Chapter 289: Hello Chang'an
Chapter 289: No Wonder She Is Sister Chang
How could she suddenly appear by the Bian River—how could she possibly have been the one to truly slay Xu Zhengye!
His friends had analyzed it many times over. That proclamation of hers was clearly written for show, a piece to win the crowd’s applause. When they were drinking heavily, they even laughed and said that if she truly killed Xu Zhengye, they would go bareheaded and naked to Laiting Alley—where the old eunuchs who had retired from the palace lived and performed castration for a living—and let themselves be cut clean, so that they could also become those so-called “upright and unyielding women!”
After confirming again and again that the news was indeed true, Wu Zhaobai returned home absentmindedly, drank two or three cups of wine, and began lamenting in drunken verse.
His wife signaled the nurse to take their four-year-old child away.
Her husband’s drunkenness was not the main concern—his poems were atrocious. She feared they might corrupt her son’s early education.
Once the child had been taken away, she stepped forward to comfort her husband.
Wu Zhaobai clutched the wine jar and raised his voice:
“...Think of me, Wu Zhaobai, a seven-foot-tall man, born to a family of scholars! My grandfather once served as Sacrificial Wine of the Imperial Academy, and my father now holds the position of Minister of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices, overseeing all state rituals!”
His wife patted his shoulder gently and sighed. Yet for all that, this seven-foot man still had not managed to pass the provincial examinations.
Wu Zhaobai turned to his wife, whose eyes were filled with pity, and suddenly burst into tears, burying his head in her arms as he wept bitterly.
“I am my father’s only son, the sole heir of the Wu family for three generations...”
His wife sighed again. That was perhaps the only thing he could boast of.
“Yet Grandfather always despised me and favored Chunbai!”
Another sigh—there was nothing to be done. The old man had eyes, after all.
“She’s only a woman who’ll marry out one day! How could Grandfather be so blind? I’m clearly the true pillar of the Wu family’s future!”
His wife sighed again. Not necessarily—her own son was already four years old; perhaps he would grow up to be the real pillar, and it wouldn’t have to be her husband at all.
Wu Zhaobai wept even harder. Pointing outside, he cried, “Ever since Chunbai was five, I’ve never been able to lift my head in this household! My friends mock me behind my back, saying that if she were a man, I would have no place in this world!”
The young woman could no longer even muster a sigh. Her husband never once admitted his own incompetence.
“Chunbai is a famed talent of the capital, while I have become nothing but a decaying block of wood in Grandfather’s eyes!”
“Before, Chunbai still had some merit—but now? Ever since that girl from the Chang family made her name with the Tiger Painting at Dengtai Tower, her heart has grown wild! She no longer respects her elder brother, and has gathered countless women to join her madness! At this rate, they’ll soon overturn heaven itself!”
As he spoke, he smashed the wine jar with a loud crash.
“What victory at Bian River! How does that prove it was truly her own doing!”
“Yin and yang reversed, order upended—soon there will be no place left for us men to realize our ambitions... The Da Sheng Dynasty is in peril!”
“Be careful, husband!” The woman finally spoke, hurriedly covering his mouth and whispering, “Beware lest disaster come from your tongue!”
Besides, how could he say men had no place left for ambition? Every name on the Apricot List today belonged to men! It was his own failure, yet he had to drag others into his madness—the one truly deranged was none other than him!
Wu Zhaobai brushed her hand away indignantly. “I speak only the truth!”
“I know,” she said gently, “just as Chunbai always says—today, even the Holy Emperor is a woman, proof enough that women are not inferior to men...”
He clenched his jaw. “What does she understand? Only the surface! The reason Her Majesty ascended to the throne was because of the late Crown Prince’s countless military achievements!”
“The late Crown Prince was no woman! Those merits cannot be attributed to any female!”
“When Her Majesty first entered the palace, she was merely a minor talent... First she rose by bearing a son, and later by sheer fortune! Had the Crown Prince not died young, how could a mere woman have...”
Smack!
A sharp slap cut his words short.
Wu Zhaobai’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You—you dare strike me?!”
“How could I, your concubine, dare such a thing!” she said with feigned distress, hurriedly checking his face. “A fly landed on your cheek just now—this concubine only panicked...”
Wu Zhaobai stood dazed, staring blankly at her. The order of the world seemed to be collapsing—he could no longer tell truth from illusion.
His wife quickly poured him another drink. “I know your lofty ambitions, husband...”
She lifted the cup to his lips, and he drank mechanically.
She poured again. “The world may be drunk, but my husband alone is sober...”
“My husband’s time will surely come...”
One cup after another—until he was dead drunk and could no longer form words.
Then, setting the wine aside, she dusted off her sleeves and called the servants to tend to him.
She then went straight to see Old Master Wu and reported her husband’s dangerous words and behavior.
The old man rubbed his temples and ordered that the man be confined for three months.
At this time of year, the Huichun Hall was always busiest—for in spring, people were most prone to anxiety.
And now that the Apricot List had been posted, his useless grandson’s jealousy would surely flare up again. The illness of envy required shade; confinement was the best remedy.
Thus, while Wu Zhaobai lay drunk and newly confined, Wu Chunbai had already arrived at the Lingyin Hall.
The streets were packed with carriages and people, more bustling even than during the New Year festivities.
Wu Chunbai heard countless voices spreading the news of Xu Zhengye’s death with joy—some even set off firecrackers. Among their excited cries, one name was repeated over and over: General Ningyuan.
Of course, everywhere people were also animatedly discussing the newly released names on the Apricot List.
When she stepped into Lingyin Hall, Wu Chunbai heard a few scholars discussing this year’s first name.
“...It’s that Song Xian, the licentiate Song!”
“Isn’t he the same one who lost at chess here last year—to General Ningyuan?!”
“The very same!”
Hearing this, Wu Chunbai could not help but cover her lips with a smile.
No wonder she is Sister Chang.
A scholar softly cleared his throat, reminding Tan Li, “It’s a day of great joy—perhaps best not to bring up old matters…”
Who would wish to hear of past humiliations on a day when one’s name shone bright?
Yet Tan Li only smiled, unbothered.
As far as he knew, Song Xian’s visit today was not only to await the release of the Apricot Roll but also to inquire about Young Miss Chang—no, General Ningyuan.
“It’s all right,” said Song Xian calmly. “This old matter deserves to be mentioned again today.”
His tone carried no trace of displeasure; it was not irony nor self-mockery.
The others exchanged curious glances, while only Tan Li understood, smiling knowingly.
After a few more steps, Song Xian turned his gaze toward a stone table placed quietly beneath a ginkgo tree in the distance.
It seemed he saw once again the scene from last year—when he and Chang Suining had played a game of chess there.
Now, viewing that moment as a bystander, he could see his own arrogance, narrowness, prejudice, and that deep-rooted pride he had once refused to acknowledge.
All of these had left him bound in contradiction and tension—blinded by a single leaf, unable to move forward.
Looking back, his defeat that day was inevitable—and it was a good defeat.
This conclusion was not reached in a day or two. He had replayed that game countless times, especially whenever he heard new tidings of her from the capital.
Through each reflection, he came to see more clearly the magnanimity and kindness behind the one who had defeated him.
He realized that their match could hardly be called a contest between equals. The difference between them was such that they should never have sat at the same board.
As word of her deeds reached the capital, it confirmed what he had sensed during that game—she was like a great roc born to soar in the heavens, bearing wings vast enough to rise ninety thousand li high; all she had lacked before was the wind to lift her.
By comparison, he—who had once considered himself above her, who had looked down with condescension—was truly laughable.
And looking back now, he saw that she had never truly held his faults against him. She had never been angered by his arrogance or rudeness. She could have crushed him effortlessly in that game, leaving him utterly humiliated—but she did not.
Her approach had been gentle, even conciliatory.
She had even proposed they play two more rounds—best of three. In time, he came to believe that if they had played again, she would have deliberately allowed him to win once, just to preserve his dignity.
But he had been too intimidated by the spirit she displayed on the board. Distrustful by nature, he had suspected her of seeking to humble him further—and thus dared not play again.
Before the Metropolitan Examination, he once more reconstructed that fateful game.
That time, his mind drifted elsewhere—to her actions at the Confucian Temple.
Amid the black and white pieces, he seemed to feel the presence of another—someone who had once saved him as a child, and who had saved countless others since.
Though that one had long passed, both she and that figure shared something the same—an inner strength bound with compassion.
Those who are truly powerful and kind never contend for beauty among the flowers; they stand high not to trample others, but to cherish all beneath heaven.
In that moment, beneath the moonlight, staring at the chessboard, he suddenly felt enlightenment.
He sensed the rhythm of heaven and earth stirring, his heart resonating in harmony.
And for the first time, he caught a glimpse of that upright spirit—the hao ran zhi qi—that alone endures through all ages.
Only by recognizing one’s own insignificance can one perceive the vastness of the world.
He was destined to lose that game.
When he lost to her, he should have fulfilled his word and called her “teacher.”
To be defeated by her was no disgrace, nor was it deception.
That day, when he had been too proud to admit defeat, she had said to him:
“Only those who enlighten others may be called teachers.
If you believe my words have enlightened you, then should you ever wish to bow to a teacher, you may do so another day.”
He should have bowed.
She had been a fine teacher indeed.
The final subject of this year’s Imperial Examination was the policy essay—set personally by the ever-strict Grand Tutor Zhu.
Such essays test not only learning but also one’s heart and moral disposition.
If one’s heart falters, the pen strays.
Had it been the old Song Xian—conceited and rigid—he might well have failed this time. Even if he had passed by chance, he would never have won first place.
In the past, his poems and essays, though skillful, lacked true depth.
He had once sought to have Grand Tutor Zhu review his work through Head Master Qiao, yet no response ever came. He knew well that the Grand Tutor had looked down upon him.
But this time, he was the Grand Tutor’s chosen top scholar.
Such a vast change could only come from awakening.
And he knew clearly whence that awakening began.
He owed it to her—not the other way around.
Moreover, with the great victory at Bian River—a triumph no one had foreseen—her name would soon spread across all lands.
From now on, who under heaven would not know of her?
Such a person needed no reflected glory from him, Song Xian.
She had won a magnificent battle; he, too, had his own battle ahead.
Each had their battlefield. He might be small, but he would give his all.
And when they met again one day, he would first apologize—then thank her.
That night, the newly appointed scholars gathered at Dengtai Tower, drinking fine wine and composing verses in celebration, radiant with pride and youthful vigor.
After three rounds of wine, Meng Lie himself appeared, inviting the top scholar to compose a poem for the tower’s wall—promising to host the banquet himself if he agreed.
The crowd cheered for Song Xian to write—this was a glorious honor, and it would save them all a great deal in wine money!
Unable to refuse, Song Xian composed a poem on the spot—earning thunderous praise.
These were not hollow compliments born of drink or flattery; for in the eyes of those who knew the reserved and steady Song Xian, the poem carried a grandeur and might rarely seen from him—like the surge of a thousand troops, the roar of rivers in flood.
Even Meng Lie, though no poet, was awed.
He could read faces well—why else had His Highness chosen him to manage the tower?
Judging by the crowd’s reaction, this poem was truly exceptional and would surely draw patrons aplenty. He immediately ordered it hung within the hall.
“Wait—”
Just as two attendants climbed to hang it beside a painting of tigers in the mountains, Song Xian spoke up.
Meng Lie smiled, asking, “Is something amiss, Scholar Song?”
Song Xian looked at the attendants and said earnestly, “Please hang my humble work a little lower, if you would.”
Dengtai Tower glowed bright that night.
By imperial decree, the curfew in the city had been lifted for seven days to celebrate.
Never before had such celebration accompanied the Apricot Roll announcement—and seven of the ten top scholars this year came from humble families, also unheard of.
It was a sign of the Holy Emperor’s resolve to elevate the common-born—and proof that this resolve had borne fruit.
Thus the grand celebration served a dual purpose: to display imperial might in its victory over the noble clans, and to reassure the people that the realm was now secure.
Moreover, with Xu Zhengye’s death and his severed head soon to be presented at court, it was indeed a double triumph for the throne—both in war and in governance.
Yet whether all was truly as stable and prosperous as it appeared, few could say.
For the common people of the capital, rejoicing amid the lights and music, had never possessed the means to look beyond that brilliance to the world farther away.
The next day, Song Xian and other scholars who had once studied at the Imperial Academy returned there to offer thanks to their teachers and to Head Master Qiao.
When Song Xian and his peers arrived, they were received in the outer hall with tea and conversation. Many students came to join the festivity, and the hall was soon filled with laughter.
At noon, Head Master Qiao prepared a simple feast—fat fish, light wine—joined with the dried meats and fruits brought by his former pupils, together forming a cheerful table of teacher and students.
In her own courtyard, Qiao Yumian finished her meal and, as the spring sun shone warmly, took her maid out for a walk.
By the lotus pond, she decided to sit upon a stone and bask in the sunlight.
The afternoon warmth was gentle; the water carried the breath of awakening lotuses.
Beneath the soft veil over her eyes, Qiao Yumian felt the brightness of the world returning, as though she herself were reviving with heaven and earth.
Thinking of the news she had heard these past two days about Ning Ning, her heart lifted. She said to her maid, “Xiao Qiu, fetch some fruit wine—and some fruits as well. Let us celebrate a little.”
To celebrate for Ning Ning.
Xiao Qiu, delighted to see her mistress’s spirits improving day by day, happily agreed and left to fetch the wine.
Moments later, Qiao Yumian heard footsteps behind her.
She turned slightly, listening. The surroundings were quiet; her hearing had grown sharp.
Those were not Xiao Qiu’s steps. They sounded more like—
“Sixth Young Master Cui?” Qiao Yumian called softly.
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