Chapter 85: Harder Than Ever to Decide

Feng Dongwei could scarcely believe what he had just read. It was supposedly an essay on border governance, yet the strategy it proposed was laid out bluntly and calmly—a plan so ruthless that it could leave rivers of blood in its wake.

The method was reminiscent of the strategies used by the states of Qi and Lu, but it was even more ruthless than those. While it might not provide a permanent solution, it would at least suppress the demon tribes for decades, granting the imperial court much firmer control over the southern frontier.

The essay contained only two simple strategies: open the roads and promote commerce. Yet beneath these policies lurked a series of bloody measures. Though the essay lacked breadth, its logic was clear, and Feng Dongwei keenly sensed its chilling intent.

Such decisive and merciless thinking—Feng Dongwei had never seen anything like it in an academy examination. He wondered, even when he himself wrote essays for the provincial exam, had he ever dared such resolution? And yet this was written by a mere student during the academy test.

Unwilling to accept it, Feng Dongwei read the essay twice more, each time feeling its implications more deeply, his heart pounding in fear. His back was drenched with sweat before he even realized it.

At that moment, an examiner took the essay from Feng Dongwei, glancing at it with some skepticism. One look, and he too drew a sharp breath. If the earlier classical essay had impressed with its precise diction and clear stance, this strategy essay was shocking and deeply unsettling.

Upon finishing the essay, one might feel a chill creeping up the back of their head.

“This... this strategy essay cannot have been written by a mere student,” one examiner said, passing the essay around without marking it, shaking his head in lingering unease.

The other examiners who had read it fell into deep thought, scrutinizing the feasibility of the proposed plan.

“This is not workable. The first item, opening the roads—even if the essay claims to start with waterways, then pursue both land and water routes, finally breaking through the overland paths—one must understand what sort of place the southern frontier is. Its mountains are perilous, the roads winding, cliffs everywhere. It’s not as simple as ‘open roads through mountains, build bridges over rivers,’” said one.

“And to accomplish what’s described—all roads interconnected—it would require a massive amount of manpower and resources. The public would be in uproar before it even began!” All the examiners present were at least provincial graduates, well versed in current affairs and familiar with the key points.

“Perhaps not. The road-building plan can be done gradually. As I recall, Governor Tao was already planning to connect the dozen prefectures of the southern frontier, and progress has been made. That was reported in the ‘World Literary Journal.’”

“Even if this candidate read those essays, the methods proposed here are exceptionally ruthless, yet tread carefully—especially the so-called conversion from native rule to direct administration. Would those tribes of the southern frontier ever accept an outsider in power?”

Having recovered from their initial shock, the examiners busied themselves picking apart the essay’s flaws. Their debate grew heated, and instead of marking the essay, their voices drew Xiao Li and others over.

Xiao Li, hearing the argument next door, came to find a group of examiners glaring fiercely at each other, sparring over an essay.

Seeing Xiao Li approach, the examiners rushed to him as if he were a vent for their anxieties.

“Deputy Examiner, please, come and read this essay!”

Xiao Li was pulled to the front, sat down in surprise, and looked at the essay with curiosity and confusion. The unique yet familiar handwriting immediately caught his eye.

As he read through the essay, Xiao Li couldn’t help but grimace. The content was indeed shocking, even saturated with a bloodthirsty aura.

The examiners immediately turned to Xiao Li with questions.

“Deputy Examiner, what do you think of this essay?” Feng Dongwei, the first to read it and its most ardent supporter, spoke loudest. Having argued with his colleagues to no avail, he now sought an answer from Xiao Li.

Xiao Li set the essay down, gazing at the others with a mix of admiration and helplessness.

“Have you not noticed that what you’re discussing is merely the surface of this essay?”

The examiners were stunned. Xiao Li continued, “Such depth in an essay—I’ve seen it in only one person throughout the realm.”

Feng Dongwei paused, then suddenly understood. He asked in amazement, “Sir, are you referring to Du Feiying?”

Xiao Li nodded deeply and sighed, “In ancient times, Gan Luo became prime minister at twelve. For a student to produce such a remarkable essay—there’s nothing strange about it. Gentlemen, you are missing the essence for the details.”

His words struck the examiners, leaving them both enlightened and embarrassed.

Xiao Li was right. Though the essay had flaws in wording and expression, it was well-argued, cited appropriately, and logically sound. Their true objection was to the radical, risky nature of the plan—and to the idea that a mere student could write such a work.

Xiao Li picked up the essay and walked outside. The examiners watched him disappear at the doorway.

“I’ll take this essay to the Chief Examiner for review. Once the marking is finished, we’ll decide its ranking!”

While the examiners were still abuzz over one essay, Song Mu was seated, savoring the new stories he had just written.

After returning from the bookstore, Shopkeeper Zhang had remarked that the stories weren’t enough for a volume; Song Mu needed to write more. Ten stories would make a volume, compiled as “Miscellany of Hundred Demons,” which could be sold for considerable profit.

After a brief rest, Song Mu threw himself into writing. Having grown up immersed in tales of the supernatural, and armed with solid expertise, he found crafting these stories effortless. In no time, he completed “Sea Demon of the East,” “Tiger of the Southern Mountain,” “Dragon of the Western River,” “Buddha of the Northern Cave,” and “Fish of the Central Lake.”

The more Song Mu wrote, the more inspired he became. He even began to imagine classic episodes from “Journey to the West,” intending to adapt them as well, but his stomach rumbled, so he paused. He still had a month to write the next ten stories, so there was no rush.

After dinner, a few student friends invited Song Mu out for a stroll; he wandered through the bustling marketplace and returned with an old booklet in hand.

It was a treatise on the use of literary force, given to him by Senior Sun.

On the cover, two bold characters: “Literary Force.”

A simple, direct title, yet its contents embodied the foundation of the Wen Dynasty’s three centuries of stability.

“Literary Force” was written by Zhang Ce after he pioneered the concept, outlining in concise language how to cultivate and wield literary force in combat.

The book, barely more than a dozen pages, was divided into three chapters: Guiding Qi, Channeling Force, and Combining Force.

The Guiding Qi chapter described how to circulate literary force within the body, absorbing external literary energy to strengthen oneself.

The Channeling Force chapter explained how to transform literary force into attacks, with detailed instructions on wielding poetry as weapons—a core technique.

The final chapter, Combining Force, was more esoteric, teaching scholars to use multiple poems simultaneously for denser combat effects.

Thin and light as it was, the booklet encompassed the entire path of a scholar’s cultivation.

However, it contained only the basic techniques. Advanced variations and applications were monopolized by the Poetry Sect or literary clans, with some scattered among the academies.

Ordinary scholars could acquire only a few dense techniques, which made them precious.

In a few days, after the results were announced, Song Mu would gain his scholar’s rank and receive such a “Literary Force” booklet from the prefectural academy, marking the official start of his journey as a cultivator.

This cornerstone of humanity was widely circulated; even bookstores carried it.

The reason was that the basic techniques—designed by Sage Zhang—fit the human meridians, making them impossible for monsters to practice. Fallen scholars, whose meridians were reversed and literary force destroyed, had no use for such texts.

Yet the price remained high—a single booklet cost a hundred taels of silver.

Thus it was called the “Golden Book.”

Song Mu’s family once had several ancient treatises on literary cultivation. His father, Song Liantong, had used them to stabilize his scholar’s realm, but lost them in a mishap on the way to the provincial capital.

After subsequent misfortunes, the surviving books at home contained no detailed explanations of literary force.

The only valuable ancient book left now resided in Song Mu’s mind.

The booklet Senior Sun gave him had been acquired when he attained the scholar’s rank. Years of study had given him deep insights, and what was recorded was most suited for Song Mu, a newly promoted scholar.

Preparing for the year-end exam, Senior Sun had sent it to Song Mu, who was delighted.

Song Mu thanked his senior for the help, opened the pages, and devoted himself to study.

...

End of chapter.