Chapter Seventy-Six: The First Draft of the Essay Stirs the Monument, and Sword Energy Fills the Universe as the Brush Falls

Rain fell on the courtyard, tapping softly upon the mandarin-duck tiles, each drop a gentle accompaniment to the solitude within. The early spring wind, still edged with chill, swept through the simple examination quarters, wrapping the bodies within in a thin shroud of cold, raising goosebumps on the skin.

As he began to read through the exam scrolls, An Le already had a fair grasp of the first set of questions for this spring’s imperial exam. Yet the final question made his brow crease in contemplation. The issue of whether to launch a northern campaign had appeared on the exam—a question that was, in truth, less about scholarship and more about the examinee's political stance.

“A general exam set by Chancellor Qin—surely this is his handiwork,” An Le chuckled softly, shaking his head. He had already guessed as much. Methodically, he cleared his mind of the question’s entanglements. For him, the answer was almost self-evident, but he knew that such an answer would hardly please the examiner—in fact, it might well earn him a failing mark. Therefore, An Le resolved to secure every possible point from the other questions; only by doing so could he ensure his place among the successful candidates, even if he forfeited one major question.

He ground the ink, dipped his wolf-hair brush, and began to write. Perhaps due to his cultivation, his memory had become keen; every book he had read was etched in his mind, whether those memories belonged to his body’s previous owner or to himself, who had crossed from another world. Every bit of knowledge arose vividly as he needed it. The brush, stained with ink, glided over the snowy paper, whispering softly, reminiscent of someone dragging their feet through sand, leaving myriad traces in their wake.

The first round of the spring examination encompassed a vast array of material—rites, the words of the sages, the classics, treatises on demons and spirits—all within scope. A question quoted, “So vast that none can name it; so eminent, its achievements shine; so resplendent, its literary grace is unmistakable.” Such was a passage from the words of the sages, a straightforward question, almost a gift. With a little thought, An Le unraveled its meaning: the sages’ virtue was so great that the people found no words to praise them, their achievements so illustrious that they illuminated the realm.

In answering, one must first extol the educational deeds of the ancient sages, name the benefits they brought the people, the worthy men they employed, and finally express one’s own resolve to emulate them, to serve the people and accomplish grand enterprises. Many questions followed this pattern—the key lay in careful reading.

Another question, seemingly simple—“Water, fire, metal, wood, earth, grain—let them be well governed”—was drawn from the classics. The crux, though, was subtler. Water irrigates, fire cooks, metal cuts, wood constructs, earth nurtures, grain sustains; these are the six departments, born of nature to nourish all living things. Thus, good governance means tending these well so the land prospers and the people live in peace—this is the true answer.

An Le’s brush moved with precision, his script regular and clear, not the distinctive Banqiao style but one that would please the examiners and earn marks for presentation—a crucial detail. Every question was a test set by the examiner, a silent contest, sometimes laced with hidden traps. Some questions quoted only an excerpt, and without knowledge of the full text, it was easy to stray from the topic. For example, one question quoted, “A scholar must first have discernment, and then the art of writing.” The original line continued, “First discernment, then literary skill”—without knowing the full context, a careless answer might give the impression of sloppy reading.

Answering such questions was a contest of wits. Yet with the strength of mind An Le now possessed, he did not find it taxing. Within his brow, the Sword Furnace thrummed with energy. His spirit, strengthened with every question, grew steadily; answering became a form of cultivation, the scent of ink feeding the inkpool at his waist. The inkpool, a scholar’s sword, was nourished by the fragrance of brush and book alike.

Unnoticed, time slipped away like sand through his fingers. Night fell, spring rain drummed steadily; throughout the examination courtyard, the candidates lit their prepared oil lamps, each a flickering star in the dark, casting a dreamy, uncertain glow. Heavy curtains shielded the lamps. The wind was restless, all was quiet, and by morning the peach blossoms would fill the paths.

Once the exam questions were distributed, word of them quickly spread. In many noble households, scholars were already analyzing the questions, composing answers to compare with those of their kin once the exam ended. For others, it was mere curiosity.

At the Lin estate, by the lakeside pavilion, Li You'an, Lord Lin, and Lady Hua chatted idly, enjoying the spring rain reflected in the water’s surface, candlelight illuminating the exam scrolls and their more distinctive questions.

“The Great Zhao has been driven south for five centuries, yet the Yuan-Mongol emperor still dominates the land. With this in mind, discuss: is a northern campaign warranted?” Lady Hua read the question aloud, her tone languid.

A wry chuckle echoed in the pavilion. “Only Chancellor Qin would pose such a question,” Li You'an remarked, shaking his head. “Plainly, this is a test of allegiance. An Le won’t get a single point on this one.”

He sipped his tea, the night deepening around him. Lord Lin’s gaze flickered, and he sighed softly. “With An’s temperament, he’ll certainly advocate for the campaign. His Galloping Horse painting showed his spirit, and he’s inherited the Qingshan from his predecessor. To endorse abandoning the campaign, to maintain the status quo, would be laughable. Bowing and scraping is not An’s way.”

Li You'an and Lady Hua both understood this well. “Could it be that An Le will fail even to pass the palace examination?” Lady Hua murmured, her red lips pursed.

The atmosphere in the pavilion grew oddly tense.

Li You'an, cradling his teacup, smiled faintly. “Not necessarily. So long as he answers all the other questions correctly, missing one won’t matter.”

Lord Lin shot him a sideways glance. “Easy for a former top scholar to say.” For ordinary scholars, rest was essential to face the next day’s questions. But for those who cultivated, their spirits burned endlessly bright, needing no sleep.

Deep into the night, An Le continued to answer the questions. Aside from the major essay on the northern campaign, none troubled him; his memory, sharpened by cultivation, called forth every book and answer as easily as picking a petal from a spring-blown peach tree.

The first round of the examination lasted three days, yet by the end of the first, An Le had nearly finished. At last, he turned to the final essay: “Discuss the merits of a northern campaign.”

His gaze settled upon it, and he pondered. Within the imperial clan of Great Zhao, many advocated for war—primarily the generals, like Marshal Ye Longsheng and the champion Di Zang. Most scholars, however, opposed it, arguing that war was not only the generals’ concern but the whole realm’s. To launch a campaign would disrupt the peace built over five centuries, exhausting the people and the state. This had become the chief contention between the civil and military institutes for generations.

Differences in doctrine and allegiance only sharpened the conflict.

An Le propped his chin in the candlelight, lost in thought. The answer was clear to him. Five centuries of southern exile, the dreamlike prosperity had eroded the people's resolve, making them forget the tragic struggle of their ancestors. But An Le remembered—he had beheld the golden years of Zhao Huangting, had witnessed the bitter song of loss.

He had seen generals weeping blood, officials kneeling on deck, facing their lost homeland in tears and remorse, had seen some, in fury, seize bamboo swords and charge at the Yuan-Mongol emperor himself. Only words of undying resolve—“Satisfy hunger with the flesh of the barbarian foe, slake thirst with Xiongnu blood”—could ease such indignation.

Chancellor Qin, a staunch opponent of the campaign, had set this question as a test, to sift and chastise. An Le knew he would earn little here. Since that was so, what need for caution? Why not write boldly, pour out his heart?

A smile touched his lips. His spirit grew excited; he dipped his brush deep in ink, considered, and began to write:

“Since ancient times, emperors have ruled the realm from the heartland, commanding the barbarians at the borders. Never have the barbarians ruled the heartland to command the world.”

His eyes shone as he wrote, recalling the weeping generals on the northern river, his own indignation rising.

“The mandate of heaven cycles; when the central lands flourish, a sage will rise among the multitudes, drive out the invaders, restore the heartland, reestablish order, and relieve the people.”

“Our people are destined to reclaim the heartland. How can the barbarians rule? Lest the central lands remain tainted, the people restless, we must strive to cleanse, to expel the invaders, quell chaos, and restore our honor.”

The essay’s core: expel the foreign usurpers, restore China—advocating for the northern campaign.

Outside the examination quarters, the spring rain strengthened into a torrential downpour, as if heaven itself raged, scattering peach blossoms down the mountainsides.

An Le’s brush flew across the page, the roar of the rain in his ears like the thunder of a charging army. Images of the elders’ bygone years, the grief, the anger, the weeping on the river, all surged in his heart, gathering into a storm of inspiration.

He wrote without restraint, unburdened by caution.

Chancellor Qin—damn you.

His essay took on the force of a battle proclamation, its passion like a blazing sun melting mountain snows.

Pen strokes startled the wind and rain; the finished essay would make even spirits weep.

That night’s storm seemed to echo his words, the ink’s fragrance surging, his Sword Furnace at his brow trembling with every character, sword-qi ringing in his heart.

Outside, the rain became a waterfall of blades, resonating with the Sword Furnace, growing, clanging, ready to burst forth. The inkpool at his waist vibrated, suddenly floating, casting sword-light across the room. The ink’s essence poured into it, raising its rank, nearing the fifth grade.

In the literary academy, a winding path led through the woods to a secluded thatched hut. A charcoal brazier boiled water; steam curled upward. The Third Master sat under the eaves, his face wrinkled with age, watching the gathering storm—each drop of rain seemed to carry a hint of murderous intent.

He rose, his scholar’s robe quickly soaked, and reached out to catch a raindrop, peering at it with clouded eyes, sensing its meaning.

“Is it the spring examination?” he mused. “No… someone is writing a work of killing intent.”

He narrowed his eyes, then abruptly looked toward the academy’s depths, a flash of light in his gaze. With a single step, the roaring rain parted before him like a drawn curtain.

Deep within the academy stood the Wordless Stele of Literary Stars. The Third Master drifted forward, his robes snapping in the wind. He was not alone; another figure approached through the rain, robed as a scholar—it was the Second Master, Pang Ji, with whom he had once shared an ink bamboo painting.

“Second Master,” the Third Master greeted him with a smile and a bow.

The Second Master returned the courtesy, but as they straightened, both turned toward a fixed point, sensing something. There, the wind and rain seemed suspended, and slow footsteps approached.

A stooped, ancient figure walked through the rain, shrinking the earth with every step. Though frail, the force of his spirit could, with a thought, send all the rain flowing back to the sky.

“First Master,” the two greeted, surprised to see that even he had emerged tonight.

The old scholar returned the bow. The three elders fell silent, gazing at the Wordless Stele.

“You sensed the stele stir as well?” the First Master’s voice was hoarse.

“The Wordless Stele is the academy’s greatest treasure, just as the Martial Stone is to the temple—a symbol of extraordinary meaning. Usually, scholars who make the Literary Star list will recite their finest works before it. But since Li You'an and Mountmaster Su Zhanxian stirred it, it has not moved again,” Pang Ji mused. “Perhaps this spring’s exam has produced a work the stele acknowledges.”

The Third Master stroked his beard, thoughtful.

The First Master raised a hand, plucked at the stele, and a wisp of literary spirit drifted from it, coiling around his finger. “No point in guessing. Let us go and see. Any essay that moves the stele is worth our curiosity.”

The three masters smiled and, with the rain parting before them, followed the trail of literary spirit.

Unnoticed, they parted the rain and came silently to a certain examination room. Through the window, they saw:

A youth, lips curled in a smile, writing swiftly, the inkpool swirling. His spirit brimmed with ambition, sword-qi filling the room.

“Brother Shen.”

“Mm.”

Shen Changqing walked the corridor, nodding at acquaintances. Yet none showed much emotion, faces all set in a mask of indifference, as if nothing could move them.

He was long accustomed to this. This was the Demon Suppression Bureau, the institution that maintained the stability of Great Qin, its chief duty the slaying of monsters and demons, though it had other roles as well.

Everyone here, without exception, had blood on their hands. When one grew used to life and death, indifference became second nature.

At first, Shen Changqing had found it hard to adjust, but over time, he had become used to it.

The Bureau was vast, and all who remained were either formidable masters or those with the potential to become one. Shen Changqing was among the latter.

The Bureau had two ranks: Suppression Envoy and Exorcist Envoy. All entered at the lowest, as Exorcist Envoys, and worked their way up, aspiring to become Suppression Envoys. Shen Changqing’s predecessor had been a probationary Exorcist Envoy—the lowest of the low.

With these memories, Shen Changqing was already intimately familiar with the Bureau’s workings.

Soon, he arrived at a certain pavilion. Unlike the rest of the Bureau, steeped in blood, this building stood apart—a crane among chickens, a rare oasis of tranquility.

The doors were open, and people came and went. Shen Changqing hesitated only a moment before stepping inside.

Within, the atmosphere changed at once. The scent of ink, tinged faintly with blood, greeted him. He instinctively frowned, but quickly smoothed his brow. The scent of blood was something no one in the Bureau could ever truly wash away.