Chapter Sixty-Three: Answering Questions in the Examination Hall

“In truth, considering it this way, this Song Mu does indeed have quite an impressive background. Yet until recently, he was utterly inconspicuous, neither making waves nor seeking attention, and now, all of a sudden, he has gained a measure of fame?”

“This is truly rather perplexing.”

Zhan Bo spoke in a cool, measured tone, showing that he too was paying some attention to the matter.

However, the instructors from the other counties seemed largely indifferent, though their smiles remained somewhat forced. After all, such a talented individual had not appeared in their county, and for this year's evaluations, Ouyang Hong’s achievements were bound to be among the best in the entire Jizhou Prefecture.

Still, they quickly consoled themselves: the students of Shiyang County have never excelled in their studies, and to this day, the entire county boasts only three scholarly bloodlines, of which the Song family line is the most renowned.

There was a time when, relying on the Song family’s literary lineage alone, Shiyang County had outshone countless other counties and enjoyed a period of unparalleled glory.

Now, Shiyang County remains a central county, still enjoying the shelter of that lineage’s legacy.

“Come to think of it, the Song family’s literary line hasn’t been entirely extinguished. The Ren family in Qianshan should count as a branch, shouldn’t they?” an official remarked, and another immediately chimed in.

“And don’t forget the Song family in Hongzhou. I’ve heard they were descended from a concubine’s son, but after several generations of hard work, they too have cultivated a literary line—there are already two successful scholars among them.”

“Yes, yes, so the Song family isn’t extinct after all. Master Song would be gratified.”

As these few men began to talk over one another, the examiner Fan’s expression remained calm and indifferent, as though he had no opinion on the matter. But Ouyang Hong, sitting nearby, looked distinctly displeased.

These colleagues were attempting to diminish his merit, to overshadow the brilliance of Song Mu, the direct heir of the main family.

The Ren family of Qianshan may have produced scholars, but their ties to the Songs have long since been severed; it was a century ago that a Song family son married into the Ren family. And as for the Song family of Hongzhou, they had been struck from the ancestral records.

The Song family always ranked each new generation by merit, and in the tenth generation, a Song family member from Hongzhou betrayed the family’s rules and was expelled. Afterwards, he established his own household, and after several generations of effort, they now boasted a scholar serving in court.

Only in recent decades, seeing the decline of the main Shiyang Song family, had they grown bold enough to seize the ancestral hall in Yuzhang, the provincial capital, and brazenly enshrine the traitor among the honored ancestors.

This was outright bullying of the weakened Shiyang Song family. When Song Mu’s father, Song Liantong, learned of it, he was filled with righteous indignation and vowed to put an end to the farce as soon as he earned his degree—but he met with misfortune before he could see it through.

What Song Mu did not know was that Ouyang Hong had been his father’s mentor and friend, privy to all these events.

For a true scion of the Song family to have their ancestral legacy stolen by distant branches—should Song Mu learn of this, he would certainly seek justice.

As a teacher, Ouyang Hong felt compelled to protect his disciple and to give these men a lesson.

“Hmph!”

At that, Ouyang Hong ignored the banter around him, suddenly releasing and then withdrawing the aura of an accomplished scholar. The room fell silent at once. Zhan Bo, the instructor from Wanan County, stood up and narrowed his eyes at Ouyang Hong.

“Master Ouyang, what are you doing?”

“You know very well. Throughout history, the reputation of noble houses rests on their integrity, yet you flaunt petty tricks as if they were virtues. Are you not afraid that Master Song’s spirit will despise you from the heavens?”

“You—!” sputtered Zhan Bo, his face flushed with anger. The others seemed ready to retort, but the examiner simply stood, flapped his sleeves, wore an expression of indifference, and glanced out the window.

“What a fine, sunny day it is,” he observed.

With the examiner present, none dared to argue further. They exchanged glances, then reluctantly let the matter drop.

Ouyang Hong, meanwhile, lowered his gaze and drew his breath, no longer concerned with the dispute.

…

In the exam hall, the sun was climbing higher, pouring straight down and drawing out the heat of the earth once more. The sound of brushes gliding across paper echoed from every exam cell.

The young scholars wielded their brushes with abandon, writing with ease and pleasure.

Bathed in the radiance of the literary star, everyone felt a surge of strength, their minds brimming with inspiration, their thoughts flowing into words with a mere flicker of intent.

Song Mu was no exception, though at this moment he had just lifted his brush from a blank sheet. The paper was littered with scattered notes—it was, in fact, a draft.

He did not begin writing immediately, but first organized his thoughts and the key points he needed to address for each topic.

The guard stationed before Song Mu’s cubicle finally let out a discreet sigh of relief. The young scholar at last had started to write. There were still hours left in the morning; so long as he kept at it, he should finish in time, though perhaps he would have to forgo food and rest.

The guard thought back on his years of overseeing these exams. Which examinee had not begun writing as soon as the questions were handed out? Some wore pained expressions, others seemed relaxed and confident.

He had seen many a candidate who, when the bell tolled, begged for more time—only to be forcibly removed.

The young scholar before him might well have a similar experience, and perhaps it would leave a lasting impression.

So thought the guard, when he saw Song Mu rise, take his pass, and beckon to him.

Pressing his lips together, the guard approached, only to see the spirited young man gathering his things.

“If you please, I need to step out for a moment,” came the slightly immature voice.

The guard signaled to his left, and two clerks came over to check Song Mu’s desk and conduct a quick search before allowing the guard to accompany him to the privy in the corner of the compound.

Song Mu wandered leisurely down the corridor to the latrine by the outer wall, with the guard watching him like a hawk, as if fearing any misconduct.

After relieving himself, Song Mu returned to his cubicle, ate a little, and, seeing that the morning was nearly spent, took a deep breath and spread his papers out on the desk again.

He ground his ink, pondering a moment, arranged his thoughts, glanced at the question, and began to write.

“Thus, the greatest good in all the land is that the people are not disappointed…”

The guard could not see what Song Mu was writing, but after watching for a moment, could not help but gape.

For Song Mu’s brush flew at lightning speed, each line completed in a breath.

He paused only to dip his brush or smooth the paper; otherwise, his pen never stopped. It was as if the brush plowed tirelessly across the page, and in just a few moments, one side was already filled with neat little characters.

Rubbing his eyes, the guard glanced up at the sun, which had not yet reached its zenith, and was left astonished.

Having completed the ten analysis questions, Song Mu gently lifted the paper, waited for the ink to dry, carefully rolled it up, and placed it in the exam basket.

He then pulled out another sheet and began the essay.

With each stroke, his mind seemed clearer still. The draft he had just written was now so firmly etched in his memory that the words flowed effortlessly from his pen.

This nimbleness surprised Song Mu himself—perhaps the days of diligent study had paid off, perhaps the ancient texts in his mind had aided him, or perhaps the glimmering star above had bestowed something extraordinary.

As he wrote, the feeling grew more exhilarating, and his hand moved faster still.

With every paragraph that emerged, he felt the literary energy within him circulating swiftly, coursing through his body in a gentle warmth that rose from his abdomen.

At the same time, the power of thought in his mind began to turn, at first slowly, then picking up speed, until a vortex seemed to form, gathering strength.

Song Mu’s heart leapt with joy.

The literary energy in his dantian had yet to form a true vortex, but his mental force had already begun to transform.

He steadied his mind and continued to write, following the sensation as it guided him onward.

…