The twelve purple-robed scholars all fell silent, heads bowed. Though they felt regret, their pride as scholars of standing left them no face to admit fault.
"No courage to admit error—even your state of mind is less mature than a child's," Zhao Xunan remarked.
At this, the purple-robed scholars dropped their heads lower, their confusion deepening. Under the weight of so many eyes, they might as well have been stripped naked; some might have rather died than endure such shame.
Zhao Xunan shook his head, picked up his brush, and began writing, speaking as he went: "Let me write you a Liangzhou Ballad—let this teach you what it means to be a valiant man."
His wolf-hair brush danced across the rice paper, crafting bold, angular characters that unfurled like a scroll. The Minister of Rites, who had been watching, recited aloud:
"Ten thousand scrolls of sacred texts, I wield them with ease;
My heart's wellspring, boundless, never ceases.
Laughing wildly, I scatter guests from all sides;
In fury, I charge the tiger's den, unafraid.
Unyielding to wind-blown blood and stormy rain,
My bold song clears ten thousand miles of gloom.
Roaming alone, whom shall I bow to?
Raising heaven and earth, I fulfill my life's vow!"
The recitation echoed across the field. The twelve purple-robed scholars clasped their hands in deep bows, their faces ashen. Though they hadn't apologized, their remorse was plain—their actions had been wrong.
"Still wish to compete?" the Minister of Personnel asked sternly.
The scholars shook their heads in unison. Their literary skills were light-years behind Zhao Xunan's; even matching him in couplets would be humiliation.
"Martial Arts Academy's Zhao Xunan is the victor!" the attendant shouted.
Zhao Xunan turned to the thirteen purple-clad fighters, a smile playing on his lips. "Weapons, fists, or a brawl—choose your method. If I lose once, I'll concede."
The fighters all vehemently shook their heads, bowing and conceding defeat.
These were local toughs from the Four Cities, after all. They'd heard whispers about Zhao Xunan during the literary contest—how he'd defeated even a cultivator who'd stepped onto the path of immortality. These low-ranking martial artists, no more than tenth-rank fighters, knew they stood no chance against even a single finger of his.
"We had no idea, Master Zhao. Forgive us!"
"All this was the Thirteenth Prince's scheme—we returned from the Ancestral Court, clueless, and fell for his lies. How pathetic!"
Zhao Xunan nodded. Admitting fault took courage—more than these martial artists had shown.
"The documents are here. I'll say no more. Cleaning the latrines in the East District for a year will be your 'great task.'"
He paused, then added, "Heaven ordains great missions only after trials. You've lived lives of luxury, ignorant of suffering. This will temper your spirits—good for you."
With that, Zhao Xunan bowed to Master Suo Bo and the officials, leaving the documents on the table. To him, this farce was child's play. A bunch of self-important fools didn't deserve to be his opponents.
"Master Zhao, even if these fools are incompetent, they outnumber you. Weren't you worried about losing?" Master Suo Bo asked with a smile.
Zhao Xunan tapped the documents. "Though some are older than me, their minds are no more mature than children's. These papers only state their defeat—do they mention any punishment for me?"
He bowed again, leading Zhao Ping'er, Xiao Nuo'er, Li Da, and Li Xiao away, all smiling. Today, he'd not only topped the "First as Teacher" exam but also humiliated a pack of second-generation nobles. His mood couldn't have been better.
Flipping through the twenty-five documents, Master Suo Bo couldn't help but chuckle. Fools—they'd signed away their dignity without a second thought.
After the exam, the Martial Arts Academy slowed. Li Da and Li Xiao, used to constant grind, grew restless.
"Master, why's the academy so lax now? We're not used to it!"
Zhao Xunan, lounging in a rocking chair with Zhao Ping'er feeding him cold melon, chuckled. "Plums turn golden, apricots plump—wheat fades, rapeseed thins. Life isn't just cultivation. Balance is key. A bow, always taut, snaps quickly. Loosen it, and it lasts centuries. Think on that."
"Master's right—we need to loosen up!" Xiao Nuo'er said, gobbling melon.
Li Da and Li Xiao finally understood: their relentless training had strained them. No wonder they'd struggled to find the Dao—too tight, too rigid.
After that, the three disciples trained two hours daily, spending the rest reading, traveling, and "seeking the world's laws to grasp the Dao." To Zhao Ping'er, this sounded like laziness.
"Master, you're just making excuses to slack off!" she huffed.
Zhao Xunan grinned. "Heaven's Way is like a bow—high, lower; low, raise. Extremes break; balance endures. That's the secret."
Zhao Ping'er walked off, her expression thoughtful. Zhao Xunan scratched his head. How could a saying I've heard a thousand times leave her so deep in thought?
"Boom!"
The clear sky darkened abruptly. Thunder roared, rain poured. Zhao Xunan, Zhao Ping'er, Xiao Nuo'er, and the Li brothers—napping on the grass—scrambled to shelter, laughing.
"June's sky is a child's face, they say. It's early autumn—why's it raining so hard?" Zhao Xunan muttered, wiping his face.
Under the surface calm, he'd been refining his Yaoqian Art and studying divination. In days, he could predict weather shifts. Even Song Chuizi asked him before his autumn outing. This sudden storm was unprecedented.
"Master, is Auntie Ping'er angry? The sky's upset!" Xiao Nuo'er asked, wiping her face with a handkerchief.
Zhao Xunan almost laughed. If that were true, his granddaughter would be a celestial being.
By August 1st, Zhao Xunan escorted the Li brothers to the Yujing Prefectural Academy. Their exam was a big deal—rare for an academy head to personally see students off.
"Hey, Song Chuizi—what're you doing here?" Zhao Xunan asked, spotting the dandy strutting toward the academy with a fan, a servant carrying a stationery box.
"Exams, obviously. What else?" Song Chuizi rolled his eyes, tossing Zhao Ping'er and Xiao Nuo'er candied haws. "And you—you're a Second-Rank official. Why're you here for a martial arts exam?"
Zhao Xunan shrugged. "You're a 'Firm General'—can't a general aim for a scholar title?"
Song Chuizi grinned, but his smile faltered as he entered. Zhao Xunan called after him, "Try hard. If you fail, you'll have to call the Li brothers 'senior'—embarrassing!"
Song Chuizi staggered, shooting Zhao Xunan a glare, then hurried in. If I fail, I'll have to bow to those kids? What a nightmare.
Ten days later, the red list was posted. Li Qingfeng topped it, Li Qinglin second, and Song Chuizi—miraculously—scraped in at the bottom.
"Out of all the students, only the top three aren't a disgrace," the academy's dean said. "The rest? Even mud has stones—these are the 'stones.'"
Soon, the Martial Arts exam date was set: Late Autumn. Rumors said the Civil Exam might spill into the new year.
The exam would include Wen Tao (military strategy), Wu Lue (tactics), and formations—far more than before. The martial artists groaned. Forcing rough men to read and write? Cruel.
But they still hoped—among so many "stones," maybe a "gem" would emerge.
On the exam day, the Yujing Imperial Academy teemed with hopefuls, crowding the gates before dawn.
Zhao Xunan, however, wasn't among the throng. As a Second-Rank official and "Barren Marsh Prince," he had his own quarters.
"Zhao Xunan—you're an academy head, a high official, even a prince in the Wilds. Why compete with commoners?" asked Song Qiancheng, the Minister of War and Song Chuizi's father.
Zhao Xunan smiled. "To honor my parents, who'll have no one to tend their shrines if I stay away. And… to fulfill a wish. I want to see the borderlands where my ancestors grieved."
Song Qiancheng nodded. Zhao Xunan, at seventeen, had achieved the pinnacle of fame. What drove him now was nostalgia.
At dawn, Zhao Xunan entered the "Heavenly Hall" without a number—no one objected. Who could challenge the "River Master"?
By dusk, he'd finished. His answers, reviewed by ministers, left them speechless.
"Appointing scholars to test Zhao Xunan is a joke," the Minister of Rites said. "His answers surpass even the official solutions!"
"Naturally—he's mastered 80% of Great Qin's literary talent. The remaining 20% can't compete!" the General scoffed.
The Grand Secretary unfolded Zhao Xunan's strategy paper. The room fell silent.
Emperor Gao Zong, lurking nearby, grumbled. "This is my study—how dare these old men take over?"
The Grand Secretary merely quoted The Art of War: "'All warfare is based on deception…'"
Zhao Xunan's words hung in the air, sharp as a sword.