Chapter Six: An Excursion

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Autumn maple, winter snow.

Within the borders of Jiangzhou, two mountains are renowned far and wide, celebrated as scenic destinations. One is Maple Mountain—here, specifically, referring to the Front Mountain. The entire range stretches grandly, blanketed mostly in maple forests, yet its steep and secluded rear remains untouched, rarely visited, and undeveloped—a wild expanse.

The other is called Pen Rack Mountain.

Compared to Maple Mountain, Pen Rack Mountain is smaller, but taller; its form lives up to its name—a solitary peak, rising like an upright brush, perfectly suited for viewing the landscape.

For viewing the snow.

Standing at its summit, gazing in all directions, witnessing white snow drifting and the earth vast and desolate—what grandeur fills the heart? Not far from its face, the mighty Jian River surges eastward, waves crashing against the shore, injecting soul into the scenery, bringing it vividly to life.

And when snow falls upon the great river, it is all the more magnificent!

Thus, every winter, especially when the snow descends, Pen Rack Mountain swells with visitors.

This year, the first snowfall was particularly heavy.

Amidst the swirling snow, Chen Jianchen sat inside a comfortable carriage, bound for Pen Rack Mountain. Accompanying him was the carriage’s owner, Wang Fu, courtesy name Futai.

Wang Fu was also a scholar, but his family background far surpassed Chen Jianchen’s—a landowner, with a hundred acres of good fields, a wealthy young man.

Of course, wealth is relative. The Wang family was merely a landowning household of commoners, a rural gentry, not to be compared with the powerful aristocratic clans.

Chen Jianchen and Wang Fu hailed from the same hometown, studied together in the same village school, and, more coincidentally, obtained the title of scholar in the same year. Both were admitted to Minghua Academy in Jiangzhou, forging a bond as classmates.

Wang Fu, inheriting his father’s calculating and stingy nature, was not one of those arrogant, tyrannical scions who bullied the weak. Rarely did he exploit the villagers—a rarity in itself.

Yet, Chen Jianchen now felt little affection for him.

This had nothing to do with family background, but rather was due to ingrained habits from his life on Earth.

The Chen family was poor, but Chen Jianchen had been steeped in the Four Books since childhood and was known as a “prodigy.” In this officialdom-centric world where civil service exams could change one’s fate, such a title was invaluable. Those gifted in the eight-legged essay, regardless of their humble origins, were seldom underestimated; who could say if a pauper might suddenly pass the imperial exam?

Passing the exam often meant becoming an official.

Throughout history, countless examples proved that at such a moment, the penniless youth could settle old scores, repay grudges and kindness alike.

Thus, Chen Jianchen and Mo San-niang’s lives had always been peaceful, rarely troubled by fools seeking trouble. Neighbors were often eager to help.

When Chen Jianchen placed first in his third exam and became a stipend student at Minghua Academy, the Chen family’s status soared and changed dramatically; Chen Jianchen was now respectfully addressed as “Master Chen.”

—In the Tian Tong dynasty, a scholar’s status varied greatly. Age was the main standard: those under forty were considered “potential stocks,” held in high esteem; after forty, their prospects waned, and by sixty, they were “old scholars.”

What did “old” mean?

Eyes dimmed, memory faded; passing the imperial exam became a distant dream. If old and poor—the worst.

Chen Jianchen earned his scholar’s title at sixteen. Though not as precocious as those who achieved it at twelve or thirteen, he was still considered “boundlessly promising,” naturally becoming the object of flattery and favor from villagers.

Including the landowning gentry.

For instance, the Wang family.

Wang Fu was twenty-nine, having taken the children’s exam ten times before attaining the scholar’s qualification, finally stepping into the ranks of the learned. In talent, he was no match for Chen Jianchen, and at Minghua Academy, he was merely an ordinary student. Thus, he felt it necessary to forge a connection now through their shared classmate bond, rather than wait until Chen Jianchen’s name appeared on the golden list—by then, it would be too late.

Moreover, in this world of poor transport, local ties were always highly valued.

So, Wang Fu set out early, arrived at Chen Jianchen’s home, presented a valuable rosewood book case as a gift, and invited him to Pen Rack Mountain to view the snow.

The rosewood case was two feet long, nine inches wide, exquisitely crafted and easy to carry, able to hold the Four Treasures of the Study—brush, ink, paper, and inkstone—a weapon of the scholar. The rosewood itself was dark, naturally fragrant, insect and rot resistant, a rare commodity.

Such a generous gift surprised Chen Jianchen, who accepted it somewhat reluctantly, but genuinely liked it. From then on, he could consign his old, rough book case to the fire.

A book case was essential luggage for a scholar traveling, far more useful than a bundle—sturdy, spacious, with a pole and cloth canopy for shade and rain, a multi-functional item. Scholars of status had their book cases carried by attendants; for now, Chen Jianchen had to shoulder his own.

For some reason, as he packed his ink, paper, books, and talisman brush into the case and tried it on for the first time, he recalled Leslie Cheung as Ning Caichen in the classic “A Chinese Ghost Story,” carrying his book case with grace and elegance.

This rosewood case, though not large, was heavy due to its material. If he hadn’t trained, it would be hard to carry.

In truth, Wang Fu felt a pang parting with the book case, but he could think of no better gift. Painful as it was, this act of goodwill would be repaid several times over when Chen Jianchen succeeded.

Unfortunately, his calculations missed one thing—the possibility of transmigration.

—If previously Chen Jianchen had a fifty percent chance of passing, now, his odds were one percent, as ephemeral as smoke.

Inside, the carriage was lined with thick brocade, warmed by a brazier. Chen Jianchen and Wang Fu sat around the fire, chatting idly.

Suddenly!

A shout from Ah Shui, the Wang family’s coachman, halted the galloping horses and stopped the carriage:

“Master, there’s a woman fallen on the road…”

“Oh? What’s going on?”

The two scholars lifted the curtain and stepped out. Wang Fu wore a luxurious fox fur coat, while Chen Jianchen’s attire was a plain, bulky cotton jacket—brand new.

Outside, the snow fell thickly, covering the ground. By the roadside lay a young woman in a red jacket, her hair disheveled, slumped as if she had encountered some misfortune and passed out from the cold.

Wang Fu’s brows furrowed slightly, but as he stepped closer and saw the woman’s face, he was struck as if by lightning—his mind blank, his body numb—

Beautiful, unimaginably so!

Such beauty in the world, unmatched!

Wang the scholar’s eyes widened, his mouth dry, a surge of lust rising uncontrollably from his belly, his body reacting instinctively.

Chen Jianchen, too, saw the woman’s face and felt a stir of amazement, but his strange emotion quickly gave way to a sense of inexplicable suspicion and caution.