Chapter 4: A-Middle Evaluation, Posted for All to See!

I have served in the northwest for a decade and have never seen such a penetrating strategy against the Xia!

These words, like a boulder cast into a calm lake, instantly shattered the examination hall.

What? The Prefect actually praised him that highly?

Isn’t Lu Beigu always at the bottom?

He Cong, standing nearby, heard it clearly; his face flushed crimson—he had just mocked Lu Beigu for saying “there’s no trick to writing a strategy,” and now the County Magistrate was lavishing such praise upon him.

This poor scholar, did he steal someone else’s draft? he muttered bitterly.

Shh, lower your voice! someone beside him warned.

Meanwhile, Li Pan, unaware and uncaring of the candidates’ thoughts, reached out and picked up Lu Beigu’s examination paper; the parchment rustled faintly between his rough fingers.

What is your name?

Li Pan’s voice remained hoarse, yet now carried a touch of warmth.

I am Lu Beigu, from Gulin Town.

Gulin Town? Li Pan nodded thoughtfully. Is that the Gulin Town upstream on the Anle Creek, under the Luo clan’s jurisdiction?

That is correct.

Strictly speaking, Lu Beigu is not a resident of Hejiang County; his household registration lies in Gulin Town, governed by the semi-autonomous Luo clan.

That region is not under direct Song government control, has no prefecture or county administration, let alone a county or prefectural school.

Historically, Gulin Town and Hejiang County both belonged to Linzhou during the Tang and Five Dynasties periods, and the Anle Creek’s waterway provided convenient transport, so Gulin Town’s scholars typically attended Hejiang County’s school.

Li Pan’s gaze lingered for a moment on Lu Beigu’s soaked garments and the wound on his forehead, but he did not press further, only continued:

Do you know why the court has never implemented a policy similar to ‘Cutting the Sinews of Commerce’?

By posing this follow-up question rooted in the strategy essay, Li Pan was also testing him.

For if this essay were merely memorized, not born of true ability, he would surely fail to answer.

Lu Beigu’s forehead glistened with sweat—not because he couldn’t answer, but because he suddenly realized that being too talented might not be a good thing.

He had originally come with a “might as well” attitude, planning only to give a modest performance and get through the exam.

But once he entered the flow, he overdid it!

What should he do now?

After all, the original body’s strategy scores were never good.

To suddenly stand out so brilliantly risks suspicion.

But now there’s no point dwelling on it—if he answers poorly and contradicts the essay’s quality, it will be worse.

—Better to be suspected of cheating than to lose this outstanding impression!

Having decided this, Lu Beigu answered calmly and respectfully:

Your Honor, the reason is this: the word ‘profit’—our state’s finances hang by a thread; the northwest’s soldiers and civilians suffer extreme hardship, often going months or years without full pay, so border fortresses rely heavily on smuggling profits to survive.

Moreover, the price of official salt from Jiexian is high; the court, eager for salt tax revenue, dare not lower it, forcing common folk, despite their willingness to support the state, to buy smuggled Qing salt out of sheer necessity.

Modern people struggle to grasp salt’s significance in antiquity, for today a high-quality packet costs mere pence, negligible against income.

But in antiquity, acquiring this essential substance demanded exorbitant expense.

In truth, the Song did not lack salt, nor were they incapable of selling it cheaply; constrained by limited revenue and burdened by the ‘Three Excesses,’ they had to maintain the state’s operation by enforcing a salt monopoly and selling it at high prices.

Thus, no one had ever failed to consider banning Qing salt to punish the Xia—only they could not do it.

For Xia’s Qing salt, compared to the Song’s official Jiexian salt, was not only superior in quality but also cheaper—even disregarding taste, Song citizens paid fifty-five wen per jin for official salt, while smuggled Qing salt cost only fifteen wen per jin.

If you were a common man in Guanzhong, which would you choose?

Before the exam ended, Li Pan, having conducted a brief assessment, did not press further, only said: Go change your clothes; do not catch a chill. I will send someone to summon you after the exam concludes.

This was no courtesy—it was critical.

In this era, a young man enduring wet clothes for a while is fine.

But if he never dries off or changes into dry garments, he will die.

I obey, Your Honor.

As Lu Beigu turned toward the examination hall’s exit, he felt every eye fixed upon him.

Those who had once looked down on or mocked him now stared in disbelief.

He was no stranger to such gazes.

Since childhood, Lu Beigu had been a top scholar: skipping grades like eating, winning prizes like drinking water; he earned his doctorate at twenty-two and became a lecturer at Jiang University; by twenty-six, he was already an associate professor.

In China’s humanities and social sciences, he was the brightest new star, leading countless national research projects.

Though he admitted his teaching and debating skills fell far short of his colleague and friend Jiang Xinghuo, in learning, exams, and writing, the reverse was true.

Well, I died mid-thesis—now Jiang’s co-authorship is gone too. I hope he gets promoted this year.

Spring sunlight warmed his skin; Lu Beigu inhaled deeply, breathing clean air untainted by industry, and cast his chaotic thoughts aside.

The dead cannot be recalled; the future remains open.

Having reincarnated into the Northern Song, returning was impossible.

Thus, for Lu Beigu, the most urgent task now was to survive well in this era.

In this age that prized literature over martial prowess, a single strategy essay might not fully alter fate—but it could enough to shift his original path.

And his abilities were far more than merely writing one outstanding strategy.

As Lu Beigu returned to his dormitory at the county school to change clothes, Li Pan and several school officials began reviewing the submitted papers in another room.

All candidates outside were forbidden to leave, required to wait for results.

Most received a C rating.

But how to grade Lu Beigu’s essay troubled the School Director.

This essay displayed not only original insight but also masterful prose, effortlessly citing classics—how could this be the work of a county school student?

The heavy use of allusions was not Lu Beigu showing off; the grading criteria required them to substantiate arguments—Su Shi had even invented the allusion of ‘Three Times to Kill, Three Times to Forgive.’

Moreover, the allusions Lu Beigu used were not only perfectly suited to his points but also not obscure at all.

Had he written in the current Kaifeng-favored ‘Taixue Style,’ it would have been deliberately convoluted and obscure.

It merits an A, though whether A-up or A-middle is uncertain.

Overconfidence invites loss; humility brings gain.

Prefect Li Pan set the final judgment: Grade it A-middle. Post it as the top strategy essay on the school wall.

After grading concluded, the School Director stepped out to announce the results in order at the examination hall.

——————

①In Tang and Song periods, a respectful term for county magistrates; also called ‘Yihou.’ In Ming and Qing, terms like ‘Daling,’ ‘Taiye,’ or ‘Xianzun’ were common.

②Original text: ‘In Yao’s time, Gao Yao was judge; when sentencing a man to death, he said ‘kill him’ three times, but Yao said ‘forgive him’ three times. Thus, the realm feared Gao Yao’s firm enforcement yet rejoiced in Yao’s lenient punishment.’ This was a fabrication by Su Shi during his exam to support his argument.

③A literary style popular in the Taixue, characterized by deliberately obscure, strange, and difficult phrasing.

(End of Chapter)