Great Nation, Small Freshness (Imperial Examination) - Chapter 8

8: Tender Scrambled Eggs and Scallion Oil Pancakes

Amid the raging northwest wind, heavy snow fell intermittently for two days, blanketing everything in sight. Even at night, as one slept, the crack of pine branches snapping under the weight could be heard. It wasn’t until the third day that the weather gradually cleared.

The kang bed, warmed the previous night, had grown cold. Qin Fanghe, bundled in a cotton-padded jacket, stepped out, hunching his shoulders against the chill. He grabbed a firewood stick and poked at the stove, brushing aside the surface ash to reveal the dark red embers beneath.

Sprinkling some crushed wheat husks over them and puffing his cheeks to blow, the dim stove suddenly flared with golden threads, snaking along the husks before leaping into flames. Warmth gradually spread through the icy main room once more.

On the stove sat a clay pot simmering with pork bone broth, bubbling steadily.

The bones had been split with a firewood axe, the tendons and marrow from the joints fully rendered into the clear, milky broth. A sip revealed a delicate, silky texture—utterly comforting.

Breakfast was simple.

He fetched a warm egg from the henhouse, beat it with a splash of water, greased the pan with a bit of lard, and poured the mixture in, stirring quickly. In moments, fragrant, golden scrambled eggs emerged—fluffy and tender, like clouds.

Plucking a spring onion from the patch by the wall, he chopped it finely and mixed it into a batter. Using the residual oil in the pan, he poured it in with a sizzle. Soon, golden scallion oil pancakes were ready, crisp yet soft.

Scrambled eggs, scallion oil pancakes, and a steaming bowl of bone broth—with chunks of marrow occasionally sliding across the tongue, the rich animal fat brought a satisfaction that could soothe any hardship.

After breakfast, the day brightened—perfect for studying.

The past couple of days hinted at melting snow, making it especially cold. But after Qin Fanghe slowly worked through a full set of Taichi, a light sweat had already beaded on his chest and back.

Just as he was about to head inside, he saw Aunt Xiulan dragging Qin Shan over by the ear.

“Fanghe, keep an eye on this rascal—don’t let him go running wild! He was out ice-sliding again. A kid from the neighboring village broke his arm the other day and it’s still in a sling. These little brats are just courting death!”

Qin Shan remained defiant, but with his ear pinched, he could only hunch over, head tilted, looking thoroughly undignified.

Yet he was a future great hero! So he stubbornly expressed his indignation with an unyielding glare.

As his own mother, Aunt Xiulan didn’t even need to look to know what kind of face he was making. She raised her hand and delivered a solid slap to the back of his head.

Smack!

The trumpet of rebellion was snuffed out before it could sound. Qin Shan: “…”

He had once been a king—until his mother arrived.

Qin Fanghe: “…Pfft!”

Though young, he had always been steady, and these past few days he’d been even more reliable. Aunt Xiulan trusted him completely.

“Don’t worry,” Qin Fanghe said, glancing at Qin Shan—who now resembled a frostbitten eggplant—and holding back laughter.

Aunt Xiulan was indeed reassured.

Qin Shan, however, felt deeply humiliated at the prospect of being babysat by his younger brother and flushed bright red.

The moment Aunt Xiulan left, Qin Shan pulled a half-finished slingshot from his jacket and rubbed his ear while grumbling, “I’m not just messing around—I’m making this to hunt birds and rabbits for meat!”

If he bagged one, skinned and cleaned it, then slow-roasted it over the fire until the fat crackled and the skin turned golden with just a touch of char—sprinkled with a bit of coarse salt—it would be mouthwateringly delicious! Who wouldn’t love that?

Just thinking about it made him drool.

Qin Fanghe took the slingshot and examined it.

The Y-shaped fork had already been sanded smooth, with ox tendons tied loosely at both ends—clearly unfinished.

“Alright, Auntie means well. Bones are brittle in winter, if you break something there’s no playing around. Just settle down for a couple of days. Once the snow melts you can go wild again.”

Given Qin Shan’s history of climbing trees at the drop of a hat, Qin Fanghe had no doubt he’d take risks.

There was no doctor in Baiyun Village, and with the mountain passes blocked by snow, any serious injury would leave them with nowhere to turn for help.

Qin Shan knew the stakes too, he grumbled a bit but let it go.

On sunny winter days in the north, the sunlight was excellent. Sitting in a sheltered spot facing the sun felt quite warm.

Qin Fanghe had moved his desk by the window at dawn. Now he opened it—bright and comfortable, perfect for studying.

Qin Shan didn’t go inside. Instead he squatted on a woven grass mat beneath the window sill, fiddling with his slingshot. For the moment he was quiet.

The five hundred sheets of paper from the Bai family bookshop came in handy. Qin Fanghe dipped his brush in ink, paused briefly, and began with a familiar opening:

“Regarding the future…”

Qin Fanghe: “…”

This hand has a mind of its own!

Start over!

The corporate slave soul refuses to die, huh?

“First, change roles…”

“Second, strengthen learning…”

The black characters looked increasingly red. Against the backdrop of this era, they radiated an eerie determination.

A person may die, but the corporate slave instinct lives on—truly the most terrifying thing in the world.

Qin Shan had just finished tying the tendons when he pulled out a pebble and fired it at the grass on the wall. Whoosh!—followed immediately by a stifled sigh from inside.

“What’s wrong, Brother He?” Qin Shan instantly twisted around and peered over the sill.

Qin Fanghe rubbed his face vigorously, waved a hand, “Nothing.”

Fine, whatever. So concise and clear!

Once he let it go, the writing flowed much more smoothly, with a certain “screw it” kind of beauty.

He even found time to make a detailed inventory of their household stockpiles, planning quarterly reviews to achieve steady growth while maintaining balance.

Winter income was scarce, but it was already mid-November, soon spring would arrive. Then he could dig shepherd’s purse in the hills, pick fragrant toon buds—mix the former with meat for dumplings, chop the latter and fry with eggs… Delicious, truly delicious!

Beyond that, he needed to further adapt to his current identity and environment, deepen interpersonal relationships without exposing himself.

At this point, Qin Fanghe paused.

He had tentatively established a business relationship with the Bai family bookshop—shallow and not yet solid, but worth observing and developing.

From Mr. Sun’s words, it was clear the Bai family was fairly well-known in the county town. That meant they knew far more scholars than he did. If, in the future, he couldn’t find enough guarantors himself, he could try borrowing their influence.

All of it, ultimately, was for the imperial examinations.

To be fair, his former profession gave him a huge advantage in ancient times—he even suspected that was why he’d been granted a second life. For example, he could recite the entire Four Books and Five Classics.

The famous Three Hundred Tang Poems, Song lyrics, and Yuan verses were no problem either—he’d never lost at the flying-flower game—and he was thoroughly familiar with composing poetry.

Every week in his old department they held themed activities, imitating the ancients by forming poetry societies was unavoidable. Regardless of actual talent, he knew the basics of structure, meter, and rhyme inside out.

But correspondingly, he now faced a very real problem: the versions differed between ancient and modern times!

Correcting everything in a short time was easier said than done.

Over the next few days, Qin Fanghe carefully read through all the Four Books and Five Classics left by his father, comparing them line by line with his memory, marking every discrepancy, then consulting the handwritten notes and commentaries the man had left.

Qin Shan came over every day.

Day one: Qin Fanghe was reading and practicing calligraphy.

Day two: still reading and practicing calligraphy.

Day three: unbelievably, still reading and practicing calligraphy!

Qin Shan was stunned.

He stood outside the window staring fixedly, scratching his head and ears, but Qin Fanghe seemed completely oblivious to the living person right in front of him.

“Brother He.” Qin Shan finally couldn’t take it anymore. He leaned on the sill and poked the book on the desk. “Take a break! My slingshot’s finished—I’ll take you rabbit hunting!”

Being cooped up, unable to play, was driving him mad.

Qin Fanghe glanced at the pomegranate tree in the yard. Seeing its shadow hadn’t yet reached the center, he said, “Wait a bit.”

Precious timing devices were expensive, ordinary families couldn’t afford them. So Qin Fanghe had made a simple sundial using the pomegranate tree as the gnomon, accurate enough to tell it was just past eleven.

Studying came first. Qin Shan could only muffle a reply.

But he couldn’t sit still.

He was like a kettle coming to a boil—however hard he tried to contain it, steam still hissed out from every seam. After managing to wait a quarter of an hour, he couldn’t help asking, “Don’t you get bored doing this every single day?”

Qin Shan simply couldn’t understand.

Were those books really that interesting? It had been days—how was Brother He not sick of it?

If it were him, forget several days in a row—he’d grow thorns on his backside after just a few hours!

Qin Fanghe remained unmoved, eyes still scanning the page. Then he gave an unexpected answer.

“Yeah, it’s boring.”

Humans naturally prefer leisure and dislike toil—he was human, so of course he found it dull and tedious.

“Huh?” Qin Shan froze.

“…If it is so extreme, yet there is nothing in you corresponding to it, then there is also nothing in you corresponding to it.” He turned the last page of Mencius, set the book down reluctantly, closed his eyes to review it quickly, then reopened them. “But I can endure it.”

Poor children who want success have to pay far, far too much—he had understood that from a very young age.

To eat one’s fill, to dress warmly, to be respected, to wield power… everything had a price.

In this world, nothing was free.

For ordinary people, studying was absolutely the fastest and fairest shortcut to success—bar none.

A few exams could lift a poor boy out of poverty and leap across social classes…

Weighed against that, this little hardship didn’t even qualify as a price.

So in this regard, Qin Fanghe had always pushed himself desperately, clutching at every lifeline like a drowning man.

Memorizing English vocabulary during work breaks, cramming for postgraduate exams in crowded stairwells, shutting himself in a tiny room during Spring Festival while the world celebrated—doing ten full mock papers in one go…

The moment he opened his eyes each morning, the first thing he saw was the current-affairs notes taped to the underside of the upper bunk, never anything romantic.

Once you were used to that, everything he endured now was nothing.

He didn’t say much more—just those few calm words. Yet Qin Shan clearly saw something unfamiliar in his serene eyes, like the surging current beneath the still-frozen river before spring thaw.

For no reason at all, he suddenly found the other boy a little frightening.

But that frightening quality also commanded a bit of respect.

Yet very soon, a terror born of that very quality descended upon Qin Shan:

Qin Fanghe demanded that he start studying again.

Qin Shan’s head shook so hard it left afterimages. “No, no, no—I don’t want to study!”

Qin Fanghe smiled and closed the door. “No, you do.”

The current principal contradiction was the growing need for someone to practice dictation with and the fact that his little friend couldn’t meet that need.

He had always been pragmatic: spot a problem, solve a problem.

Qin Shan: “…”

Broad daylight, and he’s talking nonsense?