Hanyuan Hall had been newly rebuilt after the lightning strike—magnificent in its beauty, imposing in its solemnity. The Empress sat high on the imperial throne and summoned the new Presented Scholars to enter and pay their respects. Prince Liang, Prince Xiang, and the others stood behind the decorative screen, watching the scene in the hall from a distance.
When the twelve graduates entered the hall, a low collective exclamation rose from behind the screen. The reason was simple: the scholars of this class were exceptionally handsome—especially the three at the front, whose appearances were all outstanding, each with a bearing and temperament entirely his own. Dressed in crimson robes, they stood side by side in the great hall, interplaying with the magnificence of the Golden Throne Room, so brilliantly beautiful as to be beyond compare.
Everyone admired young, handsome, and talented young men—but in reality these two qualities were extremely difficult to find together. Presented Scholars were chosen one in ten thousand, and those who made it onto the list had often sat the examination multiple times. There was a popular saying: “At fifty, one is still young to pass the Scholar examination”—meaning that passing at fifty was still considered young. In past years, if even a single young man appeared among the graduates it would make him the most sought-after social figure of the season. Yet now, three young men had appeared in a single class—and, rarer still, all three were exceptionally fine-looking.
The young palace maids in Hanyuan Hall could not help but steal glances; the imperial relatives behind the screen grew excited as well. Princess Taiping said playfully: “I used to think the practice of snatching a husband from beneath the posting board was nothing but chaos. Today, seeing these three graduates, I begin to understand. Young men as fine as these—if I were in their position, I’d want to snatch one too.”
Prince Liang laughed: “Taiping, you are now the Consort of the Wu family. If you were to copy the ways of those families, Prince Consort would surely be jealous.”
Princess Taiping’s prince consort stood nearby with a serene smile: “Talent is like beauty—looking at it fills even me with admiration. That the Empress has obtained such fine talent is truly a most joyous matter.”
Prince Wei languidly glanced at the prince consort and said, in a joking tone: “Princess Taiping’s admiration for talent is hardly new—in this area, she truly has been consistent.”
The remark was double-edged: admiring talent ought to be a virtue, but applied to Princess Taiping, it carried another implication.
Princess Taiping was devoted to men of good family background and scholarly ability; the favored companions in her household were all sons of distinguished clans who could compose poetry and essays. This was, of course, partly practical—the companions Princess Taiping sought were collaborative partners to advise her on government affairs, not companions of the sort the Empress kept purely for amusement. But no one could say whether nostalgia played a part as well, for Princess Taiping’s first prince consort had been a descendant of the Duke of Hedong, a son of Princess Cheng’yang, and a widely acclaimed talent of a great family throughout Chang’an.
Prince Wei’s provocation was unmistakable; his intentions were plainly malicious. The prince consort continued watching the Empress question the new graduates inside the hall, as though he had not heard a word of Prince Wei’s remark. Princess Taiping’s smile faded slightly, and her expression cooled.
Prince Liang stepped in to smooth things over at just the right moment, laughing: “They are all the Empress’s talented men—the future pillars of the court. I could not wish for more talented young men to appear. These three really are remarkably fine-looking—even I, a man, am quite overwhelmed by it all and don’t know where to look first.”
Prince Liang was the Empress’s eldest nephew, the eldest in terms of age, widely acquainted, and adept at navigating every situation. He maintained good relations with everyone in both the Li and Wu camps. When Prince Liang spoke, all the princes and princesses gave face.
Princess Taiping took the opportunity to shift the topic; Prince Wei also quietly smiled to himself and chose not to press further.
The princes and princesses of lesser rank standing behind dared to breathe again. When the most favored Princess Taiping and Prince Wei traded barbs, not even they had any room to interject. Li Cui’er, standing behind the Crown Prince and his consort, clutched Consort Wei’s sleeve in fright.
Consort Wei subtly gave Li Cui’er a glance, signaling her to stay quiet and not draw attention. Li Chong’run naturally saw this as well. He understood his parents’ apprehension, and yet at this moment, he still felt a sense of grief.
He was the Crown Prince’s eldest legitimate son—the designated successor to the throne two generations hence by proper convention. And yet facing a situation like this, he did not even have the power to stand up for his own people.
He looked toward his father and his uncle Prince Xiang. There was no question that Princess Taiping had done a great deal for the Li imperial family. Prince Xiang had survived a long years-long period of confinement largely thanks to Princess Taiping’s intercession; his father had been recalled from Luling to become Crown Prince with her help as well. Yet now, someone was making pointed jokes at Princess Taiping’s expense, and the Crown Prince and Prince Xiang did not even dare come forward to speak up for their sister.
Behind the screen, the Empress’s questioning of the candidates reached its most animated stage. She asked about current affairs and the classics; all three answered fluently and without a single stumble. Even the attendants could see that the Empress was very satisfied.
Indeed, the Empress was in excellent spirits at this moment. She had intended to bring the Xuan Xiaowei members into the official world as silent operatives embedded in the court—but the imperial examination tested talent, and she had originally not planned to be too heavy-handed, intending to scatter them among the other graduates. But these three young men’s examination papers had far exceeded her expectations; overjoyed, the Empress had swept her vermilion brush and openly designated them the top three. Today’s palace audience had not disappointed her either.
The only pity was that two of them were not entirely easy to manage.
After the questioning in Hanyuan Hall concluded, the graduates filed out one by one. There were still many activities ahead—riding on horseback through the streets in procession, paying respects before the statue of Confucius, inscribing their names at the Wild Goose Pagoda, and many more besides. The Empress intended to make it a grand occasion; one could anticipate that many more follow-up events of this kind would be arranged.
Ming Huazhang descended the steps. The eunuchs ahead were already bustling about preparing for the street procession, yet Ming Huazhang did not move. He turned and looked back at Hanyuan Hall.
The skilled craftsmen of the world were truly remarkable: in such a short time, they had actually completed the construction of Hanyuan Hall. Ming Huazhang was not a stranger to this palace—they had already seen it at Heavenly Fragrance Tower—but there was an entirely different feeling between seeing it on paper and standing in it in person.
Ming Huazhang withdrew his gaze and said: “By the way, the slip of paper from Han Jie—did you receive it?”
Xie Jichuan tucked his sleeves and looked straight ahead at the imposing towers of the gate, saying lightly: “I received it.”
“Did you read it?”
Xie Jichuan gave a light laugh: “I threw it away.”
Exactly as he had expected. Ming Huazhang was entirely unsurprised, and asked: “Actually, I’ve long been curious about something—why were you ranked third? Setting Su Xingzhi aside for now, your analytical essays could not possibly have been worse than mine, no matter how you look at it.”
“Is that your way of mocking me?”
“No.” Ming Huazhang’s tone was even and calm—even when someone was being openly sarcastic to his face, not the slightest trace of displeasure showed through. “I’m wondering what criteria the rankings were actually based on. Xie Jichuan, tell me honestly—how did you write your final policy essay?”
The Presented Scholar examination consisted of: recitation passages (testing only the major classics, requiring passages from the Book of Rites and the Zuo Commentary to be recalled from memory), miscellaneous writings (one poem and one rhyme-prose piece), and—most importantly—five policy essays. The weight given to each section in the overall assessment also made clear the true criterion for selecting Presented Scholars. The policy essays were posed by the examiners on questions of current affairs in politics, commerce, law, the military, waterway transport, the salt administration, and other areas, to which the candidates responded with references to the classics. The five essays had different required lengths, and the final one was the culminating piece—the most critical of all.
Xie Jichuan very composedly straightened his long sleeves, entirely unperturbed, and said matter-of-factly: “I didn’t write it.”
Ming Huazhang had already half-expected this, but when he actually heard the words he still startled: “Didn’t write it?”
“That’s right.” Xie Jichuan said. “Han Jie practically handed me the final question on a platter. I myself know I never looked at that slip of paper—but how would the examiners know? If they were to assume I had seen the question beforehand and written my essay based on it, then no matter how well the essay was written, it would be a gift from someone else’s charity. I would rather not have it.”
Ming Huazhang looked at him in silence, with a complicated feeling he could not put into words.
He had always known Xie Jichuan was arrogant and contemptuous, but he had not expected his pride to go this far—refusing to answer at all for fear that people might think he had cheated?
To be able to do such a thing as that.
Since the matter had been brought up this far, Xie Jichuan naturally asked in return: “And you? Did you write the final question?”
“Of course I wrote it.” Ming Huazhang said. “The night I received the slip of paper I burned it. I have a clear conscience—what is there to be afraid of writing?”
Xie Jichuan raised an eyebrow with a half-smile: “You’re not worried that a certain person might assume your policy essay was written after seeing the question beforehand?”
“I hold no shame before heaven above or earth below, and bear a clear conscience. What others think is their business. But since I entered the examination, I owed it to myself to do my utmost.” Ming Huazhang said, then paused and continued: “I imagine she knows perfectly well, with perfect clarity.”
“Oh?” Xie Jichuan sensed something was not quite right and pressed: “What do you mean?”
“Did you never stop to wonder what was actually written on that piece of paper?” Ming Huazhang’s gaze drifted into the distance, looking out toward the Phoenix Gate. “During the Zhenguan era, the imperial examination was still largely a formality—selections relied heavily on reputation, and those who placed were mostly sons of prominent families or descendants of officials. But after she took power, she pushed strongly for selections based on essays and poetry. She devised measures such as covering names during marking, and having designated clerks copy out the examination papers in full so chief examiners could not recognize individual handwriting. Do you truly believe she would leak examination questions before an imperial sitting?”
Xie Jichuan raised his brow: “You’re saying…”
“What was written on that paper was almost certainly not the examination question—it was certain historical materials.” Ming Huazhang exhaled. “If someone received the slip of paper and assumed they had the question and could relax and wait for their name to be called—that person would most likely not be selected at all. If someone received the slip, studied its contents carefully, and privately looked up the related historical materials, they would naturally come to understand what direction of policy analysis she wished to see. But if someone received the slip and did not read it at all—however brilliantly their essay was written, however tight the argumentation, the direction would be wrong.”
The classical texts were only so many. But even when arguing from the same text, essays written by a thousand people would be a thousand different things, and trains of thought rarely coincided by chance. Ming Huazhang did not know how his policy essay had fared in the Empress’s eyes, but clearly, it would not have been the direction she was looking for.
He had not read the slip of paper. He knew this in his heart—and so did the Empress. He now realized that the true test for the three of them had not been the imperial examination at all. It had been that slip of paper.
Seeming to point a deer and call it a horse was a crude trick, but an extremely effective one—excellent for filtering out those who harbored ulterior motives or who were insufficiently obedient. Whatever reasons Ming Huazhang and Xie Jichuan had for their quiet non-compliance, there was no denying that they were not fully and completely committed to the Empress.
Behind the spectacle of this widely celebrated imperial examination was, in truth, a covert test of loyalty. The examination rankings were a ranking of loyalty.
Su Xingzhi was the true winner: he had read the slip of paper, and then, rather than becoming complacent or arrogant, he had continued to prepare diligently and won the Empress’s recognition through genuine talent and learning. Ming Huazhang had not read it—whatever his talent and scholarship, his attitude had been a grade below from the start. As for Xie Jichuan, who had simply declined to write the essay at all—there was even less to be said.
So, from the Empress’s perspective, this ranking was perfectly fair. None of them had any grounds for grievance.
Xie Jichuan slowly let out a long “ahh,” narrowed his eyes, and said: “I see. Han Jie has played us again.”
Ming Huazhang did not respond. A loss was a loss. He had been outmaneuvered by one move—he could blame no one else. He did not like Su Xingzhi, but he still acknowledged that Su Xingzhi’s success had been earned through genuine talent and learning. Ming Huazhang had nothing to say.
Two green-robed eunuchs approached, hands at their sides, and said respectfully: “Both Presented Scholars, the procession through the streets is ready. If you would please…”
Ming Huazhang and Xie Jichuan naturally broke off their conversation and headed one after the other toward Phoenix Gate.
Phoenix Gate was the main gate of the Grand Ming Palace—thirty zhang tall, soaring and towering, a majestic and imposing presence. Its back corresponded to Hanyuan Hall, Xuanzheng Hall, and Purple Sovereign Hall stretching away into the distance; its front spread five gate passages in a line, radiating the full authority of a great empire.
At this moment, a group of crimson-robed young men came riding out of the deep gate passage on tall horses. The three at the front had fine, handsome features and elegant, easy bearing. On both sides of the street, the crowds of onlookers fell silent for a moment—then erupted in a thunderous roar.
The new list from the examination stirs all of Chang’an; along every avenue, people on horseback ride out to see. The men envied these three young men’ instant fame and high spirits; the young ladies of Chang’an were frantically trying to find out who the top three graduates were, where they were from, and whether they were already married.
Very quickly, the personal details of the new Presented Scholars were turned inside out. Everyone learned that in addition to their fine looks, the top three of this year’s class also had notable family backgrounds—in particular, one was the son of the Duke Zhenguo household, another was the eldest legitimate son of the Xie family of Chenjun. And once it became known that all three were unmarried, enthusiasm ran even higher.
On the second floor of a wine house beside Vermilion Sparrow Street, Ren Yao leaned on the railing and gazed into the distance at the lively procession of Presented Scholars not far away. She sighed: “Looking at this scene, it might not quite be a day in which one sees all the flowers of Chang’an, but it’s at least seeing all of Chang’an’s finest in a single day. They’re both types of graduates—so why does no one pay any attention to the military examination?”
Jiang Ling snorted and said: “Aren’t we still here remembering you? Congratulations, Ren Jie—you’ve successfully placed in the military examination. You should be the first female Military Top Scholar in history.”
“If we include even the civil examination, Eldest Sister Ren would still be the only one of her kind.” Ming Huashang said with great animation. “Eldest Sister Ren, what has the Ministry of War said? You’ve already passed the military examination—will they be granting you an official post?”
Ren Yao let out a derisive snort and said: “Stop dreaming. In a time of peace, military officers have little use as it is. On top of that, I’m a woman—I’ll probably be no more than decorative embroidery on the official register. The Ministry of War is full of old fossils who care more about social rank and hierarchy than anyone; I haven’t heard a word about an official appointment. What I have heard is that they passed word of my result to my grandmother.”
“Ah…” Ming Huashang was at a loss for words. “Then what does Lady Ren say?”
Ren Yao gave a cold smile; from her expression alone, one could guess that Lady Ren’s reaction was not going to be favorable. Ming Huashang and Jiang Ling both fell silent together. At this moment, the procession below drew nearer. Intending to redirect Ren Yao’s attention, Ming Huashang cried out in deliberate delight: “Look, everyone—the Presented Scholars are here! Wow, the first-place scholar looks wonderful today!”
Today was the day results were posted, and people had been going up and down the streets selling sachets and embroidered pouches all day. Ming Huashang had bought two of them on a whim. She was sincerely happy for Su Xingzhi—Su Xingzhi had come from a truly humble background, yet had surpassed sons of powerful noble families and great clans in the imperial examination. How much effort must have gone into that? Such a result was worthy of any amount of celebration.
Ming Huashang was just about to follow the crowd and toss a sachet to the first-place scholar when—perhaps because her cry just now had been a little too loud and clear—as the procession passed beneath their building, Ming Huazhang suddenly looked up and looked directly at her.
Ming Huashang froze. The sachet in her hand suddenly felt as though it were burning. And Xie Jichuan, sensing Ming Huazhang’s movement, also looked over.
The autumn sunlight was radiant and dazzling; it seemed as though even the wind slowed. Ming Huashang stood rooted to the spot, facing the most catastrophic embarrassment of her life, while Jiang Ling came wandering over beside her, clueless, and asked: “Why aren’t you throwing it? Can’t throw that far? Tell me who you want to give it to—I’ll throw it for you.”