Great Nation, Small Freshness (Imperial Examination) - Chapter 1

1: Pork Fat Stew with Radish

The dry, cold morning breeze of winter made the aroma of pork fat all the more enticing. Thumb-sized dollops of snowy white lard melted in the pot, and with a handful of chopped green onions tossed in, a sizzling “tsss” erupted, sending a rich onion-oil fragrance into the air.

Freshly pulled white radishes from the garden patch still had dirt clinging to their roots. Washed and sliced into thick rounds, they were tossed into the onion oil, rolling in the fat as the steam grew thicker.

In the northern winter, fresh vegetables were scarce. For farm households, cabbages and radishes grown in their own yards were the mainstay—hardy crops that were cheaper than grain.

Raw radish could be harsh on the stomach, but when stewed with pork fat scraps until tender, it transformed into a peculiar delicacy.

Qin Fanghe covered the pot to let it simmer and turned to check the dough in a clay basin nearby.

The cold weather and lack of yeast… He sighed, patting the stubbornly unrisen dough. Noodles it is, then.

He wasn’t from here.

Qin Fanghe, once a modern-day civil servant who died from overwork, opened his eyes to find himself as Qin Fanghe, a nine-year-old orphan in the Great Lu Dynasty.

In his previous life, growing up in the mountains, he was no stranger to housework or farm chores. Steaming buns or slapping together flatbreads was second nature, but making yeast starters? That was beyond him.

Fortunately, he enjoyed rolling out noodles.

Winter days were short, and the sun hadn’t yet risen. The sky was a deep, inky gray, and the orange-red glow of the fire under the stove cast a warm light on his face.

The pork fat and radish stew began to bubble in the big pot, wisps of steam curling up through the tall chimney.

Gurgle, gurgle—as if the whole house had come alive.

Qin Fanghe damped the fire a bit and started rolling out the dough.

As a child in his hometown, his favorite winter chore was tending the fire. The earthen stove had no door, and with cold winds howling, stoking the fire kept him warm.

The flour of this era wasn’t as refined as in the modern world, nor was it snowy white. But it lacked additives, and the scent of wheat was pronounced—a primal, earthy aroma that felt grounding and reassuring.

The dough became a sheet, the sheet became noodles, and with a sprinkle of flour to keep them from sticking, they were ready to cook once the radish was done.

Radish cooked quickly. In just a short while, the round slices turned slightly translucent, soft and tender, ready to be served.

The broth was rich, slightly clinging to the pot, with a few golden pork fat scraps bobbing up and down in the bubbling liquid, gleaming triumphantly.

No need to drain the broth completely, adding water to cook the noodles in it preserved every drop of that precious fat and flavor.

The radish, soaked in pork fat aroma, was sweet, fresh, and scalding hot, meltingly soft on the tongue. Paired with a slurp of noodles, satisfaction seeped into every fiber of his being.

Occasionally, a bite of pork fat scrap burst with a “pop,” releasing a salty, savory juice that danced in his mouth.

“Phew!” Qin Fanghe exhaled a long, white plume of steam, utterly content. But as his gaze fell on the nearly empty lard jar, a wave of unease crept in.

Trouble. At this rate, he’d run out of food!

The original Qin Fanghe’s father was a scholar, exempt from taxes. In his healthier days, he had worked as a tutor elsewhere, amassing a modest fortune.

But when illness struck both parents, money drained like water, and with no income, all that remained in Qin Fanghe’s hands was one tael and three qian of silver.

Baiyun Village, this small mountain hamlet, wasn’t rich in resources. Sitting idle and depleting his reserves wouldn’t do. He needed to find a way to earn a living to secure his future.

At this thought, Qin Fanghe glanced down at his short, skinny legs and sighed.

Farming was out of the question. In an era where a mu of land yielded only a few dozen jin of grain, farming was a dead end.

“Looks like I’ll have to take the exams…”

The moment this conclusion formed, something instinctive surged from his body, his very soul, silently and swiftly coalescing into a spark of excitement.

Oh, this I can do!

As he pondered, a dark head poked over the top of the dilapidated courtyard gate. “Brother He!”

The newcomer had thick brows and big eyes, tall for his age. Qin Fanghe had to tilt his head back to look at him, smiling. “I’ve been drinking it for three days, and I’m all better now. Seventh Brother, take it back for your family.”

Baiyun Village was a close-knit clan community, with most villagers sharing the Qin surname. Tracing back six generations, they were all related, fostering tight bonds.

The visitor was Qin Shan, twelve years old, seventh among his generation, so Qin Fanghe called him Seventh Brother.

Qin Shan’s family had an ewe that had recently given birth. Seeing Qin Fanghe recover from a serious illness, they sent fresh goat milk daily, occasionally including a few eggs.

Qin Shan shook his head vigorously, sleeves flapping. “Mom said I have to watch you drink it.”

He thought, ‘You talk to her yourself, I’m not brave enough.’

In his unfamiliar memories, a sturdy woman emerged, wielding a fire poker like a reincarnated Qin Qiong or Cheng Yaojin, her vigor unmatched. Qin Fanghe’s scalp tingled, and he quickly dropped any thought of refusing.

Their homes weren’t far apart, and the milk was wrapped in a cotton cover. When opened, a wave of warm steam hit Qin Fanghe’s face, enveloping him in a rich, milky aroma.

The goat milk was slightly hot, thick, and velvety, with a creamy skin that rippled and wrinkled as it swayed. The fresh fragrance overpowered any gaminess, sliding smoothly down his throat, so comforting it gave him goosebumps.

It was delicious. Qin Shan swallowed hard, then looked away, pretending not to care.

Having just eaten, Qin Fanghe couldn’t drink much. After a few sips, he poured the milk into his own jar, grabbed a small pouch from the inner room, and tucked it away. “Now that I’m better, I should go thank them in person.”

With nothing to his name, for the foreseeable future, his only support would be his clan ties. Socializing was essential.

It wasn’t far. The two chatted and laughed, arriving in no time.

Qin Shan pushed open the door first, shouting happily, “Brother He’s here!”

In his words, a stout woman poked her head out from the inner room. Seeing Qin Fanghe, her face lit up with joy, as if she’d spotted a lost, pitiful creature. Motherly affection overflowing, she half-hugged, half-dragged him inside to sit. “Good boy, the kang is warm—don’t catch a chill…”

Qin Shan grinned, following behind. He grabbed a vegetable-stuffed cornbread from the kitchen, wolfed it down, then went to the eaves to fetch water and sharpen a sickle, preparing to chop firewood.

As for the milk jug, no need to scrub it, just a rinse with water, and it was ready for another round of hot goat milk. He gulped it down.

Warm and fragrant, he smacked his lips, feeling his stomach soothed and his breath fresh, utterly satisfied.

The warmth of a village woman was overwhelming, and in his nine-year-old body, Qin Fanghe was powerless to resist. By the time he came to, his shoes and socks were off, and he was tucked into the warm kang bed.

The cozy, dry heat enveloped him, soft and comforting, as if his very bones had been ironed smooth. All thoughts of three-year plans or five-year goals melted away, leaving him utterly relaxed.

Qin Fanghe gave up struggling, reclining against the bedding, eyes half-closed, and let out a contented sigh.

So nice.

“You must be freezing! Drink this, it’s sweet.”

Aunt Xiulan returned with a steaming clay bowl, a faint sweet aroma wafting from the curling steam.

Honey water.

Qin Fanghe hurriedly sat up to decline. “It’s too much, really…”

This was a guest-of-honour treatment.

Aunt Xiulan just smiled, repeating, “Don’t be shy,” “drink, drink,” her rough hands twitching as if ready to pour it down his throat herself.

He couldn’t refuse.

The water, boiled over the earthen stove, carried a faint grassy aroma even without additives. Mixed with pure wild jujube honey, it was fragrant and sweet with every sip.

Very sweet.

Steam rose from the clay bowl, blurring half his face. His pores opened, tingling slightly.

Against the sound of Qin Shan sharpening his sickle outside—“shing, shing”—Qin Fanghe mentally organized his thoughts, sitting upright and choosing his words carefully.

“I came today for two reasons. First, to thank Uncle and Aunt for their care these past days. Second, I have a request…”

A half-grown kid, barely past toddlerhood, sat primly on the kang, a tiny figure with tousled hair, solemnly listing “one, two, three.”

Aunt Xiulan burst out laughing, reaching to pinch his cheek and kneading it like a winter melon. “You really are a scholar’s son, talking so proper. We’re family—none of this ‘request’ nonsense. Keep that up, and I’ll get mad.”

Qin Fanghe: “…”

Right, this ingrained bureaucratic tone needed work.

He quickly adjusted, adopting a more natural, slightly eager tone, switching effortlessly from worldly to childlike.

“I saw Aunt’s chickens and ducks, they’re so well-raised. Could I buy a couple of hens for eggs? And maybe find a way to earn a living in town…”

He pulled out the small pouch from his chest.

The imperial exams were a grueling test of mind and body. He needed to nourish this frail frame first, or he’d die in the exam hall like he did at his desk in his past life.

With his current means, eggs were the most practical source of nutrition.

Raising chickens was ideal—they ate vegetable scraps, and when desperate, could peck at the ground for bugs. When they stopped laying, an old hen soup would be perfect.

From birth to death, a hen’s life was perfectly planned. Even a chicken would be touched.

“Buy? Buying or not…? A few chickens…” Aunt Xiulan began.

“Auntie, hear me out.” Qin Fanghe interrupted, appreciating her kindness but unwilling to keep taking charity. “As the saying goes, help in a crisis, not in poverty. You know my situation. To be honest, I plan to study again, and the costs are endless…”

From the original Qin Fanghe’s memories, his father had often spoken of the exams. The first step was securing a guarantor and paying fees, altogether, two taels of silver!

Two taels!

It didn’t sound like much, but for a self-sufficient farming family, who often saw no silver all year, it was a fortune.

This alone barred nine out of ten commoners from the exam hall.

The sharpening sound outside had stopped, leaving only the howling wind.

Aunt Xiulan stared at Qin Fanghe as if he were a stranger, then sat back on the kang with a sigh. “You child, what can I even say…”

“When your father was alive, he helped the village so much! Forget the rest, just the taxes he saved us were enough, not to mention teaching the kids to read!

Take your big brother Hai, for example. If your father hadn’t taught him to recognize a few words and polish him up, how could he have landed that job? We all owe him. For that alone, we’d support you for life.”

Big brother Hai, her eldest son, was literate and honest, now a minor clerk at a grain shop in town, married with kids, occasionally helping his parents and siblings.

Studying was costly, but with ten or twenty households in Baiyun Village, couldn’t they scrape together enough to support one scholar?

The village men weren’t dead yet, letting a kid under ten fend for himself would shame them all.

Qin Fanghe listened quietly.

Perhaps the kang was too warm, but he felt his chest heat up, the warmth spreading silently through his limbs.

When Aunt Xiulan finished, he lowered his eyes and said softly, “I understand.”

The late Qin Fanghe’s father, the only scholar for miles, was kind and respected.

The tree planted by the father shaded the son. Now that he was gone, that goodwill fell to Qin Fanghe.

If he were the real Qin Fanghe, he’d have no qualms.

But he wasn’t.

“I understand.”

And so, he felt unworthy.