Chapter Seventy-Seven: Restoring the Old Mountains and Rivers, Awaiting the Dawn of Renewal

Between the flashes of lightning and the thunder's rush, a somber gloom enveloped the world, and the surging white rain brought a biting chill.
The spring rain fell suddenly and fiercely, descending upon the earth with abrupt force.
Yet within Anle's assigned chamber, sword energy swept across the heavens and earth; the interwoven currents of sword qi, conjured by the ink pool in flight, enveloped the entire room, bathing it in an atmosphere akin to the radiance of the sun—warm and intense, dispelling the cold brought by the violent rain.
Anle's gaze was bright, his brush moved steadily over the blank scroll, writing one character after another, each brimming with ambition and vigor as they leapt from his hand.
Outside the chamber, soldiers clad in armor and bearing swords at their waists stood dutifully, enduring the downpour. Rain struck their cold armor, leaving streaks of white, as if shrouded in gauze.
At that moment, one such soldier squinted through the curtain of rain, fixing his eyes on the youth writing within, sensing the razor-sharp sword energy and the stirring spirit that permeated the air.
Though his body was chilled by the rain, a strange surge of hot blood welled up within him.
A wave of curiosity swept through the soldiers—what kind of essay was the youth composing?
The relentless rain fell like pillars, adding to the solemnity of the spring examination.
In the distance, the curtain of rain parted; three figures in scholar's robes stood silently. The literary aura swirling at their fingertips pointed toward the youth composing his essay in the chamber.
The three masters of the Literary Institute represented three schools of thought, each with countless students under their tutelage, many of whom had ascended the Literary Star rankings.
Yet today, all three had appeared together to observe a youth writing an essay—a rare occurrence.
“That ink sword is taken from the Red Dust Sword Box of the Sixth Mountain Master, is it not?” The Grand Master stood with hands behind his back, gazing at the youth within the chamber, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“Yes, indeed. I hadn’t expected the essay that stirred the Literary Star Tablet would be written by this child. Surprising, yet not entirely unexpected,” said the Third Master, Wang Banshan, stroking his beard with a smile.
The Grand Master turned to glance at him. “You know him?”
The Second Master, Pang Ji, replied, “He is An Dajia, now renowned in Lin’an. His ink bamboo is quite stunning. Look at his waist—he also carries a bamboo sword. Master Zhu should recognize it.”
The Grand Master, upon hearing this, was momentarily taken aback. His gaze pierced the curtain of rain, seeing the bamboo sword at Anle’s waist.
“Zhao Huangting’s Green Mountain?”
He asked in surprise.
“Yes. Zhao Huangting bestowed Green Mountain upon him, whether for his ink bamboo painting or the youth’s character.” The Second Master spoke softly.
For a moment, only the sound of rain falling on Qiu Ping echoed through the world.
“To be worthy of Green Mountain, he must be an exceptional youth. Let us see what kind of essay he has written.” The Grand Master spoke quietly.
As his words fell, the literary aura at his fingertips flicked outward.
Threads of literary energy sliced through the rain and entered the chamber. In the next moment, all fell silent—time seemed to halt, every drop of white rain suspended in midair.
The Grand Master raised his hand and gently touched a bead of spring rain, which instantly transformed into characters.
“Since ancient times, emperors have governed the world by centering the Central Plains to command the barbarians, and the barbarians have dwelled beyond to serve the Central Plains. Never has it been heard that barbarians occupied the Central Plains to rule the world...”
As the rain condensed into the youth’s essay, the three masters’ eyes sharpened, intent on reading every word, tasting its meaning.
All three were scholars, each with their own standards for appreciating essays.
From Anle’s opening line, one could discern his stance on the Northern Expedition.
A single sentence, and their eyes lit up, eager to read further.
The essay flowed powerfully, and through the rain-forged characters, its passionate emotions were palpable.
“Expel the barbarians, restore the Central Plains!”
When these eight words appeared, it was as if sword energy pierced the rain, cleaving the dark night, ushering in brilliant light!
“Excellent!”
The Third Master, Wang Banshan, praised, unable to contain his admiration.
His voice shattered the scene; time resumed, and the thunderous roar of rain once again engulfed the surroundings.
Masters Zhu Huoxi and Pang Ji glanced at Wang Banshan, their eyes filled with unspoken meaning.
His shout would surely be noticed.
The three shook their heads and departed, while Wang Banshan, unfazed, laughed heartily, stroked his beard, and vanished into the rain.
The Grand Master and Second Master also dispersed, their positions quickly covered by the rain, leaving no trace.
In the next instant, a powerful mind swept by, found nothing, and withdrew, returning several times before fading away completely.
Within a building of white walls and black tiles,
Vice Chief Examiner Yan Chaoqing sat upright in a wooden chair, his spirit returning to his body, and he opened his eyes with a slight frown.
“I did hear someone shout in praise just now, but now all is quiet.”
Yan Chaoqing was strong in cultivation; his mind had traveled in an instant, yet he had failed to catch the intruders, indicating their cultivation might surpass his own.
“Forget it, perhaps I was hallucinating. This rain is so heavy—it’s more like a summer storm than spring rain.”
He rose, the scent of sandalwood lingering in the room, and slowly walked to the eaves.
Along the edge of the black tiles, the rain formed a curtain, pouring endlessly like a waterfall, adding a touch of clamor to the silent night.
He had seen the spring examination questions; he could guess the approach chosen by the candidates from all corners of the empire.
The question, set by Chief Examiner Qin Xiang, would prompt most candidates to argue against the Northern Expedition, emphasizing the drawbacks.
This bored Yan Chaoqing greatly.
...
...
On a winding path beneath thatched eaves,
the three masters appeared in succession, their scholar’s robes untouched by rain.
“The essay this youth wrote reads like a call to arms for the Northern Expedition—grand, reflecting the tide of history. Excellent.”
Wang Banshan stroked his long beard, openly admiring it.
“‘Expel the barbarians, restore the Central Plains’—the guiding principle of a call to arms. Reading it, one cannot help but feel the urge to march north. Truly, a talented youth.”
Grand Master Zhu Huoxi nodded, “Should he be admitted to the Literary Institute?”
Second Master Pang Ji shook his head, “He is from Chongzhou, recently arrived in Lin’an, not yet admitted.”
“This youth’s literary talent is outstanding; he must be brought into the Literary Institute. How can such talent be allowed to drift outside?” Zhu Huoxi was displeased.
“After the spring examination, let him enter. If he can stir the Literary Star Tablet, he must be closely tied to our institute. Perhaps, like Li You’an or Su Zhanshen, he might recite before the Wordless Literary Star Tablet, causing it to manifest wonders—condense a Literary Courage, summon Haoran energy!”
“That would be another grand event for the Institute,” Zhu Huoxi said, stroking his beard.
Wang Banshan chuckled, “This youth once visited the Martial Temple, causing the Martial Champion Stone to billow with blood and smoke—past champions appeared to guide him in martial classics...”
“Martial Champion Di Zang said outright that if Anle dared join the Literary Institute, he’d turn hostile. It will be difficult to admit him.”
Zhu Huoxi’s hand paused.
After a long silence, he spoke, “This child is born for scholarship. To run off to the Martial Temple and become a warrior is a disgrace to the literary tradition.”
“Banshan, you must win him back.”
Wang Banshan smiled, looking out at the rain-soaked night, and spoke calmly,
“The Literary Institute is no longer as pure as the Martial Temple. Should we let him enter, only to be caught in intrigue? Moreover, he is at odds with Qin Xiang—the Institute may not tolerate him.”
“I cannot sway him.”
...
...
Anle finished the final character, letting out a long breath, his eyes shining.
Sword energy in the chamber surged like autumn light, fierce and chilling, but as he finished his essay, it slowly receded, returning to the ink pool at his waist.
“That was satisfying—a call to arms for the Northern Expedition. Qin Xiang will surely be furious upon seeing it.”
“At worst, I’ll lose points on this main essay, but I never expected to score here anyway.”
Anle laughed freely.
He recalled the elderly men at the Imperial Ancestral Temple, the moving scenes of generals weeping as the Zhao dynasty migrated south, officials kneeling in sorrowful farewell to the Central Plains.
He had been troubled by these memories, but now felt he had vented his frustration.
Anle could not understand those officials who refused the Northern Expedition, opting instead for peace.
In the early days of the migration, it was understandable—not to burden the people or risk the nation by waging war to reclaim lost lands.
But after five hundred years, the Zhao dynasty had grown rich and powerful south of the Canglang River—strong armies, brave generals, scholars reveling night after night, prosperity to the point of decadence.
It was the perfect time for the Northern Expedition, yet they still refused, unwilling to provoke the Yuan-Mongol Empire, preferring the comforts of Lin’an.
Perhaps it was not just unwillingness, but fear—fear of failure, of shattered dreams and spreading war.
Yet the roots of the Zhao dynasty lay north of the Canglang, in the Central Plains!
Shaking his head, Anle put down his brush and looked out beyond the rain.
He had sensed a gaze spying on him through the rain, but whoever it was, their cultivation must be extraordinary to bypass the examination’s surveillance.
Still, since it hadn’t affected his exam, it was no matter.
Having finished his answers, Anle ceased his thoughts, closed his eyes, and within his mind palace, the sword furnace clanged, his spirit rising slightly in a short span.
The process of answering questions brought a transformation of mood; the resonance between sword energy and spirit gave him this progress.
Anle smiled, no longer touching the exam scroll.
He glanced at the sky, sensing dawn was near.
In a single day, he had finished three days’ worth of exam questions.
He felt confident—no need to check his answers, for the questions were not difficult, save for the final Northern Expedition essay.
He had never expected to score on that one.
Thus, in the chamber, Anle began to contemplate the “Sword Cascade Painting,” immersing himself in cultivation.
At the tip of the branch, the remaining ink still glistened, like wind and rain combing through spring.
The storm subsided, dawn broke, and spring blossomed.
Many candidates awoke from their spring slumber, washed their faces in the rain, ate their baked cakes, and lit their lamps to resume their exam.
While others slept and answered questions, Anle cultivated.
...
...
The first round of the spring examination, lasting three days, finally ended.
There would be a second and third round, each lasting three days.
Candidates now had a day to rest, to shake off fatigue or review and fill gaps.
The spring rain ceased on the second day, and today the warm sun shone, making peach and apricot blossoms compete for spring in the Literary Institute.
Anle, holding his exam token, left the chamber and joined the crowd of candidates. Though exhausted, their spirits were high, discussing their answers, analyzing whether their approaches were correct.
“What do you think is the proper approach to the main essay, ‘On the Northern Expedition or Not’?”
“Of course, one must discuss the drawbacks—people’s livelihood, finances, opinion—emphasizing the power of the Yuan-Mongol Emperor, avoiding conflict, and maintaining peace. That’s the key.”
“Isn’t it just because the question was set by Qin Xiang? He always advocates peace, opposing costly expeditions.”
...
Before even leaving the Institute, candidates debated as they walked the stone paths.
Anle listened for a while, then lost interest.
Not far ahead, two figures stood in the sun amid the grass and birds. Seeing Anle, they waved excitedly.
It was Liu Yue and the candidate surnamed Xu.
“I am Xu Shun of Jiankang, greetings to An Dajia.”
Xu was now far more humble, devoid of his previous arrogance.
Anle gave him a brief nod, then chatted with the somber Liu Yue.
Xu Shun pursed his lips, quietly following, with no complaints—An Dajia’s name was thunderous in Lin’an; he couldn’t blame Anle for ignoring him now.
“An Dajia, regarding the Northern Expedition essay, did you support or oppose it?”
The three left the Institute, passing beneath the stone archway. At last, Liu Yue, whose face was bright with hope, couldn’t contain himself and asked Anle.
Anle looked at Liu Yue, “Of course I supported it. North of the Canglang is the homeland of the Central Plains; reclaiming it, freeing it from barbarian shame, is our duty, flowing in our blood.”
Liu Yue froze, while Xu Shun shook his head, excitement on his face, “An Dajia, that’s not right. In the spring exam, we can’t just follow our hearts—we must cater to the examiner’s preferences. Supporting the expedition is not the correct answer.”
Anle ignored him, looking deeply at Liu Yue’s increasingly pale face.
He raised his hand and patted him, “Don’t take it too much to heart. It’s just for scoring, nothing shameful.”
“If you do succeed, you can fulfill your aspirations—restore the old mountains and rivers, return to the imperial court.”
With that, Anle said no more.
With Green Mountain and ink pool at his waist, clad in pristine white, he vanished amid the radiant spring in the Literary Institute’s mountain path.
Liu Yue, reassured, felt better, savoring Anle’s words, though he still harbored some frustration.
He remembered his vow by West Lake to reclaim lost lands, and the ink he left on the exam scroll.
He felt his spirit had been diminished.
“An Dajia is truly carefree.”
Liu Yue gazed at Anle’s upright posture, fluttering robes, and elegant sword at his waist, admiration in his eyes.
He knew the correct answer, yet Anle still wrote his heart, risking his score, even his chance at the honor roll, to uphold his convictions.
Liu Yue couldn’t do it; he couldn’t give up the honor roll. His ambitions required advancement.
He envied Anle’s carefree spirit, but was powerless to emulate it.
Xu Shun smiled, “Carefree now, but if he fails the honor roll, he’ll be miserable—perhaps even mocked by Lin’an’s scholars.”
“Carefree in public, suffering in private.”
Liu Yue frowned, displeased with Xu Shun. “You don’t understand An Dajia’s carefree spirit.”
He said no more and departed.
Xu Shun snorted, “If you weren’t so talented, I wouldn’t bother with you.”
...
...
Spring’s first round ended, and for Anle, it was as pleasant as listening to music by West Lake for a day.
He returned to the bustling streets, among the crowds, heading to Yan Spring Lane, where the innkeeper, absent for three days, greeted him warmly.
“Why didn’t you come for wine these three days, sir?”
“Did the wine not suit your palate?”
Anle bowed with a smile, “I entered the spring exam, just finished the first round. That’s why I’m here for wine. The wine is perfect—two jars, please.”
The innkeeper was surprised and generous, “So you’re a candidate! Today’s wine is on the house—may you succeed and bring honor to our humble inn!”
Anle smiled, intending to pay, but couldn’t resist her enthusiasm.
He took two jars of free old yellow wine, then bought a pound of braised beef from Dingya Lane.
In high spirits, he returned to Ta Temple Lane.
Passing the ancestral temple, he saw the doors open, the old man sitting with a painting of galloping horses he had given to Lord Lin, basking in the sun and appreciating the artwork.
Seeing Anle with wine and beef, the old man rose, packed the painting, closed the door, and wandered into the courtyard.
Inside, Anle set up table and chairs, warmed the wine, and drank with the old man.
“You seem in fine spirits, young friend. Did the spring exam go well?”
The old man smacked his lips, savoring the wine.
Anle drank a cup, laughed, “Quite the opposite—I may lose big points.”
The old man looked puzzled.
“What’s there to be happy about? Are you out of your mind?”
Anle explained the Northern Expedition essay.
The old man narrowed his eyes, “That’s definitely a question Qin Lishi would set.”
“How did you answer? Tell me in detail.”
He was genuinely curious.
Anle did not hide it—he set down his cup, stood in the courtyard, and summoned Green Mountain from the old locust tree.
With Green Mountain in hand, Anle performed the three sword forms taught by the old man.
Meanwhile, he recited his essay aloud.
The old man listened and drank, his eyes gradually blazing with the fire of a magnificent sun, itching to take sword in hand and cross the Canglang for battle.
Before they knew it, the jar was empty.
When Anle finished his recitation,
the old man clapped and laughed, “Splendid—‘Expel the barbarians, restore the Central Plains.’”
“Answered well, answered boldly!”
“Ha ha ha—the essay that stirred the Literary Star Tablet last night—it was yours!”
“If Qin Lishi sees your essay provoking the Literary Star Tablet, he’ll be furious.”
“At the very least, he’ll be utterly disgusted.”
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(End of chapter)