Chapter 77: The Quiet Reader of Lingxing Pavilion

The twelfth year of Jiazhao in the Great Zhou.

The scorching heat faded, and autumn deepened.

The terrain of Mount Luocang wound gently, its temperature several degrees lower than the valley below, where the dense forests had begun to blush red and gold.

Beside the Lingxing Pavilion in Qingshan Academy, the silver osmanthus blossoms were in full bloom, tiny white flowers studding the branches, their sweet fragrance lingering, soothing the spirit.

The August wind was neither hot nor cold, clear and refreshing, gently swaying the osmanthus branches that stretched to the eaves, scattering a few silver petals onto the pavilion’s roof.

Above the pavilion’s door hung an old catalpa wood plaque, inscribed with three powerful characters: “Lingxing Pavilion.”

The Lingxing Pavilion was known as the place where Qingshan Academy’s literary brilliance converged.

For over sixty years since the academy’s founding, every student who ranked among the top two grades in the imperial examinations could leave their name, along with their biography and finest poetry, within the Lingxing Pavilion.

After six decades of change, hundreds of names had been inscribed there.

Afternoon sunlight, warm and luminous, fell upon the western window, illuminating a youth whose features were as exquisite as a painting—handsome, elegant, radiant with ethereal grace, as if not of this mortal world.

But few ever came a second time.

The morning classes at the academy were typically intense, while the afternoon schedule was deliberately relaxed.

These Qingshan prodigies who had left their names in the Lingxing Pavilion, after years of rise and fall, had mostly become high-ranking officials, provincial governors, or pillars of the scholarly world.

On the desk lay a small book box made of Xiangfei bamboo, containing two blue-covered volumes, their pages worn with faint traces of heavy use.

Having one’s name inscribed in the Lingxing Pavilion was the highest honor for every Qingshan student, worthy of lifelong pride and reflection.

His glossy black hair was combed meticulously, each strand in place, tied into a topknot with a single xiuyu hairpin.

Every new student, upon entering the academy, was initially led by their teachers and seniors to the Lingxing Pavilion, eager to admire the legacy of their predecessors.

Thus, the place was only slightly lively each March, when new students arrived; for the rest of the year, it was deserted, rarely visited.

It was only natural—few would be so bored as to linger daily in a “school history exhibition hall.”

Whenever afternoon classes ended, the desk by the western side of the Lingxing Pavilion always held a jade-like youth quietly reading.

Whether their careers had soared or collapsed, whether they had been loyal or treacherous, virtuous or corrupt, successful or fallen, all had become the elite among men.

This youth was Jia Cong, who had entered Qingshan Academy’s Bingwen Hall two years prior.

Whether outside the window the wind howled, snow fell, rain lashed, or butterflies and swallows danced, none could disturb the boy’s focused, diligent study.

He was a scion of the prestigious Rongguo Duke’s Mansion.

When Jia Cong first entered Qingshan Academy, he caused quite a stir, for the halo surrounding him was simply too dazzling.

But since two years ago, this ordinarily deserted Lingxing Pavilion had gained a regular visitor, as if someone with discerning eyes had recognized its unique solitude and quiet.

He wore a loose-sleeved blue robe, exquisitely crafted with fine stitching, fitting him perfectly and accentuating his tall, elegant figure like a jade tree amid orchids.

They were also the true foundation and prestige of this academy, hailed as the foremost in the Great Zhou.

His long, pale fingers held a wolf-hair brush, sometimes turning pages in silent recitation, sometimes scribbling swiftly to record flashes of insight.

Accompanied by the lingering wisdom of past scholars and the hazy, vanished memories of those long gone.

Recommended to the academy by the literary master Liu Jing’an.

Before reaching adulthood, he was personally invited by Prince Jiaoshun in a handwritten letter to attend the Nanxi Literary Gathering, where his plum blossom ci poem stunned all present and spread like wildfire through the literati of the imperial capital.

He was also rumored to be a prodigious calligraphy genius—his handwritten Heart Sutra was not only spiritually profound, but his brushwork was uniquely exquisite, even said to be collected in the imperial palace.

Any one of these honors was beyond the reach of an ordinary person.

Thus, upon entering Qingshan Academy, Jia Cong drew immediate attention and was labeled by most students as “noble scion,” “eccentric genius,” or “demon prodigy.”

Where there are people, there is rivalry—such a figure was inevitably resented and excluded by the crowd.

Fortunately, since entering the academy, Jia Cong had shown none of the arrogance or extravagance typical of noble heirs, and conducted himself with extreme modesty.

Outside of daily lessons, his presence was rarely seen.

He maintained contact only with a few kindred classmates and had almost no interaction with others.

He did not even reside in the academy’s dormitory, further reducing opportunities for social contact.

He rarely attended the literary gatherings, banquets, or philosophical discussions organized by students; even when dragged along, he sat like a statue, spoke little, and never sought the spotlight.

This left some ambitious and scheming students with no opening to exploit.

Over several months, the halo surrounding Jia Cong upon his arrival gradually faded.

Had it not been for his consistently top rankings in quarterly and annual exams, many classmates would have nearly forgotten he existed.

And this was precisely the effect Jia Cong desired.

When he first entered the academy, he had visited Master Jing’an to thank him for his recommendation.

The old man had spoken to him of recent droughts in the south, where Huguang and Zhejiang had suffered two consecutive years of crop failure, and livelihoods had grown increasingly difficult.

His Majesty wished to open the maritime borders, trade with distant white barbarians, revitalize sea trade, enrich the people, and improve their lives.

Yet the old faction in court had submitted memorials opposing it, citing the preservation of ancestral traditions, and with pirates and Japanese raiders rampant along the southeast coast, the endeavor had stalled.

Nevertheless, His Majesty, with great resolve, had overcome all obstacles and established Maritime Trade Offices in Jin Ling, Ningbo, and Fuzhou as pilot sites to oversee foreign maritime commerce—though their success remained to be seen.

Meanwhile, the climate in northern Great Zhou had grown increasingly frigid, even affecting the entire realm; last year, even Nanhai, a region of sweltering heat, had seen several snowfalls two palms deep.

On the steppes, droughts and blizzards had ravaged year after year, freezing countless livestock, and prompting frequent alliances among nomadic tribes to raid the borders.

Seventy years since the founding of Great Zhou, the Dao’s cycle had turned, and the people’s livelihood and national strength were beginning to show strain.

In court, calls for reform and renewal had grown louder, and the struggle between the new and old factions had become irreconcilable.

In this period of great political upheaval, Qingshan Academy, gathering so many scholars, was the most fertile ground for public debate and political controversy.

Using scholarly opinion and popular sentiment to fuel factional strife was a tactic long favored by seasoned courtiers.

As the foremost academy of Great Zhou, many of those whose names adorned the Lingxing Pavilion still held office in either the new or old faction.

Students admitted to Qingshan were all scholarly seeds—the cream of their prefectures and counties—and many were sons or relatives of officials, with intricate ties to both new and old court factions.

Liu Jing’an, having weathered decades of official life, understood these dangers intimately.

If one turned a deaf ear to the world outside, Qingshan Academy was the finest place in the land for study and scholarship.

But if one sought to flaunt opinions, court fame, or entangle oneself in factional disputes, it would become a treacherous, ghost-haunted land.

After hearing this advice from the literary master, Jia Cong deeply agreed—he was not even a shengyuan; to chatter like a scholar would only invite ridicule.

Thus came his conduct within the academy.

The effect was unmistakable: over these past two years, he had devoted himself entirely to his books.

With Master Jing’an’s annotated commentaries on the Four Books, the insights of the third-place palace examination laureate on the Book of Documents, and his own diligence and tireless effort, never slacking for a single day, his scholarship had steadily advanced.

Many instructors in Bingwen Hall had risen from humble origins through hard study.

They had been puzzled when a duke’s son chose Qingshan Academy over the Imperial College to avoid the privileges of hereditary admission.

Initially, they assumed he was merely here to collect prestige, and thus treated him with some hostility.

But over time, seeing Jia Cong’s modesty and diligence, his complete lack of noble arrogance, and his consistent top rankings in annual exams, they came to regard him with new respect.

This past April and June, Jia Cong sat for the preliminary examinations, passing both the county and prefectural tests, and even ranked first in the prefectural exam, becoming the top-performing student of Bingwen Hall this year.

At the end of last month, he sat for the Yongzhou provincial examination under the imperial capital’s jurisdiction; though the results had not yet been posted, all the academy’s instructors agreed he would pass, the only question being his exact ranking.

(End of chapter)