservants served tea. Shen Zhongcheng took a sip from his teacup, then turned his gaze to Pei Cijing. "Cijing, come with me to the study."
Pei Cijing acknowledged the summons with a response and stood up, glancing at Shen Ninghuan.
She smiled at him, a look that carried encouragement and a silent "go ahead, don't worry."
The study was located on the eastern side of the Shen residence, a separate courtyard small in size. In the courtyard, a few blossoms still lingered sparsely on an old plum tree. The study door was half-open, and a warm yellow light spilled from within, casting a patch of cozy glow on the veranda.
Pei Cijing followed Shen Zhongcheng across the threshold.
On three walls of the study stood bookshelves packed with all kinds of classical texts, and the air held the faint scent of ink and paper. By the window sat a broad desk, piled with several stacks of documents. The ink in the inkstone was still wet, evidence that its owner had been working at the desk just moments before.
Shen Zhongcheng walked to the desk and sat down. From a stack of documents on the corner of the desk, he pulled out a few sheets of paper and handed them over.
"The policy essays you sent a couple of days ago—I've read them."
Pei Cijing took them with both hands.
He looked down.
It was indeed the essays he had submitted.
The pages were densely covered with annotations in crimson ink. Some passages were circled to mark brilliance, while others were underlined with comments like "Lacks sound reasoning" or "Needs further consideration" written beside them.
He flipped through each page, growing more focused as he read.
Shen Zhongcheng's annotations were meticulous—not just general remarks, but line-by-line scrutiny. At one point where Pei Cijing had used the phrase "overcorrecting a fault," Shen Zhongcheng had written a line of small characters beside it: "This argument has merit, but it leans toward radicalism. There are few matters in the world that are purely black or white; reserve some room for nuance."
In another instance, Pei Cijing had quoted a passage from the Zuo Zhuan, and Shen Zhongcheng had written: "The quote is apt, but you failed to elaborate on its deeper meaning—a missed opportunity."
Every annotation carried substance, clear evidence of genuine effort.
After finishing his review, Pei Cijing looked up and said earnestly, "Thank you for your guidance, Father-in-law. I wrote these passages too hastily, without careful thought."
Shen Zhongcheng nodded without adding much, raised his teacup for another sip, then suddenly spoke: "Let me pose a few questions. Just outline your general approach to solving them."
Pei Cijing was momentarily startled, then straightened his expression. "Please go ahead, Father-in-law."
Shen Zhongcheng set down his teacup, deliberated for a moment, and slowly began: "First question: 'The people are of foremost importance; the state comes next; the ruler is the least.' This passage is from the Mencius. How do you interpret it?"
This was a common type of canonical question.
After brief thought, Pei Cijing replied: "The core of this passage lies in the concept of 'putting the people first.' What Mencius argues is not to diminish the state or the ruler, but to clarify their order of priority. The people are the foundation of the nation; if the foundation is secure, the nation is stable. If the people live in misery, the state may exist in name but is already in decline, and the ruler, though seated on the throne, faces peril. Therefore, a wise ruler governing the realm must prioritize bringing peace and stability to the people."
He paused and continued: "If I were to develop an argument from this, I would approach it from three layers: first, the principle that 'the people are the foundation of the state'; second, the historical lesson that 'he who wins the people's hearts wins the realm'; third, the methods of 'valuing the people, loving the people, and stabilizing the people.' Progressing step by step, citing historical cases and classical texts as evidence, one could compose a complete essay."
Shen Zhongcheng's face betrayed no emotion. He merely nodded slightly and asked, "Second question: 'To cultivate one's person, one must first rectify one's mind; to rectify one's mind, one must first make one's intentions sincere.' This is from the Great Learning. How would you approach this topic?"
Pei Cijing paused thoughtfully before answering: "This passage discusses the foundation of self-cultivation, which lies in rectifying the mind and making intentions sincere. The way of the Great Learning starts with brightening virtue and ends with renewing the people, reaching the highest good, yet the starting point lies in these eight characters. If the mind is not rectified, likes and dislikes become biased, and one cannot see things as they truly are; if intentions are not sincere, one deceives oneself and others, and all actions are false. Thus, for a gentleman to cultivate his person, he must first exert effort in the realm of what he alone knows—making his mind broad and impartial, his intentions consistent inside and out, so that his seeing, hearing, words, and actions all conform to propriety. Only then can the achievement of self-cultivation be spoken of."
He went on: "Taking this as a topic, I would develop it in three layers: first, discussing the mind as the master of the body—if the mind is not rectified, the person cannot be cultivated; second, discussing intentions as the movement of the mind—if intentions are not sincere, the mind cannot be rectified; third, discussing the work of rectifying the mind and making intentions sincere, which lies in being cautious when alone, in being pragmatic, and in rejecting empty formalism. By advancing layer by layer, citing classical texts, one can form a complete essay."
Shen Zhongcheng's expression remained neutral. He nodded again, then posed the third question in a calm, unhurried tone: "'Govern a chaotic state with severe laws.' How do you view this?"
This question was harder than the previous two.
The phrase "Govern a chaotic state with severe laws" comes from the Rites of Zhou, discussing how to govern a troubled state through strict legal measures. But it involves the issue of degree—using severe laws well could swiftly stabilize the situation, while using them badly might aggravate tensions and backfire.
Pei Cijing did not rush to answer. He took his time to think seriously.
Then he spoke, unhurried: "This statement has its reasoning, but also its limitations. In chaotic times, severe laws aim to quickly intimidate petty wrongdoers and stabilize the situation—this is a symptomatic cure. However, severe laws can only treat the symptoms, not the root cause. If one relies solely on harsh punishments while neglecting fundamental issues like education, people's livelihoods, and official governance, then even if the chaos is temporarily quelled, the hidden dangers remain, and it will erupt again sooner or later."
He paused.
"Therefore, the true way of governance is to treat both symptoms and root causes at the same time: use severe laws to quell disorder, and humane governance to address the foundation. The two should complement each other without bias."
When he finished, the study fell silent for a moment.
Shen Zhongcheng raised his teacup, took a slow sip, then set it down and looked at Pei Cijing, his expression growing more serious.
"You're ready."
These four words were spoken softly, but they carried weight.
Pei Cijing froze for a moment, but before he could say anything, Shen Zhongcheng continued speaking: “As for these questions, although they were only answered orally, your thinking was clear, the structure was well-layered, your references to classics were apt and to the point—neither flashy nor pedantic, with substance in every word.”
He paused, his tone carrying a hint of approval: “In this spring’s imperial examination, as long as your luck isn’t too bad, passing won’t be difficult.”
As long as your luck isn’t too bad…
Pei Cijing silently repeated those four words to himself, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly. His father-in-law really did leave room for caution when speaking.
Still, earning such an evaluation was already satisfying enough for him.
It seemed his hard work hadn’t been in vain!
He stood up and respectfully bowed: “All thanks to your guidance, Father-in-law. Without your instruction these past days, I fear I wouldn’t even have found the door.”
Shen Zhongcheng waved his hand to signal him to sit, a faint smile curving at the corner of his mouth—subtle, but carrying a note of satisfaction.
Pei Cijing sat back down, hesitated for a moment, then still decided to ask: “Father-in-law, there’s something I’d like to ask.”
“Speak.”
Pei Cijing chose his words carefully: “It’s about the style of writing in the spring exam. There’s been a lot of talk in the city that Prime Minister Du will serve as the chief examiner. Many candidates are studying his collected works and political essays, trying to gauge his preferences in writing style. I wanted to ask for your advice—should I align my writing style with Prime Minister Du’s?”
He watched Shen Zhongcheng as he finished, waiting for his reply.
This question had been lingering in his mind for a long time.
The copy of Collected Works of Prime Minister Du, which his maternal grandfather had gone to great lengths to purchase, was sitting right on his desk. He’d only flipped through a few pages, but he had to admit that Du Hui’s writing was indeed impressive—ornate diction, grand momentum, the kind that made you want to applaud in admiration.
But his own writing style was a different path.
When he wrote, he didn’t like piling up embellishments; he focused more on logic and reasoning, explaining principles in the plainest words and making things clear.
This was probably a habit left over from writing argumentative essays in his past life—no matter how flowery the rhetoric, flawed logic was useless; if the reasoning was sound, simplicity could be more powerful.
But would this style, placed alongside Du Hui’s ornate school, come across as too… plain?
Shen Zhongcheng didn’t answer immediately.
He slowly picked up his teacup, took a sip, set it down again, and raised the corner of his mouth in a faint smile—one that held a mix of understanding and amusement.
“I guessed you’d ask this question.”
A flicker of embarrassment crossed Pei Cijing’s face as he coughed lightly, waiting for his father-in-law to continue.
Instead of answering directly, Shen Zhongcheng asked in return: “Prime Minister Du’s writing style has always been known for its ornateness. Can you write that way, Cijing?”
Pei Cijing’s expression stiffened.
Well…
He really couldn’t manage it.
It wasn’t a matter of ability—it was a matter of approach.
His writing was like his personality: he preferred to say things simply and clearly. If he tried to pile on ornate rhetoric and carve out refined phrases, it wasn’t that he couldn’t do it, but it would come out awkward and disjointed—like forcing someone used to plain speech to suddenly compose in parallel prose. It just wouldn’t fit.
But if he wanted to, there was a way.
He could exchange points in the system shop for a “Master of Literature” skill.
He only had to glance at the price—twenty thousand chigua points.
Twenty thousand!
He’d been saving up for so long, through the palace coup, catching that shocking gossip about the Eighth Prince’s father, plus all sorts of odds and ends from before. His current balance was just over twenty-five thousand points.
Spending twenty thousand just to handle a few essays for the spring exam?
Pei Cijing felt a pang of reluctance.
He wasn’t likely to encounter another bombastic piece of gossip like a palace coup or a prince turning out to be a grand emperor’s grandson! Unless absolutely necessary, spending this “fortune” would be better saved for safer use.
Shen Zhongcheng watched the vivid expression on Pei Cijing’s face—first stiff, then conflicted—and couldn’t help letting out a soft laugh.
He lifted his teacup again, took another sip, and said slowly: “All right, I’ll stop teasing you.”
Then his tone turned serious: “Keep your current writing style as it is. For the classical texts and policy essays, as long as you don’t deviate from the classics or rebel against orthodoxy, as long as your arguments have substance and express your own views, there’s no need to pander to anything in particular.”
Pei Cijing felt a slight relief in his heart, but then a flicker of doubt arose. His father-in-law was direct enough—he understood: just don’t change anything.
But he still felt…
“Father-in-law,” he began hesitantly, his tone carrying a note of uncertainty, “I dare to ask—if I don’t adapt to Prime Minister Du’s style, won’t that leave me at a disadvantage in competition?”
The question was blunt, but it was his true concern.
In the imperial examination system, the personal preferences of the examiner were always an unavoidable factor.
If the chief examiner favored an ornate style, essays written in a straightforward manner would naturally suffer—it wasn’t an issue of skill, but one of “whether it suits the palate.”
If possible, he still wanted to boost his ranking as much as he could.
Shen Zhongcheng gave him a long look.
In that gaze was assessment, consideration, and a trace… of subtle amusement.
On an ordinary day, he might have let his silly son-in-law figure things out himself—after all, for scholars, reasoning things out on their own much more deeply left an impression than having someone tell them.
But now—
He thought of his daughter, Shen Ninghuan.
She was already a sixth-rank titled lady, while this son-in-law remained without any official rank. It truly was unseemly. Not to say that in marriage such titles mattered most, but in the eyes of others, it was somewhat unsightly.
Besides, with the exam approaching, it was better to just lay things out for this young man so he wouldn’t waste time on irrelevant concerns.
Shen Zhongcheng picked up his teacup, took a sip to clear his throat, and spoke slowly.
“Pandering to someone’s writing style or political views—that also depends on the person.” He began, unhurried. “Only examiners with overinflated egos think that what matches their own preferences is the best.”
He paused and continued: “Who is Prime Minister Du? A man who has risen to the position of Right Chancellor—could someone narrow-minded get there? The man is open-minded and never measures others against his own yardstick. Those of us who work under him often disagree with him in private, and as long as the arguments make sense and the ideas are genuinely better than his, he can accept them graciously.”
“If someone only ever follows in his footsteps, imitating his every move, he’ll instead think: this person has no ideas, no ability, and isn’t fit for great responsibility.”
As Pei Cijing listened, his eyes gradually lit up.
He understood.
“So… I just need to be myself?” he asked tentatively.
Shen Zhongcheng looked at him with an expression that said “teachable,” and nodded slightly: “Exactly. Just be yourself!”
He set down his teacup, his tone growing more solemn: “Moreover, even if you changed your style, think about whether your essays would still flow as naturally as they do now. And those copies of Collected Works of Prime Minister Du and Political Essays of Prime Minister Du circulating around town—how do you know Prime Minister Du today sees things the same way he did back when he wrote those books?”
“People change.”
“At twenty, at forty, and at sixty, Du Hui would view problems and handle matters completely differently. If you were to cite his early views—those he himself has since overturned—and he saw them, what do you think Du Hui’s reaction would be?”
Pei Cijing felt a chill run down his spine as he heard this.
It had never occurred to him before.
The Collected Works of Chancellor Du was mostly a compilation of Du Hui’s essays from his early years as an official. Back then, Du Hui’s perspectives and arguments were naturally different from those of the man who had weathered decades in the imperial court. If Pei Cijing were to cite those overturned ideas without discernment, and Du Hui were to see them…
Pei Cijing shuddered.
The very thought.
Unbearable.
The examiner would read your essay and think, “You’re citing a point I don’t even stand by anymore, and you’re using it as evidence? Even if you’re trying to flatter me, you haven’t done your homework.”
Your impression score would drop to zero.
“Thank you for the advice, Father-in-law!” Pei Cijing rose and bowed respectfully, his tone sincere beyond measure. “Without your guidance, I’m afraid I would have stumbled into a trap this time.”
His father-in-law was truly a good man!
Not only had he given birth to such a wonderful wife like Ninghuan and married her to Pei Cijing, but he also offered such wholehearted guidance. If no one had told him this, even spending twenty thousand melon-eating points to unlock the “Literary Master” skill might not have earned him a good ranking.
Because, judging by what his father-in-law had said about Du Hui’s character—
This spring’s imperial examinations would likely seek talents skilled in “practical governance.”
Those ornate essays with no substance might fool some mediocre examiners, but in the eyes of someone as discerning as Du Hui, they wouldn’t warrant a second glance.
Pei Cijing remembered famous literary figures from his past life—how many wrote brilliantly yet failed the exams repeatedly, spending their lives in obscurity.
It wasn’t that they lacked talent.
It was that their essays didn’t “fit the bill.”
The examination hall demanded talents for governing the realm, not poets who sang of wind and moon.
Shen Zhongcheng watched him with this earnest demeanor and nodded approvingly.
“Alright, that’s enough for today.” He waved his hand, his tone lighter than before. “You and Ninghuan should head back early and rest. Prepare well in the coming days, and keep a relaxed mindset—you’re still young; there’s no need to worry too much.”
Young?
Pei Cijing blinked.
That was true. He wasn’t even nineteen yet in this life, with several months to go. Among the candidates in the Great Qian Dynasty, he was indeed considered very young.
But he couldn’t bear to wait another three years!
If he had to do this again, his bones might not hold out. The hardship of preparing for the exams, combined with the grueling tests themselves—he felt he couldn’t endure it a second time.
Thinking of those days of the spring exams, rising before dawn, huddling in the examination cubicles, cold and hungry and nervous, scratching his head as he struggled to write…
Pei Cijing took a deep breath, and his gaze firmed.
“Rest assured, Father-in-law,” he said, his voice low but every word clear. “Your son-in-law will give it his all, and live up to your expectations!”
His tone carried a resolve of “succeed or die trying.”
Shen Zhongcheng looked at him, his eyes flickering.
This young man.
His eyes held a spark!
Not the reckless confidence of a naive youth, but a heavy, determined commitment—a target he had identified and decided to pursue with all his might.
Shen Zhongcheng marveled inwardly.
Could marriage have such power?
He remembered that before the bride-swapping, while he hadn’t dealt much with Pei Cijing, he knew the boy’s reputation—the only son of the second branch of the Weiyuan Marquis household, raised in luxury, lazy in studies and indifferent in effort, like mud that couldn’t be plastered onto a wall.
When he reluctantly agreed to the swap, he still worried—could his daughter have a good life with such a lackadaisical husband?
But now, looking at him—
He was diligent in his studies, his eyes sparkled with purpose, he had a method to his actions—he seemed reborn.
This change was like night and day.
Shen Zhongcheng’s gaze drifted slightly, landing on a faint silhouette outside the study door.
It was his daughter, Shen Ninghuan.
She had finished her tea at some point and stood quietly under the eaves, not entering, just gazing through the door at the scene inside. The dim lamplight outlined her figure softly and warmly, and her clear eyes reflected the back of the young man within.
Shen Zhongcheng withdrew his gaze, a slight curve on his lips.
This girl!
Truly something.
A worthy daughter of Shen Zhongcheng!
“Go on,” he waved dismissively, his tone unusually kind. “Ninghuan is still waiting for you outside. Head back early and rest. There’s more studying tomorrow.”
Pei Cijing acknowledged with a bow, then turned and walked out.
At the door, he saw Shen Ninghuan standing under the eaves, the dim light spilling over her, dyeing her lotus-root-colored jacket into a warm orange.
Pei Cijing reached out and took her hand. It was slender and slightly cool but felt solidly reassuring in his palm.
They walked side by side, heading away. Behind them, the lamp in the study remained lit. Shen Zhongcheng sat at his desk, holding a cup of cold tea, which he didn’t drink, only watching the two receding figures through the doorway, his gaze distant yet gentle.
Lanterns under the eaves stretched their shadows long, overlapping to form a silhouett—quiet and beautiful.
Shen Zhongcheng withdrew his gaze, looked down at the stack of densely annotated essays on his desk, paused a moment, then picked up his brush and added a line at the end of the last essay:
“Press on.”
Just two words.
The strokes were steady, the ink piercing the paper.
Then he set down the brush, leaned back in his chair, and let out a long breath. This spring’s imperial examinations were bound to be lively…
