Chapter 194: The Scholar Heading to the Capital for the Imperial Examinations
“I was born into poverty, with a taciturn and dull disposition. I had no friends, no companions, and no family. I ate porridge and vegetables, never meat. I only loved to read—reading and nothing else. I had no grand ambitions in life, merely wishing to enter the capital and gain admission to the Heavenly Academy to study. Later, after I met Chen’er, I only wished to study alongside her, though she truly had no interest in reading.”
This was the opening passage of Wang Zhice’s notes. Reading these words, Chen Changsheng felt an instinctive sense of kinship. It was like back before the Green Vine Banquet, when he learned about Gou Hanshi’s background—though he knew they were opponents, he still felt a closeness to him, because he too was someone who only loved to read.
“On the journey to the capital, I stopped at the Tianliang County Prince’s Manor, where I met the then-Governor, who later became the Grand Ancestor. Then I met the Prince of Qi. Later, in Luoyang, I encountered him once more, along with Big Brother. Yes, it was also in Luoyang, in that alley flowing with filthy water, that I met Chen’er, and so I stayed.”
“In Luoyang, paper was expensive, everything was expensive—even sesame cakes sold for more than elsewhere. What’s more, with constant warfare back then, after our money ran out, she wanted to return to her old trade. I felt that killing people was never good. She asked me how we would support the household. After much thought, I decided I still had to go to the capital. Even if I couldn’t pass the Heavenly Academy’s entrance exam, I could sell fake rubbings outside the Heavenly Book Mausoleum. I always thought myself a useless scholar, good for nothing except that my calligraphy was passable.”
“She followed me to the capital and never left again. Even if she wanted to leave, she couldn’t, because the Grand Ancestor’s army had surrounded the capital. It was only then that I realized Big Brother had left Luoyang and never intended to return. On the final day the city fell, Chen’er and I sat on a boat, gazing across the Bridge of Helplessness at the Prince of Qi, who smiled as he rode his white unicorn. I knew then that life would get better.”
“His Majesty ascended the throne before the Heavenly Book Mausoleum, but the demon army arrived. Then, two years later, the demons came again. The Prince of Qi would occasionally visit our inn to chat. It was clear his mood was growing worse—whether because his favorite unicorn had died on the Falling Willow Plains, or because His Majesty still refused to name the crown prince. One day, after drinking too much, he stared into my eyes and said that ever since Luoyang, he had wanted me to help him. I didn’t understand. I was just a scholar without the strength to truss a chicken—what help could I be? Besides… I came to the capital only to enter the Heavenly Academy and read.”
“I passed the exam and entered the Heavenly Academy, beginning my studies and living the life I had always dreamed of. Yet she disliked this kind of tranquil existence. I took her to the Palace of Departure to see the green vines, to the National Academy to see the banyan tree—she liked none of it. She said the groves of the Morning Sun Garden were too dense, the great banyan too tall, and worst of all, the Qu River and the lake in the National Academy were both too calm. One night, as I laughed while reading the Luoyang Miscellany, she sneered, saying that literature should be like a mountain—not flat—and that only someone like me could endure such dull, tedious days. I understood her meaning but didn’t want to respond, so I remained silent.”
“Later, she finally left the capital. I don’t know if she went to Snowfall City or to search for Big Brother’s trail. In any case, she left me. I thought it over seriously for three days and three nights, confirmed that I couldn’t change anything, and continued reading. But in my spare time from reading, I began to contemplate cultivation. I had always believed—and my friends had always believed—that I had no potential for cultivation, let alone any talent. Yet, for some reason, when I began cultivating after the age of forty, I encountered none of the legendary obstacles. In a single night, I roughly understood what cultivation meant. That night, I must have made quite a commotion, startling many people. And so, inexplicably, I became a celebrity in the capital. The Prince of Qi, wielding the Grand Ancestor’s imperial decree, forced me into the court to become an official. Many thought I would be proud of the stir I caused that night, smug about my talent in cultivation. But in truth, what I was truly proud of were the little games I invented, which spread throughout the capital and even the entire continent. In any case, I became a celebrity, frequenting the mansions of nobles and dignitaries. Several princes, including the Prince of Qi, were on good terms with me. Life seemed pleasant again—except that she never returned.”
“Peaceful, happy days could not last forever. I understood this principle, but I never expected this beautiful period to end so abruptly. One late night, the capital suddenly went under martial law. Two guests arrived at my home—both retainers of the Prince of Qi’s manor. They wanted me to do something. After thinking it over, I refused, but I also had no intention of stopping the Prince of Qi. I knew that, given his temperament, no one could halt his advance. The next morning, carts began hauling corpses out of the city. I stood on the upper floor, looking toward the Hundred Grass Garden, watching the white smoke rise slowly, silently praying that not too many would die—at least, that none of the princes I knew would perish. But things did not go as I wished. Those princes died in the end, along with their wives and children.”
“I sat at home for three days, motionless. I didn’t go out, didn’t inquire. I stared at the two retainers sent by the Prince of Qi’s manor, silent. Finally, the Prince of Qi finished handling matters outside and came to see me in person. In such a tense moment, he took time out to visit me. I didn’t know whether to feel honored or wary. The Prince of Qi said he didn’t mind my silence over these days, but he needed me to show my stance to the people of the capital. I could only remain silent. He stared into my eyes and asked what my stance was. After thinking, I said I had no stance. Then it was his turn to fall silent. He turned and left. That was the last time we spoke as friends, because I later learned that very morning, he had formally succeeded the throne and become the Emperor of the Great Zhou.”
“I was not stripped of my office, nor placed under house arrest, nor thrown into prison. I was merely deliberately forgotten by the court and those who once knew me, left in this home on Bitter Water Lane. There was one other person deliberately forgotten like me—the Grand Ancestor. The Prince of Qi… no, I should say His Majesty, perhaps out of filial piety, worried that the Grand Ancestor, bored in the deep palace, might cause trouble, or perhaps because he still remembered our friendship and feared I might cause trouble out of boredom at home, issued an edict appointing me as a secretary, ordering me to enter the palace and accompany the Grand Ancestor.”
“I must say, life in that deep palace was actually quite interesting. In just a few months, the Grand Ancestor seemed to have aged hundreds of years, becoming a true old man. He was no longer as irritable and frivolous as before, but instead grew much more benevolent. He no longer concerned himself with state affairs—of course, he couldn’t, and no one allowed him to. So he began to focus on winning at cards and on the pretty maids in the palace. Regarding the latter, I admonished him several times, but he didn’t care to listen. Regarding the former, he could rarely beat me at cards, which only increased his interest. In that deep palace overgrown with green vines, beside the card table under the fruit trellis, the old man and I played many games. During breaks, we always chatted, and I heard many stories, which I have kept in my heart ever since.”
Chen Changsheng stared at the words in the notes, his mind unable to calm.
These were Wang Zhice’s own account—the memoirs of a legendary figure. He spoke in a scattered, concise manner, yet clearly narrated the course of his life. And since this life coincided with the most turbulent era on the continent, the narrative naturally carried a powerful impact.
Reading these words, he could almost see Wang Zhice as he once was—a young scholar heading to the capital for the imperial examinations, not seeking an official post, but traveling ten thousand miles to the capital only to read ten thousand books. Who would have thought that on the road, in the city of Luoyang, he saw the reflection of a girl? And so, the scholar’s eyes gained many new sights, and he stopped in his tracks.
The young scholar eventually began walking again, reaching his destination—the capital. He never forgot his original purpose, yet he could not live according to his original plans. The sights in his eyes changed greatly; the girl’s reflection shattered into emptiness. He became an official, a celebrity in the capital, and was then forced into worlds he never wanted to enter and never liked.
Reading this far, Chen Changsheng’s emotions grew tense. Wang Zhice’s travelogue—or rather, his self-account—was about to reach the most critical part, the part he most wanted to know: during the years the Grand Ancestor was confined in the deep palace, what exactly did he say to Wang Zhice? Or perhaps, he was about to see the words of the one who defied fate itself.
He continued reading the notes.
“There are many legends about the Grand Ancestor, the most famous being his defiance of fate. A certain story has long circulated on the continent: many years ago, the Grand Ancestor made the acquaintance of the current head of the Daoist sect—the previous Pope of the Palace of Departure—and used some secret method to make a sacrifice to the stars, thereby successfully defying fate. That imperial star shone eternally over the earth in the night sky. After the Hundred Grass Garden Incident, many more details about the star sacrifice emerged. It was said that to defy fate, the Grand Ancestor was willing to keep only one son to carry on his bloodline, sacrificing all his other sons to the stars… Yet when the Grand Ancestor successfully ascended the throne, he was unwilling to fulfill his promise. In truth, all his sons were so outstanding—who could be made to die? And who would be willing to die?”
“I don’t know if the Prince of Qi and the other princes had heard this legend, or if they believed it after hearing it. But whether true or false, once it appeared and was heard, it would transform in their hearts from a withered branch into a terrifying viper, ceaselessly gnawing at their hearts. From the fall of Luoyang to the capital, the Grand Ancestor’s outstanding sons could never maintain good relations. It was related to the ownership of the throne, and now I think, also closely tied to this legend. I must admit, the Grand Ancestor’s sons were all excellent, but His Majesty was the strongest among them. While the other princes were still trying to influence the Grand Ancestor’s choice, waiting for fate’s arrangement, His Majesty unhesitatingly struck first, killing all his brothers…”
“I asked the Grand Ancestor whether this matter of defying fate truly existed. That day, he was drunk, the age spots on his face especially bright. He laughed like a child, and also like a fox. He didn’t answer my question directly, but while hiccupping from drink, he sang a local opera from Tianliang County, nodding continuously, as if he were about to fall asleep.”
(The passage about the scholar heading to the capital for the imperial examinations is, of course, a tribute to Wen Ruian. In every book, I want to capture that image. How good Wen Ruian was in his younger days—not the man himself, but what he wrote.)