Chapter One Hundred Fifteen: The Grand Principles of the University

The Imperial Academy examination was held within the main hall. A total of ten candidates were present: five for the Jinshi track and five for the Classics track.

Zhang Yue swept his eyes over the examination paper. The scope was broad, covering all of the Nine Classics, including the *Analects* and the *Classic of Filial Piety*. However, there were no obscure or eccentric questions in the sections on memorizing the classics or interpreting their meanings, suggesting that the examination was not particularly difficult. The final section consisted of three major essays, and the very last one required an exposition on a chapter from the *Great Learning*.

Zhang Yue was startled. Could it be such a coincidence? He had just mentioned the concepts of "rectifying the mind and making the intentions sincere" as the foundation of a scholar's "attainment of substance." Now, the essay question happened to be on that very chapter of the *Great Learning*.

In the various academic tracks, these essays were akin to the "commentary and sentence" studies of the Han Dynasty or the "eight-legged essays" of the Ming and Qing eras. What exactly were these studies? Take the *Spring and Autumn Annals*, for example—a work of two hundred thousand characters—where one might be asked to interpret what the Sages truly meant by the text. Or, one might be required to offer an exposition on a specific chapter like that of the *Great Learning* in the *Book of Rites*, or even explain the meaning of a single sentence, such as the opening line: "The way of the Great Learning lies in illuminating illustrious virtue, in renewing the people, and in abiding by the highest good."

While these tasks seemed standard, the Ming and Qing dynasties would eventually push this form of academic exercise to its extreme. For instance, an examiner might ask for the meaning of "The Master said." Literally, it simply means "Confucius said." Where is the profound depth in that? Yet the examiner would insist that it was there. It was like a teacher asking for the deeper meaning of a simple "Good night" from a famous writer: the word "night" points to the time, evoking the darkness of the era, while "good" signifies the numbness of the masses.

Yet, this did not stump the candidates. Some would use Su Shi’s words to break the question open: "A commoner becomes a teacher for a hundred generations; a single word becomes the law for the world." They would equate "commoner" with the "Master" and the "law" with the "said." It was a clever answer, but ultimately hollow. Some examiners would even put an "O" on the paper, asking the candidate to interpret the profound meaning behind the Sage using such a mark. Since the ancients had no punctuation, they used "O" to separate paragraphs. Yet, candidates would wittily reply, "Before the Sages established their words, they perceived the patterns of heaven." Such questions had nothing to do with content; they were merely brain-teasers designed to show off one's cleverness.

However, this specific question on the *Great Learning* put Zhang Yue in a bind. Had he not spoken so boldly before Hu Yuan and the other examiners, he could have easily answered it using his repertoire of test-taking tricks. But as fate would have it, he had already stated his views, and now he risked the cardinal sin of such examinations: "speaking the truth."

Zhang Yue did not rush to answer. He committed the questions to memory, much like a student preparing for a national exam who reads the essay prompt first and contemplates it while answering the easier questions. The sections on memorizing and interpreting the classics were effortless for him, and he finished them quickly. He then flew through the first two of the three major essays. He soon realized he was the fastest among the candidates.

He had spent over four hours on the other sections, leaving only the exposition on the *Great Learning*. How should he answer? He had truly boxed himself in. He briefly considered leaving it blank, as his other answers were solid enough to pass, but realized that would only give Hu Yuan and the others the impression that he was a hypocrite. That would never do.

Zhang Yue stared at the paper, his mind racing. He realized that with his current level of scholarship, he lacked the depth to craft a truly magnificent essay that would hold up under the weight of his own "truth." He could not write the "truth" because he lacked the structural command for such a grand piece, and he could not write "falsehoods" because he could not deceive them.

His face turned flushed, his eyes bloodshot from the sheer mental strain. Yet, he could not write a single word. A splitting headache tore through him.

The proctor, a lecturer from the Academy, paced outside the window. Seeing Zhang Yue’s state, he found it odd. It was common for Jinshi candidates to struggle with poetry or prose, but why would a student of the classics be stumped by an essay? Was it not just a matter of fabrication? The lecturer shook his head, went to his office for a cup of tea, and when he returned, he was shocked to find the young man had actually fallen asleep at his desk.

Zhang Yue was exhausted. Writing is like that—without sufficient accumulation of knowledge and experience, you simply cannot produce the work. It is like being asked to write an essay in a high-stakes exam; writing a simple piece is easy, but writing one that rivals a master is truly... The result of forcing oneself beyond one's limits was simply passing out.

Fortunately, the lecturer assumed Zhang Yue had merely dozed off. Had he known the student had fainted from the pressure, it would have been a great disgrace. Though unconscious, Zhang Yue’s mind remained active. He found himself in the dreamscape where he could linger for twelve hours. He realized he could use this time to ponder the final question. But he was also terrified that he would simply remain asleep... He remembered a recurring nightmare from his school days: waking up in an exam hall, running out of time, and seeing a paper full of unanswered questions.

Was that about to become reality? Zhang Yue decided that since he could not answer it, he might as well use this time to find a way. He began to think intently. The materials and books he had studied in his previous life surfaced in his mind. Thoughts shifted and transformed. It was a mysterious process, like "traces of a goose on snow" or "glimpses of flickering light." He knew what he needed was deep within his mind, but he could neither grasp nor touch it.

One hour passed, then another, then another. Finally, in the last hour, he felt he had grasped something.

*Boom!*

Before he could fully seize the thought, he was awake. He opened his eyes to see the room nearly empty. The sun was setting. He was startled—how long had he slept? Two hours, perhaps? The Imperial Academy exams had no time limit, but they provided no candles, meaning the exam ended at dusk.

He still had a little time. He grabbed his brush, ground the dried ink, and began to write furiously.

"The book of *Great Learning* is the method by which the ancient schools taught people. Since Heaven gave birth to the people, none have been without the nature of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom..."

Zhang Yue synthesized his knowledge from his past life with his current studies, building his essay upon the foundation of Zhu Xi’s *Great Learning*. He discussed the "Three Guidelines"—illuminating virtue, renewing the people, and abiding by the highest good—and the "Eight Items"—investigating things, extending knowledge, rectifying the mind, making intentions sincere, cultivating the self, regulating the family, governing the state, and bringing peace to the world. Unlike Zhu Xi, however, Zhang Yue argued that "renewing the people" was the most paramount.

He wrote with the fervor of a youth dreaming of greatness. His eyes burned with fire; his brush moved like a sword carving into the paper. As the light faded until he could no longer see, he cried out, "Candles! I need candles!"

"What candles?" a voice barked from outside.

Zhang Yue shook his head, knowing it was hopeless. He was in the middle of a thought he could not finish, and he sighed in his heart, *Heaven does not grant me time.*

"Is this fate?" he muttered. With no other choice, he stood up to submit his paper.

The proctor took the scroll and looked him up and down. "In all my years of proctoring, you are the first student to dream of the Duke of Zhou in the middle of an exam. I am truly impressed!"

Zhang Yue only felt regret for the unfinished essay. "I am simply not skilled enough," he sighed.

The proctor, expecting an excuse, was surprised by the boy's sincere remorse and softened. "Go."

Zhang Yue bowed, packed his books, and left. The proctor watched him go, shaking his head. "Young people today truly have no sense of decorum. How did such a person get admitted to the Academy?" He glanced at the scroll under the courtyard lanterns and could not help but mutter, "Still, he writes a fine hand."