Chapter 377: That Village, That Dog
In ancient times, when travel was arduous and the transmission of news slow as a crawling snail, the empire’s great events often reached the far corners of the land only after many days.
It had already been several days since the results of the imperial examination were publicly proclaimed in the capital. While the grand city still lingered in the feverish excitement of the new Zhuangyuan—the top scholar parading through its streets in splendor—most of the outlying regions remained utterly ignorant of the outcome. Over a hundred imperial couriers had ridden out from the capital, their horses foaming and their whips cracking as they sped across the land, yet even so, the news of the “Palace Examination” had not yet reached the distant provinces.
Far away, in the empire’s vast southwestern lands, the magnificent Woniu Mountain rose proudly from the earth, stretching for hundreds of li like a sleeping ox. Nestled at its foot lay a small, picturesque village, surrounded by tranquil streams and lush greenery. Before the houses, fences of woven branches stood neatly in rows; behind them, loquat trees bent gently beneath the weight of ripening fruit. The villagers tended melons and beans before their homes, and the air was heavy with the scent of earth and summer.
The scenery was idyllic—mountains thick with trees, streams glinting with darting fish and shrimp—but beauty did not always mean wealth. The low thatched roofs, the cracked clay walls, and the simple wooden fences spoke plainly of lives that were modest, if content.
At the heart of the village stood a colossal banyan tree. Its branches wound and twisted toward the heavens, vast enough to cast a shade that could cover half the square. Beneath its gnarled roots lay two stone steles—one weathered and moss-covered, the other freshly carved, its edges still white from the chisel.
The older stone bore the inscription:
“In the thirtieth year of Jiajing, established by the graciously appointed provincial scholar Zhu Ping’an.”
The newer one, proudly gleaming in the light, read:
“In the thirtieth year of Jiajing, established by the graciously appointed metropolitan champion Zhu Ping’an.”
Though several days had passed since the imperial results were announced in the capital, the tidings had not yet reached this remote village. The villagers still reveled in their pride that Zhu Ping’an—one of their own—had taken the title of Huiyuan, the top scholar of the provincial examination. Their joy continued to ripple through the little settlement like gentle waves in a pond.
Under the shade of the ancient banyan, a group of villagers idled about, chatting lazily while the afternoon sun shimmered between the leaves. From time to time, sleek horses pulling ornate carriages passed by—some entering, some leaving the village—raising little clouds of dust as they went.
“Mm, that makes eighteen carriages today,” an old farmer remarked as he squatted by the tree roots, tapping the ashes from his long pipe against the bark. “Tsk, tsk… fine beasts like that, wasted on pulling carts. What a pity.”
“Eighteen? That’s nothing,” boasted another man leaning against the tree trunk. “The other day, I saw two pure white stallions pulling a carriage to the Zhu household. Not a single strand of mixed hair on them, I swear by my hoe!”
“The Zhu family’s fortune has truly come,” sighed a burly blacksmith nearby, pausing in his polishing of a hoe. “Our Ping’an-lang has made us proud—Huiyuan! Only one in the whole empire! Who among us would’ve even dreamed it?”
“Dream?” chuckled the old man with the pipe. “You’re thinking too small. Remember that school-grain plan he started years ago? Even the county magistrate praised our village for it—and Ping’an-lang was only thirteen then!” He puffed proudly, the smoke curling in lazy rings toward the canopy.
Everyone nodded in agreement.
“My boy started studying under old Master Sun this spring,” one villager said. “The village gave us a whole sack of grain to help out—and they promised another one come summer!”
“Same here,” added another with a grin. “Both my lads go to school now. Two sacks for me! Saves us trouble at home and maybe, if they can learn to read and count, they’ll find decent work in town one day. Can’t all be Ping’an-lang, but who says they can’t get a better life?”
As the talk continued, an old man appeared at the western end of the road, walking slowly with a fat, lazy yellow dog trailing behind him.
When the villagers saw who it was, their eyes brightened—it was Grandpa Li, who lived right next door to the Zhu family.
“Eh, Grandpa Li! What brings you here? Skipping your nap today?” a young man called out teasingly.
“Nap?” the old man grumbled good-naturedly, rubbing his forehead. “I barely lay down when another group of visitors arrived at the Zhu place. Just when I thought I could doze off, another lot came! Even after supper the past two nights, people were still showing up. Who can sleep with all that commotion?”
Despite his complaints, there was unmistakable pride gleaming in his wrinkled face, like he secretly enjoyed every minute of it.
The young man laughed. “If it’s such a bother, Grandpa Li, how about we trade houses? Mine’s quiet as a grave—you’d sleep like a log!”
“Ha! Dream on!” Grandpa Li huffed, his beard bristling. “Trade? Not for a thousand taels! Have you ever seen a juren before? A county magistrate? Or an Anqing prefect, all high and mighty?”
The young man sheepishly shook his head.
“I’ve seen them all,” the old man went on triumphantly. “Sat right on my rooftop and watched them clear as day. Those grand lords—hah! The way they carry themselves, boy, you could study a lifetime and still not learn it.”
He strutted a few steps in an exaggerated swagger, his back straight and his belly forward, earning hearty laughter from the crowd.
“Grandpa Li walks like an old turtle!” a little boy in open-crotched pants shouted gleefully.
A sharp smack or two from his father quickly silenced him.
“Ah, let him be,” someone chuckled. “When he’s old enough, we’ll send him to the school too. Every kid in this village’s lucky—we’ve got that school-grain program. The other villages can only envy us.”
Another villager grinned slyly. “Grandpa Li, I bet you’re not moving because the Zhu family keeps sending you treats, eh? Fruits, pastries—you’ve been eating well, haven’t you?”
The old man snorted. “Hmph! Don’t act like your homes are empty. Haven’t they been sending gifts all over the village?”
“That’s true, that’s true,” several nodded. “The Zhu family’s generosity is second to none.”
They chatted a while longer until a grand carriage that had gone toward the Zhu residence earlier came rolling back, its wheels crunching softly on the dirt road. The driver cracked his whip, and the horses trotted briskly toward the edge of the village.
Grandpa Li’s lazy dog pricked up its ears, suddenly alert. It stiffened, stretched its neck, and took a few eager steps forward as if preparing to bark. Its jaws opened wide—but no sound came out.
It mimed the action once, twice—silent, like thunder without rain.
Finally, it drooped its ears and flopped back down beside Grandpa Li’s feet, exhausted by the effort.
“Eh, Grandpa Li,” one of the men laughed, “what’s wrong with your mutt? Used to bark its head off at strangers. Why’s it all thunder and no lightning today?”
The old man glanced down at the dog and shrugged. “Too many visitors lately. The poor thing’s barked itself hoarse.”
And with that, the men burst out laughing again, their voices echoing warmly beneath the shade of the ancient banyan, while the sunlight filtered through the leaves like shards of gold—just another peaceful afternoon in a little village still unaware that one of their own had already risen to the very summit of the empire’s scholar ranks.