Chapter 395: Delivering the Umbrella

Early morning mist hung gently in the air. The moment Zhu Ping’an opened the door, he saw the fine rain weaving through the morning light, falling softly at an angle like a delicate veil of mist suspended in the air. Each tiny droplet kissed his face with a cool, refreshing touch, leaving a sense of calm and pleasure.

In the courtyard, a cluster of wildflowers—tossed about by mischievous children—had quietly bloomed, though Zhu Ping’an had not noticed. Red and blue petals mingled at the base of a tree, bursting into color as if a small, radiant sunrise had gathered around its roots, painting the earth with ephemeral splendor.

“Master, make sure you eat breakfast before heading out,” called the young maid, Baozi, carrying a food box under one arm and twirling a delicate oiled-paper umbrella in the other. She had arrived early, making her way to Zhu Ping’an’s little courtyard with practiced efficiency.

Breakfast was, as always, perfectly satisfying. Once finished, Baozi insisted on stuffing an extra paper umbrella into Zhu Ping’an’s hands before she would leave, clutching the food box firmly as if the act of giving the umbrella were as essential as her own presence.

Zhu Ping’an stepped out into the drizzle, holding the umbrella but not opening it. The rain was fine as silk threads, barely touching his clothes, making the use of an umbrella entirely unnecessary. With his sleeves loose and flowing, he moved at a leisurely pace toward the Guozijian, the Imperial Academy, where the day’s ceremonial “Shicai” rites awaited. Today marked an important milestone: Zhu Ping’an and his fellow newly minted officials were to participate in the Shicai ceremony at both the Guozijian and the Confucius Temple.

The Shicai ceremony was the final formal step for scholars entering officialdom. After this ritual, Zhu Ping’an and the others could don the official robes prepared by the Ministry of Personnel. They would shed their civilian identities, stepping fully into the life of government service—entitled to salaries, privileges, and the subtle, heady power of office.

On the way to the Guozijian, Zhu Ping’an met Zhang Siwei and Wang Shizhen. The three of them walked together, entering the academy side by side.

At this moment, the Guozijian stood as the pinnacle of learning in the Ming Empire—a world-class institution whose influence far outshone any modern university, even Harvard or West Point. Scholars from far-off lands—Central Asia, Korea, Southeast Asia—who could study here were almost guaranteed high office upon returning home.

Located in the eastern district of the capital, the Guozijian faced Guozijian Street, and its neighbor was the Confucius Temple, connected directly via the academy grounds.

For Zhu Ping’an, this was a first visit. Not far from the academy stood the “Dismount Stele”—a marker where all officials, regardless of rank, were required to dismount, a ritual sign of respect for the teachers and traditions. Beyond it lay the main gate of the Guozijian, known as Jixian Gate.

Two towering, ornate paifangs—archways—stood before the gate, their yellow-glazed tiles glinting in the soft morning light, a testament to Ming luxury and grandeur. The front bore the inscription “Huanqiao Jiaoze,” meaning “The teachers of Guozijian bestow their benevolence abundantly,” while the reverse read “Xuehai Jiegun,” referring to the countless students eager to learn. These inscriptions, later replicated in the Qing dynasty, reflected the enduring legacy of Ming traditions, though Qing historians altered many historical records to suit their narrative.

The Guozijian itself exuded a stately air, dominated by red brick and tiled roofs. The moment Zhu Ping’an, Zhang Siwei, and Wang Shizhen entered, the academy’s red-hued elegance pressed upon them, an architectural embrace of knowledge and authority.

Inside, fellow scholars and students of the same cohort greeted Zhu Ping’an and his companions with formal bows, which he returned in kind. As the three exchanged polite courtesies, other academy students watched from afar, their eyes alight with admiration and envy. They had known that today the newly minted jinshi—advanced scholars—would perform the Shicai ceremony, and many had claimed vantage points early in the morning, observing from a distance with a mixture of longing and jealousy.

After some time, Ouyang Zishi finally arrived, surrounded by a group of newly minted jinshi. In the court, no one embodied the thirst for office more clearly than Ouyang Zishi. While Zhu Ping’an and his peers waited without seeing any of the academy’s leaders, Ouyang’s presence quickly summoned the key officials: the Guozijian presiding officer, the supervisory administrators, and several senior instructors.

The previous presiding officer had been Xu Jie, who had been promoted to Minister of Rites. The new presiding officer owed his position to the influence of Yan Song, and he displayed particular courtesy toward Yan Song’s nephew, Ouyang Zishi, seeking favor for his own career advancement.

Though Zhu Ping’an, as the top-ranking scholar, should have been the center of attention at the Shicai ceremony, Ouyang Zishi emerged as the ostensible star. Time and again, he displayed subtle superiority before Zhu Ping’an, relishing the extra attentions bestowed upon him.

As they walked toward the Confucius Temple, the drizzle grew steadily heavier. Guozijian officials led the way, while the new scholars followed behind. The presiding officer, supervisory administrators, and other officials lingered near Ouyang Zishi, chatting and ensuring he received every courtesy.

Zhu Ping’an walked alongside Zhang Siwei and Wang Shizhen. There was no need to follow strict order yet; proper etiquette would be required once they reached the Confucius Temple.

“This rain’s picking up a bit, isn’t it?” Ouyang Zishi remarked casually, his gaze flicking subtly toward the umbrella tucked under Zhu Ping’an’s arm.

The presiding officer noticed, of course. Being Yan Song’s nephew and with matrimonial ambitions involving Yan Song’s family in the air, Ouyang’s favor was valuable. Displaying deference to him was, in effect, a political calculation, signaling respect to Yan Song himself.

“Ah… Master Ping’an, is it?” the presiding officer asked, approaching Zhu Ping’an.

“Greetings, Presiding Officer. I am indeed Zhu Ping’an,” he replied, bowing respectfully.

“And… you won’t be needing that umbrella, I presume?” the officer added, glancing meaningfully toward Ouyang Zishi, who was supposedly fragile and “unable to withstand the rain.”

Zhu Ping’an smiled, offering the umbrella he had been holding to the presiding officer.

The rain was barely enough to dampen clothing, yet Ouyang Zishi, with his flushed, healthy complexion, pretended delicate frailty. Zhang Siwei and Wang Shizhen exchanged disbelieving glances, silently registering the injustice.

“Ah… but how inconsiderate of you! Then Master Zi Hou will be caught in the rain,” Ouyang Zishi said, taking the umbrella with exaggerated courtesy, his eyes fixed on Zhu Ping’an as if waiting for him to relent.

The presiding officer’s gaze flicked to Zhu Ping’an, carrying an unspoken pressure.

“No problem at all,” Zhu Ping’an said smoothly, “the umbrella is yours.”

The presiding officer stroked his beard in satisfaction, and Ouyang Zishi accepted it with half-hearted resistance, raising it over his head with a subtle air of triumph.

Zhang Siwei and Wang Shizhen were puzzled by Zhu Ping’an’s ready concession—until he explained with a calm smile:

“If he doesn’t raise it, then it’s a clear day.”