Great Nation, Small Freshness (Imperial Examination) - Chapter 4

4: Soft Persimmons

By the time Qin Fanghe returned to Baiyun Village, it was already late at night. He was kept at Qin Shan’s house for a bowl of wild vegetable porridge before being allowed to head home.

The next morning, other villagers who had gone to the market began gathering at Aunt Xiulan’s place one after another. Some brought two feet of new cloth, others a handful of fresh cotton, and a few rolls of coarse thread. All together, the pile took up half the kang bed.

Aunt Xiulan sat cross-legged, meticulously calculating with a charcoal stick, her expression solemn and dignified, as if she were undertaking a grand mission. After half a day, under the expectant yet nervous gazes of the young women and girls, she let out a heavy breath, barely concealing her joy. “It’s enough! Enough to make a new cotton jacket for Brother He, and with the leftovers, we can piece together a quilt and even make a pair of new shoes!”

Even the remaining scraps of cloth could be twisted into pretty embroidered buttons, perfect for his age.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!”

“Really!”

Everyone couldn’t help but burst into excitement.

The winter sunlight was warm, bathing them in a cozy glow. With no wind for once, they set to work in the courtyard—some cutting fabric, others stuffing cotton. Needles flew and threads danced, their movements swift and skilled. Occasionally, someone would crack a joke, and the group would dissolve into laughter, their swaying bodies stirring the air and sending fluffy cotton drifting high, light as clouds.

A few sparrows perched on the wall, tilting their heads and craning their necks, their beady eyes curiously observing the strange human activity below. Now and then, they fluffed their wings, preening their feathers with sharp beaks. The gentle sunlight fell on their drab gray plumage, casting a hazy glow, making them look like fuzzy little balls. Before long, the tiny creatures squinted their eyes and dozed off.

The cloth was coarse, dyed in the plainest, cheapest blue, but the cuts were precise, the stitches tight, and the edges carefully hemmed with delicate scallops. Every stitch carried a simple, heartfelt care.

It was warm—so warm that it set Qin Fanghe’s heart ablaze.

Faced with his gratitude, the villagers brushed it off as if it were only natural, some even mildly annoyed that he was being too formal. Wasn’t this the most ordinary thing?

Like a herd of beasts migrating in the wild, when the adults find a helpless, orphaned cub, instinct compels them to raise it together. No one thinks of rewards.

Watching the departing villagers—or rather, his elders—Qin Fanghe thought to himself that while he might never know a parent’s love in this life, weren’t the people of this village his family? He would etch this kindness into his heart and repay it tenfold, a hundredfold, in the future.

Over the next few days, Qin Fanghe’s life settled into a steady routine:

Each morning, he ate one egg and a small bowl of mixed-grain porridge. There was still a bit of lard at home, smooth as cream and white as snow, just enough to satisfy the occasional cravings of a young boy. Sometimes, he’d scoop a bit into the pan, letting it melt before cracking an egg, creating a beautiful, golden, crispy ring. The pan didn’t need scrubbing after, the faint sheen of oil left on the sides flavored the porridge, giving it a meaty richness—almost like eating meat itself. Pure bliss.

After a simple meal, he fed the chickens with the bran Aunt Xiulan had given him. Once the food settled, he practiced Tai Chi until a light sweat formed on his brow, then stopped. At first, his body was weak, and just reaching the “Wild Horse Parts Mane” move left him sore and limp, so he paced himself.

When his body warmed up and felt limber, his mind sharpened—perfect for practicing calligraphy and studying the Four Books and Five Classics.

People often think writing with a brush is elegant, but only those who’ve practiced know it’s a physical task. Holding the wrist suspended, lifting the brush, guiding it across the paper, all while keeping the body upright—it didn’t take long for aches to set in. The inner side of his fingers, where they gripped the brush, soon grew red, swollen, and sore.

To one day wield the brush with true ease and flourish, some even hung weights on their wrists to build strength. His original self had learned “official script” under his father’s guidance, the standard font required for imperial exams, but his strokes were still shallow and immature. Now, when his hand tired and began to tremble, the characters came out crooked—horizontal lines uneven, verticals unsteady, wriggling like earthworms.

By the end, Qin Fanghe couldn’t help but laugh at himself.

Skills could be inherited, but physical strength couldn’t be gained overnight. No rush—calligraphy was a slow grind, day after day.

The characters written when he was fresh and full of energy weren’t bad, though. Infused with his own understanding, they carried a restrained sharpness, a youthful vigor and drive. But it wasn’t enough.

Fame favors the young, how to achieve it? He had no noble lineage or vast wealth, only himself—his mind and the hard-won lessons from his past life, paid for with blood and sweat.

He’d looked into it: the youngest xiucai (county scholar) in the history of the Great Lu Dynasty was twelve. Qin Fanghe was determined to break that record.

The world never lacked geniuses. A mere xiucai? Even a juren (provincial scholar), jinshi (metropolitan scholar), or zhuangyuan (top scholar) was just a matter of three years. If he was going to do it, he’d do it best—unforgettable to those in power.

Since ancient times, the quantity and quality of talent have been a measure of a nation’s prosperity and a ruler’s wisdom. Regrettably, no one in the Great Lu Dynasty had yet achieved the feat of “three consecutive firsts” topping the county, provincial, and metropolitan exams. This was Qin Fanghe’s goal. Others’ regrets were his opportunities.

At nine years old, his body was frail, and his mastery of the classics was lacking. He’d take one or two years to build his strength and knowledge. If he took the exams at ten, prepared another year, he could face the county, provincial, and national exams in one relentless push.

The cost of the imperial exams was steep, and he hadn’t transmigrated early enough to afford mistakes. By eleven at the latest, he had to compete—and he had to succeed on the first try.

A xiucai at twelve? Then what about a top scholar at eleven, or even ten?

The thought filled Qin Fanghe with fire, his blood boiling. Roll up your sleeves—this is my game. He’d always been good at turning small stakes into big wins.

At noon, he rested and ate a light lunch. In the afternoon, he turned to a more “mercenary” task: writing storybooks.

He couldn’t bear to use his brush for this, so he took the cheapest straw paper and sharpened a piece of charred wood. “Storybooks,” he mused, pacing the room a few times before distilling an eternal truth, “are all about emotion. On a small scale, it’s family, love, and friendship. On a grand scale, it’s devotion to country and humanity.”

Perfect. With his adult perspective, he’d tackle them all.

But ancient storybooks had limitations. No monster-slaying or rags-to-riches tales. Scholars loved metaphors—chrysanthemums for fallen rulers, grieving women for loyal ministers—often so pointed they angered emperors, landing entire families in ruin.

Qin Fanghe planned two pen names. The first, Xiao Changsheng, would churn out melodramatic crowd-pleasers: lovers discovering they’re siblings, or a couple overcoming countless trials only for one to fall terminally ill, then the other losing their memory after a miraculous cure. Decades of Korean dramas proved one thing—everyone loves melodrama. It couldn’t fail.

The second, Chuanyue Ke, would focus on chivalrous heroes—ghostly romances, demon-slaying adventures. People were hypocritical, claiming to disdain betrayal but devouring stories of traitors dying for loyalty or rogues perishing for virtue. At their core, these were no different from melodramatic love stories.

With the tone set, Qin Fanghe eagerly began writing. “A chivalrous hero must uphold justice, with lofty morals and no tolerance for evil, dedicated to slaying demons. But one day, he discovers he’s not human…”

There it was—the central conflict driving the story.

To differentiate the pen names, he’d need distinct writing styles and handwriting. This was no challenge. Growing up poor, he couldn’t even afford a proper schoolbag. When he tested into the county middle school, the dazzling new world hit him like a tidal wave, shattering his worldview. His hometown’s average annual income was under 2,000 yuan, yet some classmates casually wore shoes worth four figures.

That’s when he realized: some people really lived like that. People were fundamentally different.

To scrape together living expenses, he started writing homework and disciplinary essays for classmates—ten yuan a piece. To avoid detection, he taught himself to write with his left hand, mastering the art of mimicking others’ handwriting. Who’d have thought that skill would come in handy now?

For days, Qin Fanghe holed up in his room, writing to earn money. On the eighth day, Qin Shan, worried he was overworking, barged in and dragged him to the back hills. “You can’t study like that—you’ll go mad! Come on, let’s catch rabbits!”

Stepping outside, the sunlight stung Qin Fanghe’s eyes, nearly bringing tears. He squinted, adjusting slowly. He’d been pushing too hard. Fine, a break it was.

The hills around Baiyun Village weren’t tall or vast—more like rolling mounds. From afar, they looked endearingly plump, almost cute. As winter deepened, the grass grew sparse, reminding Qin Fanghe of a certain bald director from his past life, sparking a twinge of worry.

Amid the bleak landscape, he spotted a wild persimmon tree near the cliff’s edge. Its fiery red fruits hung high on the branches, vivid against the gray earth and withered yellow, like sparks or splattered blood. Birds flocked to peck at them.

Persimmon trees were common in Baiyun Village, most stripped bare as soon as they ripened. This one, growing precariously on the cliff, had its lower fruits eaten, leaving only the topmost branches flaunting their bounty. They radiated a vibrant, pulsing life.

How beautiful. It made him want to write something.

Suddenly, he understood why ancient poets were always struck by the urge to compose. He exhaled, feeling a rare wave of sentimentality. “Seventh Brother, what do you think—Seventh Brother?!”

Turning, he found himself alone. Scanning around, he was stunned to see Qin Shan, who’d been beside him moments ago, tumbling down the slope, charging toward the persimmon tree with the agility of a dog chasing a rabbit.

“Dangerous!” Qin Fanghe shouted.

“It’s fine!” Qin Shan called back, not looking, parting the dry grass and scrambling to the tree’s base. Spitting into his palms, he rubbed them together, hitched up his waistband, and leapt onto the trunk.

The tree leaned sharply over the cliff, and Qin Shan, clinging to it, looked like a sausage swaying in the wind. Qin Fanghe’s heart raced. “Seventh Brother!” He scrambled down after him.

The slope was steep, and with his malnourished, short-legged body, he had to inch backward, stretching his legs to touch the ground, sliding bit by bit. The snow had melted into slick mud, and he nearly fell flat on his backside, his face flushing with effort and embarrassment.

Damn, why am I so short?

By the time he stumbled to the base, Qin Shan had already climbed up, shaking a fruit-laden branch like an agile monkey. As Qin Fanghe reached the tree, Qin Shan slid down with a whoosh, sending dust and bark flying, his limbs practically sparking.

“Why’d you come down?” Landing steadily, Qin Shan pulled a branch from his waistband, stuffed it into Qin Fanghe’s arms like coaxing a child, and waved grandly, brimming with pride. “Come on, let’s go up and eat!”

Qin Fanghe nearly choked, jumping up to swat him. “Eat your grandma’s leg!”

“Ow!” Qin Shan yelped, clutching his head, aggrieved. “Why’re you hitting me?”

“Because it’s you!” Qin Fanghe fumed. No one knew life’s fragility better than he did. To him, Qin Shan was just a reckless kid who needed a lesson.

“The persimmons!” Qin Shan panicked, fumbling to catch the branch. Furious, Qin Fanghe tossed it back and tried climbing the tree himself—only to realize he couldn’t.

“…Pfft.” Qin Shan couldn’t hold back a laugh. In the cold, Brother He was bundled up, looking like a chubby winter melon from behind, waddling amusingly.

Humiliated, Qin Fanghe’s head buzzed, ready to explode, when a sudden force lifted him. Qin Shan had hoisted him up. Setting the persimmons aside, Qin Shan climbed up nimbly, then pulled Qin Fanghe along, muttering, “You’re like my dad.”

Good thing he wasn’t his mom, or he’d be getting a stick to the backside by now.

Catching Qin Fanghe’s glare, Qin Shan wisely swallowed his words, gingerly handing over a persimmon. After a long pause, he managed, “They look ugly, but they’re sweet.”

In times of scarcity, “sweet” was a lethal word.

The persimmons were overripe, shriveled from wind and sun, but their lost moisture made them sweeter. The heavy, soft fruits dangled invitingly. Their remote location had spared the highest ones from being picked.

The skin was thin and soft. Unsure how to handle it, Qin Fanghe watched Qin Shan cup one with five fingers, gently tugging until, with a soft pop, it detached, revealing moist, orange-red flesh.

“Here!” Qin Shan blew off the dust and passed it over, miming a sucking motion before grabbing one for himself.

Qin Fanghe had never eaten such a soft persimmon. Mimicking Qin Shan, he pressed his mouth to the flesh and sucked.

Oh!

The overripe pulp had turned to syrup—soft, slippery, rich. With a slurp, it flooded his mouth, wet and full, the once-plump skin collapsing instantly.

So sweet!

So cool!

So satisfying!

The chill hit late, numbing their teeth. Shivering, the boys refused to let go of the treat, sucking through chattering teeth, exchanging glances, and bursting into laughter.

“Delicious, right?”

“…Mmn!”