Kays Translations
Just another Isekai Lover~
Chapter 348: Reviewing the Papers
The very first ray of morning light spilled down from the heavens, piercing the pale horizon like a blade of gold. It streamed through the octagonal lattice windows of the Cheng’en Hall in the Western Garden, falling across the great hall in a dazzling yet solemn glow. The sunlight cast a perfect pattern of the Eight Trigrams upon the stone floor—its lines stark, its divisions mysterious, as though Heaven itself had descended to draw an omen.
At the two poles of this luminous diagram stood two figures. One was a man in a resplendent dragon robe, his bearing commanding and grave—the Son of Heaven himself, the Jiajing Emperor. Opposite him stood another, clothed in a gray-and-white Daoist robe embroidered with the Eight Trigrams, his air calm and inscrutable—the court’s famed diviner, Tao Zhongwen.
A heavy silence lingered in the vast hall, until the Emperor’s voice broke through, low yet edged with unease:
“This dream of mine—how should it be interpreted?”
Tao Zhongwen listened carefully, his expression solemn. Then, bowing respectfully to His Majesty, he closed his eyes. From the wide sleeves of his robe, his right hand slipped forth. His fingers bent and straightened with practiced precision, forming seals, calculating fate.
He murmured in a voice as light as drifting smoke:
“One counts as Kan, two as Kun, three as Zhen, four as Xun…
Five rests in the Central Palace, six is Qian…
Seven is Dui, eight Gen, nine Li—Heaven’s gates are thus revealed…”
His muttering, rhythmic and steady, seemed to fill the hall with the faint pulse of the cosmos itself.
Two minutes passed, every second drawn out by the Emperor’s impatient heartbeats. Suddenly Tao’s eyes snapped open, gleaming with light. Joy broke across his face like dawn. He dropped into a deep bow and declared, his voice brimming with delight:
“Congratulations, Your Majesty! Felicitations upon Your Majesty!”
The Emperor felt the tension in his chest dissolve at once. His face softened, relief loosening the muscles that had been taut with worry. Yet curiosity flared immediately after, sharp and insistent.
“From whence does this joy come?”
Tao’s white beard gleamed beneath the morning sun as he straightened, his voice resonant with certainty.
“Xun within Ying, Kan within fullness—this is the sign of great prosperity, of a dynasty enduring through ages. It is the image of eternal stability, of rivers and mountains secured.”
The way he spoke, with the sunlight bathing him in golden brilliance, made him seem less a man than a celestial seer descended from Heaven itself.
The Emperor’s eyes brightened with unrestrained joy.
Yet, as swiftly as joy rose, doubt followed. His brow furrowed slightly, and he spoke again, quieter this time:
“But then why, in my dream, did Taizu, the Grand Ancestor, stand silently upon a riverbank choked with green duckweed? He said not a word. He merely pointed at his feet… before ascending to the heavens as an immortal?”
The hall fell still once more.
Tao Zhongwen lowered his gaze, his expression carrying the perfect blend of gravity and mystery. Slowly, he shook his head, lips curving into the subtle smile of one who knows much but will not say.
“This concerns Your Majesty’s family affairs. As an outsider, this minister dares not intervene.”
That was all.
If Zhu Ping’an had been present, he would have rolled his eyes and cursed aloud: What nonsense! After all that, you end with this? The Emperor bares his soul, and all you do is push it away with this cheap trick?
It was the ultimate evasion, and a brilliant one at that. After all, the Emperor’s visions, born of dreams and medicine alike, could mean anything—or nothing. Who could decipher them truly? By declaring it a “family matter,” Tao placed it beyond question, beyond blame. For who could dispute that the words of ancestors, when revealed in dreams, belonged solely to the Emperor’s own household?
The Emperor, however, thought in ways unlike ordinary men.
He nodded thoughtfully. Indeed. The Grand Ancestor would not visit me in a dream without purpose. Such matters must concern the destiny of our house, of our imperial bloodline. Truly, this is not the realm of statecraft but of family heritage. Tao Zhongwen is right—the words of ancestors cannot be carried by another’s mouth.
And with that thought, the Emperor’s doubts eased, replaced by solemn conviction.
While the Emperor pondered dreams in the Western Garden, matters of the realm unfolded outside the southern gate, Yangde Gate, within the straight lodges reserved for the Grand Secretariat.
Inside, eight ministers—handpicked by Jiajing himself as chief examiners for the palace examinations—were bent over tables stacked high with scrolls. The room was thick with the scratch of brushes, the rustle of paper, the steady rhythm of judgment.
At their head sat Yan Song, the Grand Secretary and unquestioned leader of the cabinet. His role as chief examiner was beyond contest. Around him were seven others of weighty repute—Ministers of the Six Boards, great scholars of the Hanlin Academy, stern judges of the Censorate, and dignitaries from the highest courts. Together, they bore the responsibility of shaping the future of the Empire’s scholar-officials.
The palace examinations had concluded; in three days, the results would be proclaimed. Yet before that, these eight must labor ceaselessly, sorting, grading, and ranking. Unlike the provincial exams, the palace examination admitted no failures. Every candidate here would pass into office. But the ranking—the order of merit—was everything. To be named Zhuangyuan, Bangyan, Tanhua—the top three laureates—was to ascend to eternal glory.
Their method, however, was slow. Each scroll passed from hand to hand, each examiner adding his mark. Five grades were used, simple symbols for weighty judgment: “○” for first-class excellence, “△” for second, “＼” for third, “1” for fourth, and “×” for the lowest.
In the end, the scrolls with the most “○” marks would be elevated. By convention, to even qualify for the top two tiers, a candidate needed at least seven “○” out of eight. Less than that, and one could abandon all hope of standing among the foremost.
The task was exhausting, yet they pressed on with diligence. Yan Song, especially, read every scroll with grave care. None could accuse him of partiality—or so it appeared. He judged only on quality, save for two exceptions, which he disguised beneath the veneer of impartiality.
Two scrolls in particular stood out.
One bore the line: “The governance of officials must bridge ruler and subject; this is the nation’s foundation. To honor the sovereign’s authority, to select and appoint wisely, to assess their duties, to oversee their conduct, to reward and punish with fairness…”
The other declared: “All under Heaven belong to the public; a sage ruler unites the realm. Above, he inherits Heaven’s mandate; below, he embodies the people’s will…”
Both texts stirred admiration. Yan Song awarded each the highest mark without hesitation. Five of the other ministers followed suit.
But two dissenters broke the harmony—the Vice Minister of Rites, and one of the Grand Secretariat’s assistants.
When they reached the first scroll, the Vice Minister’s eyes darkened. The phrases struck him as too familiar—he remembered precisely which candidate, seated on the eastern side during the examination, had penned those words. Without hesitation, he marked it “△.” As he passed the scroll to the Secretariat assistant, he pressed his hand twice against the other’s, a subtle signal. The assistant nodded imperceptibly and followed suit, also giving a “△.”
Their maneuver was clever. They could not risk giving the scroll too low a mark, for disparities beyond three levels invited suspicion and punishment. But by marking it slightly lower, they effectively denied it entry into the Emperor’s sight.
Thus the first scroll, though otherwise brilliant, received only six “○” and two “△.” By rule, it would never make the top ten. No matter how dazzling its words, no matter how lofty its vision, it would never reach the Emperor’s eyes. The path to Zhuangyuan, Bangyan, or Tanhua was forever closed.
Meanwhile, the second scroll—praised unanimously—received eight full “○.” It would certainly be placed before the Emperor himself.
The Vice Minister of Rites, seeing the outcome, allowed himself a satisfied smile, the kind only a man confident in his subtle victory could wear.