In the imperial study, the fragrant smoke of dragon incense curled gently upward.
The old emperor leaned back in his dragon throne, his eyes half-closed as he listened to Shen Zhongcheng recite the examination paper word by word. His fingers rested lightly on the armrest, tapping softly in a steady rhythm—not too fast, not too slow—like keeping time, or perhaps lost in thought.
Shen Zhongcheng’s reading was steady.
His voice neither too loud nor too soft, his pace neither hurried nor sluggish.
He read Pei Cijing’s essay in its entirety, not missing a single word—from the opening line “When things reach their limits, change follows; through change comes connectivity; through connectivity comes longevity,” to the central argument that “Heaven and earth, all things, are ever-changing,” and the evidence “Using history as a mirror, one can understand the rise and fall,” concluding with the final statement: “Change is the universal law of the world.”
Each layer built upon the last, every point tightly linked.
The old emperor listened intently.
The tapping of his fingers gradually ceased.
He opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on some invisible point in the air. Within those cloudy yet dignified eyes, a deeper contemplation stirred.
Reform.
He grasped the core idea of the essay.
Not mere patchwork fixes, not quick remedies for superficial problems, but a sweeping call to transform every obstacle within the Great Qian.
Such a concept.
Bold indeed!
The old emperor narrowed his eyes slightly.
After nearly forty years on the throne, what kind of writings had he not seen? Those that sang praises, those filled with clichés, those adorned with flowery but hollow words, those rousing but impractical.
He had seen them all.
But essays that boldly placed the word “reform” front and center, arguing with reason and citing the classics—those were truly rare.
“When things reach their limits, change follows; through change comes connectivity; through connectivity comes longevity...”
The old emperor murmured the phrase again, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips—subtle, yet filled with appreciation.
The more he savored this essay, the more flavorful it became.
Not the superficial kind of “reform,” not empty slogans shouted into the wind, but well-founded and well-reasoned, grounded in history and precedent—from the ancient practice of knot-tying records, through the feudal lords of the middle ages, to the prefecture-and-county system of the previous dynasty—each example perfectly chosen, each argument tightly woven.
Reform was not rebellion against tradition, but adapting with the times.
The era had changed.
So must the system.
This truth held true in any age.
The old emperor closed his eyes again, mentally reviewing the essay from start to finish.
He had to admit, this essay made sense.
The Great Qian had stood for over a hundred years. The systems and policies established at its founding were no longer fully suitable—not because the ancestral laws were flawed, but because times had changed, and people had changed.
Like a garment tailored perfectly for the founder.
But passed down through generations.
Worn by the great-grandson, it might no longer fit.
Not because the garment was bad, but because the wearer’s shape had changed. To keep the garment fitting, it needed to be altered and tailored—in state affairs, this meant adapting to the place and the time.
This was a principle the old emperor recognized in his heart.
Only—
Easier said than done.
Reform was never so easy to carry out.
Pull one hair and the whole body moves; when one part shifts, others follow suit. Change this clause, and that one suddenly feels out of place. Interests are tangled like roots, relationships woven in countless threads. To truly make a move to reform, one wouldn't know how many vested interests would be disturbed, how many people would be offended.
Moreover—
Reform requires the right timing, favorable geography, and harmony among people. Only when the sovereign and ministers are united, and the upper and lower echelons act as one, can progress be made. If the sovereign and ministers harbor different intentions, and suspicion runs rampant above and below, let alone reform, even maintaining the status quo becomes difficult.
The old emperor sighed softly.
The ideas in this essay are feasible and indeed beneficial to Great Qian, but they need the right moment. Now, he is old and lacking energy. What matters most is no longer reform or strengthening the state, but a smooth transition—passing this realm and its affairs intact to the next generation.
As for reform—
The old emperor’s eyes flickered slightly.
That is a matter for the next generation.
This examinee, however, shows considerable insight and courage. To dare write such an essay in the palace examination, to be so spirited and full of ideas—Great Qian would do well to have such talent.
He lifted his teacup and took a sip. The tea had grown lukewarm, but he was completely oblivious.
“This person certainly has some vision.”
The old emperor spoke evenly, revealing no emotion. He set down the cup and his gaze settled on the scroll in Shen Zhongcheng’s hands.
“Minister Shen, reveal the concealed name. Let me see which talented scholar this is.”
Minister Shen responded with a nod, placing the scroll on the imperial desk and reaching out to peel away the red seal covering the name.
His movements were steady.
His fingers did not tremble, his breathing remained calm, yet only he knew his heart beat faster than usual. The red seal was tightly stuck; he used his fingernail to gently lift a corner, then slowly tore it open.
The action was neither hurried nor sluggish, as if performing the most ordinary of tasks.
But just as he was halfway through—
The old emperor’s gaze landed on his face.
More precisely, it fell on the faintly upturned corners of his mouth, where he was suppressing a smile. The old emperor’s eyes narrowed slightly. Having scraped and clawed his way through the court for decades, what kind of people had he not seen? What sorts of schemes had he not guessed?
Though Minister Shen’s expression was restrained, the old emperor saw through him.
Those slightly shining eyes, the lips pressed a little tight, the fingers hanging by his side, subtly clenched—all spoke volumes to the old emperor. This Minister Shen, calm as a mountain collapsing before him, was inwardly savoring the moment.
Suddenly, the old emperor smiled.
That smile carried a hint of mischief, a touch of knowing, and a dash of “I’ve seen through you” pride.
“Minister Shen,” he said, his tone teasing, “Could this be your son-in-law’s essay?”
Minister Shen said nothing.
He neither denied nor confirmed, merely continued his task, slowly peeling away the red seal.
Silence.
Sometimes, silence is the best answer.
The old emperor did not urge him on, simply leaning back in the dragon throne, watching with a pleased smile.
At last, the red seal was fully removed, revealing the name beneath—Pei Cijing. Three characters, neat and clear in ink.
Shen Zhongcheng stared at the name, took a deep breath, and suppressed the faint joy stirring in his heart. Holding the exam paper with both hands, he respectfully presented it before the old emperor.
“Your Majesty,” he began, his voice steady but tinged with an unmistakable lightness, “just now, I only felt the handwriting was familiar. Now that the name is revealed, I can confirm it. This is indeed the exam paper of my son-in-law, Pei Cijing.”
The old emperor took the paper.
He lowered his head and read the name.
“Pei Cijing.” He pronounced the name with a hint of amusement in his voice. Then, he looked up at Shen Zhongcheng, his gaze carrying a newfound approval. “Minister Shen, you have a fine son-in-law.”
Those words carried considerable weight.
Shen Zhongcheng’s heart skipped a beat, but his expression remained composed. He bowed slightly and replied humbly, “Your Majesty is too kind. The young man is somewhat reckless, and his writing is a bit bold. I fear it may have caused Your Majesty some amusement.”
The old emperor waved his hand dismissively.
He was unconcerned.
“Bold?” he scoffed. “I think this essay is excellent. It’s reasoned, substantial, and meaningful—far superior to those clichés about ‘benevolent governance’ and ‘harmonious ruler-subject relations’ that everyone parrots.”
He paused.
There was genuine appreciation in his eyes.
“To dare to think, to dare to write, and to dare to show it to me—that kind of courage is rare.”
Listening to this, Shen Zhongcheng felt a mixture of joy and surprise.
Joy because his son-in-law’s essay had indeed caught the emperor’s eye; surprise because the emperor’s praise exceeded his expectations.
Just as he was about to respond, the old emperor suddenly changed the subject.
“How old is this young man this year?”
Shen Zhongcheng was momentarily taken aback but quickly replied, “Your Majesty, he is nineteen this year.”
“Nineteen.” The old emperor repeated the number thoughtfully, nodding slightly, his gaze growing distant. “Young—full of vigor and bold ideas. Ambitious and thoughtful. That’s good!”
He stroked his beard, as if speaking to himself, yet also addressing Minister Shen: “Young people should be young. If a nineteen-year-old acts like an old hand, cautious and hesitant, what’s the point?”
Shen Zhongcheng said nothing.
He stood quietly, waiting for the emperor’s next words.
After a brief silence, the old emperor asked, “Minister Shen, did you guide him in forming the opinions expressed in this essay?”
Though the question seemed casual, it carried deeper meaning.
Shen Zhongcheng understood clearly.
His Majesty was probing whether these ideas were truly Pei Cijing’s own or if Shen Zhongcheng had coached him behind the scenes. If Shen had guided him, then Pei Cijing was merely a mouthpiece, and the essay’s value would be diminished.
But if the thoughts were Pei Cijing’s alone, then this young man’s insight and courage deserved genuine respect.
Without hesitation, Shen Zhongcheng answered firmly, “Your Majesty, I have never instructed my son-in-law in this regard.”
He spoke the truth.
Having served as an official for many years, Shen Zhongcheng was prudent and measured in all his actions.
When Pei Cijing took the imperial examination, Shen only guided him in the fundamentals—classical texts, essay structure, logical rigor, and clarity of argument.
But he never told Pei Cijing what to write—or what not to write.
Because that was Pei Cijing’s own matter.
Everyone thinks differently, has different experiences, and views things from unique perspectives. He couldn’t impose his own ideas on his son-in-law, nor could he let him become merely a mouthpiece for his own voice.
Moreover—
The palace examination’s policy essay tested the candidate’s own breadth of mind, insight, and vision.
If even that had to be guided by someone else, then what was the point of the exam?
The old emperor listened to Shen Zhongcheng’s answer and nodded slightly. The scrutinizing look in his eyes softened, replaced by a hint of approval.
He didn’t ask any more questions.
In truth, he had already made up his mind. The viewpoint expressed in this essay was indeed Pei Cijing’s own, because he knew Shen Zhongcheng well.
Years in officialdom had made Shen Zhongcheng’s style of conduct famously steady and cautious.
Such a person’s way of doing things was ingrained deep in his bones. If asked to write a palace exam essay on “reform,” he might neither dare nor choose to do so.
Not that he lacked the insight, but his nature dictated otherwise.
Steadiness meant no recklessness; no recklessness meant he wouldn’t write an essay in the palace exam that might risk offending the emperor.
Yet Pei Cijing did.
This showed the young man had his own thoughts and courage. He was not a timid bookworm who blindly echoed others, nor someone who only knew how to guess the emperor’s wishes and cater to them.
He dared to think, dared to write, and dared to lay his ideas openly before the emperor.
That kind of boldness, that kind of confidence—
Not everyone possessed it.
The old emperor looked at the exam paper, remained silent for a moment, then waved his hand and said, “Continue reading.”
Shen Zhongcheng responded with a “Yes,” picked up the next paper, unfolded it, and resumed reading.
In the imperial study, his calm, measured voice echoed once more.
One essay.
Then another.
And another.
Twenty papers, read one after another.
The old emperor listened attentively to each. For some, he shook his head slightly after a few lines; for others, his brows furrowed as he listened; and for a few, he asked Shen Zhongcheng to read certain passages again, savoring the words carefully.
When all twenty papers were finished,
The old emperor leaned back on the dragon throne, closed his eyes, and fell into a long silence.
Shen Zhongcheng stood quietly by, not daring to disturb him. Vice Minister Zhang, who had been waiting nearby, lowered his hands and held his breath, not even daring to breathe.
The sound of water dripping from the bronze clepsydra fell steadily, drop by drop.
After quite some time,
The old emperor opened his eyes. Sitting upright, he reached into the stack of exam papers and pulled out one, placing it to his left. Then another, which he put to his right. Then a third, which he set in the middle.
One.
Then another.
He selected them slowly, glancing over each carefully, weighing them before deciding where to place them. Shen Zhongcheng’s heart tightened and loosened in rhythm with the emperor’s actions.
He knew that His Majesty was ranking the top ten papers.
Ten exam papers, lined up in a row.
From left to right, first place to tenth, each position clear.
The old emperor gazed at the ten papers, fell silent again for a moment, then nodded slightly, seemingly quite satisfied with his ranking.
“Let’s register the names in this order,” he said, his tone calm and matter-of-fact, as if giving instructions for a routine task. “As for the rankings of the remaining candidates, the Ministry of Rites can arrange them on their own.”
Vice Minister Zhang quickly stepped forward and respectfully replied, “I will follow Your Majesty’s orders.”
He walked over to the imperial desk, his gaze falling on the row of examination papers. Starting from the top scorer, he reviewed them one by one. When he reached the third place, his eyes paused.
It was Pei Cijing’s.
Vice Minister Zhang felt a sharp pang of envy in his heart.
He glanced discreetly at Shen Zhongcheng, who stood nearby. Shen’s face was calm and unreadable, his eyes cast downward as if staring at some spot on the floor.
But Vice Minister Zhang was certain that deep down, Shen was already bursting with joy.
Third place in the palace examination!
The title of Tanhua!
Though not the top scholar, this rank carried no less weight than the champion.
Especially since Pei Cijing was only nineteen years old. Nineteen and already a Tanhua — what did that mean?
Since the founding of the Great Qian dynasty, those who passed the imperial examination before turning twenty were as rare as phoenix feathers and unicorn horns; those who achieved the rank of Tanhua before twenty were even fewer.
This meant Pei Cijing not only started ahead of his peers, but also had more time on his side. As long as his health held up, he could easily serve in the court for another fifty or sixty years.
Fifty or sixty years.
Time meant seniority—and a higher ceiling.
And there was more—
This Tanhua had caught the emperor’s eye.
The rankings of the palace examination were decided by Your Majesty. Vice Minister Zhang had observed the old emperor’s reaction carefully. By placing Pei Cijing third, it was clear the emperor recognized his essays and admired him as a person.
A Tanhua favored by the emperor was not the same as an ordinary Tanhua.
There were champions every year.
But a Tanhua who had the emperor’s favor was a rare treasure.
Vice Minister Zhang sighed quietly to himself. He glanced again at Shen Zhongcheng, then at the examination paper, feeling as sour as if he had swallowed ten lemons.
He was two years older than Shen Zhongcheng.
By seniority, he had entered the court earlier; by background, he was a legitimate jinshi graduate.
Yet now, Shen Zhongcheng was already acting Minister of Personnel, while he was still stuck as Vice Minister of Rites. Falling behind in his career was one thing, but how could even the next generation surpass him?
Shen’s son had already passed the jinshi exam, and his son-in-law had just become a Tanhua.
And his own two brats?
One had just barely passed the provincial exam, and the other was still struggling with the prefectural test.
He would have to make them work even harder when they got home!
Vice Minister Zhang vowed silently in his heart, but showed no trace of it on his face. He respectfully responded and began to register the rankings.
Shen Zhongcheng stood quietly nearby, watching Vice Minister Zhang take up the pen. His expression remained as calm as still water.
But inside, his heart was far from peaceful.
Third place.
Tanhua.
This rank was both expected and unexpected.
Expected, because he knew Pei Cijing’s talent was no small thing, and that his performance in the palace exam was solid—making the top ten a sure thing. Unexpected, because he had thought Your Majesty would place Pei Cijing fifth or sixth.
After all, he was still very young.
Youth often meant a lack of steadiness.
In order to temper the younger generation and maintain balance among all parties, it was customary to deliberately hold back rankings, preventing them from rising too quickly or standing out too early.
This was a common practice in officialdom, an integral part of imperial statecraft.
Yet, Your Majesty placed Pei Cijing third, which clearly showed genuine appreciation—not only for the essay but for the man himself.
Shen Zhongcheng quietly mulled this over in his mind.
This ranking was more than just recognition of Pei Cijing; it carried another layer of meaning. This imperial examination was not only a test for the candidates but also a challenge for the two princes involved.
The Sixth Prince and the Eighth Prince served as deputy examiners. Grading papers and ranking candidates were opportunities for them to showcase their abilities.
Your Majesty placing Pei Cijing in the position of the third highest scorer—the “Tanhua”—marked him as a reserve talent. He was no ordinary graduate, no ordinary Tanhua.
He was someone the emperor had taken note of, a promising asset reserved for future use.
Shen Zhongcheng lowered his gaze, carefully concealing these thoughts.
Though pleased at heart, he dared not show it. In official circles, maintaining a calm demeanor regardless of joy or anger was the most basic discipline—especially now, when every move could be scrutinized and remembered. He certainly did not want to give the impression of being “proud and careless.”
Vice Minister Zhang finished recording the rankings and double-checked them.
After confirming there were no mistakes,
he presented the list to the old emperor for review.
The old emperor glanced over it and nodded.
“Very well, proceed as planned,” he waved his hand. “You may all withdraw.”
Shen Zhongcheng and Vice Minister Zhang bowed together and exited the imperial study.
Outside, the two walked side by side along the palace path.
The late spring breeze blew softly, carrying a gentle warmth that caressed their faces, pleasantly soothing.
Along both sides of the path, flowers bloomed in full splendor—pink, white, red—clustering in vibrant bunches, swaying gracefully in the sunlight.
Vice Minister Zhang glanced sideways at Shen Zhongcheng, whose expression remained composed as he walked at an unhurried pace, eyes fixed straight ahead, betraying no hint of emotion.
A pang of envy stirred in Vice Minister Zhang’s heart, and he couldn’t help but speak.
“Minister Shen, congratulations.”
Shen Zhongcheng turned his head slightly to look at him, a subtle smile curving his lips just so—not too cold, not overly proud.
“Minister Zhang, you’re too kind,” he replied evenly. “It’s just that the young man had a bit more luck.”
Vice Minister Zhang’s mouth twitched.
Luck?
Sixth place in the provincial exam, third in the palace exam—was that luck?
Then his two worthless sons must be terribly unlucky.
He snorted in displeasure, said no more, quickening his pace toward the Ministry of Rites.
Shen Zhongcheng watched his retreating figure and shook his head gently before continuing on.
His steps remained steady and unhurried.
But at the corner of his mouth, a faint smile quietly lifted—a small curve that refused to be suppressed.
Tonight, he would have to enjoy a good drink…
