Chapter Seventy-Eight: In the Quiet Bamboo Grove, Literary Melody Resonates—The Young Swordsman Leads the Way [Seeking Monthly Votes]

The four walls stretched into the distant haze, reflecting the emerald glow of the sky, while the seven-tiered hall leaned into the chill of the evening stars. Night gradually ascended the heavens, stars scattered across the vast expanse, and the moonlight lay frost-like upon the world.

At the Prefecture of Lin’an, within the Ministry of Rites, the tension was palpable. With the conclusion of the first session of the Spring Imperial Examination, the Ministry quickly set about the meticulous grading of the examination papers. From the Hall of Confucian Learning, the exam scripts were steadily delivered and, after several rigorous procedures—including the anonymization of candidates—distributed among the many examiners for cross-review. Should any discrepancies arise, further consultation ensured no misjudgment would occur.

Over three thousand scripts, each densely filled with responses, awaited their scrutiny. Even as examiners, the task demanded immense time and mental exertion. During these days, every examiner lived and worked within the Ministry—hardly leaving its confines.

Under the chill glow of lanterns, the officials poured themselves into their task. The candidates were all accomplished scholars, having already distinguished themselves in their home provinces; their writing skills were beyond question. The purpose of the Spring Imperial Examination was to select the very best from among the best, to identify those of exceptional talent and quality.

The soft rustle of turning pages echoed through the hall, like the sound of wind stirring bamboo leaves in the depth of night. Desks were arrayed in neat rows, and the examiners sat upright behind them, brush in hand, dipping into vermilion ink to annotate and score responses. Each answer was evaluated for its insight and proximity to the ideal response.

Despite the tension, a sense of harmony lingered. Yet, one matter vexed the examiners: the central essay topic of this year’s examination, a discussion of whether to launch a Northern Expedition. The responses were tediously uniform—dozens of candidates voicing opposition to the campaign, their words laden with flattery and an obvious desire to curry favor with Chancellor Qin, the well-known opponent of the expedition. The intent was transparent, and the monotony tedious.

Not all opposed the Northern Expedition, of course. A few candidates advocated for it, but their essays lacked substance, driven by raw passion rather than reasoned argument. Such papers were dismissed with barely a glance, receiving no marks—no debate or deliberation was required.

After long hours of reading, many examiners stretched and rose to clear their minds, weary with the flood of scholarship. Suddenly, a commotion arose: one examiner sat ramrod straight, eyes wide, his graying beard trembling as if electrified, utterly absorbed in the essay before him.

His face flushed, the color rising visibly beneath his skin. At last, he burst out in a loud, fervent cry of praise, his palm striking the desk with force. The other examiners, startled out of their reverie, turned to stare at him in bewilderment and silence. Was grading a student’s essay truly cause for such excitement?

“Excellent!” he proclaimed. “Splendid! How could we, officials of Great Zhao, simply watch as our central lands suffer the indignity of barbarian insult? We are the true heirs to this land!”

Perhaps a kindred spirit slumbered in his breast, and at this moment, it blazed to life. Words of praise tumbled from his lips, his face nearly streaming with tears of passion. The essay had struck a chord deep within him, igniting his long-held anger.

“To the river! Cross the river!” he shouted, pounding the table.

Several examiners paled—was the man mad? This year’s examinations were overseen by Chancellor Qin himself, an outspoken opponent of the Northern Expedition. To shout such things was to court disaster, to defy the Chancellor openly.

Yet curiosity soon outweighed caution. A few examiners gathered around, drawn to read the essay that had provoked such an outburst.

Starlight gleamed like gemstones, and the moon cast a cold brilliance. After reading, the examiners set the paper down, their hearts stirred with conflicting emotions. Had they not restrained themselves, they too might have shouted, “To the river!” like their impassioned colleague.

“To the river”—these words were the dying admonition of a border general who perished in bitterness, filled with unfulfilled longing. Just two words, yet they rang with heroic fervor. Now, reading them in this essay, the examiners found themselves moved as well.

“What do you think?” one asked.

“By the official key, no marks can be awarded—the essay strays from the prompt. But for me, I would give it full marks; the essay is a stirring manifesto, a torrent of eloquence that kindles my own ambition.”

They debated quietly among themselves.

“Let us present it to Chancellor Qin and let him decide.”

In the high hall of the Ministry, by the light of green lamps and the glow of fire, the room shone as bright as day despite the cool night beyond.

Chancellor Qin Lishi sat at the main desk, reviewing the candidate’s essay submitted for his judgment. His brow furrowed slightly as he read; his expression remained unchanged, but a sharp light flickered in his eyes.

“To drive out the northern invaders and restore the heartland…” he murmured. “Easier said than done. The Yuan-Mongol Emperor has dominated the world for five centuries; no one can challenge his throne. Our Great Zhao cannot produce a single man who might defeat him. If the Northern Expedition begins, who will stand against the Mongol Emperor?”

“Stirring words, to be sure, but still only talk on paper.”

Qin Lishi actually admired the essay’s spirit, but appreciation was not enough to sway his opposition to the campaign. The present peace and prosperity of Lin’an far surpassed even the Mongol capital. Yet, should the expedition fail, the Mongol cavalry might cross the mighty Canglang River and shatter the five centuries of Zhao’s glory.

“True, the Yuan-Mongol Empire is strong, but if Great Zhao unites with Dali and Western Liang, the three kingdoms would form a barrier of iron. Even the Emperor would not easily prevail, and so our age of prosperity could continue.”

He set the essay aside, dipped his brush in vermilion, and wrote his evaluation. Though the essay was excellent, it could not be given marks; its stance diverged too far from his own.

With a cold, impersonal comment, he placed the paper to one side, knowing that without marks for this key essay, the candidate was doomed to fail.

Qin Lishi found himself curious—whose name lay hidden beneath the anonymized script?

“Perhaps it is the work of a student from Wang Banshan, the third master of the Literary Academy,” he mused, a faint smile on his lips.

Suddenly, he sensed something and looked toward the Ministry window, where the starlight seemed to coalesce into a shimmering figure.

“Second Master,” Qin Lishi murmured in surprise.

The stooped Second Master entered, saluting the Chancellor before approaching his side. He pointed at the essay on the desk. “The Wenqu Stele stirred at this essay. If you award no marks, it will be difficult to explain to the First Master and the Literary Academy.”

Qin Lishi’s face hardened as he stared at the essay he had just failed. The Wenqu Stele had responded to this piece?

A shadow flickered in his heart. Could it be that the Academy, too, favored the Northern Expedition?

He looked again at the essay, but all admiration had faded, replaced by anger and annoyance.

Yet, no matter how he fumed, there was little he could do. Reluctantly, he amended the score, granting a few points—otherwise, denying all marks to an essay that could stir the Wenqu Stele would incur the wrath of the Academy’s venerable scholars.

*

Dawn broke with birdsong, their cheerful chatter flitting beneath the eaves.

Anle, as always, concluded a night of meditation, his spirit nearly brimming. In the courtyard, he began practicing the Five Beast Forms of the Ancient Beasts—a discipline he had missed during the three days of examinations. He felt restless and unwell without it.

After a vigorous session, energy, blood, and spirit intermingled within him, the shadow of a tiger roared among the stars, and a mighty bear stood unshakable as a mountain. The more he practiced, the more adept he became at controlling these ancient beast phenomena.

Finished, Anle donned white robes, took up his ink-black sword and inkstone, slung his satchel over his shoulder, and set out once more for the examination.

Under a clear sky, the scent of peach and apricot blossoms filled the air, the roadside shaded by green trees. The youth climbed the stone steps and entered the Literary Academy.

The remaining two sessions of the Spring Examination passed without incident for Anle; as before, he performed the tasks on the first day, then spent the next two meditating, visualizing the Sword Cascade. Whether it was the atmosphere of the examination or some other reason, his cultivation progressed swiftly, nearing a state of transcendent perfection.

When the Spring Examination finally ended, Anle left his cell, the ink-black sword at his waist. Sunlight filtered through blooming peach blossoms, and he squinted, feeling a rare sense of relief.

For the scholars of the realm, the Spring Examination was of utmost importance—a chance to leap from obscurity to prominence. Nerves were taut, but now, with its end, relaxation swept over them like fish returning to the sea.

In groups of three or five, the candidates left the Academy together—some to prepare banquets for friends, some to the Drunken Fragrance Pavilion to celebrate, others to Linghua Pavilion to savor a different kind of pleasure.

But for those aiming for the top ranks, the Spring Examination was not yet over—a test of cultivation remained.

The next day, Anle arrived with only his sword and inkstone. The crowd was thinner now, only those who practiced cultivation. He scanned the field—each bore the aura of accumulated years.

Having neglected to gather “years’ essence” for several days, Anle did so now, collecting twenty wisps and adding them to the “Talent for the Ages” fruit of his cultivation. Lately, all the essence he amassed went toward bolstering his talent and potential; unconsciously, this had reached eighty-two wisps, soon to be a hundred. Anle took this in stride.

They gathered on a grassy field, set aside for this final test—one intended only for cultivators. Many of them were acquainted, chatting merrily, dressed in scholar’s robes, clearly familiar with the Academy.

“They’re the geniuses from the Wenqu List—destined to make the top ranks,” someone beside Anle observed. He turned to see a robust young man in common clothes, a great saber strapped to his back, exuding the iron-blooded aura of a border general.

“You must be the famous Master An of Lin’an,” the youth declared, clasping his fists in greeting.

Anle smiled and returned the salute. “Anle of Chongzhou.”

“The ink-black sword at your waist gave you away. I’ve heard of your victory over Wang Qinhe on West Lake—stirring stuff!”

“I am Han Shi of Cangzhou. An honor,” the young man said.

Cangzhou—the region of the Canglang River. Military, perhaps?

Sensing Anle’s thoughts, Han Shi laughed. “Indeed, I joined the Spring Examination through the military quota, hoping to make the top ranks and prove that we soldiers are men of letters, too.”

Anle found him amusing and struck up a conversation.

“Those scholars on the Wenqu List surely recognize you. Yet they deliberately ignore you—rivalry among scholars is an old story.”

“The Wenqu scholars are proud; even in the army I heard of them.”

Han Shi gestured toward the group of scholars who seemed to ostracize them.

“If they surpass you in this examination, they’ll make a name for themselves,” Han Shi remarked.

Anle was unconcerned. “Should they surpass me, it is only because their skill exceeds mine. They will have earned their fame.”

Han Shi gave a thumbs-up. “Bold and unrestrained—worthy of the man who thrashed Wang Qinhe!”

“You may be unfamiliar with the Wenqu List—it’s an internal Academy ranking. Those who make the list hope to stir the Wenqu Stele with their literary prowess. It’s quite respectable.”

Anle’s curiosity was piqued, and he asked Han Shi about the Wenqu List and the Stele. Han Shi, forthright and open, told him everything he wished to know.

As the sun climbed, a bell rang—signaling the start of the final test.

Across the grassy field, an old man approached, accompanied by Ministry officials recording the results. The elder wore scholar’s robes, his hands clasped behind his back, exuding an air of profound erudition. His eyes were deep, as if containing a field of stars. Simply standing there, he seemed to embody great learning.

“Second Master,” the Wenqu scholars greeted, bowing in respect.

Anle and Han Shi, as well as other candidates from afar, saluted as well.

The Academy had three Masters, each a revered scholar and formidable cultivator, pillars of the institution.

Second Master Pang Ji’s gaze was kindly, sweeping the assembly before settling on Anle. He was especially interested in the youth whose essay had called for “driving out the northern invaders and restoring the heartland.”

Drawing back his gaze, Pang Ji smiled. “The three written tests are complete. Only today’s trial of cultivation stands between you and the final court examination.”

“The last test was set by the Martial Temple; this time, it is the Academy’s turn. Treat it with due seriousness.”

He turned, bidding them follow him deeper into the Academy.

The Wenqu scholars were puzzled—they were heading toward the Wenqu Stele. Could the final test be related to it?

Indeed, after passing through a secluded path, they emerged into a bamboo grove. Peach petals drifted down the breeze, and deep within the bamboo stood a wordless stele, sunlight glinting off its surface as if reflecting a night sky of stars.

Anle gazed at the stele and felt a strange calm, as though sensing a surge of literary energy. The inkstone at his waist trembled, as if eager to leap forth.

“So this is the Wenqu Stele… Who would have thought that I, Han Shi, would live to see it? Countless generals have dreamed of a glimpse, only to be barred by a river of scholars’ scorn,” Han Shi sighed with awe.

After a while, his interest waned. “But it’s not as imposing as the Martial Temple’s Wu Kui Stone.”

At this, several Wenqu scholars shot him sharp looks, as if their eyes alone could silence such irreverence.

Anle simply smiled. In terms of sheer force, the Wu Kui Stone—anointed with the blood of generations of martial champions—was unmatched. Yet the Wenqu Stele’s mystery was subtler, more reserved.

“The Martial Temple has its ways, and so does the Academy,” Pang Ji said with a gentle smile. “In front of the Stele lies the Heart-Seeking Grove. Passing through it and approaching the Stele is the test. Your ranking depends on how far you progress, and final selection will also consider your written scores.”

At his words, the Wenqu scholars buzzed with excitement and confusion. The Heart-Seeking Grove was notorious—within its misty bamboo shadows, only those with refined spirits could proceed. Without sufficient strength of mind, one could become lost, unable to take a single step.

But those who succeeded gained great benefit—a cleansing and tempering of the soul.

The Martial Temple trained the body; the Academy, the mind.

This test, then, was a clear advantage for the Wenqu scholars, all of whom had experience traversing the Grove and knew its rhythms and secrets.

Was the Master not openly favoring them?

“This was decided jointly by the three Masters,” Pang Ji announced. “If you are ready, you may enter the Grove. Your ranking will be based on your proximity to the Stele.”

The candidates saluted in unison.

All eyes turned to the verdant sea of bamboo, sunlight splashing gold across the mossy ground. The Wenqu scholars were agitated and proud; surely, with such favor, they could not fail.

They drew themselves up, began mapping their routes, preparing to enter.

But before they could set out, a sword’s song rang out in excitement—a shadowy black sword flashed forward, streaking through the bamboo like ink across a blank page, scattering leaves as it went.

Anle, a little apologetic, smiled at Han Shi and the startled scholars. Clad in white and bearing his sword, he strode straight into the grove without so much as a glance at the path ahead.

The renowned Master An of Lin’an, it seemed, had no need to plan his way through the Heart-Seeking Grove—he simply entered, leaving the Wenqu scholars behind.

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