Great Nation, Small Freshness (Imperial Examination) - Chapter 3

3: Visiting the Bookshop

Reading is an expensive endeavor, a fact Qin Fanghe had known before arriving, but witnessing it firsthand still left him reeling.

The cheapest copies of The Three Character Classic, The Hundred Family Surnames, and The Thousand Character Classic cost 150 wen each. The most widely circulated and frequently printed of the Four Books and Five Classics, The Analects, was priced at 300 wen, while The Great Learning and The Doctrine of the Mean went for 500 wen—half a tael of silver.

“Good grief!” Qin Shan gasped after seeing the prices.

How much did it all add up to? His simple mind was already at a loss.

As for the lowest rung on the social hierarchy of writing materials, jade tablet paper, it cost 60 wen per ream, and a ream only contained 70 sheets. Never mind the fancier options like floral-patterned, gold-embossed, or scented paper.

Anything cheaper would be illegible once written on.

Qin Fanghe once again realized just how substantial the inheritance he had received was—and how profoundly poor he himself was.

Nearby, Qin Shan quickly glanced at the shop assistant by the door, then lowered his head furtively. He counted and recounted the copper coins his elder brother had handed him earlier, splitting them in half. After a moment’s hesitation, he grimaced and divided that half again, then nudged Qin Fanghe’s arm, stealthily passing three-quarters of the coins to him.

Qin Fanghe was momentarily stunned. Seeing Qin Shan’s actions, he felt a mix of amusement and heartfelt warmth.

“No need,” he said.

When Qin Fanghe didn’t take the coins, Qin Shan grew anxious and pushed them forward again, mumbling embarrassedly, “Here… I’ll earn more later…”

Qin Fanghe chuckled. Seeing the disbelief written all over Qin Shan’s face, he finally couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I won’t spend much today. I brought enough, really. I’m not fooling you.”

Qin Shan stared at him for a long moment before reluctantly believing him. He awkwardly took the coins back, muttering, “Then I’ll hold onto them for you.”

The goods in the bookshop were roughly divided into two categories: recreational tales, anecdotes, and storybooks for leisure, and “serious books” related to the imperial examinations, along with the Four Treasures of the Study. The books were further subdivided into examination texts like the Four Books and Five Classics, as well as collections of outstanding essays and exam papers by successful candidates, commonly known as “selected anthologies.”

These anthologies came in two types. One was a compilation of excellent works selected by local governments or official academies, printed at public expense, with relatively stable and high quality. The other consisted of self-published works by private scholars, a mixed bag of varying quality, often including dubious efforts by those with ulterior motives, requiring readers to discern carefully.

Qingshan Town was small, and its literary culture was not particularly vibrant, but the bookshop’s collection of anthologies was surprisingly comprehensive, even including the latest anthology from the county examination held earlier that year. Qin Fanghe was delighted and carefully picked out a few official anthologies. Borrowing the light near the entrance, he began reading them intently.

Publicly funded anthologies might not always be top-tier, but they best reflected official preferences and trends in literary style—akin to Zhonggong Civil Service Exam Prep or Fenbi Civil Service Review in his world. These were exactly what Qin Fanghe urgently needed to master.

Format, calligraphy… Qin Fanghe memorized them silently. The “official style” resembled regular script. He’d need to practice diligently when he got home.

As the saying goes, handwriting reflects the person. For a scholar, calligraphy was their face, and a fine hand could change many things.

While reading, he suddenly noticed the light brighten. Looking up, he saw the shop assistant had moved a large armchair inside, freeing up the brightest spot by the entrance.

The assistant didn’t glance at Qin Fanghe. Instead, he settled into a sheltered corner of the shop, half-closing his eyes and sipping tea from a large teapot.

It was as if he’d come in just to change spots for his tea break.

Qin Fanghe’s fingers curled slightly on the book’s pages. He murmured a quiet “thank you” and moved to the brighter spot, diving back into his reading.

His mind raced, almost feeling the meat buns he’d eaten earlier being burned through at an astonishing rate, his body groaning under the strain.

Skimming ten lines at a glance, Qin Fanghe finished an anthology, closed the book, and shut his eyes. In his mind, he sifted and organized the dense, fragmented information, cross-referencing it with his past life’s knowledge of the imperial examination system and the original owner’s memories. Finding most of it aligned, he let out a sigh of relief.

In simple terms, the imperial examinations were divided into county, prefectural, and provincial exams, followed by the metropolitan and palace exams. Passing each granted the titles of xiucai (county scholar), juren (provincial scholar), and jinshi (metropolitan scholar), respectively, with increasing difficulty. But for the county exam alone, the difficulty was relatively low. In Qin Fanghe’s words, it tested three strengths:

Memory, comprehension, and wealth.

The five exams leading up to and including the xiucai level consisted of fill-in-the-blank questions from the Four Books and Five Classics, reading comprehension, and composing poetry in a prescribed format. Rather than selecting talent for the court, it was more like a preliminary screening: no poor memory, no weak comprehension, and definitely no one too destitute to afford the basics.

In plain terms, as long as you could afford the required texts, understand their general meaning, and memorize them thoroughly, a xiucai title was all but guaranteed.

Qin Shan: “…”

It sounded daunting at first, but on closer thought—damn, it was no simple feat!

Just the foundational texts cost nearly one tael of silver. Add the Four Books, Five Classics, and the cost of brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones—two taels at minimum. Even if a candidate passed on their first try, it would still cost at least ten taels!

Ten taels!

Ten whole taels of silver!

Buying books and supplies wasn’t enough. You’d need a tutor for foundational learning. Hiring a teacher meant annual fees, plus gifts for festivals and ceremonies…

Qin Shan felt dizzy, swallowing hard, too overwhelmed to keep calculating.

In his daze, he blurted out to the shop assistant, “Heavens, how much does this bookshop make in a year?”

Assistant: “…”

Qin Fanghe: “…”

Snap out of it!

The household already had the basic texts needed for the county exam, so no need to buy those—a huge saving.

Most of the content, Qin Fanghe had memorized during his university days. Even for unfamiliar texts, his foundational knowledge allowed him to grasp the meaning, eliminating the need for a tutor—another saving.

As for consumables like brushes, ink, and paper, Qin Hai could help procure them in bulk at a low price. Perfect!

Having minimized expenses, the next step was to generate income.

With this in mind, Qin Fanghe exhaled softly and tentatively asked the assistant, “Does your shop need anyone to copy books?”

Though the Great Lu Dynasty had developed movable type printing, it wasn’t yet widespread. Small towns still relied on woodblock printing, which was costly. For low-print-run or niche books needing reprints, manual copying was cheaper, giving rise to the trade of book copying.

Bookshops provided the brushes, ink, and paper for copying, often including extra sheets for errors. Scholars could read for free, and if careful, even take home a few spare sheets while practicing calligraphy, a rare and valuable opportunity.

The assistant lazily waved a hand. “Young man, in a backwater like this, take a look around. How many literate folks do you see on these streets?”

They could barely sell the books they had. Why would they need extra copiers?

Qin Shan caught on and instinctively looked at Qin Fanghe. What now?

The response was expected yet reasonable. Qin Fanghe’s gaze drifted to the storybook stall nearby, and he suddenly asked a seemingly unrelated question. “The owner of this shop, opening a bookshop here, quite an extraordinary person. Are they from higher up?”

The shop’s business was poor, completely disproportionate to its extensive collection and up-to-date stock. If it operated independently, it would surely be hemorrhaging money.

From Qin Hai, Qin Fanghe had learned the bookshop had been around for years.

What kind of merchant would sustain such a losing venture for so long?

For the first time, the assistant opened his eyes and looked at Qin Fanghe, his tone carrying a hint of pride. “You’re young, but you’ve got sharp eyes. Indeed, our owner, surnamed Bai, originally did business in the county seat. Years ago, passing through Qingshan Town by chance, they said, ‘How can a fine town not have a bookshop?’ So, they set one up, even at a loss.”

Initially, the shop had three staff: a manager, an assistant, and an accountant. But after a few months, with daily revenue in the single digits, they realized six hands were overkill. So, they downsized.

Now, this Mr. Sun—manager, assistant, and accountant rolled into one—spent his days bored out of his mind.

Qin Fanghe finally perked up, a new idea sparking in his mind.

Clearly, Boss Bai didn’t care whether the Qingshan bookshop turned a profit. Why? Did they dislike the business?

As someone in the trade, perhaps their other bookshops’ profits offset the loss?

Or maybe Boss Bai genuinely supported scholars, giving Qin Fanghe an advantage as one. Alternatively… perhaps they aimed to curry favor with officials by fostering local culture, securing deeper benefits like special grants?

Having navigated this industry in his past life, Qin Fanghe instinctively leaned toward conspiratorial thinking.

Regardless, this was good news for him.

It was doable!

Mr. Sun suddenly shivered for no reason, vaguely sensing that the sharp-eyed kid’s gaze had turned unsettling.

Hiss, this kid… he’s not planning to scam me, is he?!

“Mr. Sun,” Qin Fanghe said, widening his eyes and flashing a practiced smile, trying to look less like a scheming weasel. “Does your shop accept storybooks?”

As a former overworked civil servant who’d clawed his way out of hardship, he had plenty of wild, melodramatic tales to tell!

Privately, he could spin both refined and bawdy stories with ease!

Mr. Sun: “…Hm?!”

Now you’re speaking my language—I’m wide awake!

What followed completely upended Qin Shan’s worldview, leaving his young, innocent heart shaken.

He watched his usually quiet, reserved younger brother transform as if possessed by a shrewd merchant. Opening with “I have an elder acquaintance” and closing with “How’s the profit split?”—it was like a con artist had taken over.

After leaving the bookshop, Qin Fanghe, uncharacteristically, paid close attention to the restaurants and teahouses along the street. When he heard storytellers or singers inside, he’d linger outside, listening patiently with a serious expression.

Qin Shan was puzzled. “Brother He, you’re not happy?”

Oh, he’s surprisingly perceptive about my mood?

Qin Fanghe blinked slowly, then said, “I’m fine.”

Qin Shan scratched his head. “I’m not as smart as you, but I roughly got it. You were negotiating business with a bookshop from the county!”

A county bookshop! Dealing with them was a big deal—why wasn’t he thrilled?

Qin Fanghe glanced back toward the bookshop and chuckled softly. “That was just pie in the sky.”

In his past life, he’d swallowed too many of his bosses’ empty promises, ending up with ulcers, internal bleeding, and ultimately losing his life. This time, he wouldn’t fall for it again.

When it came to profits, the outwardly cold but inwardly warm Mr. Sun suddenly turned sharp and calculating. Their back-and-forth seemed substantial, but it boiled down to one thing: show me the storybook first.

As for talk of “Our boss has a sterling reputation, fair to all, and won’t shortchange you”—pure client-side fluff. It doesn’t fill your stomach.

“Pie in the sky?” Qin Shan didn’t get it.

Qin Fanghe drew a circle in the air and offered it to him. “Here, a sizzling beef pancake, still hot. Eat up.”

Qin Shan stared at the empty space: “?”

I may not be educated, but you can’t trick me like this!

Qin Fanghe stifled a laugh. “Are you full?”

Qin Shan: “!”

Got it.

The two boys locked eyes and burst into laughter, the air around them brimming with joy.

Qin Fanghe knew his youth and lack of industry connections made him easy to dismiss or exploit, so he had to prepare for all scenarios:

If the Bai bookshop was truly fair, great. But printing, selling, recouping costs, settling accounts, and splitting profits would be a long, complex process. How much would he actually get? Monthly, quarterly, or yearly payments? Could it cover his expenses? All unknown.

If they weren’t fair…

Compared to a major bookshop, working with storytellers had a lower barrier to entry but higher risks. Many were itinerant, their daily earnings unverifiable, their conduct entirely dependent on conscience…

At this thought, Qin Fanghe relaxed. I’ve got hands and feet—will I, a living person, starve? Worst case, I’ll hit the streets and tell stories myself. Who knows, I might even earn a quirky “talent” reputation. Heh, sounds pretty sweet!

Winter days were short. Past noon, the sun dipped west, and the temperature plummeted. The northwest wind picked up, visibly chilling the air, the ground seeming to harden with cold.

The two boys hunched their shoulders, tucked their hands into their sleeves, and jogged along, their breaths trailing thick white clouds behind them.

The journey was long, and they needed to set out before the hour of Shen to make it home smoothly. They retrieved the ox cart from Qin Hai and bought a good amount of grain from the grain shop.

In this era, crop yields were low, and homegrown grain rarely lasted until year’s end. With dry and thin meals, plus wild greens, most families could only stretch it to late autumn or early winter. The rest had to be bought.

New grain cost 13 wen per jin, too pricey for ordinary households to eat regularly. Most sold their new grain to buy last year’s old grain. Old grain wasn’t spoiled—just less fragrant, slightly worse in texture, and less vibrant in color—but it was 3 wen cheaper, only 10 wen per jin.

For poorer families, swapping new for old was a favorite trick: 10 jin became 13 or 14 jin, enough to keep the family fed.

Both Qin Fanghe and Qin Shan’s families did this, though they kept a small portion of their new grain for the New Year, a reward for the year’s hard labor.

“Here’s a string of cash I saved these past few months, plus two jin of good fatty pork and some cold medicine. If anyone at home catches a chill, brew it up—don’t wait until there’s no medicine on hand. Tell mom and dad not to skimp on it. Pharmacies don’t take back dispensed herbs, and they’ll go to waste if left too long.”

As they prepared to part, Qin Hai finally started nagging, loading the cart while lecturing his younger brother.

He picked up two rolls of oilpaper-wrapped green cotton cloth. “The clothes at home are worn out. It’s winter slack now, so have Mom make some new ones for you all. There’s new cotton too—Brother He’s frail, so pad his extra thick. I checked with the cloth shop, it’s enough for one outfit each.”

Qin Shan nodded, then worried, “Brother, how much was all this? Do you have enough left? What about Sister-in-Law and my nephew and niece?”

Qin Hai’s weathered face broke into a gratified smile. He patted Qin Shan’s shoulder. “You’re growing up, starting to care about others. Don’t worry, it’s all covered.”

Qin Fanghe felt unworthy. “Big Brother, I’ve got enough to wear. Save it for Sister-in-Law and the kids.”

Qin Hai’s face hardened. “When an elder gives, you don’t refuse. Where’s your learning?”

Qin Fanghe: “…”

Look at you, quoting classics!

Before they left, Qin Hai tossed a sack of flour into Qin Fanghe’s arms like a bombshell.

The fine, white flour carried the faint aroma of fresh grain, slightly dusting his hand. It was whiter than snow, purer than frost.

So fine and clean, it was clearly ground multiple times—expensive stuff!

“Big Brother, we’ve got flour at home.” Qin Fanghe said, trying to hand it back.

So costly—it could buy 10 jin of old grain!

Qin Hai squeezed his bony shoulder and tossed the sack onto the cart. “Eat something good to build yourself up.”

Before Qin Fanghe could protest, Qin Hai slapped the ox’s rump. “Off you go!”

The cart lurched forward without warning. Qin Fanghe, caught off guard, tumbled backward in the cart, rolling smoothly—too busy to push the sack back.

Qin Shan, meanwhile, stood frozen, vaguely sensing something was off.

A moment later, Qin Hai turned to him. “Why’re you still here?”

Qin Shan: “…”

Qin Shan snapped to attention. Right, I haven’t even gotten on!

You’re really my brother!

He bolted after the slow-moving cart, shouting, “Ox, ox, wait for me… Brother He, Brother He, stop it!”

Amid a clatter of pots and pans, a broken yell came from the cart: “You~ think~ I~ can~ ei ei ei~?”