Traveling Through Ancient Times to Be a Teacher - Chapter 30

On the first day of the twelfth month, all scholars holding the Xiucai title were required to report to the county office to have their examination papers stamped by the registrar. Only after that could they participate in the year-end exam held on the third day of the month.

Chu Ci woke early that day. After practicing a full round of the Five-Animal Exercises with Zhang Wenhai and Fang Jinyang, he bathed, changed into clean clothes, and took his Xiucai documents to the county yamen.

The yamen was located in Jiming Alley, and the gates hadn’t yet opened when they arrived. With nothing better to do, Chu Ci began studying the structure of the building with interest.

Above the entrance hung a plaque inscribed with the words “Yuan’an County Office.” Beneath it were two large black-lacquered doors, their surface chipped with age—showing years of weathering that somehow added an air of history and gravitas.

On one side stood a stone Bixie guardian beast, and on the other, a Drum of Petition for grievances.

(Translator’s Notes: Bixie (辟邪) – A mythical guardian beast in Chinese culture whose name means “warding off evil.” It resembles a winged lion and is believed to repel demons and misfortune. Often carved from jade or stone, Bixie statues were used to guard tombs and homes as symbols of protection and good fortune)

That drum, however, was rarely used. The way dramas depicted peasants banging it for trivial complaints was pure nonsense. Imperial law stated that anyone who struck the drum without grave cause would first receive thirty strokes of the cane, regardless of reason.

Only those suffering a serious injustice with no other recourse would dare beat it. 

The proper process was for the village head or elder to mediate disputes. If a case involved criminal matters, a Xiucai from the village would draft a petition and submit it formally to the county office, which would then set a date for trial.

As Chu Ci was studying the structure of the yamen with great interest, he heard someone call from behind. Turning around, he saw Scholar Chen Xu, the man who ran the letter-writing stall in town.

“Ah, Brother Chen,” Chu Ci greeted politely. “Forgive me, I was too absorbed just now and failed to notice you.”

“You’re too courteous, Brother Chu,” Chen Xu said with a smile. “I thought I came early, but it seems you beat me to it.”

“After last year’s crowding, I’ve learned my lesson,” Chu Ci said, recalling the original Chu Ci’s miserable memory of being shoved and trampled—losing shoes and all. Just thinking about it made him shiver.

“Hahaha, a kindred spirit indeed!”

While they chatted, the county gates opened, and a yamen runner came out. Seeing them, he said, “You two scholars here for stamping? The registrar will arrive shortly.”

They entered the office and lined up before the registration window. In the blink of an eye, the line had already stretched out the door.

Chu Ci looked around—there were men of all ages, from silver-haired elders to boys barely sixteen or seventeen, still looking youthful and green.

One old man with white hair and beard stood out as the eldest. When their eyes met, he snorted and turned away sharply.

Chu Ci blinked, puzzled, then searched his memory. Ah—this was the old tutor Zhang Wenhai, who had once taught him in the village school.

No wonder the man was still bitter. After the original Chu Ci left Qishan Academy, the old tutor had taken it as an act of betrayal, calling him ungrateful and refusing contact ever since. Even now, he still wouldn’t accept Chu Xiaoyuan, Chu Ci’s nephew, as a pupil.

That, Chu Ci thought, was a problem he’d have to resolve soon—otherwise the boy would miss the best age for study.

While he was lost in thought, the county registrar finally arrived. Dressed in a dark blue robe, the man gave a cursory glance at the line of scholars, then entered the office, sat behind the window, and opened a registry book.

Chu Ci was first in line. He passed his Xiucai certificate through the window. The registrar opened it and asked,

“Ping’an Town, Changxi Village—Chu Ci?”

“Yes, sir,” Chu Ci replied.

The registrar turned to the corresponding page in his record, confirmed the details, then took out a square seal and stamped the back page of Chu Ci’s document. There were already four previous seals there—now a fifth joined them, marked “Jiayou 42nd Year – Winter Exam Approval.”

It seemed they changed the stamp design yearly to prevent forgery.

Chu Ci thanked him and stepped aside. When he turned around, the queue behind had doubled. Outside the gate, another large crowd waited under the yamen guards’ watch.

By rough count, Yuan’an County had about two to three hundred registered Xiucai. That sounded like a lot—but in truth, only a handful passed each year, rarely more than five.

A faint sense of pressure welled in him. The ratio alone showed how hard it was to rise to Juren rank. If he failed repeatedly, all his grand plans would vanish into thin air.

After returning from the yamen, Chu Ci shut himself in to study. He reread every text needed for the exam, reviewed annotations, and reinforced his memory.

His diligence quickly shamed Zhang Wenhai. Having treated the trip as a holiday, Wenhai hadn’t touched a book for days—but seeing Chu Ci so focused, he hurried back to his study to do the same.

——

On the third day of the twelfth month, the gates of Yuan’an County Examination Hall opened.

The hall, modeled after the provincial Gongyuan, had examination cubicles at the front and a supervising area for officials and graders at the back.

(Translator’s Notes: Gongyuan (贡院) – The official examination hall used during imperial times for holding civil service exams. Large complexes like the one in Nanjing or Beijing could host thousands of candidates in small cubicles, where they took the imperial examinations to earn scholarly ranks such as Xiucai, Juren, or Jinshi. )

The year-end exam lasted only one session—two hours. Food and drink weren’t allowed; candidates only needed to bring their own inkstone, brush, and paper.

Carrying his basket, Chu Ci followed the crowd forward. 

Guards checked each scholar’s belongings before letting them through—no strip searches this time, unlike the formal imperial exams.

When it was his turn, an older yamen runner looked at his papers, rummaged through his basket, then said aloud, “Chu Xiucai of Changxi Village—Heaven Division, Room No. 3!”

The exam hall was divided into four sections named Heaven, Earth, Black, and Yellow, with thirty, sixty, ninety, and one hundred eighty cubicles respectively.

The closer to the front, the higher one’s rank. Placements were determined by previous exam scores.

Chu Ci finally found his assigned cubicle near the main hall.

Inside, a few proctors were already seated; only the magistrate had yet to arrive.

He pulled open the wooden board at the entrance and stepped inside. The cramped cubicle contained only a small desk and a long bench—so tight it was uncomfortable just to breathe.

The yamen had sent workers to clean the place the day before, but they’d stopped after finishing the Heaven and Earth sections. The back sections remained dusty and cobwebbed.

Such visible hierarchy—it was impossible not to feel driven.

Once everyone was seated, a gong sounded. The county magistrate entered, dressed in an azure robe embroidered with mandarin-duck insignia, a black gauze hat atop his head. He was tall, square-faced, and stern.

“Gentlemen scholars of Yuan’an,” he declared, “to see you all gathered here is an honor to this humble county. Since my appointment earlier this year, I have met only a few of you—today, I meet you all. Uphold examination discipline. Any caught cheating shall have their Xiucai rank revoked and receive ten strokes on the spot!”

“We obey our honorable father’s instruction,” the scholars answered in unison, Chu Ci among them.

After a few more formal words, the magistrate gestured to begin. Three strikes of the gong followed, and an incense stick was lit to mark time.

Yamen clerks distributed the papers—three sheets total: two for drafts, one for the final copy. Then they carried placards bearing the essay topics down the aisles.

Chu Ci looked up. The first read:

“If each day brings renewal, let each day be renewed, and renewed again.”

A quote from The Great Learning, carved long ago by King Tang on his bath basin—a call for daily self-reflection and constant self-improvement.

(Translator’s Notes:The Great Learning (《大学》, Dà Xué) – One of the Four Books of Confucianism. Originally a chapter from the Book of Rites, it outlines the path to moral cultivation and good governance, emphasizing self-discipline, family harmony, and ruling the state through virtue )

He copied it down. 

Then came the second placard:

“Write a five-character regulated poem with the theme ‘Grass.’”

Immediately, Bai Juyi’s “Seeing Off at the Ancient Grasslands” flashed through his mind—the timeless classic.

(Translator’s Notes: Seeing Off at the Ancient Grasslands” (《赋得古原草送别》) – A Tang Dynasty poem by Bai Juyi (白居易). It compares grass on the ancient plains, which withers and regrows each year, to enduring friendship and the cycle of parting and reunion. The poem is known for its simple yet deeply emotional expression of farewell.)

He jotted the topics and began composing.

The essay theme was on reform and renewal—a concept recurring in every dynasty’s middle age. Some succeeded, others fell.

Master Qin had explained the current politics before: the Left Chancellor led the conservative faction, while the Right Chancellor led reform.

The present Magistrate Yang, it was said, had been demoted from the capital due to factional conflict—and he belonged to the reformist side.

Holding that in mind, Chu Ci began his essay:

“To renew the people—thus a gentleman spares no effort.”

A line straight from the Book of Documents, opening his thesis neatly.

He wrote fluently, arguing that both ruler and subject must examine themselves daily and adapt to changing times, that clinging to old ways only bred decay. Paragraph by paragraph, his words flowed, precise yet persuasive.

By the time he finished refining it, most of the incense had burned down.

Instead of rushing into the poem, he carefully copied his essay onto the final page. A single smudge could cost points—and since sealed rankings depended partly on neatness, haste was unwise.

After completing the transcription, he exhaled, then began his poem.

Writing about grass had a long tradition—some praised its tenacity, others its quiet melancholy. But for a young man, sounding too desolate would seem ill-fitted.

He first selected his rhyme scheme, then pieced together lines until the regulated verse took form. 

When he finally finished copying, the incense was nearly spent.

Three more gong strikes—time was up. 

Yamen runners went row by row collecting papers. Those in front handed theirs in calmly; those in the back fidgeted, some even sobbing softly.

Chu Ci shook his head, gathered his things, and left with the crowd.

——

“Not bad,” said Master Qin, reading Chu Ci’s memorized version later. “You tailored your argument perfectly to the magistrate’s leanings. With this, you should at least maintain your current ranking.”

“Could I possibly take first?” Chu Ci asked carefully.

“That depends if anyone else wrote better,” Qin said, giving him a look before setting the essay aside. He then reached for a book from the shelf and handed it over.

Chu Ci’s eyes widened. “This—this is The Qingming Festival Manuscript of Huangzhou! Sir, how did you manage to borrow it? Incredible!”

“Incredible?”

“I mean—you’re amazing! Headmaster Kong was adamant he’d never lend it, yet you persuaded him!” Chu Ci cradled the manuscript reverently, eyes gleaming.

Master Qin could only smile bitterly. Amazing? Hardly. I just appealed to his weakness.

Ah, his beloved Li Ting inkstone—he’d likely never see it again.