Kays Translations
Just another Isekai Lover~
Chapter 276: It’s Raining
A biting spring chill, a drop of icy rain. Zhu Ping’an had just finished his second eight-legged essay when he saw an icy raindrop strike the ground outside. The soldier standing guard drew his neck in against the cold.
It was raining. Zhu Ping’an looked over his examination booth carefully. Not bad. Though it was a stinking booth, the structure was solid, especially the recently repaired roof, and its rainproofing was well laid. He did not need to worry about leaks.
So, Zhu Ping’an took out the umbrella he had brought from his luggage, extended it outside, pointed it at the shivering soldier, then placed it on the wall outside his booth.
Use it or not, that’s up to you.
After setting down the umbrella, Zhu Ping’an paid it no further attention and continued with his writing.
This was the final Four Books eight-legged-essay question. It was a conventional one from Mencius: “Confucius climbed Mount Dong and found Lu small.”
The sentence was simple—it meant that Confucius climbed Mount Dong and, looking down, felt that the state of Lu seemed small. Simple as it may be, writing a coherent eight-legged essay based on this line was not so easy. You couldn’t just write a travel diary about Confucius climbing a mountain, after all.
To tackle this question, one needed to understand the full context. The complete passage in Mencius reads: “Mencius said: Confucius climbed Mount Dong and found Lu small; climbed Mount Tai and found the world small. Therefore, one who has seen the sea finds it hard to be impressed by other waters; one who has studied under a sage finds it hard to speak. There is a method to observing water: one must see it in its waves. The sun and moon have brightness; their light must shine upon it. Flowing water does not proceed without first filling its channels; a gentleman’s pursuit of the Way must follow steps before achieving mastery.”
Reading this passage, Zhu Ping’an thought of Zhu Xi.
Zhu Xi, the old master, had written a note in the margin of this chapter of Mencius: “This chapter speaks of the greatness and rootedness of the sages’ teachings; students must progress gradually to reach them.”
What Zhu Xi meant was that the Confucian doctrines established by sages were lofty and profound, with deep roots. Those who sought to learn must follow a gradual path, step by step, in order to reach that lofty realm.
Zhu Xi’s words carried enormous weight in the examinations. In the second year of Hongwu, Emperor Taizu had ordered Zhu Xi’s commentaries treated as orthodox examination authorities.
Zhu Ping’an pondered for a moment and found his direction. He would follow Zhu Xi’s interpretation and use it as the introduction to his essay.
Outside, the rain gradually intensified. The pitter-patter grew louder, carrying the lingering chill of winter, driven by the howling northern wind. It poured down mournfully, like weeping and lamentation, blanketing the entire examination courtyard.
The soldier outside was now holding the umbrella Zhu Ping’an had lent him. Seeing the other guards shiver in the wind and rain, he felt deeply grateful to Zhu Ping’an in the stinking booth and looked toward him appreciatively.
However, Zhu Ping’an was completely absorbed in his ink-stained world, oblivious to the grateful gaze from the soldier.
Dipping his brush deeply into ink, Zhu Ping’an wrote the opening sentence of the essay:
“The sage’s Way is grand and well-rooted; the student must proceed gradually to attain it.”
With the opening complete, Zhu Ping’an continued fluidly, composing the essay in one go. Following Zhu Xi’s commentary, he elaborated on Confucian doctrine, praising it to the skies—comparing it to the lofty Mount Tai, the vast ocean, and the radiant sun and moon. Of course, all these had roots and origins. He emphasized again that learners must begin from the basics and proceed step by step. In this way, he completed the eight-legged essay.
At this point he had completed all three Four Books essays. The remaining four questions were from the Five Classics. In Zhu Ping’an’s experience, the Five Classics questions were relatively easier—though that was partly personal preference.
Zhu Ping’an opened the question sheet and continued reading.
As expected, the remaining four were all from the Five Classics. None of them were difficult. Zhu Ping’an read through all four at once, and ideas began to flow, spreading out like the pitter-patter of rain outside.
Rain fell on the eaves—drip, drop—with a clean rhythm that seemed almost cheerful. Zhu Ping’an’s thoughts drifted with it. That rhythmic rain stirred waves of inspiration within him—soft, silent ripples.
With ideas flowing smoothly, Zhu Ping’an kept writing.
And so, in the curtain of rain, a young man wearing a face mask tirelessly wielded his brush, ink flying with each stroke.
Rain made the latrines smell even worse. There were several other stinking booths like Zhu Ping’an’s in the Gongyuan. Most of their occupants were nearly overcome, vomiting repeatedly. Another candidate could no longer endure it and was escorted by the proctors to the Mingjing Building. The few who remained were pale and barely holding on.
Yet Zhu Ping’an, wearing a face mask, seemed entirely unaffected by the neighboring latrine’s odor. He wrote fluently, as if surrounded by birdsong and blooming flowers. Every candidate who passed by his booth was awed by the sight of him calmly composing amidst the stench.
“Swinging an axe under the bed, building a temple in a snail shell.”
That’s how most people felt—like wielding an axe under a bed or performing a ritual in a snail shell. There was no room to fully express oneself. After all, the eight-legged essay had strict formats and rules: each sentence had to follow a fixed style, with parallel structure and symmetry.
However, at this moment, Zhu Ping’an felt completely at ease. Wherever his thoughts led, his brush followed. Every word perfectly adhered to the rigid requirements of the eight-legged form.
In one go, Zhu Ping’an finished two Five Classics essays before putting down his brush. His stomach, however, began to rumble again.
Zhu Ping’an signaled for a toilet pass, hung an oilcloth over the front of his booth to block the wind and rain, stored his examination papers and drafts in the answer bag and hung it on the wall, then went to the latrine next door.
Even with a mask, the stench in the toilet was almost unbearable upon entry.
Of course, without the mask, it would’ve been absolutely suffocating. The toilet was far from clean—nothing like our modern flush toilets. It was a squat-style trench, and waste couldn’t be flushed away. It was unpleasant to look at.
There was toilet paper inside, but it was rough grass paper.
Zhu Ping’an finished his business at the fastest speed of his life and returned to his booth.
By then, it was probably around four or five in the afternoon. The sky outside was growing darker, and the rain was pouring even harder. A curtain of water had formed outside the booth, turning it into something like a “Water Curtain Cave.”
Just then, a shrill cry echoed outside.
“Damn it! My exam paper is soaked!”
A frantic examinee was shouting and jumping outside his booth. Three or four guards could not restrain him; it took six or seven to subdue him and escort him to the Mingjing Building.
Poor guy—his booth must have leaked, soaking his exam paper. A wet paper would leave stains, and such an answer sheet would be considered invalid, nullifying this entire examination round. Naturally, the candidate couldn’t help losing it.
Looked at that way, the stinking booth did not seem so bad after all. Zhu Ping’an, still wearing his mask, gave a self-mocking chuckle.