Examination Hall, Scroll Grading Chamber
The hall was ablaze with candlelight, illuminating the entire space as if it were daytime.
Dozens of long desks were neatly arranged, with an examiner seated behind each one. Some were buried in their grading, their brush tips skimming across the pages like darting fish; others pondered with their brushes suspended in midair, their brows furrowed into shallow creases; a few whispered brief exchanges before quickly returning to the scrolls in front of them.
The air was thick with the scent of ink, mingled with the aroma of tea, the faint smoke of candles, and a subtle undercurrent of tension.
Seated in this hall were learned scholars drawn from various departments—compilers from the Hanlin Academy, directors from the Six Ministries, professors and instructors from the Imperial Academy. Every one of them was a proper jin-shi degree holder; every one of them had a mind brimming with classical knowledge.
At that moment, they were all engaged in the same task: grading the examination papers.
From the day the metropolitan examinations ended, they had taken up residence in this hall. Their meals, their daily needs, all were confined to this cramped space. Their sole occupation, day in and day out, was grading papers. Even sleep was snatched in brief spells, lying fully clothed on the low couches in the side halls.
Du Hui sat in the central seat of authority. He wore a simple navy-blue gown, his hair fastened with an ebony hairpin. On his person, there was not a single superfluous ornament.
At first glance,
he resembled an ordinary schoolteacher, rather than the Right Chancellor who commanded the tides of the imperial court.
On the long desk before him stood a cup of tea.
The brew had long gone cold.
Yet he did not seem to mind. Occasionally, he would lift the cup, take a sip, and set it down again.
His gaze drifted across the examiners buried in their grading, then shifted from the Sixth Prince on the left side of the hall to the Eighth Prince on the right, before finally settling on some distant point in the void.
He remained utterly composed,
as though he were watching a play.
This spring’s civil examinations had gone far more smoothly than he had anticipated.
Before the exams began,
he had actually prepared for the worst.
He had imagined the two princes, serving jointly as deputy examiners, locked in open and covert strife—one undermining the other, each trying to dig away at the other’s foundations, creating a chaotic, frantic mess that he would ultimately have to clean up.
He had even planned, in his mind, how he would speak and act if the two were to openly clash before everyone. He needed a way to protect the dignity of the imperial family while not compromising the grand objective of selecting talented men.
But as the days passed, peace had prevailed to a degree far beyond his expectations.
The two princes had also managed the examination affairs without any blunders. Every link—from patrolling the examination halls and assigning officials, to distributing the papers and registering the numbers—had been handled properly, everything orderly and systematic.
Li Chengyu was steady and composed, thorough in everything he did. What was his responsibility, he managed tightly; what was not, he never overstepped by so much as a step. Even when Du Hui had men secretly observe him, the feedback came back as "His Highness the Sixth Prince is calm and prudent, without the slightest violation of protocol."
Li Chengyan, on the other hand, seemed equally commendable.
He brimmed with energy, attending to every detail himself, even inquiring about the cleaning of the examination hall’s latrines. Though it was a bit excessive, his earnestness was hard to find fault with.
Those below him felt that the Eighth Prince was overly fastidious, yet none dared to voice a complaint—after all, he was a prince. It was rare enough that a person of his station would bother with such trivial matters.
Now, the desks of the Sixth Prince and the Eighth Prince were positioned one to the east and one to the west of the grading chamber.
They were not far apart,
yet it seemed as if an invisible river separated them.
Each led a group of examiners, each grading the scrolls in their own hands. Occasionally, they would lift their heads, their gazes meeting in the air for an instant before shifting away again, their faces betraying no sign of emotion.
Du Hui nodded inwardly, deep in thought.
For now, neither of these two men made any foolish moves.
They must have both understood in their hearts that this spring imperial examination was not just a test for the candidates—it was also a test for them. The old emperor had placed them in the positions of deputy chief examiners not for them to fight or scramble, but to display their scholarship, their bearing, and their understanding of the art of rulership.
If they stirred up too much trouble, if it came to the surface, if it became the talk of the town, they would be ruining their own futures.
Those above were watching.
The entire court was watching as well.
Whoever went too far would lose points in the old emperor’s eyes. Whoever lost points would take a step farther away from that coveted position.
The Sixth Prince understood this truth, and so did the Eighth Prince.
Thus, both restrained themselves. Both maintained their composure. Both put their best selves on display. As for the small maneuvers here and there—those still happened between them, after all, they were competing.
This was only human nature.
Du Hui could also understand that. As long as it didn’t affect the overall situation or undermine the fairness of talent selection, he turned a blind eye, pretending not to notice.
It was not just that he didn’t want to get involved; there was no need to intervene.
The intention from above had always been for the two princes to gain more experience and show themselves more. The more they showed, the clearer everyone’s view of them became. The clearer the view, the more certain the decision would be later about whom to choose, whom to establish.
He only needed to sit firmly in his position, hold the reins, and ensure that this spring examination did not descend into major chaos—that would be fulfilling his duty.
...
On the east side of the main hall, Li Chengyu sat behind a desk piled with mountains of examination papers.
He wore a moon-white casual robe today, his sleeves casually rolled up, revealing a lean wrist. His posture was straight, his back upright as an arrow, his eyes fixed on the paper before him, reading each word carefully.
This particular paper had just been recommended by a lower-ranking co-examiner, already bearing comments from three colleagues: one wrote “fluent prose, clear logic”; another wrote “well-grounded in classics, substantive arguments”; and the third simply said “passable.”
All three co-examiners had nodded their approval, indicating that the quality of this paper was not lacking.
But Li Chengyu did not rush to a conclusion.
He read the paper through from beginning to end, then flipped back and reread the policy essay section before picking up his brush to write his own evaluation at the end.
His handwriting was neat and precise—every stroke, every character diligent and upright.
Finishing one paper, he set down his brush and picked up the next.
His pace was not fast, but it was extremely steady. He reviewed each one with care, criticized each one meticulously, without cutting corners or going through the motions.
He was fully aware that this examination was not only testing the candidates.
It was also a test for himself.
It tested not just his organizational and administrative skills, but also his knowledge, his insight, his grasp of governance, and his ability to recognize and evaluate talent.
After all, if a chief examiner lacked sufficient learning himself, how could he judge the quality of a candidate’s essay? If he was unversed in state affairs, how could he determine the feasibility of a candidate’s policy proposal? If he had no eye for talent, how could he pick out truly capable people from among thousands of candidates?
He and the Eighth Prince might seem to hold life-and-death power over the examinees, deciding their rankings and results. But in reality, every evaluation they wrote, every opinion they gave, would be reviewed by Prime Minister Du and recorded in the official files.
Once the examination concluded, their performance in grading would be judged before their father.
Who graded accurately, who made the right recommendations, whose eye was sharper, whose insight was deeper—all of these would become benchmarks by which the emperor measured them.
Li Chengyu finished grading the exam paper in hand, set down his brush, and gently massaged his wrist.
He glanced at the towering stack of papers beside him and silently sighed to himself.
This imperial examination had drawn over ten thousand candidates, with the papers split roughly in half—he led half the examiners in grading, while the Eighth Prince took the other half.
He didn’t need to read every single paper in detail. His main task was to review the recommended papers submitted by subordinate examiners after cross-grading, which they deemed excellent, and to occasionally spot-check those initially marked as “rejected,” to ensure no hidden gems were overlooked.
Even so, the number of papers he had to review remained substantial.
The subordinate examiners feared missing outstanding candidates, so the recommended papers submitted to him far exceeded the final quota. Every single one of these papers required his personal review, his personal verdict—whether to “accept” or “reject.”
Over these days, he would have to grade at least several hundred recommended papers.
Beyond that, he also had to cross-examine the recommended papers submitted by the Eighth Prince.
Because ultimately, every accepted paper required both his and the Eighth Prince’s joint sign-off. If he only reviewed his own pile and knew nothing about the candidates the Eighth Prince had accepted, should disagreements arise between them, he wouldn’t even have the foundation to argue his case.
So he had to grade not only his own papers but also those from the Eighth Prince’s side.
He needed to assess the quality of those papers, determine whether the Eighth Prince’s grading was fair, and understand the criteria for acceptance. With that knowledge in hand, if anything seemed inappropriate, he would have solid grounds to raise objections.
Li Chengyu sighed again at the thought.
Grading papers was one thing, but he also had to keep a rough ranking in mind. Once all papers were graded, he and the Eighth Prince would inevitably clash over those with differing opinions—where one thought a paper should be accepted and the other rejected; where one believed it deserved top marks and the other deemed it only fit for the lowest tier.
Then would come another round of heated verbal sparring.
A headache. A real headache.
Li Chengyu lowered his head, picked up another recommended paper, set aside his distracting thoughts for now, and silently got back to work…
…
On the right side of the grand hall, Li Chengyan was also buried in grading papers.
He wore an indigo brocade robe, a jade belt around his waist, and his hair was styled in an immaculate topknot. His entire demeanor was more formal than usual, less casual.
A similar mountain of paper folders sat before him.
His grading speed was a bit faster than Li Chengyu’s. He would read a paper from start to finish, jot down a few lines of comment, set down the brush, and move on to the next—his movements fluid, efficient, and decisive.
Occasionally, when he came across an especially brilliant piece, he’d linger a moment longer, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly in approval. When he encountered a poorly written one, he’d frown and toss the paper aside, his motions tinged with impatience.
After grading for a while, he set down his brush, raised his head, and subtly cast a glance toward the left side of the hall.
Li Chengyu was bent over his work, engrossed in the paper before him, his brush tip moving slowly across the page, as though weighing something carefully.
Li Chengyan’s gaze rested on him for a moment, a flicker of complex emotion in his eyes, before quickly withdrawing it.
This imperial examination was an opportunity given to him by the Emperor.
He had understood that clearly from the very start.
In the earlier stage of managing the exams—preparing the venue, arranging personnel, conducting security checks—neither he nor the Sixth Prince had made any mistakes. Everything had been carried out methodically, leaving no room for criticism.
But merely relying on that wouldn’t be enough to create a gap between them.
To prove himself superior to Old Six, he could only rely on the grading results.
Who graded more accurately, whose recommended candidates were admitted in greater numbers and ranked higher, who had keener judgment—these were all tangible achievements. They couldn’t be faked or glossed over.
As for how to do this well—
Li Chengyan’s gaze shifted slightly, landing on the figure bent over a desk in the center of the hall, marking examination papers.
The Right Chancellor, Du Hui.
The true master of this spring imperial examination.
Du Hui had weathered decades of court life, served through three reigns, and his protégés and former students were scattered across the realm. What sort of man was he? What style of essay did he favor? What kind of talent did he value most?
If Li Chengyan could figure these questions out, he would have a clear path when grading.
But the balance, the nuance, needed careful deliberation.
Li Chengyan cast his eyes down, a slight curve forming at the corners of his mouth. That arc carried with it a hint of determined ambition.
He picked up his brush, opened the next paper, and resumed marking…
…
As the grading work pressed on, examination papers that had compiled the opinions of several co-graders and the two princes were steadily delivered to Du Hui’s desk.
Du Hui had the cold tea on his table cleared away, ordering an attendant to bring a fresh cup of hot tea, and then he began to work in earnest.
He read carefully.
This was not only about the fate of the participating candidates; it also concerned the future reserve of talent for the court.
The future of the Great Qian Dynasty—
It would be carried by these young people.
The current high-ranking officials would eventually grow old. Perhaps those who would one day replace them came from this very group. If the wrong people were chosen—mediocrities allowed into the court, incompetents taking up posts—it would not be a matter of harming just one or two individuals. It would mean bringing disaster upon the state and its people.
Thus, Du Hui dared not be careless.
Every recommended paper that reached his desk, he read from beginning to end, sometimes turning back to reread a certain passage. He was not looking for faults but weighing something—weighing which office would best suit the person behind this paper in the future.
Still, he read quite fast.
A single paper—from the opening argument to the conclusion, from classical exegesis to policy analysis—took him no more than the time it takes to finish a cup of tea.
Sometimes even faster. Half a cup, and he could distinguish the excellent from the inferior.
This was not out of haste.
Rather, given his experience and insight, these candidates were ultimately still too green.
No matter how flowery their essays, Du Hui could see through to their foundations at a glance—how many books they had read, how much knowledge they truly possessed, whether their thinking was clear, whether their knowledge was broad enough, whether they had solid ability.
These things—
Could not be hidden.
Nor feigned.
It was like meeting a man face to face; after hearing him speak a few words, you could gauge his caliber. Read a few lines of his essay, and you could roughly estimate the level of his skill.
Du Hui finished marking one paper, set it aside to his right, and picked up the next.
His comments were very succinct.
Sometimes only one word—“Acceptable” or “Rejected”; sometimes a few more words: “Decent prose, but shallow insight,” “Policy essay hits current ills, worth preserving,” “Flowery language but no substance, rejected.”
Concise!
Precise!
Straight to the point.
Papers he had marked “Rejected” rarely had any chance of being brought up again. They were consigned to dust from then on. Together with their owners’ dreams of official honor, they would be buried somewhere in a corner of this examination compound. Perhaps they would see the light of day again in three years, perhaps never.
Those he had marked as “passable” would advance to the next round — the ranking.
The imperial examinations were not a simple matter of “pass” or “fail.”
Among the accepted papers, distinctions had to be made, order had to be established. Who would come first, who would come last — all of this had to be decided within this grand hall.
Though both the first and last place were called “tribute scholars,” their future prospects would be as different as heaven and earth.
This was the hardest part.
Du Hui rubbed his brow and picked up the next paper.
Of course, he also had to keep an eye on how the two princes evaluated the papers. There might well be questions regarding their judgments later, so he needed to be fully prepared — ready to answer whatever the emperor might ask, smoothly and without hesitation.
But as he turned page after page, Du Hui’s gaze gradually turned profound…
