The imperial examination in the Great Qian Dynasty was divided into three rounds.
Each round lasted three days and two nights, making a total of nine full days to complete the entire exam.
The first round tested the “Four Books” with three questions and the “Five Classics” with four questions, focusing on the candidates’ understanding and interpretation of Confucian thought—it was a test of the scholar’s inner knowledge.
The second round consisted of one essay, five judgment statements, and a selection of imperial edicts and memorials, emphasizing official document writing and political argumentation skills. This round measured the foundation needed for future government officials.
The third round was the real highlight: five policy questions requiring candidates to analyze current affairs in light of history and classics, then propose practical strategies.
Between each round, after the exam papers were collected, candidates were allowed to leave their examination cubicles and stretch their legs within the confines of the examination compound—but stepping beyond the gates was strictly forbidden.
They had to wait until all three rounds were completed before they could leave.
This rule was established by the founding emperor himself.
Legend has it that in the early days of the imperial exams, candidates were permitted to go home and rest on the third night after each round. But one candidate, having performed terribly in the first two rounds and feeling hopeless, smuggled a pocketful of cheat sheets back into the exam hall for the final round, hoping to turn his luck around.
He was caught during the entry inspection.
Following the trail, the authorities uncovered a whole cheating network.
The founding emperor was furious. The rest period between rounds was meant as a courtesy to the scholars, but some shamelessly abused this trust. So, he decreed that the exam would be continuous for nine days straight, without leaving the compound.
Many tried to reason with him, but his temper was unyielding—only Empress Ma could sway him.
He slammed his imperial tablet and issued the order on the spot, abolishing the rest breaks and mandating continuous testing. His exact words were: “The Great Qian does not need scholars who cannot endure hardship. If you can’t handle this little trial, go home and farm. Don’t dream of passing the exams and becoming officials!”
As for that cheating candidate, his fate was inevitable.
The founding emperor tolerated no corruption. That man’s qualifications were revoked, his career ended, and the entire network of accomplices faced punishment—exile, dismissal from office—no one escaped.
Pei Cijing sat in his cubicle, recalling this story, and couldn’t help but sneer inwardly.
That guy was a criminal for all time!
If it weren’t for him, why would Pei be stuck in this cramped little box for nine days? Why would he have no warm meals? Why wouldn’t he see his beloved even once during all those days?
How infuriating!
He wondered where that scoundrel’s soul had been reborn. If they ever met, Pei vowed to land a solid punch or two to vent his frustration!
But alas, the dead cannot be brought back to life, and broken mirrors are hard to mend.
The founding emperor’s decree was like water poured out—it couldn’t be taken back. Once the rule was set, it was final. For the officials of the Ministry of Rites, it was even better—not having to deal with candidates leaving and returning mid-exam saved a lot of trouble.
It was just a matter of putting the candidates through some hardship!
As the saying goes: “When Heaven is about to assign a great task to a man, it first tests his will, exhausts his muscles and bones, starves his body, exposes him to hardship, confounds his actions, so as to stimulate his heart, toughen his nature, and improve his abilities.”
Want to be an official?
What’s a little hardship compared to that?
And later on, since most officials had endured this trial themselves, no one complained anymore. After all, they’d all weathered the storm, so the next generation should share the same experience.
Pei Cijing sighed deeply.
Swallowing the frustration deep down.
There was no use dwelling on trivial matters now; all that could be done was to endure.
He lowered his head to the brush and ink laid out on the low table. Outside the exam hall, the sky was gradually brightening, the horizon tinged with the pale light of dawn. Morning rays filtered through the gaps in the eaves,
falling onto the tabletop,
casting shadows over several deep and shallow scratches.
No one knew which generation of examinees had left them behind; the handwriting had long since blurred, only the faint outline of the character “愁” (sorrow) discernible.
Nine days!
Nine days!
Pei Cijing withdrew his gaze and focused on the exam paper before him. The sheet had been smoothed out, the ink ground fresh, and the brush rested on its stand, its tip soaked and heavy with ink, ready to flow.
He took a deep breath, his mind consumed by a single thought—this time, he would give it his all!
He refused to suffer this hardship a second time.
As this thought surged,
another flashed through his mind—if he could pass on the first try, perhaps he could ask his wife for a reward. Surely she wouldn’t refuse?
Thinking of Shen Ninghuan’s gentle and warm face, the way her eyes curved when she smiled, the soft tone in her voice when she said, “My husband, you’ve worked hard,” and the image of her delicate, fair hands offering him a cup of hot tea...
Pei Cijing felt a wave of warmth rise from his heart, instantly filling him with boundless energy.
Nine days—just endure it, and the bright path ahead would be his!
The drum signaling the start of the exam echoed from Mingyuan Tower, heavy and distant, reverberating over the examination grounds, each beat striking the heart like a solemn call.
The first section contained three questions on the Four Books and four on the Five Classics—standard fare, nothing unusual.
Pei Cijing skimmed through the questions and felt confident. The difficulty wasn’t high, which was good; it wouldn’t throw anyone off in the very first round.
Once he settled into the rhythm, the rest of the exam would flow more smoothly.
He picked up his brush.
On the scratch paper, he began outlining the answer to the first question.
The moment the brush touched the paper, all the books he had read over the past months, the classics he had memorized, the essays he had written—all awakened vividly in his mind.
The essays he had revised tirelessly with the help of his father-in-law, the learned Shen Zhongcheng, the classical references he and Shen Ninghuan had casually discussed face to face—all converged at the tip of his brush.
He didn’t write fast,
but he wrote steadily.
Stroke by stroke, neat and precise, without hesitation or correction.
The sun moved from east to west, the light shifting from one corner of the window frame to another. Outside the exam hall, the light dimmed and brightened again, repeatedly.
Drums!
Gongs!
The call of the exam horn!
One after another, they sounded, marking the passage of time.
When the first session ended, Pei Cijing stepped out of the exam hall to stretch.
He slowly walked a lap along the corridor in front of the hall, looking up at the sky, then rubbing his wrists. Around him, examinees gathered in small groups—some whispered softly, others closed their eyes to rest, while a few wore pale, defeated expressions, clearly disappointed with their performance.
The second session began immediately afterward.
This time, the questions focused on official documents—memorials, judgments, and imperial edicts.
These all followed strict formats and templates. Pei Cijing had practiced them extensively, and he had the advantage of studying exemplary works by his father-in-law, the expert Shen Zhongcheng.
Shen Zhongcheng had served as an official for many years. His official documents were masterfully crafted—precise in wording, clear in structure—each one a ready-made model. Pei Cijing read these writings over and over again, until eventually, he could recite their patterns and frameworks with his eyes closed.
For him, this exam—
Was not particularly difficult.
The third round was the policy essay, consisting of five questions, each addressing current affairs of the empire.
The test wasn’t about rote memorization, but about the depth of understanding in a scholar’s heart—could they clearly identify societal problems, dare to speak frankly to the point, and propose practical solutions?
Over the years, countless candidates who performed well in the first two rounds were still eliminated here if their answers were empty and full of platitudes.
Following his father-in-law’s advice,
It was enough to speak with substance and hit the nail on the head; there was no need to pander to anyone.
Pei Cijing glanced over the questions from beginning to end, his mind already mapping out the answers. He dipped his brush in ink and began writing on scrap paper.
For each essay, he first laid out the problems—what the issues were, where the core troubles lay—breaking them down point by point with clarity; then he analyzed the root causes, digging beneath the surface to uncover the true source of the problems; finally, he proposed countermeasures—matching each problem with a corresponding solution.
Each part connected seamlessly, step by step, with clear logic.
He felt confident about these essays.
After all, he was standing on the shoulders of giants. His past life’s experiences gave him a perspective like looking at the present from hundreds of years in the future. Some of today’s difficulties already had effective solutions awaiting him.
Even Shen Zhongcheng couldn’t help but look at him with newfound respect at times.
Now, as he wrote,
It truly felt as if the brush moved with divine inspiration!
But just as he was writing the third essay, a stifled sobbing suddenly came from the neighboring examination cubicle.
Pei Cijing’s brush paused. He listened carefully—the sound came and went, as if someone was desperately trying to hold back tears but couldn’t. This person was most likely breaking down under the pressure!
He could only say, “Brother, let’s continue next time!”
During these nine days, some rejoiced while others despaired; some were calm and confident, others already resigned to their fates. Within the confined space of the examination hall, there was room for profound knowledge as well as countless heartbreaks.
When the last exam paper was finally submitted, Pei Cijing sat quietly in his cubicle for a long moment.
The room was silent except for the wind sneaking through cracks in the walls, sighing softly like a distant flute, carrying the emotions of hundreds of years of candidates.
The ink in the inkstone had dried, forming a black clump cracked with fine lines.
His brush rested on the rack, its tip slightly frayed and still stained with dried ink, silently bearing witness to the toil of these nine days.
It was finally over!
After packing up, Pei Cijing stood and stretched his stiff neck.
His bones cracked and popped—from his cervical spine down to his shoulder blades—like rusty machinery coming back to life. His back ached fiercely, his legs tingled, and his wrists were smudged with ink, sleeves stained in patches.
He lifted his exam box and stepped out of the cubicle.
Sunlight fell upon him—
Warm and gentle,
Chasing away the chill that had built up over these nine long days.
Pei Cijing squinted, standing still for a moment. He took a deep breath before continuing to walk out.
This wretched place!
He never wanted to come back here again.
He walked along the corridor, his steps unsteady at first but growing quicker with each stride.
The bluestone slabs beneath his feet were worn smooth and shiny from the countless footsteps of examinees. On either side, the examination rooms were neatly lined up like a silent beehive, each housing a scholar’s nine years of hard study, a mind full of knowledge, and a heart brimming with anxious anticipation.
Passing through one gate after another, and crossing one hall after another.
The gate of the Imperial Examination Hall.
Just ahead.
Outside the gate, a sea of people pressed together.
Family members, servants, and coachmen jostled in a dense crowd, craning their necks to catch a glimpse inside, searching for their own among the weary faces.
Someone called out names, others waved their hands, some carried food boxes weaving through the crowd, while a few elderly servants stood quietly in the corner, wiping away tears in secret.
The moment Pei Cijing stepped out of the gate.
The sunlight was just right.
He squinted, scanning the crowd, and then—
He saw Shen Ninghuan.
She stood not far away under an ancient locust tree, dressed in a soft lotus-colored robe. Her hair was neatly pinned up, adorned with the white jade hairpin he loved most.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting a dappled golden glow over her. The breeze stirred the light and shadow, as if draping her in a flowing brocade.
She was standing on tiptoe, gazing toward the entrance of the examination hall.
Her usually calm, serene eyes held a rare hint of urgency. One hand rested against the tree trunk, the other clenched a handkerchief, her fingertips tightening slightly as if she were holding back something.
Her face bore traces of fatigue; it was obvious she hadn’t slept well these past few days.
A warmth blossomed in Pei Cijing’s chest.
He quickened his pace, his steps growing faster and faster until he was nearly running to her side.
When Shen Ninghuan saw him, her eyes curved into a gentle smile. That smile was warmer than the spring sunshine in March, like the first breeze after the thaw, softening the very core of his heart.
Pei Cijing stood before her, opening his mouth to speak, but his throat tightened. He took a deep breath, swallowing the jumble of emotions, and forced a smile.
“My wife,” he said, his voice hoarse but filled with unmistakable joy.
Shen Ninghuan looked up at him and reached out, adjusting the crooked collar of his robe.
Her fingertips were cool and gentle, like a feather landing on water, sending out delicate ripples. Her fingers lingered for a moment at his collar, then swept down to brush away a dry leaf that had somehow settled on his shoulder.
“Let’s go home.”
Her voice was soft, yet it was the most beautiful sound in the world.
Pei Cijing nodded firmly.
Side by side, they walked toward the carriage.
Shen Ninghuan walked beside him, her steps neither fast nor slow, perfectly matching his slightly unsteady pace. Her hand occasionally brushed against the back of his, warm and faintly scented with a subtle fragrance.
Pei Cijing hesitated for a moment.
Then quietly reached out.
And took hold of her fingertips.
Shen Ninghuan didn’t pull away; she just gently turned her head to glance at him, a tender smile blossoming in her eyes.
Behind them, the gray walls and black tiles of the imperial examination hall stood quietly under the sunlight, like a silent giant crouched at the southeastern edge of Shengjing, waiting patiently for the next group of scholars to endure the grueling nine-day ordeal.
The carriage curtain was lifted, revealing a soft cushion inside. On the low table rested a warm bowl of congee, accompanied by a few light side dishes. In the corner sat a small hand warmer, its charcoal embers long extinguished but still radiating a faint, lingering warmth.
The moment Pei Cijing settled inside, it was as if all his strength had been drained away; he sank softly against the carriage wall. Shen Ninghuan sat beside him, tucking the blanket over his knees and handing him the warm bowl of congee.
“Drink some congee first to warm your stomach. We’ll rest properly once we get back.”
Pei Cijing took the bowl, lowering his head to sip.
The rice had been cooked until tender, melting effortlessly on the tongue.
A subtle sweetness lingered.
The warm congee slid smoothly down his throat to his stomach, spreading comforting heat from his core to every limb, dispelling the chill of the past nine days. He drank slowly, savoring each mouthful until the bowl was empty, then noticed a few soft red dates nestled within—cooked to a delicate sweetness.
The carriage began to move slowly forward. The wheels rumbled over the cobblestone streets with a gentle clatter.
The bustling sounds of the marketplace drew near.
Then gradually faded away.
Leaning against the carriage wall, Pei Cijing looked across at Shen Ninghuan.
She was busy clearing the dishes from the low table, her profile illuminated by the slivers of light filtering through the carriage curtain, her features soft and serene—as if painted onto a canvas.
In that moment, he suddenly felt that all the hardships of those nine days had been worth it…
