Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Prodigy’s Poem

Incense was burning, marking the start of the examination.

Zhang Yue had already ground the ink, but he did not rush to write. He wanted to read through the exam paper first. This time, he had registered for the Five Classics: Book of Changes, Book of Documents, Book of Songs, Etiquette and Ceremonial, and Rites of Zhou. He needed to check the questions to ensure there were no mistakes; otherwise, hours of effort could be wasted on the wrong topics.

His caution was partly due to his own meticulousness, and partly because he suspected Zhao, the supervising officer, might switch the papers. After reviewing them, Zhang Yue confirmed that the papers were correct, covering the Five Classics and the mandatory Analects and Classic of Filial Piety. Each classic required twenty passages copied, and ten explanations of meaning, totaling one hundred forty passages and seventy explanations.

Zhang Yue wrote swiftly, pausing only when he encountered a question he was uncertain about, then skipping to the next. He approached the explanations similarly. No matter how well one has memorized the texts, there are always obscure points; one might believe mastery is complete, but inevitably, some questions will test the limits.

For Zhang Yue, only one passage proved uncertain. As for the explanations, he could use his own words or rely entirely on the commentaries. If he used his own phrasing, the examiner would have to judge right and wrong; using the commentaries word for word was safer, provided he had memorized them perfectly.

As Zhang Yue answered, he glanced up and noticed a guard sneaking peeks at his paper. Their eyes met, and the guard quickly looked away. Zhang Yue remained composed and continued writing. Shortly after, he saw the same guard whispering with a clerk.

The Five Classics were so familiar to Zhang Yue that he could answer with his eyes closed. The explanations posed no difficulty—he followed the commentaries precisely. With seventy answers required, and the acceptance rate being seven out of ten, he was confident there was no risk of failing. Yet he worried whether his paper would reach the examiner at all.

There was, of course, another risk: competition. Turning to observe, Zhang Yue saw several fellow candidates writing rapidly. He remembered that Pucheng was renowned for its examination tradition; many here would have mastered nine out of ten questions, so his own seven might not guarantee success.

He recalled the saying from later generations: "One more point knocks down a thousand competitors." Thus, he could not settle for seven or nine correct answers; he needed perfection.

At that moment, guards began serving hot ginger tea to the candidates. The spring wind was chilly; a bowl of hot tea brought comfort. Several scholars drank eagerly. Zhang Yue noted the server was someone unfamiliar and paid little attention.

When the tea was brought to him, Zhang Yue instinctively slid his paper under the desk, wary of someone "accidentally" spilling tea and ruining his work. The guard noticed his caution and smiled, saying, "Young sir, drink some ginger tea to warm yourself. Best to drink it hot."

Zhang Yue nodded and let him place the tea beside his desk. When the guard left, Zhang Yue resumed writing. He wasn't cold, but after some time felt thirsty and lifted the tea.

As he brought the bowl to his lips, he quickly glanced at the guards nearby; two were watching him closely. Zhang Yue smiled, then deliberately poured the ginger tea under the eaves and said loudly, "What kind of awful tea is this?"

The guards' faces changed. One stepped forward, smiling, "Perhaps it cooled, young sir. I'll fetch another bowl."

"No need," Zhang Yue retorted. "Give it to the supervising officer instead!"

The guard's face turned pale. "Young sir, you jest. Where is the officer?"

Zhang Yue ignored him and continued answering questions.

In a corner, two clerks watched. Seeing Zhang Yue refuse the tea, one cursed, "This boy is truly cunning. We underestimated him."

The other replied, "What now? If the officer blames us, what should we do?"

"Don't worry," said the first. "I still have one last move."

Zhang Yue was unconcerned. To let anger or distraction affect his answers would be foolish. He knew petty retaliation would not harm Zhao's position; the best revenge was to excel in the exam.

The better he performed, the more humiliating for Zhao.

What is fame? Why is it said that thousands cross a single-log bridge? Fame does not fall from the sky; it is earned, stroke by stroke.

With that thought, Zhang Yue finished his paper. Except for a couple of uncertain points, he was confident. These questions were objective; once answered, he knew where he stood.

Looking around, he saw the other examinees finishing up, some reviewing their answers for errors or refining their phrasing.

But suddenly, Zhang Yue stood up from his seat, drawing everyone's attention.

A clerk realized what was happening and tried to intercept him, but Zhang Yue was already moving forward—neither hurried nor slow, with the composure of a scholar. Several guards scrambled to block him, but he sidestepped one and walked straight to the front of the hall.

"Too late," the clerk muttered.

Under the astonished eyes of the crowd, Zhang Yue approached the county magistrate seated on high and bowed, "Student Zhang Yue has completed his answers and requests Your Excellency to review the paper."

The examinees murmured—was it allowed for candidates to request the examiner's review?

The magistrate, displeased by the breach of protocol, recognized Zhang Yue as the one who had insisted he personally vouch for his registration. Arrogant indeed.

"Step forward."

The magistrate said coldly. As Zhang Yue placed his paper before the magistrate, the clerk nearly fainted—now that the magistrate held the paper, there was no way to tamper with it.

The magistrate glanced at Zhang Yue, finding him vaguely familiar but unable to place him.

"Fine handwriting!"

He nodded, noting the paper was spotless, without a single ink blot or erasure. Whether right or wrong, such a paper was pleasing to the eye.

He was a man of refined tastes, detesting anything messy or unclean. Zhang Yue's paper was exactly to his liking.

But what was the worth of a classics candidate's paper? The magistrate was from the advanced scholars' track and had an air of superiority toward those who relied solely on rote memorization.

"Professor Hu, you review this!"

He handed the paper to Hu, the county school professor, who had set the questions and was responsible for review.

Turning to Zhang Yue, the magistrate said, "I recall seeing you before... yes, that day..."

Zhang Yue thought, He's finally remembered. "That day when I and my senior..."

The magistrate waved his hand, smiling, "Since you know me, why couldn't you have your sponsor vouch for you? Why seek out Master Boyi instead?"

Zhang Yue caught the reproach in his tone and bowed, "I admit my fault."

The magistrate smiled graciously, "Never mind. I gave you two hours to answer, yet you finished in one. Do you find my allowance too generous?"

"I dare not," Zhang Yue replied.

The magistrate laughed, "With such talent comes pride. I understand. Since you submitted early, you must want me to test you personally. Very well, I won't test anything else—let's see your poetic skill."

Zhang Yue replied, "I have only studied the classics, not poetry."

The advanced scholars looked up, thinking, Isn't this making things difficult?

Classics candidates were never tested on poetry.

"How can you claim ignorance of poetry?" The magistrate's face darkened. "If you have talent, why feign humility? I am setting a question now, and you claim ignorance?"

Then he smiled warmly, "Don't decline. Youth should hide their brilliance, but it's fine to show a little. You are Master Boyi's prized student; how could you not know poetry?"

Zhang Yue looked calmly at the magistrate and asked, "What kind of poem does Your Excellency wish to see?"

He dares to compose a poem?

The magistrate smiled, "Since you claim talent and call yourself a child prodigy, let 'Child Prodigy' be your theme! I won't make it hard—you need not follow strict meter, you may borrow a phrase from the ancients."

Zhang Yue nodded, stepped to the desk, and said, "Since Your Excellency believes in my talent, I shall not feign modesty. Please provide brush and ink."

In the distance, the clerks snickered, "This boy is finished. Offending both Zhao and the magistrate—how can he expect any good?"

Another replied, "Indeed, the magistrate must make things hard for him, or Zhao's pride would suffer."

Zhang Yue dipped his brush and began to write.

The magistrate watched as he titled the poem "Child Prodigy," thinking, This boy dares to use that name—how boastful!

As Zhang Yue wrote the title, he thought of Wang Shu's famous poem, but realized that would be plagiarizing the ancients. He had studied for nearly a year; though he learned the classics, he had read some poetry. Why not try his own? If it turned out poorly, so be it—at least it was his own work.

With that thought, a scholar's pride surged in his chest, and he poured it into his brush.

He finished calmly, looked up at the magistrate, and asked, "Does Your Excellency find this poem worthy?"

The magistrate read aloud:

"With innate talent for grand banquets,
Why must poems chase wealth and glory?
All my life, heroic spirit prevails,
Never exhausted by borrowed ancient words."

The magistrate thought, The poem is ordinary, the lines awkward, yet it expresses ambition clearly—one can see his courage and breadth!

Perhaps I have underestimated this young man.

The magistrate asked Professor Hu, "Does this student master the classics?"

Professor Hu bowed, "Reporting to Your Excellency, he passes all."

"All?"

"Yes, Your Excellency, he passes them all."

Zhang Yue clenched his fist. He had expected to miss a word or two, but now he had passed every question. All his years of study came down to this—what he had longed to hear.

The magistrate was about to speak when a soldier rushed in, "Reporting, the provincial exam results are out!"

"What?" The magistrate was excited.

The entire hall of scholars was abuzz.

The spring announcement was released! Who would make the list?

ps: Actually, I didn't write this poem myself. Next month, the first day is launch day—please subscribe, vote, and support!