Chapter 406: Zhu Ping’an, Do You Like Me?

“Only the magistrate may set fire; the common people are not allowed even a candle.”

This saying could not have been more fitting for the officials of the feudal era. At night, while the city was under curfew with constables and guards patrolling the streets, the academicians of the Hanlin Academy could still return to their homes freely under the protection of their privileges. Some, having drunk too much, were even escorted by attendants. Tonight, Zhu Ping’an found himself in just such a predicament, escorted home to the residence of the Marquis of Linhuai by a couple of aides.

But this time, Zhu Ping’an had truly overindulged. “Drunk as a drowned rat” might have been an understatement. Only with the combined support of three young servants was he finally carried back to his guest room.

“Stinking toad…”

Li Shu, taking the damp towel handed by the little maid girl Baozi, began to gently wipe Zhu Ping’an’s face. As always, she worked carefully, lips pouting in mild scolding.

“The toad… is a beneficial creature… the teacher said not to eat it…” Zhu Ping’an mumbled incoherently, utterly lost in his drunken haze.

He had barely managed a few words, yet Baozi could not help but giggle, covering her small mouth with her hand. “Master is so drunk, and he’s still thinking about eating things… I remember he loved it since he was a child.” Then curiosity lit her round little face. She turned to Li Shu and asked, “Miss, can toads be eaten? Are they tasty?”

“Food for peasants. I’ve never tried it, so how would I know?” Li Shu rolled her eyes but then instructed the little servant, “Hua’er, go to the kitchen and have them make a bowl of hangover soup. Don’t want him spouting nonsense all night.”

“Yes, Miss!” Baozi chirped, scurrying off without a moment’s hesitation.

Once the room was left to just Li Shu and the drunken Zhu Ping’an, Li Shu, after waiting for Baozi’s footsteps to fade into the courtyard, smoothed her skirts and sat beside him. She extended her pale, slender fingers and gently rested them on his flushed face.

Zhu Ping’an, feeling the warmth radiating from his own drunken body, found the cool touch of Li Shu’s hand soothing. Unconsciously, he buried his face into her hand, rubbing side to side with a soft, contented murmur.

Li Shu was momentarily startled, like a timid little rabbit caught off guard. Her cheeks flushed crimson. But seeing that Zhu Ping’an’s actions were merely unconscious, she relaxed and patted her chest with relief.

“Zhu Ping’an?”

She whispered softly. There was no response from the figure lying before her. Li Shu, cheeks still tinged with red, pricked up her ears like a mischievous little sprite, listening for any sounds outside the window. When she confirmed the room was empty, her large, dark eyes gleamed with playful intent as they fixed on Zhu Ping’an.

“Zhu Ping’an… do you like me?”

The question hung in the air, her voice low and teasing, thick with a hint of prideful coquettishness.

Then, she reached out her delicate hand to support his head, placing her fingers under his chin and at the back of his skull. With a gentle motion, she guided him to nod twice, almost imperceptibly, yet with complete tenderness.

“Oh-ho, the stinking toad wants to eat swan meat, huh? Hmph… well, I’ll have to think about it.”

Li Shu rested her cheek in her palm, springtime dancing in her eyebrows and the corners of her eyes, as she watched the sleeping figure of Zhu Ping’an and quietly amused herself for quite some time. Even when Baozi returned with the hangover soup, the faint thrill of her little secret still glimmered across her face.

Morning came. Zhu Ping’an was awakened by Baozi bringing breakfast. Rubbing his groggy head, he felt waves of discomfort still rolling through him. Outside, the sky was still dim, a few faint stars twinkling against the pale horizon.

“What time is it?”

After washing his face, he finally felt somewhat refreshed. Recalling the scolding he had received from Li Mo for being late yesterday, he asked Baozi nervously.

“Just past the hour of Mao. It’s still early,” she replied while arranging the food. “Master, come and eat.”

“Hour of Mao?” Zhu Ping’an exclaimed in surprise. He quickly dressed, grabbed a flatbread from the table, and bolted out.

“Master, Master…” Baozi’s eyes went wide for a moment before she hurried after him, her small legs scampering to keep up.

Zhu Ping’an munched on the bread as he made his way to the stables. By the time he arrived, the bread was gone. He led out the jet-black horse, “Shamate,” and mounted it. The horse carried him swiftly toward the Hanlin Academy.

In ancient times, officials were also required to sign in for work. In the Ming Dynasty, during spring and winter, check-in was at six in the morning; in summer and autumn, it was half an hour earlier. Emperor Hongwu had imposed strict penalties: lateness or absenteeism could lead not just to a docked salary, but also to corporal punishment or imprisonment, depending on severity.

The hour of Mao corresponded roughly to five o’clock. Under normal circumstances, as Baozi had said, Zhu Ping’an still had enough time.

But then there was Li Mo.

Even though he hadn’t been late yesterday, he was still scolded. To avoid trouble this morning, Zhu Ping’an knew he had to arrive at least half an hour early—hence his rush.

Shamate, surprisingly obedient, carried him quickly to the Hanlin Academy. Upon arrival, Zhu Ping’an handed the horse to the attendants to be fed and watered, then signed in. Only a handful of officials had arrived. After exchanging a few words, he headed to the library where he worked.

By the time Old Li arrived to sweep the floor, Zhu Ping’an had already begun organizing books on the first floor.

Looking at the overwhelming stacks—seemingly endless and chaotic—he thought of the previous Hanlin scholars who had managed the library, only to be ravaged under Emperor Jiajing. Determined not to repeat history, Zhu Ping’an resolved to meticulously organize the collection.

He considered applying modern library classification methods, but in the ancient world, there were no pinyin or Arabic numerals. Using a modern system would likely leave only him able to find books easily; others would struggle.

Modern libraries categorized books by social sciences, natural sciences, philosophy, and religion. Ancient scholars, however, knew no such divisions.

The library likely contained tens of thousands of volumes, arranged in little discernible order. Reorganizing them would be exhausting.

Yet, Zhu Ping’an had an advantage others lacked: centuries of accumulated knowledge from the future. While modern library methods couldn’t be copied wholesale, they could serve as inspiration. Likewise, his study of classical Chinese literature provided further reference.

Although he couldn’t sort books by social or natural sciences, the ancients had their own logic. Classical texts could be divided into the “Classics, Histories, Philosophers, and Collections,” while fringe texts might fall under astronomy, geography, yin-yang, medicine, religion, and craftsmanship.

The Ming Dynasty lacked pinyin and Arabic numerals, but they did have the Hongwu orthography.

Most importantly, modern library management systems—the backbone of any functioning library—could be adapted. If he combined modern methods with Ming realities, he could devise an effective system.

Resolved, Zhu Ping’an returned to his desk. He dipped his brush into ink and began drafting a practical method for reorganizing the library. Half an hour later, he had a feasible plan ready, carefully thought out and adapted to the realities of his time.