Chapter Twenty-Seven: There Is No Hierarchy in Learning—The Learned Are Masters

Li Zisheng wrote the topic on the fine Xuan paper. The academy had spared no expense for this examination. The paper used was not ordinary grid paper or cloth paper; even wealthy families typically used stiff yellow paper, but for this occasion, Xuan paper—reserved for imperial examinations and the most expensive on the market—was provided for the candidates.

Spread before him were six bold characters: “Thing is not thing, feeling is feeling.”

Li Zisheng was not pondering how to compose or choose his words; instead, he was sifting through his memory for poems that matched the theme. Frankly, such a topic was child’s play for him. Having been trained for the rigorous college entrance exam, he was no stranger to all manner of bizarre questions. This six-character prompt, simply put, was nothing more than expressing emotion through objects.

So, within his memory, Li Zisheng searched for a poem that suited this mood—not just any, but one powerful enough to utterly eclipse his opponent. Since someone behind the scenes had orchestrated this event to attract attention, why shouldn’t he use this opportunity to carve out a modest name for himself in the literary world? This would help him in the future to build momentum. He understood all too well that in the Tang Empire, hiding one’s light under a bushel led only to obscurity.

While Li Zisheng pondered, his demeanor was calm, as if deep in thought. On the other side, Yan Ziqing’s youth betrayed him; his eyes sparkled with excitement he could not conceal, which struck the onlookers as rather odd.

“Zhou, look at Yan Ziqing. The headmaster said long ago that, though clever, he lacks maturity. His behavior is more childish than an eight-year-old. What a fool, still mixing with the common crowd after ten years; his life will amount to nothing,” one man remarked.

“Yang, you’re mistaken. The rebellious are unfit for office, but those who behave as he does, with a little temptation, can be easily manipulated and made quite useful,” replied Zhou.

“Haha, truly, Zhou, you are insightful. I was too hasty,” Yang conceded.

The two men on the raised platform made no effort to lower their voices. Everyone around heard them clearly, though they only dared whisper amongst themselves, not daring to say too much. After all, the Huilue County Academy was no ordinary institution; many influential figures had ties here. A careless remark might offend someone powerful.

The incense rose, and in the blink of an eye, more than half the fourth stick had burned. Li Zisheng still gazed at the six characters before him, yet to write a word, while Yan Ziqing had already finished, though he was now feigning the act of revising and perfecting his work.

Yet the excitement on his face could not be hidden. Had Li Zisheng seen it, he would have revised his opinion of Yan Ziqing—no longer seeing him as scheming, but rather as someone simply inexperienced.

The audience grew increasingly anxious. Yan Ziqing seemed to have finished, while Li Zisheng was still lost in contemplation, the six words on his desk untouched.

“Zhou, Li Zisheng must be an empty shell. It’s only natural; at eight years old, what can he accomplish? Perhaps he’s frightened by the scale of the event. I’ve heard he became a pupil of Master Cheng Zhongliang by sheer luck,” said Yang.

“Yang, to be Master Cheng’s disciple is no coincidence. Let’s just watch quietly; the rest depends on those two,” Zhou replied. He dipped his finger in his teacup and tapped the table, writing the character for “Emperor,” then fell silent.

Yang saw the character and seemed to realize something; his expression changed, and he said no more, merely watching the two on stage. The rest of the audience paid them no mind, continuing to wait patiently.

The fourth incense stick burned to its end.

At the very last moment, Li Zisheng picked up his brush and wrote swiftly. The crowd believed he was scrambling, as did those in the loft above, who could only sigh.

The proctor and Kong Zhichong stepped onto the platform.

“Time is up. Let us invite Master Kong to explain the topic.”

“Very well. The topic ‘Thing is not thing, feeling is feeling’ is the most straightforward and simple. Scenery without feeling is lifeless; feeling without scenery cannot arise. Scene is the medium of feeling, and feeling is the embryo of poetry. Only when meaning and context blend, when heart and scene resonate, can true poetic beauty be achieved. This topic is also the best way to test a person’s foundation, which is why it was chosen,” Master Kong explained, surveying the crowd.

Suddenly, in the lowest corner, a little girl raised her hand. At first, no one noticed her sitting in the stands, and even more puzzling, she was seated in the lowest tier. This raised many questions—after all, while girls could study, it was usually limited to family or village schools, never higher. What was her presence here?

Master Kong smiled gently and gestured for her to speak.

“What is your question? Please, do not hesitate.”

“Master Kong, with such a large age difference between Yan Ziqing and Li Zisheng, is the competition truly fair?” the girl asked, her voice clear and direct.

“How insolent!” whispered many in the audience, their eyes flashing with anger. It was already unusual for a girl to be present, and to speak out was even more unacceptable.

Li Zisheng also noticed the girl and was momentarily stunned—wasn’t this Zhang Shuling from the mountain days before, the one with the aura of high fortune? Why was she here now?

“No harm, no harm. Everyone, please be calm. Little one, there is no order in learning; those who excel come first. Poetry relies on inspiration and talent—how could age make it unfair?” Master Kong replied with a smile, glancing at Zhang Shuling.

Kong Zhichong, of course, knew who Zhang Shuling was, but he chose not to reveal it. It was only a minor interlude, unworthy of overshadowing the main event.

Seeing Master Kong deftly redirect the discussion, the crowd fell silent. His words—there is no order in learning; the talented come first—were novel and quickly spread through the audience.

The two contestants handed in their poems; Yan Ziqing, unable to wait any longer, submitted his first.

“Let us all appreciate Yan Ziqing’s poem,” Master Kong announced.

A piece of silver-white Xuan paper bore a regulated verse, now hanging upon the wooden wall for all to see.

Ode to the Plum Blossom

Snow and ice weigh down the branch, and it grows ever stronger,
Frost’s blade carves the flower, making it even more fair.
Enduring the cold of three winters, its fragrance remains,
Through hardship it ushers in spring, and the garden is filled with bloom.

The crowd subconsciously recited Yan Ziqing’s lines, praising him. To compose such a fine poem in so little time was truly remarkable.

Even Li Zisheng had to admit his admiration. Had it been himself, he would not have managed such a feat.