Kays Translations
Just another Isekai Lover~
Chapter 344: The Palace Examination (Part Three)
Within the grand hall of the palace examination, the atmosphere was already tense with the rustle of brushes on paper. Many candidates had begun drafting their essays, thoughts pouring forth like an endless spring, their eyes glimmering with determination.
Some, well-versed in the livelihood of the common people, chose to write from the perspective of improving civil life. Others, familiar with the calamities of flood and drought, focused on methods to prevent or remedy natural disasters. Still others, with keen insight into current affairs, turned their attention to the threats of the northern barbarians and the coastal pirates.
Among them sat Ouyang Zishi, brimming with confidence. His lips curved into a faint smile of assurance as he prepared to set his brush to paper. He had no doubt that victory was within his grasp.
Just then, a subtle disturbance occurred. A supervising official from the Ministry of Rites, while passing by, brushed against Ouyang’s desk ever so slightly—too deliberate to be accidental. With his other hand, the man made a faint downward pressing gesture.
Ouyang’s heart gave a sudden jolt. His brush hovered in the air as if caught mid-flight, and he froze. He recognized that man—he had seen him before at the residence of his uncle, Yan Song. This official was one of Yan Song’s close adherents. Why would he signal to him in such a manner here, of all places?
His eyes lifted instinctively to seek his uncle among the proctors. There was Yan Song, hands clasped behind his back, pacing calmly through the rows, his expression as placid as still water. He gave no sign, no movement, nothing to betray involvement.
And yet—no action was the greatest action of all.
Ouyang knew his uncle well. That gesture could only have been given under Yan Song’s orders. But what did it mean? Why the downward pressing of the hand?
Was he being told to suppress something? To lower his tone? To restrain himself?
Ouyang’s brow furrowed. His mind spun with questions even as the scratching of brushes filled the hall around him. The other candidates were writing with feverish speed, pouring every drop of energy into their essays, while he sat rooted in place, pondering.
Elsewhere in the hall, Zhu Ping’an sat quietly, gathering his thoughts. At last, clarity began to emerge from the fog of exhaustion.
Yes… perhaps it would be best to use that essay he had polished so many times before—the one titled On Pacifying the Japanese Pirates. He had drawn upon countless sources, revised it again and again, refining it until it gleamed like polished jade. Among all the essays he had ever written, it was surely a masterpiece.
In this sea of policy essays, his Pacifying the Japanese Pirates would surely stand out like a crane among chickens. With his high ranking in the provincial exams, passing the palace examination should present no obstacle.
“The needs of the Japanese pirates,” he recalled the opening line, “are all things born of the vast and boundless Middle Kingdom.”
Though his mind and body were wrung with fatigue, he could still recite every word of that essay flawlessly, as though it were etched into his bones.
“Yan Shifan would never expect this…” Zhu muttered under his breath, rubbing his aching forehead. At last, a small smile curved his lips. He dipped his brush into ink, intending to write out the draft first. There was plenty of time—he would polish it carefully before copying it onto the official examination paper.
But as soon as he lifted the brush, an immense wave of weariness crashed over him. His eyelids drooped heavily, his very arm felt like it bore the weight of a thousand catties. His hand shook.
Not like this. His handwriting would suffer, and in the palace examination, calligraphy was no trivial matter—it could decide the difference between glory and disgrace.
“Better nothing than mediocrity,” he thought bitterly.
With that, he lowered his brush, closed his eyes, and leaned back to rest, forcing himself to recover before attempting to write.
As he folded his hands, his fingers brushed against a hard object hidden close to his body. It was the ginseng root he had carried with him.
It was not contraband—during the body search before entering the hall, no examiner had confiscated it.
At the very instant his fingertips touched it, his eyes snapped open, glittering with sudden hope.
Ginseng—the king of all medicinal herbs, the very essence of the earth, famed for strengthening the body and prolonging life.
Without hesitation, Zhu drew it forth, and—like a farmer biting into a cucumber—sank his teeth into it with a sharp crunch.
Sweetness burst across his tongue.
And then—miracle!
As the ginseng dissolved in his mouth, a wave of warmth surged from his throat and spread to every corner of his body. Just like the inner energy described in those fantastical martial arts tales, it was as though a thousand years of cultivated strength had suddenly been poured into his veins.
Exhaustion vanished. His spirit blazed with clarity. All the negative weights dragging him down—weariness, sluggishness, despair—were banished in an instant.
Strength doubled. Energy doubled. Clarity doubled.
Every part of him was alive with renewed vigor. He felt as though the heavens themselves had crowned him with blessings.
“This… this is my peak,” he thought, his heart surging. “Now—now I can write my best words, compose my finest essay. This is my moment of triumph. Even if the whole world stands against me, no one can prevent me from seizing the laurel of the champion!”
His lips curled into a victorious smile as he raised his brush once more, ready to inscribe Pacifying the Japanese Pirates upon the paper.
But just as his brush was about to fall, his gaze drifted—almost unconsciously—to the official exam question spread open before him.
His hand froze mid-air.
That single glance struck him like a bolt of lightning across a pitch-black sky, tearing open the veil of darkness. His heart thundered in his chest.
“Ah… so that’s it…”
The smile on his lips twitched, stretched, and refused to fade, as though mocking fate itself. He had nearly walked straight into a trap.
Zhu slowly lowered his brush, sweeping his gaze across the hall. He saw Ouyang Zishi still frowning, lost in thought. He saw Yan Song, upright and austere, patrolling with perfect impartiality.
And then his eyes hardened with resolve.
“Forgive me,” he whispered inwardly, “no matter what schemes you weave—this time, I will win.”
At this moment, he no longer merely hoped for victory. He knew he held it in his grasp, because he had pierced the very heart of the question.
Did the Jiajing Emperor truly want his ministers to point out his shortcomings?
Did he truly want advice on governance?
Hah. What fools. How naïve.
They did not understand him at all.
Had they forgotten how Xia Yan died?
Years ago, when Minister Zeng Xian memorialized to reclaim the Hetao region, the Jiajing Emperor had clapped his hands in delight, praising it as a marvelous plan. Even Xia Yan, then serving as Senior Grand Secretary, had approved heartily.
But within days, the emperor reconsidered. Too troublesome, he thought—how to deploy troops, how to supply them with food, would success even be possible?
At that moment, Yan Song seized the opportunity to accuse Xia Yan of coercing the emperor and misleading others. Those two words—coercing the emperor—sealed Xia Yan’s fate. To offend the emperor’s pride was a death sentence.
And ten years later, what of Yan Shifan? Though the others here could not know the future, Zhu Ping’an did.
When Yan Shifan was finally condemned, the Ministry of Justice, the Censorate, and the Court of Judicial Review added charges of murdering loyal ministers like Yang Jisheng and Shen Lian. But those very deaths had been decreed by the emperor himself!
If they pressed such charges, would that not imply that the emperor had erred?
It was Xu Jie who twisted the charges into something else: secret collusion with Japanese pirates, illegal construction, conspiracy. Only then was Yan Shifan destroyed.
Again and again, history proved one thing: the Jiajing Emperor valued face above all else.
He would never admit fault.
He would never accept blame.
He was proud, haughty, and would rather let others suffer than acknowledge imperfection.
And yet here, this examination question asked the candidates to present criticisms and suggestions—as though to say, “the emperor is lacking, here is how you can do better.”
What insolence!
To advise him thus was to imply the Son of Heaven was incompetent. Was a mere scholar greater than he, who had cultivated immortality for decades, consumed a hundred jin of divine elixirs?
“Ha,” Zhu Ping’an thought, his smile sharp as a blade. “If you are so capable, why stop at champion scholar? Why not take the throne itself?”