Chapter 2: The Examination They Had to Take

Young Master, why not take a rest for a while?

You can review your lessons tomorrow—it’s not too late.

Pan Jinlian, seeing Zhang Jie’s face still pale despite having taken his medicine,

felt deep pity and spoke to persuade him.

No.

It’s already June; the autumn imperial examination is only two months away, and time is tight.

I must seize every moment to thoroughly review poetry, prose, and classical interpretations.

Zhang Jie shook his head and rejected Pan Jinlian’s suggestion.

In Great Song, where all professions are lowly except scholarship, even as a reincarnator,

if he wished to rise above others, he must enter the imperial examination system.

As for martial arts—joining the military for a rank, or joining Liang Shan for a seat—

then later seeking amnesty through “kill, burn, and be recruited,”

joining Song Jiang and serving the court as a minor official?

Don’t joke. Even reincarnators are human.

At least this reincarnator still has a mortal body—he bleeds when cut, cries when punched.

On the battlefield, swords and arrows show no mercy; a single stray arrow could end his life.

Worse still, since his reincarnation, he’s been cursed with a weak constitution,

unable to even mount a horse and strike a blow—just marching a hundred li might cost him half his life.

Could he, then, use fragments of memory from his past life to follow other reincarnators’ paths—

invent soap, make glass, become a wealthy merchant, and live a carefree life?

After careful research and reflection, Zhang Jie found the answer: no, absolutely not!

Although Great Song’s commercial economy ranks among the highest of all feudal dynasties,

this prosperity is recorded in the timeless painting “Along the River During the Qingming Festival”;

while nobles in Paris still struggled with sewage flowing through streets,

forced to wear high heels to cross filthy alleys,

and don hats to avoid flying excrement from above,

Bianliang in Great Song was already a metropolis of a million people, with curfews abolished,

arguably the most prosperous city in history since before Great Song.

But Bianliang’s splendor did not mean Great Song’s splendor—

rather, it was built by exploiting the entire empire.

The Great Song emperor was known as the King of Bianliang.

Zhang Jie was born in Shandong—could he truly puff out his chest in pride at Bianliang’s glory?

As a merchant or laborer entering Bianliang, locals would only say:

“Oh! Another dirty outsider comes to beg in our Bianliang!”

To gain a foothold in Bianliang, the best and easiest way is to hold an official post.

And official status—aside from inheriting it through family ties to high ministers—can only be gained through the imperial examination.

Buy an office?

Without even a scholar or juren degree, you think you can buy an office?

Do you think Great Song is the Qing?

Well, truthfully, both are brothers who shouldn’t mock each other—they’re much the same.

Secondly, can you simply decide to enter big business—or any highly profitable trade?

Running small trade, like Wu Dalang selling steamed buns to feed your family, is fine,

but to engage in large-scale commerce spanning multiple provinces or even nations—

like Liao, Western Xia, and others—you absolutely need “connections”!

This “capital” isn’t about sufficient funds or unique technology—it’s about having powerful patrons.

Take a simple example: why did the late Qing produce wealthy merchants like Hu Xueyan and Sheng Xuanhuai,

men whose fortunes rivaled nations and who rose to second-rank officialdom?

Were they the top merchant geniuses, once-in-a-millennium business prodigies?

Their talent certainly played a role,

but what mattered most was who stood behind them:

Hu Xueyan’s patron was Zuo Zongtang, one of the Four Great Ministers of late Qing,

founder and leader of the Xiang Army, who carried his coffin into Xinjiang, reclaimed Tibet, and secured territorial integrity.

After Old Master Zuo died, Hu Xueyan was immediately stripped of his wealth and reduced to poverty overnight.

Sheng Xuanhuai’s patron was Li Hongzhang—the “Chancellor of Hefei, whose wealth made the empire thin”—

the man remembered as “you don’t know Li Hongzhang till you’re old, then you realize he’s a bastard.”

Likewise, in Great Song, great merchants were all backed by high officials, acting as their white gloves for profit.

In “The Theft of the Birthday Tribute,” the acting governor of Great Ming Prefecture, Liang Zhongshu, sent Yang Zhi to escort

a birthday tribute worth one hundred thousand copper cash for his father-in-law Cai Jing.

Remember, the famous phrase “a waist tied with one hundred thousand cash, riding a crane to Yangzhou” is also just one hundred thousand cash.

This verse first appeared in Yin Yun’s “Novels” from the Liang Dynasty of the Southern Dynasties.

The text records guests discussing their ambitions:

one wished to become Inspector of Yangzhou,

another to possess great wealth (one hundred thousand cash), another to ride a crane and ascend to immortality.

One proposed, “A waist tied with one hundred thousand cash, riding a crane to Yangzhou,” aiming to achieve all three.

Yet our Governor Liang Zhongshu, for his father-in-law’s birthday alone,

gifted a dream no ordinary man could ever hope to realize.

These funds certainly didn’t come from Liang’s salary alone:

his annual salary was only a few hundred cash,

even if he lived without eating or drinking his entire life, he could never save one hundred thousand cash.

The money came from embezzled public funds and bribes from wealthy merchants under him.

Zhang Jie had no patrons; if he wanted to trade,

he’d either have to find a “Yang Jinshui” like Shen Yishi in the Ming Dynasty and adopt him as a godfather,

or be completely drained by officials like Liang Zhongshu, “Zheng Bichang,” and “He Maocai,” who wanted both profit and virtue.

There was no third option.

Zhang Jie: My knees—they’ve somehow grown stiff.

They won’t bend anymore!

And even if Zhang Jie’s knees were perfectly flexible,

able to switch effortlessly between stiff and supple,

where would he even find a godfather?

Though born into a family called “Big Master Zhang,”

to ordinary commoners this Zhang family seemed wealthy, but to officials and gentry, they meant nothing.

A family with great wealth and strong influence within a county was called a county magnate.

A clan with prominent reputation and power across a commandery, often hereditary in office or holding high local status, was a commandery clan.

Only families that endured for centuries, producing successive high officials like the Three Ducal Ministers and Nine Ministers, were true aristocratic lineages.

In “Romance of the Three Kingdoms,” the phrase Yuan Shao and Yuan Shu most proudly cited was “Four generations, Three Ducal Ministers.”

This didn’t mean Yuan’s family produced three Three Ducal Ministers over four generations—

it meant that for four consecutive generations, someone from the Yuan family held the rank of Three Ducal Minister!

The power such lineages held was not merely enviable—it was terrifying.

With disciples and former subordinates scattered across the land, Yuan Shao could rally a hundred responses from a single call in Hebei, becoming one of the Three Kingdoms’ greatest warlords.

Yuan Shu, based in Runan, even declared himself emperor, styling himself “Emperor Zhongshi!”

Of course, we all know his emperorship was nothing but a skeleton crown.

So where did Zhang Jie’s family stand?

The answer: Zhang’s family wasn’t even a county magnate, let alone a commandery clan or aristocratic lineage.

Without control over a county’s economic, political, or military lifelines, how could you call yourself a county magnate?

Just see what the county magistrate does to you.

County magistrate: I can’t control a county magnate—can’t I control you?

Zhang Jie, with no connections, couldn’t even find a doghole to crawl into as a dog…

With no other choice, Zhang Jie thought and thought—he still believed the imperial examination path was safest and most reliable.

Zhang Jie, with no connections, couldn’t even find a doghole to crawl through if he wanted to be a dog…

With no other option, Zhang Jie pondered long and hard, and still decided the imperial examination path was the safest and most reliable.

The Northern Song minister Han Qi once said to the general Di Qing:

“Those who are named as top scholar at the East Huamen Gate are true sons of merit—how could a warrior possibly be called a true son?”

Meaning that only literary scholars who passed the imperial examination and became top scholar at the East Huamen Gate were genuine “fine sons,”

while warriors, no matter how glorious their battlefield achievements, were not valued.

From then on, the saying “Only those named at the East Huamen Gate are true heroes” spread throughout the land.

Emperor Zhenzong of Song, Zhao Huan, once wrote “Poem on Encouraging Study”:

A wealthy family needs no good land—books hold a thousand bushels of grain.

A peaceful home needs no grand hall—books hold golden chambers.

Don’t lament having no attendants when you travel—books bring carriages and horses in abundance.

Don’t grieve over lacking a good matchmaker for marriage—books hold beauties as fair as jade.

If a man fulfills his life’s ambition, diligently study the Six Classics before the window.

With no other option, Zhang Jie reluctantly went along with the flow,

joining the narrow, winding path of the imperial examination, the only road to heaven.

“Young master, you passed the scholar exam on your first try last few months—this autumn’s provincial exam, you’ll surely become a juren!”

Pan Jinlian confidently cheered Zhang Jie on.

In her eyes, her young master was a prodigy with perfect memory,

able to compose poetry on the spot and understand all the truths of heaven and earth.

Had he not been so frail in health, and had his master and lady not passed away, delaying him for years,

he would long ago have been listed on the golden roll as a jinshi.

He might even have been named top scholar by the emperor, his name echoing through eternity!

“Thank you for your good wishes.”

Hearing this, Zhang Jie could not help but show a faint bitter smile.

He had not expected Pan Jinlian’s faith in him to surpass his own.

Though perhaps due to his second reincarnation, the superposition of two souls had

made his spirit exceptionally strong—he could go days without sleep or rest and still remain sharp,

read books almost without forgetting, needing only a few repetitions to recite them backward flawlessly,

and with his past-life knowledge, he had a modest talent for poetry and prose (borrowed).

Yet he had no confidence he could pass the juren exam in one attempt.

Passing the scholar exam this year already felt like exhausting all the accumulation of these past years.

Though Zhang Jie did not know why, in the Song Dynasty, which should have had only three levels of examination—

the provincial exam (for juren), the metropolitan exam (for gongshi), and the palace exam (for jinshi)—

there now appeared the yuan-shi exam, a level that should have existed only after the Ming and Qing dynasties.

In Song imperial examinations, “xiucai” had originally been merely one subject,

later gradually replaced by other subjects, until “xiucai” became a general term for scholars.

Song-era xiucai did not equate to the Ming-Qing xiucai who passed the yuan-shi exam to become a shengyuan.

Ming-Qing xiucai required strict examinations and held official scholarly status,

while Song-era xiucai was more a general term for candidates taking the imperial exams.

Perhaps because the author of Water Margin, Shi Nai’an, lived at the end of the Yuan and beginning of the Ming?

After all, the first leader of Liangshan was Wang Lun,

a failed xiucai who had repeatedly failed the juren exam,

known among martial heroes as the “White-Robed Scholar.”

Of course, this might also be due to Zhang Jie’s own misremembering or misunderstanding of Water Margin and the Song Dynasty before his transmigration.

After all, back then, with his ordinary memory and comprehension, he had cared most about heroes like Wu Song

and Lu Zhishen, who upheld justice and settled scores with swift vengeance,

and the foolish emperors Huizong and Qinzong.

But Zhang Jie thought about these things for a moment and let them go—whatever exists must have its reason.

In Zhang Jie’s plan, if he could pass the jinshi exam within ten years, he would thank heaven.

After all, the difficulty of the imperial examination far exceeded his imagination.

If judged by modern standards, passing the xiucai exam was as hard as entering Tsinghua or Peking University.

Tsinghua and Peking University admit nearly ten thousand students yearly; the Song Dynasty did not produce ten thousand xiucai annually.

Though modern students compete against millions for a few thousand spots,

nearly one in ten thousand, while the Song had only several hundred thousand scholars total.

But the Song imposed no age limit—children with silver hair and elders with white beards,

as long as they were not already xiucai, all came to take the exam, and their numbers accumulated into something terrifying.

Most terrifying was competing against seasoned candidates who had studied for decades,

taken the exam ten or twenty times, while still a teenager—just imagining it made Zhang Jie’s scalp tingle.

Zhang Jie had a clear self-awareness:

Had his spirit not improved after transmigration, with memory and comprehension vastly enhanced,

he believed passing the xiucai exam would have been his absolute limit.

Even that would require Fan Jin’s relentless perseverance, studying until his hair turned white—unless death came, he would study until he dropped.

As for juren, gongshi, jinshi, let alone top scholar, runner-up, or third-place finisher—

better wash up and go to sleep early; after all, in dreams, everything is possible…

Now, Zhang Jie suddenly understood Fan Jin—he sighed inwardly:

“In the torrent of mortal life, merely holding one’s ground is already a Herculean task;

to rise above others is surely harder than climbing to heaven!”