Chapter 118: Cultivation at the Prefecture Academy!

"Although all of you present here are already Cultivated Scholars (Xiucai), at the Prefecture Academy, you must relearn the Four Books and Five Classics, along with other canonical studies: the *Shuowen Jiezi*, the *Erya*, the *Laozi*, the *Zhuangzi*, the *Hanfeizi*, and the *Xunziji*, as well as history, the study of rites, and mathematics."

"Only after mastering these can you proceed to parallel prose, poetry, and policy essays. In short, as gentlemen, you are not permitted to neglect a single one of the Four Books, Five Classics, or the Six Arts."

In one of the classrooms at the Prefecture Academy, Song Mu and the others, dressed in the academy’s robes and caps, sat upright. A tutor, who held the rank of Provincial Graduate (Juren), paced among them, speaking while brandishing a wooden ruler.

Every word he uttered caused eyebrows to knit in concern, and by the time he finished, the newly minted scholars wore looks of utter astonishment.

Kong Zong, sitting beside Song Mu, glanced at him and let out a heavy sigh. Song Mu sighed as well, clicking his tongue in his heart. Although they had understood much of what a Xiucai was expected to learn—and indeed had already studied a great deal—hearing this tutor, Wang Guocai, explain the curriculum for the Prefecture Academy was still a shock.

Furthermore, this was the material they would be tested on in just two months. The academy regulations were strict: failing the literary or martial examinations three times would result in immediate expulsion.

Mastering all of this was no simple task; it was ten, perhaps a hundred times more intense than what they had endured before. Song Mu began to understand why Senior Brother Sun at the County Academy had appeared so exhausted and disheveled. The curriculum here was enough to wear anyone down. Song Mu comforted himself by treating it like his college days, when he had practically lived in the library, never setting down a book.

Despite the collective sighs, someone dared to ask, "Master, for our history studies, will we not be studying the *Complete Records of the Four Seas*?"

As this question was posed, everyone turned to Master Wang. Wang Guocai, however, wore a look of disdain.

"The *Complete Records of the Four Seas* is not merely a collection of ancient classics. As you should know, it is a compilation forged by the combined efforts of the world's greatest scholars and literati under the orders of the founding Emperor."

"Moreover, it is a tome imbued with literary power. If you wish to study it, wait until you have reached the level of a First-Class Scholar."

Upon hearing this, the excitement that had flickered in the room turned into a flurry of gazes, all converging on Song Mu. The scholars here were mostly Second-Class, and only Song Mu held the status of a First-Class Scholar. Song Mu, sensing their gaze, offered a slight, acknowledging smile.

Master Wang glanced at Song Mu, quickly shifted the topic back, and began the first lesson on the classics. While he was teaching, it was indistinguishable from an oral exam. Unlike their previous tutors, who would cite passages and read from books, Master Wang directly called on students to explain, jumping from the *Analects* to the *Doctrine of the Mean*, and from the *Book of Rites* to the *Spring and Autumn Annals*.

During the process, he frequently required the students to provide their own interpretations. Song Mu was called upon twice; fortunately, relying on his solid foundation, he passed without a hitch. The atmosphere in the classroom was thick with a sense of urgency, keeping everyone’s nerves constantly on edge.

***

After the morning’s literary lessons, the students hurriedly ate lunch before beginning their afternoon training. The afternoon was dedicated to martial arts—the cultivation of both literary power and physical combat. For most, including Song Mu, this was a first.

Changing into lighter attire and carrying their swords, they arrived at the martial arts arena, which was bustling with activity. Many students were training; archery and sparring were everywhere, and the light of literary power flashed incessantly. The scholars in the arena channeled their power, and even the younger students were training with great intensity.

Seeing this, even Song Mu was stunned. It seemed that the scholars who had been debating philosophy only moments ago had transformed into fierce warriors. Yet, this was the way of the literati in the Wen Dynasty.

They were skilled in both pen and sword; with a brush, they could write Confucian essays, with their fists they could subdue evildoers, and with their blades, they could slay demons. As the saying went: "With hearts of crimson loyalty, the scholar serves both sovereign and people."

Song Mu and Kong Zong were eager to begin. Soon, a burly instructor approached. He was also a Provincial Graduate, but on this autumn afternoon, he wore only a thin tunic, his shoulders burdened with a stack of sandbags taller than a man.

Upon seeing the group, the instructor, Xiao Xiong, threw the sandbags in front of them, his stern face hardening.

"Each of you, carry four sandbags and run ten laps around the field. Gather here in a quarter-hour to cultivate your literary power!"

Xiao’s voice was deep and resonant, almost deafening. The group stood dazed until Xue Kaiwen stepped forward, seemingly familiar with the routine, and began strapping the sandbags to his hands and feet. Song Mu and the others followed suit.

With the sandbags on, Song Mu could feel that each one weighed at least ten pounds. Running ten laps under such a load was a test of their physical limits, yet they had no choice but to grit their teeth and proceed.

They began to run along the edge of the arena, stirring up clouds of dust. Many onlookers watched, but there was no pity in their eyes—only a sense of schadenfreude.

A quarter-hour later, Song Mu was gasping for air. The distance of ten laps—equivalent to three thousand meters on sandy ground while weighted—was nearly lethal. When they finished, they collapsed to the ground, drenched in sweat. But Instructor Xiao’s gaze remained cold. He ordered them to sit in a lotus position and placed an incense stick in front of each of them.

"You have the time it takes for this incense to burn to use your literary power to move the stone in front of you ten meters."

"If you fail, you will do it all over again."

The cold tone, combined with the ten-pound stones before them, caused the scholars to gasp. Their hearts hammered against their ribs in astonishment.

Song Mu took deep breaths, trying to steady his frantic heartbeat. He realized what Instructor Xiao was doing: by forcing them through the grueling ten laps, he had exhausted their physical strength, and now he was forcing them to tap into their reserves of literary power under extreme fatigue. He was draining them completely.

There was nothing left to do but grit their teeth. They sat in meditation, adjusting their breathing and slowly attempting to channel the literary power within. But it was far more difficult than before. Even Song Mu, who was quite adept at circulating his power, felt his Dantian remain silent.

They struggled for half the time it took for the incense to burn, yet almost no one could manifest their power.

"Do not hold your breath! Follow the rhythm of your breathing, settle your mind, and try to feel your meridians. Sink your focus into your Dantian, down, deeper!"

Instructor Xiao’s voice rang out, now softer and more guiding. Every word seemed to strike their minds, instructing them on how to channel their power. It was like rain in a drought. They had not expected the first lesson in cultivating literary power to be so brutal, and they quickly changed their approach.

Song Mu followed the guidance. Though difficult at first, once he caught the rhythm of his breath, he felt his literary power begin to respond. He moved the power forward, and finally, it manifested outside his body, attaching to the stone. Yet, the stone remained unmoved.

"Keep the power flowing! Your literary power is not meant to be hoarded like a treasure!"

Xiao’s voice rang out again, and Song Mu pushed harder. But after such exhaustion, there was little power left. Song Mu gritted his teeth, and finally, the stone began to inch forward. Just as he felt a spark of joy, a massive surge of literary power struck his own, completely shattering his focus.

Song Mu opened his eyes to see everyone else exiting their meditation. Instructor Xiao stood before them once more.

"Everyone up! Ten more laps!"

"We begin again in a quarter-hour!"

The students let out pained groans but rose in despair. For the next several hours, throughout the entire afternoon, the martial arts arena was filled with the clouds of dust stirred up by Song Mu and his peers. By the end of the day, Song Mu was drenched in sweat, on the verge of total collapse.