The announcement of names continued for a full half day.
From the top three in the first division, to seventy-six in the second, and then one hundred and eighty-two in the third—two hundred and sixty-one newly minted jinshi scholars stepped forward one by one onto the central square. Each bowed in gratitude to the emperor before returning to their places.
Vice Minister Zhang’s throat had grown hoarse, yet his voice remained strong and clear, each name pronounced with firm certainty, as if each word were a nail driven deep into white jade flooring.
When the last name was finally called, silence fell over the square for a brief moment.
Then—
“Respectfully thank Heaven’s grace! Long live Your Majesty, ten thousand years, ten thousand years, ten thousand times ten thousand years!”
Hundreds of voices rose together like a mighty torrent, echoing across the square and lingering in the air.
Within those voices were gratitude, reverence, and excitement—a flood of emotions from years of hardship finally fulfilled. Some shouted until tears choked their voices; others shouted louder still, as if to release all the pain, sleepless nights, and scornful glances they had endured.
The old emperor gave a slight nod.
Then he turned.
Surrounded by palace attendants, he slowly made his way toward the Qianqing Palace, his bright yellow robes receding into the distance until he vanished beyond the palace gates.
The ritual music swelled once more.
Even more solemn, even more grand—bells and drums rang out, strings and flutes played in harmony.
The music surged from all around the square like rising tides, enveloping everyone in an atmosphere of solemnity and celebration.
The Grand Naming Ceremony was complete!
The ritual was over!
Yet the day’s festivities had only just begun.
With the naming concluded, the Golden List was to be ceremoniously sent out of the palace and posted on the palace wall.
This was the true “inscription on the Golden List”!
Not an empty phrase, not a mere poem, but a tangible imperial decree bearing every jinshi’s name—yellow silk as the background, vermilion ink for the characters, stamped with the Ministry of Rites’ official seal and the emperor’s jade seal.
Countless scholars had endured ten years of cold study, twenty years of hardship, all for the chance to see their names on this very list.
As for the top three in the first division—
They were quietly “invited” aside by officials from the Ministry of Rites.
Pei Cijing hadn’t quite registered what was happening before several officials surrounded him. Their movements were swift and practiced, clearly accustomed to this task. One held a red silk cloth, another a floral hairpin, and a third a bronze mirror, all smiling warmly at him.
“Tanhua, please come forward.”
Pei Cijing hesitated for a moment, then resigned himself and spread his arms.
Well, when in Rome, do as the Romans do.
The red silk was draped over his shoulders, crossing over his chest and tied tightly at the waist. The silk was exquisite cloud brocade, embroidered with subtle patterns that shimmered with a quiet, noble glow in the sunlight.
The floral hairpin was tucked into his hat brim—a peony made of silk, petals layered in soft pink and white, with pale yellow stamens trembling delicately, so finely crafted it could easily be mistaken for the real thing.
When all three were dressed, Liu Zhixing took the center, with Chen Wangbei and Pei Cijing flanking him on either side. The three stood shoulder to shoulder as the Zhuangyuan, Bangyan, and Tanhua.
Behind them, the jinshi of the second and third divisions had already lined up again—more than two hundred standing neatly in formation, each with head held high and eyes burning brightly.
The procession began to move.
A grand procession marched steadily toward the palace gates.
Passing through gate after gate, along corridor after corridor.
And then—
The Imperial Path.
That very path, usually reserved solely for the emperor’s footsteps, now stretched beneath their feet.
Crafted from pristine white jade bricks.
One by one.
Worn smooth and polished by the passage of time, gleaming like a mirror.
Reflecting the sky and clouds above, mirroring the vast procession that moved along it. At the center, the slightly raised imperial road was carved with dragons soaring through clouds—ferocious and vivid, alive with movement. On any other day, no one but the emperor’s dragon carriage was permitted to tread here.
Not the princes and nobles.
Not the royal kin.
Not even the most powerful ministers.
Only today.
Only this moment.
Only these three men—scholars who had fought their way through countless troops—were granted the honor of leaving their footprints on this sacred path.
This was the highest tribute the court could bestow upon scholars across the realm.
Pei Cijing stepped onto the Imperial Path. Beneath his feet, the stone’s cool firmness was unmistakable. Suddenly, he felt his worth multiply a hundredfold—after all, this path was no ordinary road.
In the entire Great Qian Empire,
how many could ever walk here?
And now, here he was, walking it. He could clearly feel the gazes behind him—those from the ranks of the second and third tier scholars—filled with envy, longing, and admiration.
And a faint, almost imperceptible twinge of sourness, like the taste of unripe lemons.
Pei Cijing could only silently think to himself—
Brothers, don’t envy me too much.
A thousand years from now, when reincarnated into the modern world, you’ll be able to stroll this Imperial Path whenever you want, snap photos, even livestream it—just don’t litter, and you can walk it however you please.
Of course, these thoughts stayed locked inside his mind. Saying them aloud would surely mark him as mad.
Pei Cijing curled the corner of his mouth slightly, suppressing the faint smile. His face remained composed and steady, his steps measured and calm, his posture as upright and steadfast as a pine tree.
The palace gates.
Just ahead.
The grand procession was about to begin, and the capital city of Shengjing was already empty of ordinary crowds.
News of the grand presentation ceremony had spread through the city’s streets and alleys before dawn. Today was the day the newly minted scholars paraded through the streets. Who wouldn’t want to catch a glimpse of the emperor’s favored students?
Especially those families with marriageable daughters—they had secured the best spots early on.
All waiting to see if among this year’s scholars there were any young, handsome, and unmarried men—perhaps a suitable match for their daughters.
The teahouses and taverns along the street had their window seats fully booked days in advance. Shrewd proprietors had hiked the prices of second-floor private rooms tenfold, yet eager customers still scrambled for them.
Residents living along the street enjoyed the best vantage points. Many had moved their stools outside, setting out tea and snacks, calling friends and neighbors to join them, all waiting for the parade to pass by.
Children darted through the crowd.
Holding candied hawthorn sticks.
Their laughter was as clear and bright as silver bells, ringing from one end of the alley to the other.
Street vendors caught the scent of opportunity, weaving through the throng with their carts and baskets, hawking roasted chestnuts, osmanthus cakes, sugar paintings, and figurines. Their calls rose and fell amid the noisy chatter, creating a lively scene like a pot of porridge bubbling over with energy.
“Here they come! The procession is here!”
Someone shouted out, and the entire street craned their necks, gazing toward the Imperial City.
The second residence of the Marquis of Weiyuan.
There was no need to scramble for a spot on the street here.
The parade route was fixed: starting from the main gate of the Imperial City, it followed the main thoroughfare of Yujie Street southward, passing through several key markets, and finally ending in front of the inn where the Zhuangyuan was staying.
Coincidentally, along this route in Chongwen District stood a well-known restaurant, registered under Madam Zhou’s name—one of her dowry properties.
The restaurant usually enjoyed steady business.
Thanks to its prime location and exquisite dishes, it had quite a reputation among the food lovers of Shengjing.
Every year on the day of the new Zhuangyuan’s parade, the private rooms facing the street were especially sought after. People would come early, clutching silver coins, bidding the price higher and higher.
But this year,
not a single innkeeper accepted any offers.
Madam Zhou had already given her instructions: this year, the largest private room facing the street was off-limits to outsiders and reserved for their own use.
The innkeepers understood perfectly.
Madam Zhou’s son was participating in the imperial examinations this year. He had already ranked sixth in the provincial exam, so no matter what happened in the palace exam, he was bound to become a Zhuangyuan.
Since their own son was going to parade, Madam Zhou naturally wanted to save the best spot for their own people.
So on this day,
the restaurant was bustling nonstop.
The innkeeper personally oversaw the kitchen, ensuring each of their signature dim sum was prepared perfectly.
The waiters were running around, wiping tables, arranging chairs, changing tablecloths, and preparing tea. Even the stairway handrails were wiped twice.
Several young maids had set out early to the countryside estate to pick the freshest flowers, carrying basket after basket back, petals still glistening with morning dew, vibrant and full of life.
At this moment, the largest private room was already filled with flowers.
Clusters upon clusters, bouquets in neat rows—pink, white, red, and purple—arranged meticulously, all waiting to shower Pei Cijing as he passed by.
Madam Zhou stood by the window, hands clenched around a handkerchief, tiptoeing and stretching her neck, peering into the distance.
She had held this posture for a long time.
Long enough for her neck to ache, but she remained oblivious, her eyes fixed intently on the end of Yujie Street, afraid to miss a single thing.
Shen Ninghuan stood beside her, one hand gently supporting Madam Zhou’s arm. Her expression was calmer, but the anticipation in her eyes was no less intense.
Pei Fugui, Zhou Youfu, and Zhou Dahe stood a little further back, their faces appearing increasingly composed, yet their gazes were all fixed sharply outside the window.
The private room was so quiet that only the sound of breathing remained.
Until—
faint sounds of gongs and drums drifted in from afar.
At first, the sound was distant, like thunder rumbling over the horizon—vague and indistinct.
Then it grew closer and clearer: gongs, drums, and suona horns mingled together, surging forward like a tidal wave.
“It’s coming! It’s coming!”
Madam Zhou grabbed Shen Ninghuan’s hand and pressed herself against the window, leaning halfway out, abandoning all the dignity befitting the wife of the Marquis’s second residence.
Shen Ninghuan was pulled forward as well, her gaze fixed on the end of Yujie Street.
The sounds of gongs and drums drew nearer.
First to appear was the ceremonial procession.
Colorful banners fluttered vigorously in the spring breeze, their dragon and tiger embroidery gleaming golden under the sunlight. The drummers wore freshly pressed red garments, each one brimming with energy. The steady, synchronized beat of their drumsticks sent a thrilling vibration through the crowd’s hearts.
Then came the guards.
Armored imperial guards lined both sides of the street, swords hanging at their waists, their gazes unwavering as they kept the onlookers at bay. The townsfolk, however, showed no fear; they craned their necks and stood on tiptoe, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of the procession’s end.
And then—
They appeared.
Three tall, majestic horses trotted side by side.
At the center rode the Zhuangyuan, Liu Zhixing. Tall and slender, his face was lean and refined. A vibrant red peony adorned his hairpin, and a red silk cloak draped over his shoulders. Sitting upright on his horse, his eyes fixed straight ahead, his expression carried the reserved dignity and proud aloofness characteristic of a scholar.
To his left was the Bangyan, Chen Wangbei. Broad-shouldered and square-faced, he too wore a red peony and silk cloak. Sitting tall and straight in the saddle, he looked every bit the spear planted firmly in the ground.
Yet both men were barely glanced at by everyone inside the room.
All eyes—
Almost simultaneously—turned sharply to the right horse.
There was a pure white steed, its mane meticulously groomed and braided into small plaits, each tied with red pom-poms. The saddle was of the finest cowhide, adorned with silver fittings that shimmered with a gentle luster in the sunlight.
Upon the horse sat a man dressed in a deep blue scholar’s robe, with broad sleeves and a wide collar, cinched at the waist with a teal belt. A pale pink-and-white peony was pinned to the brim of his hat. Red silk draped from his shoulders and was tied snugly at his waist, making him appear both spirited and festive.
But what truly captivated everyone was not his clothing, nor the white horse—
It was his face.
An exceptionally youthful face.
Bright, clear eyes; a straight nose; a jawline sharp yet softened by gentle curves.
His skin was paler than that of ordinary scholars, but not in a sickly way—rather, it was clean and warm, glowing softly in the spring sunlight, almost dazzling.
He sat tall and straight in the saddle.
His back was firm but relaxed.
A faint, lazy smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, as if he barely cared about the noisy crowd filling the streets, yet was quietly savoring this very moment of glory.
“Is that the Tanhua?”
“The Tanhua! Third place in the first rank, the Tanhua!”
“My heavens, he’s so young! Doesn’t even look twenty!”
“There haven’t been many so young since the founding of Great Qian, right?”
“Not only young—look at that face! More handsome than any leading actor on stage!”
The murmurs swelled like waves, each louder than the last.
The girls lining the street watched with wide eyes, some clutching their purses tightly, ready to toss their coins at the white horse as it passed by.
Madam Zhou leaned against the window, watching the white horse draw nearer, gazing at the face she knew better than anyone else’s. She parted her lips, wanting to say something, but found her throat inexplicably clogged—no words could come out.
She reached out her hand.
She grabbed Pei Fugui’s arm beside her with a sudden squeeze.
“Fugui,” her voice wavered, as if she were dreaming, “is that our son?”
Pei Fugui clenched his teeth in pain.
His wife’s grip was as strong as ever—this time, she squeezed the flesh on his arm so hard it felt like it was about to twist into a knot. But he dared not cry out; his wife was too excited.
If he made a sound, he’d be in for no good later.
Following her gaze, he looked toward the young man on the white horse—full of youthful vigor, the smile on his round face impossible to hide.
“Yes, yes, that’s our son,” he nodded vigorously, pride barely contained in his voice. “I told you, even in broad daylight, you have to dare to dream. Look, the dream’s come true! Tanhua! Third place in the highest imperial exam! Our son is the Tanhua!”
Madam Zhou’s tears streamed down instantly.
She didn’t bother to wipe them away or care about appearing dignified. She suddenly turned around and scooped up the largest bouquet of peonies from the windowsill, nearly leaning out the window.
“That’s my son! The Tanhua is my son!”
Her voice was sharp and bright, cutting through the noisy clamor of drums and cheers, carving a path that carried far beyond.
“Hurry! Hurry! Don’t just stand there!” she shouted, rallying everyone as she held the flowers high. “When Cijing reaches the foot of our building, throw! Throw with all your might! I want everyone to see—my son is the most celebrated one here!”
Shen Ninghuan was pulled along, clutching a big bunch of flowers. Several maids each took a handful as well. Even Pei Fugui, Zhou Youfu, and Zhou Dahe—the three burly men—found their hands full of petals.
Zhou Dahe looked down at the soft pink petals cradled in his arms, his dark face full of helplessness. “Sister, I…”
“What do you mean ‘I’?” Madam Zhou shot him a glare. “Our son—your nephew! The Tanhua! What’s wrong with throwing flowers for him?”
Zhou Dahe immediately shut up, clutching the petals tightly. Even his brother-in-law dared not make a sound; better to stay sensible.
The procession drew closer.
The Zhuangyuan passed by first.
The crowd lining the streets cheered, throwing petals and lucky pouches at Liu Zhixing. He sat upright on his horse, nodding slightly with a restrained smile, carrying the dignified air befitting the top scorer.
Then came the Bangyan.
Chen Wangbei was even more reserved than Liu Zhixing. Facing the citywide cheers, he only nodded stiffly, his smile more like a grimace—so awkward it made a few girls giggle behind their hands.
And then—
The Tanhua arrived.
Pei Cijing rode his white horse at a leisurely pace on the right side of the procession. His eyes scanned the crowd, a lazy smile lingering at his lips.
Then, he saw the tavern.
He saw the figures leaning out of the second-floor window.
Grandfather, Third Uncle, Father, Mother—and—
His wife.
Shen Ninghuan stood by the window holding a full bouquet of peonies, watching him. The morning light fell softly across her face, casting her delicate features in a warm, gentle glow.
The moment their eyes met, Shen Ninghuan’s lips curved into a gentle smile, and she gave him a slight nod. Her smile was faint, but warmer than all the spring blossoms lining the street.
Pei Cijing felt a warmth surge in his chest, just about to flash her a charming, irresistible grin—
When suddenly, a pouch came flying at him from an oblique angle, aimed straight at his face. Pei Cijing barely tilted his body, dodging it by the slimmest margin without so much as a flinch.
Then came a second pouch.
A third.
A fourth.
The young women lining the street seemed to have gone mad.
Embroidered with mandarin ducks, twin lotus flowers, and flying swallows, the colorful pouches rained down from all directions, like a vibrant shower of blossoms.
Pei Cijing had no choice but to sway gently.
A lean to the left, a dodge to the right, the pouches brushed past his shoulders, hat brim, and sleeves, scattering around his horse, but none ever hit their mark.
His face flushed with a hint of embarrassment.
Naturally, the Zhuangyuan and the Bangyan had also received their share of pouches, but one looked too aloof, the other too stern. The young women threw a few and then shyly stopped. But Pei Cijing was different—he was young, handsome, and wore that kind of lazy smile that made hearts race.
A man like that—
If you didn’t fight for him, you’d regret it for a lifetime.
So the pouches kept coming, more and more densely, and Pei Cijing’s dodges grew increasingly desperate.
On the surface, he maintained the composure befitting a Tanhua.
But inside, he was silently grumbling.
“Ladies, could you please practice your aim before throwing? It’s one thing if you hit the flowers or the grass, but what if you hit a child? Even if you don’t hit a child, what if you spook my white horse? That would turn this whole parade into a disaster!”
Shen Ninghuan stood by the window, quietly observing her husband’s subtle movements.
No one else could tell.
But she saw everything clearly, having spent every day and night by his side.
That slight tilt of his body, the seemingly casual but perfectly timed sidestep, each time narrowly avoiding the flying pouches by mere millimeters.
It was deliberate.
This man could dodge pouches so flawlessly—never embarrassing the young women, never letting a single pouch land on him.
Shen Ninghuan couldn’t help but smile softly.
Then, a sudden thought stirred in her heart.
On impulse.
She reached to her waist and unfastened the pouch she always carried—a moon-white silk pouch embroidered with slender bamboo stalks, its stitches delicate and elegant.
She had embroidered it herself before marriage.
Always kept close.
She weighed the pouch in her hand, then tossed it toward Pei Cijing.
He was dodging a bright red pouch coming from the left when his peripheral vision caught sight of a familiar moon-white shadow flying from the second floor of the tavern.
That was his wife’s pouch.
He recognized it immediately.
His wife’s belongings—how could he let anyone else catch it?
Pei Cijing abandoned all pretense of composure. He gauged the pouch’s trajectory, reached out, and caught it steadily in his palm.
He held it tight.
He lifted his head, gazing up at the second floor of the restaurant, looking toward the woman standing by the window—her eyes fixed on him.
A grin spread across his face.
A dazzling, radiant smile.
There wasn’t a trace of forced composure, nor the calm ease he’d shown just moments ago while hiding the pouch. It was pure, heartfelt joy.
He raised the hand clutching the pouch and waved at Shen Ninghuan, as if to say—
Wife, look, I got it!
Shen Ninghuan watched him like that and couldn’t help but cover her mouth with a smile. Her smile was gentle, sweet, and carried a faint, barely noticeable hint of pride.
That was her pouch.
Her man!
Just as their eyes locked in unspoken affection—
“Throw it! Quickly, throw it!” Madam Zhou’s sharp command cut through the moment, and the entourage launched their full assault.
Peonies, chrysanthemums, roses, and wild roses—pink, white, red, purple—petals rained down from the second-floor window like a vibrant, colorful shower, drenching Pei Cijing head to toe.
Before he could react, the floral downpour hit him squarely.
Petals settled on his dark blue scholar’s robe, on the pink-white peony pinned to his hat, on the mane of his white horse, and even on the hand he still held high.
He was completely buried in petals.
That handsome, confident smile he had been brewing froze in place, then shifted into a mix of helplessness, embarrassment, and a resigned, wry amusement.
Because right in the center of that floral storm, he could clearly see his mother, Madam Zhou, clutching the largest handful of peonies, pouring them down while waving at him, shouting something.
Amid the pounding drums and cheers, he couldn’t quite catch the words, but from her mouth movements, he could make out a few—
“Son! Well done!”
Pei Cijing: “……”
Mother!
You truly are my mother!
He silently lowered the hand holding the pouch and carefully tucked the moon-white pouch close to his chest, right over his heart. Then, resigned, he bowed his head and brushed the petals off his hair and shoulders, one by one.
But the petal shower continued.
Madam Zhou clearly wasn’t done yet. She took another handful of peonies from a maid and kept pouring them down. Pei Fugui stood nearby, twitching at the corners of his mouth, wanting to speak up but holding back.
Zhou Youfu laughed heartily, stroking his beard with pride, his face beaming with “My daughter is full of life.”
Zhou Dahe held a handful of petals, scattering them down with a wide grin, his dark face full of pride and satisfaction.
Shen Ninghuan stood by the window.
She watched her husband, half buried in petals, fumbling to brush them off his face, carefully guarding the pouch pressed against his chest.
She couldn’t help but laugh softly.
Her laughter was light, delicate.
But it was drowned out by the sound of drums and cheers…
