Chapter Eighty-Two: "A Miscellany of a Hundred Spirits"

Hearing Fan Zhengxiong’s words, Xiao Li took the essay with half-belief, pursed his lips, and lowered his head to read. The two of them leaned close to the candle, reading in silence. After a moment, Xiao Li was also moved.

Fan Zhengxiong was not wrong—this essay was indeed outstanding. Its conception was on par with the previous one, and in some respects, even more in tune with current scholarly thought. Though it lacked the dazzling turns of phrase of the earlier essay, by the end, Xiao Li couldn’t help but sigh.

Had he read this one first, perhaps he would have chosen it.

Meanwhile, Fan Zhengxiong admired the elegant and delicate calligraphy, which lent the essay an extra charm. As he read on and glimpsed the profound meaning woven through the text, his eyes grew bright with appreciation.

It was an essay that urged the pursuit of learning, concluding with an interpretation that inspired deep reverence for study. Such literary skill was worthy of general acclaim. The essay was studded with memorable lines, each touching upon the scholar’s most primal aspirations. Reading, it declared, was not only for personal fulfillment, but also for the greater good of family and country!

This was a work that laid bare its thoughts and desires, every word pulsing with longing and frank passion. Yet, upon finishing, one felt only invigorated, as if the world ahead brimmed with possibility, so long as one embraced the book and read with determination.

Like Xiao Li, Fan Zhengxiong read to the very end before lifting his head, somewhat dazed.

Their eyes met, and both saw a wry smile on the other’s face.

“My lord, this…” Xiao Li ventured.

Fan Zhengxiong, with a trace of emotion, nevertheless picked up his brush and drew a red circle on the essay. “Let’s put these two in the top three for now. Once the other examiners finish, we’ll decide their ranking.”

Their minds in accord, they tidied up their papers.

It was already deep into the night. The two men rested in their rooms at the examination hall, but for some reason, after lying down fully clothed, they found themselves tossing and turning. The two essays on the value of study had stirred feelings long dormant in their hearts, leaving them quietly moved.

In the stillness, each sighed in his own chamber, then, unexpectedly, sat up, and by candlelight, indulged in a rare session of late-night reading.

…

Song Mu, who had slept soundly through the night, had no idea that his essay on the classics had left the two officials bleary-eyed at work today.

He enjoyed a leisurely sleep, caught the tail end of morning, diligently read by the little river behind his residence, then, after breakfast, greeted the old steward and set off with what he’d written the night before.

Jizhou Prefecture was, after all, a bustling place where culture flourished. Bookshops had multiplied, selling everything from the Four Books and Five Classics, annotated essays, ancient poetry collections, agricultural and medical treatises, to travelogues, commentaries, and popular tales—a feast for the mind.

Song Mu wandered several streets, carefully surveying the locations and sizes of various shops, observing the crowds at their doors. At last, he chose one named “Snowlight Pavilion.”

Located on the main southern avenue of Jizhou, this bookshop occupied three whole storefronts. The ground floor was a bookstore; the second, a scriptorium for copying texts. A large sign hung overhead, giving the place a commanding presence.

—

As Song Mu approached, he saw about a dozen customers perusing books inside. A plainly dressed clerk was recommending primers for children, while a well-dressed lady and her child browsed illustrated tales. Most patrons, however, were young scholars, heads bowed in study.

The shopkeeper and two assistants attended to the guests, greeting everyone with a smile, unconcerned if some browsed without buying.

Noticing Song Mu enter, a young clerk immediately stepped forward and greeted him with a bow. “Sir, are you here to select or to borrow a book? We have both hand-copied and printed editions, a wide selection at fair prices.”

The clerk was quite enthusiastic. Song Mu smiled in return, stepped inside, looked around, and then replied with a pleasant expression, “May I ask, does your establishment accept submissions?”

The clerk was briefly startled, then recovered and answered calmly, “Do you wish to submit official works or popular literature?”

Song Mu raised his brows. As the clerk explained, he learned that in the current dynasty, all commentaries on the Four Books and Five Classics, poetry, and histories were considered official works. To publish them required official seals and guarantees from several degree holders.

This surprised Song Mu, but he didn’t mind; after all, what he wrote were merely tales of the strange and supernatural, meant to entertain—a genre known as “popular literature.”

“No, I’ve written some tales of the supernatural, just for the amusement of the common folk,” he replied.

At this, the clerk visibly relaxed, even growing somewhat excited. He bowed again, hurried over to the counter, and spoke to the shopkeeper, who was wrapping books for another customer.

When the long-faced shopkeeper heard, he smiled broadly, handed his task to the clerk, and approached Song Mu himself.

Song Mu was a bit surprised—this bookshop seemed especially keen on popular tales.

The shopkeeper, a middle-aged man in a blue robe, greeted him courteously. “I am Zhang Guiyun, proprietor of Snowlight Pavilion here in Jizhou. Are you here to submit a manuscript?”

Song Mu returned the bow, smiling. “Yes, I am Song Mu. I happened to write a few pieces recently, and wonder if they might meet your approval.”

Shopkeeper Zhang smiled, glanced around, and led Song Mu to a private room off to the side.

The room was small but elegantly appointed, its shelves packed with books, a faint scent of sandalwood in the air.

Once seated, a servant brought tea and quietly closed the door.

Song Mu and Zhang Guiyun sat across from each other at the table. Song Mu took out the manuscripts he’d written the previous night. Placing a few pages on the table, Zhang Guiyun’s eyes lit up. Carefully, he accepted them with both hands and began to read.

Song Mu couldn’t suppress his curiosity and asked, “Does your shop particularly favor popular literature?”

—

Zhang Guiyun looked up and explained with a smile, “To be honest, our Snowlight Pavilion is well known throughout Southern Jiangnan. We publish both official and popular works.”

“As a learned man yourself, you must know that the court, in promoting scholarship, has imposed fixed prices on official works. No matter how much we cut printing costs, there’s little profit for us booksellers.”

Song Mu nodded silently—this was indeed the case, and it was a policy to support the people’s education.

“But popular works are not bound by such restrictions. Nowadays, common folk know some characters and enjoy reading accessible books. Not only tales of the supernatural, but all sorts of popular essays have a strong market.”

“That’s why we are very careful in selecting which popular works to publish.”

This made sense to Song Mu. As a private business, books aimed at scholars yielded little profit, while those for the general public, though cheap, sold in large numbers.

The difference was obvious.

At least this reassured Song Mu that his stories had a market.

After this brief exchange, Song Mu quietly sipped his tea, while Zhang Guiyun began reading the manuscripts with great attention.

It didn’t take long for him to finish. He surreptitiously wiped the sweat from his brow, set down the pages with relief, but hesitated as he looked at Song Mu.

“These stories of yours, sir… I must say, I’ve never seen their like before.”

Song Mu’s expression was calm. “May I ask, do they meet your approval?”

Zhang Guiyun nodded, regarding this somewhat young yet strikingly robust gentleman with fresh interest. “Of course, of course. However, sir, you have only written five stories—it is a bit short.”

Song Mu was relieved and smiled. “If you think it’s not enough, I can write a few more in the coming days.”

Zhang Guiyun nodded, but pointed to the manuscript. “I see you have only given each story a title. Do you have a name for the collection?”

Song Mu understood and replied, “Miscellany of a Hundred Spirits.”

…