Chapter Twenty-Eight: Being a Scholar Is Far from Enough

After giving Li Mo'er two pounds of vinegar, Song Mu paid her no more mind. After all, Li Mo'er had instructed him not to worry about her daily needs, only to provide her with those two spaces on the beam.

After dinner, Song Mu returned to his room to continue his studies, while Li Mo'er, hanging from the beam, was chewing on some dried meat she had somehow procured, cradling a luminous pearl in her arms, and reading a book.

Song Mu glanced at her, said nothing, and instead lit the oil lamp, spreading brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone across the table. He read a few books first, then finally picked up his brush to write.

Under the deep night’s candlelight, the tip of his brush slid across the paper as Song Mu carefully organized his thoughts, writing down his ideas one after another.

Whenever he felt fatigued, he would sit cross-legged on his bed for a moment, meditating, and mentally reciting passages.

Once his spirit revived, Song Mu would open his eyes, read over his newly written essay, then reread his books, and once again take up his brush.

Somehow, after reading "The Literary Gazette" and those academy examination notes today, Song Mu felt as if the thin veil in his mind had been pierced; thoughts surged forth unceasingly.

He seized this rare opportunity to write down as much as possible.

Soon, he finished his first essay on the classics, then meditated once more, reorganized his thoughts, and continued writing.

Li Mo'er, lying in her hammock, observed Song Mu’s every move.

She saw the young man, a few years her senior, tirelessly writing deep into the night. Each time weariness overtook him, he would meditate, then return to his work with renewed clarity.

Li Mo'er had seen people who tied their hair to beams and stabbed their thighs to stay awake, but Song Mu’s ability to maintain such sharp thinking while studying so diligently was astonishing.

Perhaps the Song family truly possessed some remarkable scholarly talent.

But the young girl could not outlast Song Mu; finally, she curled up in her hammock and fell asleep.

Moonlight like water poured through the window as Song Mu draped a robe over himself and continued answering questions.

He kept tending the oil lamp, pouring water into the stone inkstone and grinding ink. The more he wrote, the more his mind became unified, and his essays seemed to gain a certain spirit, filling Song Mu’s heart with joy.

It was a marvelous feeling—to experience genuine happiness from learning.

Song Mu had not felt this way in a very long time.

Immersed in this state, his hand moved swiftly across the paper.

Unconsciously, essay after essay flowed from his pen. He had no idea how much time had passed, but finally, just as the oil lamp was about to burn out, he finished an essay on strategies.

As the final character was written, Song Mu suddenly sensed a surge of literary energy emanating from the essay, infusing his body with warmth.

His exhaustion vanished; Song Mu exhaled deeply and looked outside, where dawn was breaking.

He realized he had written through the night.

Surprised, Song Mu rose, put on his robe, and went outside, intending to relieve himself and boil some water to wash his face.

As he stepped out, Li Mo'er, lying on the beam, slowly opened her eyes and appeared before his desk in an instant.

Li Mo'er extended her delicate fingers and carefully picked up the essay Song Mu had just written, scanning it at a glance.

It was a discourse on the courage of the common man and the hero. When she read the line, "The rise and fall of the world is the responsibility of every man," she couldn’t help but pout.

It was a moderate essay; if he sat for the scholar’s exam, it would likely suffice.

Her gaze quickly shifted to the other answers strewn across the desk.

As she read through each sheet, Li Mo'er's expression grew increasingly surprised.

The earliest page had good intent, but failed halfway and was riddled with flaws.

The second essay was passable in form but lacked depth, merely a coherent piece.

The third essay showed improvement, with a solid theme and smoother prose, the diction more refined, though still with room for advancement.

Then the fourth, the fifth…

Now, the sixth essay was in her hands.

Li Mo'er’s mouth hung open; Song Mu’s work was not exceptional, but in a single night, he had made such progress across several essays on the classics and strategies.

Even those who considered themselves geniuses could not achieve such a feat.

Song Mu not only endured hardship, but also possessed an extraordinary dedication to learning.

Throughout history, the diligent are favored by fortune.

Looking at Song Mu’s essays now, Li Mo'er couldn’t help but admire him. This ability was worthy of his poetic talent.

Just as Li Mo'er was appreciating Song Mu’s writing, he returned to the room and immediately saw her standing at his desk, nearly startling him.

Approaching, he saw Li Mo'er examining his essay. Song Mu pursed his lips and sat on the edge of his bed.

“Miss Mo'er, you haven’t slept yet?”

“Just woke up,” Li Mo'er replied casually, reluctantly shifting her gaze from the essay, then looked up at Song Mu.

“Master Song, your literary skill is quite impressive.”

Song Mu glanced at the essay she had set down, then at her, shrugged, and lay down fully clothed.

“Yes, yes, it’s late. I’m too tired.”

Somehow, having left that focused state, Song Mu felt utterly drained, without even the desire to practice mental cultivation.

All he wanted now was a good sleep.

Seeing Song Mu’s indifferent attitude, Li Mo'er puffed out her cheeks and set the essay aside.

“Little scholar, the level of this essay is already enough to earn the scholar’s rank.”

Song Mu, half closing his eyes, murmured, “Really? That’s not bad.”

“Not bad?” Li Mo'er raised an eyebrow and continued,

“Master Song, that’s the scholar’s rank—a distinction many dream of but never attain. Shouldn’t you be rejoicing?” She spoke, feeling Song Mu was acting rather saintly.

But Song Mu simply turned over, half opening his eyes to gaze out the window, and asked softly,

“Of course I care, but it’s not enough.”

“My Song family’s three hundred years of literary heritage—one scholar is not sufficient.”

“Even as a scholar, I must stand out above all others!”

Li Mo’er’s eyes narrowed into slits, watching Song Mu as she said,

“You wish to be the top scholar in the academy examination?”

“Why not?”

With that, Song Mu turned to look at Li Mo'er, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

“Miss Mo'er, I’m quite curious—how did you become a presented scholar at thirteen or fourteen? That’s rare across the whole country, isn’t it?”

Li Mo'er pursed her lips, pushed off with her feet, and returned to her hammock. Song Mu thought she would say nothing, but then heard her speak calmly.

“Who says one must follow the imperial examinations to earn literary rank? I come from the Li Bai School of Poetry—I naturally have my ways.”

Having said this, Li Mo'er tilted her head toward Song Mu and added,

“But Master Song, if you can become the provincial top scholar, the Azure Guard would certainly welcome you.”

“How about it? Do you need my recommendation?”

Li Mo'er waited for a reply, but after a while, all she heard was the gentle sound of breathing.

She turned to look carefully and saw that Song Mu was already asleep.

The last hope of the fallen Song family now lay curled up in a half-worn robe on a wooden plank bed atop the yellow earth. Beside him, beneath the battered desk, countless essays lay scattered.

…