AEOGA CH44

Zhou Ziyan departed with surging morale, appearing as though he were ready to realize grand ambitions and display his talents.

Xie Chongjin watched his beaming figure vanish into the distance, and only after the young man was completely out of sight did he speak: “I’m reminded of that exam of yours back then.”

Hearing this, Lu Xuechao also recalled that old memory.

Unlike Yelang, where holding official office was hereditary and commoners possessed no right to an education—leaving discourse and power firmly in the hands of the royal family and nobility—Changli implemented the imperial examination system. It established private schools and academies across the land, offering everyone born outside noble lineage the opportunity to alter their destiny through study and cross social strata. Even if the offspring of noble ministers proved useless and failed to achieve academic merit, they could not enter the court as officials; relying solely on ancestral prestige, their families would fall into decline within three generations.

Thus, Changli held scholar-gentry culture in extreme reverence. Whether noble houses or common folk, everyone held an utmost admiration for someone like Lu Xuechao—a god-tier talent among scholars.

Lu Xuechao was the son of the Prime Minister, born at the very pinnacle of society, and the education he received far surpassed that of ordinary households. Had he merely achieved the rank of Zhuangyuan, he would not have garnered such awe—after all, a Zhuangyuan emerged in every exam cycle and was hardly rare, with a commoner Zhuangyuan being considered even more inspiring.

However, he was the sole candidate in Changli’s history to achieve a perfect score in every single subject as Zhuangyuan. That was not something obtainable through power or wealth alone; it required a genius born of Heaven itself.

Changli’s imperial examinations were divided into civil and military streams. The military examination tested martial arts, military strategy, archery and horsemanship, weightlifting, military discipline, and moral character. Those who passed either joined the military camps as commanders of a hundred men—gradually rising through military exploits—or took posts in the Ministry of War. Had Qin Yulong not been sent to fight Xifeng, he ought to have undergone two years of training in the military camps before taking the triennial imperial exam to win the title of Military Zhuangyuan.

The civil examination comprised six subjects: Poetry and Prose, Policy Questions, Canonical Classics, Mathematics, Jurisprudence, and Moral Character. Candidates were not required to master every subject—indeed, practically no one could—as long as they scored Grade C or better in at least three subjects alongside Moral Character, or scored a Grade A in a single subject. They would then be assigned to the appropriate ministry according to their highest-scoring discipline.

Poetry and Prose evaluated literary talent through composing poems and lyric meters. Policy Questions presented current political affairs, requiring candidates to critique contemporary issues and demonstrating their political acumen. Canonical Classics involved randomly flipping through the Four Books and Five Classics; whichever page or line was opened, the candidate had to recite and write it out from memory while explaining its meaning. To score well in this subject, one had to know the Four Books and Five Classics inside out, severely testing memory. Mathematics tested numerical logic; those skilled in it generally entered the Ministry of Revenue or Ministry of Works. Jurisprudence evaluated knowledge of Changli’s statutory laws, with outstanding candidates joining the Ministry of Justice. Moral Character was assessed covertly and did not grant bonus points: those with virtue but lacking talent would not be selected, while those with talent who suffered moral defects were immediately disqualified. Before corrupt officials ran amok, the standards for these subjects were extraordinarily rigorous.

Fu Xinian had achieved Grade A in four subjects—Poetry and Prose, Policy Questions, Jurisprudence, and Moral Character—while scoring Grade B in Canonical Classics and Mathematics. That alone made him Zhuangyuan material, and an exceptional one at that; receiving third place as Tanhua was almost a waste of his talents.

From this, one could see how rare Lu Xuechao’s six Grade A scores truly were. To say practically no one could master every subject—that “practically” existed solely because of the exception that was Lu Xuechao.

Turning the impossible into reality could transform a person into a faith, an icon.

When Lu Xuechao was preparing for the imperial examinations back then, Xie Chongjin had accompanied him through his revisions.

It was shortly after the two had pledged their love under the tree, during a time of intense tenderness and passion.

Lu Xuechao had been brilliant from a young age; Poetry and Prose, Policy Questions, and Mathematics were second nature to him. However, Canonical Classics and Jurisprudence relied heavily on rote memorization. Combined, the required texts were thicker than bricks; while the exam randomly tested only a few passages, candidates had to memorize the entirety of every volume.

Behind the radiance of genius lay grueling effort. No matter how flawless Lu Xuechao’s photographic memory was, faced with such a vast amount of material, he still had to study by lamplight late into the night. He had been only fourteen at the time, right in the middle of a growth spurt and with a frail constitution to boot. Sitting at his writing desk late at night, his eyelids would fight to close, yet he forced himself to read on.

Ached by the sight, Xie Chongjin snatched the book away and urged him to rest early: “Go to sleep quickly. From Poetry, Policy, and Math alone, you already have three Grade As. Having your name on the golden board is a certainty, so why obsess over Classics and Jurisprudence? Throughout history, unless a blind cat runs into a dead mouse and gets tested on the exact passages they memorized, who could possibly answer every question in those two subjects correctly? Do you really intend to memorize all these books?”

Normal exams had emphasized key areas, but the absurd difficulty of Canonical Classics and Jurisprudence was that there were no key areas—one had to memorize everything. Countless scholars had studied by the cold window for a lifetime, driving themselves mad with memorization, yet hardly any scored full marks. Xie Chongjin felt this was unreasonable and desperately in need of reform.

As the Crown Prince, occupying a position that required the most diligent study, even the Grand Tutor had not demanded that he memorize the Four Books and Five Classics in their entirety, proving it was indeed unnecessary.

Lu Xuechao said: “Give me back the book.”

Xie Chongjin raised his hand high: “I won’t.”

Lu Xuechao looked at him, insisting stubbornly: “Either I don’t do it at all, or if I do it, I cannot make mistakes. I must be the best.”

Xie Chongjin was utterly helpless against him. Lu Xuechao practically suffered from perfectionist obsessive-compulsive disorder. The chief examiner for the court exam was his imperial father; if the absolute boundary that the imperial examination could not be cheated on hadn’t existed, he would have begged his father to cut him some slack so Lu Xuechao wouldn’t have to memorize so gruelingly.

However, that thought merely flashed by; Xie Chongjin did not speak it aloud, let alone act on it. Otherwise, Lu Xuechao would be the first to scold him.

“Fine, then continue memorizing tomorrow. It’s so late today, my little ancestor, won’t you go to sleep?” Xie Chongjin coaxed.

Lu Xuechao still refused, his youthful voice crisp and firm: “Tomorrow I must memorize the Book of Rites, so today I must finish the Classic of Poetry. Today’s work must be finished today.”

He kept a strict schedule with his time and would never disrupt his plans.

Xie Chongjin wore a look of utter despair.

Seeing this, Lu Xuechao said: “If you are tired, go back and sleep. I’ll recite by myself a bit longer.”

Xie Chongjin sighed: “If you don’t sleep, how can I fall asleep…”

Yet simply watching him recite books was tedious and boring.

Lu Xuechao thought for a moment and said: “Then test my memory.”

Having someone test him would increase efficiency.

Xie Chongjin perked up, flipping through the table of contents of the Classic of Poetry: “Which section should I pick from?”

Lu Xuechao looked at him oddly: “Naturally, all of it.”

Xie Chongjin: “…”

An idea suddenly struck him. Flipping to the section Lessons from the States — Odes of Zheng, he said with solemn seriousness: “Creepers grow wild over the plain, heavy with dew. There is a beauty so fair, with clear eyes and graceful posture. An unexpected encounter, fulfilling all my desires.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Lu Xuechao replied: “Creepers grow wild over the plain, drenched in heavy dew. There is a beauty so fair, graceful with clear eyes. An unexpected encounter, to grow old together in joy.”

Xie Chongjin curved his lips, suppressing a smile, and flipped to Odes of Zhou — The Peach Tree: “Young and tender is the peach tree, brilliant are its blossoms.”

Lu Xuechao hesitated for a brief moment.

Xie Chongjin smiled: “Can’t remember? Do you want me to remind you?”

Lu Xuechao pursed his lips, speaking: “This maiden goes to her future home, bringing harmony to her house and family.”

It wasn’t that he hadn’t remembered; he simply felt something was strange…

Xie Chongjin was already asking the next question: “Please explain the meaning of ‘Blue is your collar, deep is my longing. Even if I do not go to you, why do you not come?’ from Odes of Zheng — The Collar.”

Lu Xuechao remained silent for even longer this time.

Only after a long while did he speak in a measured voice: “Blue is your collar pendant, deep and long is my thought. Even if I did not go to seek you out, could you not… could you not…”

Could you not come to seek me on your own initiative?

Xie Chongjin urged: “Could you not what?”

Lu Xuechao turned his head away, his cheeks flushed slightly: “I’m not reciting anymore.”

All three of these were unequivocally love poems.

The first was about falling in love. The second was about marriage. The third was about longing.

Especially the third one—it was impossible not to feel that Xie Chongjin was implying something.

Due to his physical condition and temperament, Xie Chongjin usually came to the Prime Minister’s residence to find him. He rarely went to the Eastern Palace to see Xie Chongjin; even if he did, it was at Xie Chongjin’s invitation, as Lu Xuechao would never visit unprompted.

Xie Chongjin was practically acting spoiled and complaining.

The poem also held a double meaning. During times when Xie Chongjin didn’t come to see him, Lu Xuechao couldn’t help but wonder: if he didn’t go to the Eastern Palace, couldn’t Xie Chongjin come to the Prime Minister’s residence? It struck right at his inner thoughts.

‘Pacing to and fro at the city gate. A day without seeing you feels like three months.’

The two clearly met every single day, yet still missed each other daily; perhaps when first tasting the awakening of love, one was simply this clingy.

Having his inner thoughts exposed made Lu Xuechao thoroughly embarrassed.

Xie Chongjin smiled softly: “Why stop reciting? Didn’t Qingshu want to study hard? I’m earnestly helping you revise.”

“You’re slipping in private motives,” Lu Xuechao said.

Xie Chongjin acted as if he didn’t understand: “How am I slipping in private motives? What private motives?”

Lu Xuechao’s face flushed red, unable to bring himself to say it aloud. He simply snatched the book back, slapped it onto the table, stood up, and walked toward the bedroom: “I’m going to sleep. You should go back to your Eastern Palace.”

Xie Chongjin said intentionally: “That won’t do. If I leave, you’ll secretly work hard by yourself again and stay up all night.”

Lu Xuechao looked back: “…Rest assured, tonight I don’t want to open the Classic of Poetry to look at a single character ever again.”

His mind was completely filled with romance and affection.

Falling in love really interfered with studying.

Xie Chongjin chuckled softly: “Then I’ll leave?”

Little guy, as if I can’t cure your habit of staying up late.

He knew Lu Xuechao was thin-skinned. Trying to persuade him not to stay up late reciting books through reasoning was useless, but this method took effect instantly.

It had to be said that combining labor with rest—having several good nights of sleep under Xie Chongjin’s supervision—made Lu Xuechao’s memorization far more efficient.

After passing the grueling revision phase, the exam day finally arrived.

Talented scholars who had passed the provincial examinations from all across the nation gathered under one roof, an assembly of brilliant minds. Xie Chongjin disguised himself and mingled among the crowd outside sending off candidates, waiting for Lu Xuechao to finish his exam.

Back then, wearing white was not yet in vogue; candidates all wore golden-yellow garments, symbolizing “having one’s name on the golden board” for good luck.

Amidst a room full of golden yellow, Lu Xuechao’s snow-white attire was exceptionally eye-catching. Among a crowd of candidates aged twenty and above, he was the youngest, with the most striking appearance. Almost the moment he appeared, he earned the affection of all the candidates.

It was purely the fond affection one held for a lovely child; no one actually believed he could pass, assuming he was merely a child of a wealthy family testing the waters early. The imperial examinations were not a once-in-a-lifetime event, and many tried their luck early on—though this one was a bit too young.

Candidates from outside the capital did not recognize the Prime Minister’s son. Seeing Xie Chongjin encouraging Lu Xuechao before the exam began, they assumed he was Lu Xuechao’s elder brother and came over to chat with him.

“Brother, your younger brother looks like he’s not even of age yet. He looks so endearing; coming to take the imperial exam so early?”

Xie Chongjin—who was fifteen at the time and also underage—wore a proud parental expression: “Thank you. Though my younger brother is young, his mind is exceptionally clever.”

My younger brother.

That form of address felt quite wonderful.

Some candidates were whispering among themselves.

“How could such a young child come to take the exam?” Among those taking the exam, those at twenty were considered extremely young, while men in their sixties and eighties were present as well; an underage child was the first ever.

“You don’t understand. At a glance, he’s clearly a child from a grand family in Yujing. Children of Yujing officials take the imperial exam multiple times to gain experience.”

An outdoor candidate dressed in simple, plain clothes said enviously: “I really envy them having the chance to make mistakes. My family went bankrupt to support my studies, selling our fields and oxen just to afford my travel expenses. I only have this one chance in my lifetime. If I can pass and become an official, I’ll bring my father and younger brother to the capital so they won’t suffer anymore.”

Another candidate said: “I don’t wish to stay in the capital. My travel expenses were pooled together by the folks in my village, saying if I become our village’s first jinshi, it will bring glory to the whole village. I want to go back, become an official, and build a school for our village so even more jinshi can emerge from there.”

Overhearing the dialogue between these two, Xie Chongjin quietly noted it down. He felt their character was upright; if they performed well, they could be given important responsibilities. At the same time, he realized that bringing prosperity to the entire nation of Changli was a long and arduous road, with commoners in many small regions still living in dire hardship. After returning, he recounted this conversation to Lu Xuechao, and Lu Xuechao replied: “Then we must work even harder.”

During the recent purge in Yujing, when the court was severely lacking personnel, Xie Chongjin suddenly recalled those two candidates. Upon checking their recent circumstances, both held official positions in Yujing; because they refused to wallow in corruption alongside others, they had been suppressed quite harshly.

Xie Chongjin instructed Shen Hezhou to reassign them. Among the findings was a poignant detail: the person who had originally claimed he wanted to return to his village after becoming an official had ultimately chosen to stay in Yujing when given the choice between remaining in office at the capital versus returning home.

Having truly witnessed the prosperity of Yujing and the vast chasm of contrast, he was no longer willing to return.

He remained a good official, repaying the villagers who had sponsored him tenfold in silver. He married and had children in Yujing, wishing to give them a better environment. This was human nature, entirely beyond reproach.

Therefore, when Xie Chongjin decided to appoint Zhou Ziyan as the County Magistrate of Qiuling, he asked whether he was willing.

After all, humans were not sages.

“Does Qingshu think he will regret it?” Xie Chongjin asked. “If he sees Yujing, perhaps he will regret it; he doesn’t yet know such a prosperous place exists in the world. Just as before I went deep among the common folk, I didn’t know such impoverished places existed either.”

Lu Xuechao shook his head: “A pure and sincere heart is rare and precious; I cannot say for certain.”

Although he could see through human hearts, there were times when he could not see through them so completely.

If everyone wished to stay in Yujing, the only place that remained prosperous forever would be Yujing, not Changli. Xie Chongjin had already replaced Yujing’s officials with clean, honest, and incorruptible individuals, yet so many commoners across Changli were still victimized by corrupt officials.

Changli needed people to stay in these small places. Those who were unwilling could not be blamed, but those who were willing deserved endless gratitude.

“Then this place shall be left in his hands,” Xie Chongjin said. “Tomorrow, we head to Yunzhou.”