Chapter 7: This Kid Has Something

Everyone filed into the waterside pavilion.

Two middle-aged men already stood before the hall; one was beardless, clad in a green robe, his slender frame standing rigidly straight.

The other had two neatly trimmed mustaches, dressed in silk, resembling a slightly plump landowner.

Seeing them enter, the mustached man spoke first: “Find your own seats.”

Everyone took their places at low tables; Zheng Fa also found an empty corner spot and knelt before his table.

Zheng Fa had always felt that before the exam papers were handed out, that was the most tense moment.

Right now, the pavilion was silent except for a few slightly heavy breaths.

“I am Wu, the chief steward under Lady Zhao. This gentleman is Master Shen, tutor to the Seventh Young Master.” He pointed to the green-robed middle-aged man: “Today’s chief examiner is Master Shen.”

Master Shen gave a slight nod, his expression unreadable; he said nothing else, but directly stated: “Today we are selecting a personal attendant for the Seventh Young Master. Your backgrounds vary greatly.”

He glanced at Zheng Fa’s short tunic, then swept his eyes over the boys dressed in silk.

“Your scholarly attainments are uneven as well.”

His gaze lingered for a moment on the silk headbands of the three junior candidates.

“Therefore, for fairness, today we will not test anything else.” He gestured to the tables before them: “On each table is a Daoist text, the Qingjing Jing. I will recite several passages with you, then you must write down whatever lines you can recall.”

Without waiting for their reactions, he did not even hold a book, and began reciting directly.

The boys frantically opened their copies of the Qingjing Jing, following Master Shen’s recitation, struggling to keep pace with his speed.

The Dao has no form, yet it gives birth to heaven and earth; the Dao has no emotions, yet it governs the sun and moon; the Dao has no name, yet it nurtures all things; I do not know its name, so I reluctantly call it Dao. The Dao: there is clarity and turbidity, movement and stillness; heaven is clear, earth is turbid, heaven moves, earth is still. Men are clear, women are turbid; men move, women are still. Descending from the root to the branches, it gives rise to all things. Clarity is the source of turbidity; movement is the foundation of stillness. If a person can remain constantly clear and still, heaven and earth will return to him…

After reciting four passages, he abruptly stopped and said:

“Enough. Hand in your books. Begin writing.”

The start was sudden, and the end even more unexpected.

Many boys sighed, but seeing his unamiable expression, none dared speak—only obediently placed their unfinished texts before him.

…

The pavilion fell silent again, leaving only the sound of ink grinding and paper rustling.

Master Shen and Steward Wu stood side by side before the hall, watching the dozen or so boys bent over their tables; their lips moved slightly, their whispered conversation audible only to each other—clearly both possessed remarkable martial cultivation.

“Master Shen, you’re in a foul mood,” said Steward Wu.

The impatience in his demeanor was obvious to all these seventeen- and eighteen-year-olds.

“Just selecting a mere personal attendant…”

“What can we do? The Seventh Young Master is his father’s eyes, and the future head of the Zhao household. How could we not be cautious about who surrounds him? You know as well as I do—those previous attendants were all driven out by Lady Zhao.”

“It’s his own unruly nature!”

At this, Master Shen’s expression darkened further.

Steward Wu dared not respond, instead shifting the topic: “The Qingjing Jing is obscure—we’ve never read it. These boys normally study only Confucian classics; they’ve never encountered Daoist texts. They’re in for a hard time.”

“Hmph! If your Lady wants a good one, I’ll give her a good one!”

Steward Wu smiled faintly—he knew Master Shen was merely venting.

After all, as the Young Master’s tutor, examining these children must feel like a waste of talent.

“This text was chosen perfectly—none of these boys have ever seen it. How can anyone say today’s test is unfair?”

But Master Shen shook his head slightly: “Fair? I think only those few with some background will stand out.”

“Why?”

“You’ve read books too—don’t you know? Eating meat nourishes more than eating vegetables; better food improves memory. Moreover, studying cultivates wisdom—those who’ve been to school are generally smarter than those who haven’t.”

Steward Wu understood: Master Shen was right.

“The three junior candidates here each have their own connections—one is the son of the Second Branch’s steward, another is from the Seventh Young Master’s wet nurse’s family, and the third is the grandson of the household’s shopkeeper. According to you, only these three?”

Master Shen nodded.

“Yet I find one boy interesting.” Master Shen paused, following his gaze to the corner.

In the corner, Zheng Fa was slowly grinding ink.

“That boy?” Master Shen frowned: “His attire suggests he’s the poorest among them. You think he has a chance?”

Steward Wu chuckled: “In scholarship, I’m far beneath you. But when it comes to judging people, my eyes are sharp.”

He tilted his chin slightly toward Zheng Fa: “When others entered, they were timid and hesitant—yet he, though slightly nervous, adapted to the environment within three or four breaths.”

“When you finished reciting, even the three junior candidates looked gloomy—but he showed no distress.”

“He’s got something in him.”

Master Shen studied Zheng Fa closely; under Steward Wu’s words, he truly began to detect a calmness in the boy’s expression.

More importantly, he knew Steward Wu wasn’t boasting—someone trusted deeply by Lady Zhao, managing nearly every detail of the main household’s inner quarters, could not be underestimated in his ability to judge character.

…

Zheng Fa finally finished grinding the ink.

He wasn’t particularly nervous; over five years in the modern world, he’d taken well over a hundred exams, big and small.

Whether he did well or not, his composure in exam halls was well-trained.

He was confident that, in this regard, he had far more experience than the other boys.

Moreover, today’s test format favored him—yes, the Qingjing Jing was hard to memorize, but when he first learned English, that had been true gibberish.

How hard could it be compared to tackling high school math with kindergarten-level knowledge?

Indeed, though some phrases eluded him, after hearing Master Shen recite once, he’d remembered seven or eight tenths of it through listening and watching.

Still, having to grind ink before writing felt deeply unfamiliar.

While others had already begun writing, he was still battling with his inkstone.

Finally, he had ink—he picked up the brush—and realized a deeply embarrassing problem:

He didn’t know how to use a brush.

In any world, he’d never learned calligraphy.

Zheng Fa could only awkwardly grip it like a ballpoint pen.

Then he realized:

He didn’t know this world’s script.

Not entirely—he’d attended one year of elementary school—but overall, he knew very little.

This world’s characters were strangely similar to modern ones, resembling the style of ancient texts.

When reading the Qingjing Jing, he hadn’t noticed this issue—just as many modern people read traditional characters without trouble, he could genuinely understand them.

But now, with brush in hand, he felt despair.

After completing compulsory education, was he now going to be illiterate again?

“During exams, even if you write wrong, write everything down—never hand in a blank paper!” Old Chen’s advice echoed in his ears; Zheng Fa gritted his teeth and began writing in simplified characters.

Before the hall, Master Shen watched Zheng Fa scrawl a series of crooked, misspelled characters on the paper, and smiled faintly at Steward Wu.

Steward Wu stroked his two mustaches: “Misjudged him—where did this boy get such confidence?”