Traveling Through Ancient Times to Be a Teacher - Chapter 47

The carriage wound through familiar roads, and by the time they arrived home, it was already afternoon.

The trip had taken several hours. Thankfully, Steward Xu had packed pastries and water, or they would have had a hard time finding food along the way—every roadside stall and shop was closed because of the national mourning. No one dared risk selling during this time; better to lose a little profit than end up in jail for showing disrespect.

As they passed the village entrance, Chu Xiaoyuan heard his playmates calling and instantly fidgeted with excitement. He looked at Chu Ci expectantly, and Chu Ci didn’t disappoint—he stopped the carriage and lifted him down to play.

Only Shen Xiuniang and Madam Chu were home. Elder Brother Chu had gone back to the fields after lunch. 

The family had acquired two more acres of rice paddy and a piece of dry land this year, and early spring was the busiest time for plowing. There was no way he could sit idle.

When Madam Chu saw her son return, she immediately went to the kitchen and cooked glutinous rice dumplings filled with sugar—soft, sweet, and chewy.

She had actually wanted to boil eggs. A few days ago, some of her daughter-in-law’s relatives had brought plenty when they came to visit. But she’d heard that during national mourning, even common folk should abstain from meat and animal products. Ordinary villagers might sneak a bit in private, but a scholar’s family was different—everything they did was watched.

If word spread that Chu Ci had eaten an egg during mourning, he could be flogged at best or lose his scholarly title at worst.

For the sake of their sons’ future, both women silently agreed: while the men were home, no trace of meat or oil would appear on the table.

“Grandmother, Mother! I’m home!”

Chu Ci hadn’t even finished his bowl of dumplings when Xiaoyuan’s voice called from outside.

“Back already? Did you quarrel with Xiaohu and the others?” Shen Xiuniang had been missing her son dearly these past weeks. When Chu Ci said earlier that the boy had gone off to play, she’d felt disappointed; now that he was back so soon, she worried he might have fought with his friends. Truly, parents’ hearts are all the same.

“No,” Xiaoyuan said, nestling carefully into her arms, avoiding her rounded belly. “I just remembered that Teacher said a filial son must ‘report before going out and present himself on returning home.’ I didn’t want you to worry about where I was. Uncle always tells Grandmother where he’s going, and when he comes home he never lingers elsewhere. Compared to him, I’ve been so thoughtless.”

The adults’ hearts melted at once.

Shen Xiuniang’s eyes brimmed with tears. Her son had studied for barely half a month and already understood such principles—what more could a mother wish for?

She looked gratefully at Chu Ci, who was quietly eating. Without her brother-in-law, her son would never have had the chance to attend the county academy.

Chu Ci didn’t notice her gaze, but Madam Chu did. She patted Shen Xiuniang’s hand and said softly, “We’re all one family—no need to speak of gratitude.”

“Yes,” Shen Xiuniang smiled, wiping her tears.

A bowl of dumplings was set before Xiaoyuan, but he didn’t eat. He kept glancing around instead.

“Where’s Father? Has he eaten yet?”

The women smiled at his concern, their hearts full of pride. Still, for Shen Xiuniang, there was also a trace of melancholy—her child was growing up in ways she hadn’t witnessed herself. Pride and sadness tangled together in her chest.

“Come on, there’s more in the kitchen. Let’s pack some and bring it to your father at the fields,” Chu Ci said after finishing his bowl, wiping his mouth clean.

He carried a clay jar, and Xiaoyuan followed with two bowls and pairs of chopsticks as they walked toward the fields.

The paddies were alive with busy farmers. Seeing the Chu family uncle and nephew, people called out cheerfully. A few women even teased Xiaoyuan, saying he’d surely achieve great things someday, making him blush bright red.

Their rice paddies were near the mountain. When they arrived, Chu Guang was working with a hoe, turning the soil deeply. The field was already half done, each row neat and even—it was clear how meticulous he was.

Yet Chu Ci’s heart ached. The family still had some savings, but his brother hadn’t even bought an ox. He was digging the whole two acres by hand.

“Brother!”

“Father!”

Both called out at once. Startled, Chu Guang looked up, disbelief flashing across his face—then joy. “You’re back already? Ah, that’s right, the mourning break.”

He climbed out of the field, wanting to hug his son—but when he saw Xiaoyuan’s clean scholar’s clothes against his own mud-stained short tunic, shame tugged at him. He drew his hands back.

The child didn’t notice, but Chu Ci did. And in that instant, his resolve hardened further. What good was success if it couldn’t ease his family’s burden? Studying would mean nothing unless he could repay them.

Xiaoyuan, unbothered, threw himself into his father’s arms anyway. “Father, I missed you! I brought dumplings for you—they’re sweet and delicious!”

Chu Guang couldn’t help laughing. He lifted Xiaoyuan and spun him once before setting him down, then went to rinse the mud from his hands and arms in the canal.

“Brother,” Chu Ci began, “two of my friends from the county exam both passed as Xiucai. Their families were grateful for my help and sent gifts to thank us.”

“Food again, I suppose? Shame we can’t eat during mourning. Your sister-in-law’s been eating for two lately—what she can’t finish ends up in me. I’ve grown sturdier for it,” Chu Guang said with a chuckle, taking a bite of the sweet dumplings even though they weren’t to his taste.

“Not food,” Chu Ci said mildly. “A two-courtyard house in the county and over ten acres of farmland near Changxi Village.”

It was as if he’d dropped a thunderclap. Chu Guang froze, his jaw hanging. “W-what? That much? Second Brother, be honest—are you teasing me? Heaven above, I must be dreaming! You and Xiaoyuan aren’t even really here, are you?” He muttered and even thumped his own head.

“Brother,” Chu Ci laughed, “you’re not dreaming. The deeds are with me—see for yourself.”

Chu Guang could read a little. He took the documents, scanning the titles. The land deed described thirteen connected acres east of Changxi Village.

That land was known to be the most fertile—flat ground with a river nearby, easy irrigation. Farmers often lingered there, imagining how they’d farm it if only it were theirs. Never had he dreamed the fantasy would come true.

Chu Ci watched his brother’s face split into a grin, holding the deed as if it were treasure. Clearly, land meant far more to him than any city house ever could.

After the excitement faded, Chu Guang said, “If I remember right, that land belonged to Old Huang the landlord, didn’t it? I even worked those fields two years ago. How did they end up ours? No one will come looking for trouble, will they?”

“Don’t worry,” Chu Ci said. “Since the Fang family handed me the deed, it means everything’s been properly handled. The land’s under my name. We’ll register it with the village head later—everything will be in order.”

“All right. I’ll wash up and we’ll go right now!” Chu Guang said eagerly. He didn’t care whose name was on it; as long as he could farm, he was happy.

…

The village head stared at the deed, stunned. Thirteen acres! The Chu family was truly rising. Counting the three acres they already owned, they now had sixteen. Before selling land years ago, even he had barely six or seven.

When Scholar Chu had been carried home sick before, people whispered that the family was finished—spent all they had to raise a scholar, only to end up ruined. They’d said studying wasn’t for farmers, better to stick to the fields.

Now, if anyone dared say that again, the village head would spit in their face. 

Who else could “farm” ten acres in half a year? His own wife had once scolded him for sending their boys to school instead of keeping them for fieldwork. He wished she were here to see what studying could really do!

…

The next morning, Chu Ci slept in until daylight. Waking naturally felt glorious; he was smiling when he got up.

The academy’s examination dorms weren’t as strict as the children’s hall, but the diligent students were always up “at the third watch with lamplight, at the fifth watch with roosters”—as if whoever rose earlier had a better chance of success.

(Translator’s Notes:“At the third watch with lamplight, at the fifth watch with roosters” (三更灯火五更鸡) – A traditional expression describing diligent scholars who study late into the night and rise before dawn. The third watch refers to around 11 p.m.–1 a.m., and the fifth watch to about 3–5 a.m.)

Chu Ci, who always slept until dawn, had drawn plenty of disapproving looks. Some had even lectured him in full classical rhetoric, scolding him for being lax despite his good grades.

He found it absurd. They all looked half-dead from exhaustion, unaware that balance between work and rest mattered too. 

When he walked out of the exam hall triumphant, he thought, they’d regret wasting their strength.

After breakfast, he shut himself in his room to study. But before beginning, he had to decide where to focus his effort.

Since ancient times, people had said, “Gold for the Provincial Graduate, silver for the Metropolitan Scholar.” It meant that the Provincial Exam (Xiāngshì) held more weight than even the Palace Exam that followed. 

It was, in truth, the hardest stage of the imperial examination system.

Unlike the county exam, there would be no questions on the classics or arithmetic “Nine Chapters.” The Provincial Exam focused instead on essays and poetry.

And unlike the simplified county or prefectural tests, this one followed the strict traditional format—three sessions, each lasting three days.

Just thinking of it made Chu Ci pale. Three days and nights confined in a narrow cell, eating, sleeping, and relieving oneself in that tiny space—it was enough to make one sick.

He figured the mock exam cells he built for Zhang Wenhai behind his house would come in handy. He might even lock himself inside for practice.

Still, the environment wasn’t the worst of it. The true torment lay in the topics—peculiar, unpredictable—and in guessing the examiner’s tastes.

If the chief examiner favored elegant, flowery writing, plain words wouldn’t do. If he preferred practical, grounded arguments, ornate prose was useless no matter how beautiful.

Some called this flattery and despised it, yet everyone did it—because unless you were already famous, you couldn’t afford not to.

For the county exam, you only needed a few key texts. Even rote learners could sometimes pass.

But for the Provincial Exam, it was different. Beyond the Four Books and Five Classics, candidates had to read widely—histories, essays, Qin-Han prose, Tang poetry, Song lyrics—anything. Without broad reading, one risked contradicting a renowned scholar and losing marks instantly.

Four Books and Five Classics (四书五经) – The foundational Confucian texts: the Four Books (The Great Learning, The Doctrine of the Mean, The Analects, Mencius) and the Five Classics (Book of Songs, Book of Documents, Book of Rites, Book of Changes, Spring and Autumn Annals))

And even that wasn’t enough. The first session tested the classics. The second session required drafting official documents and legal judgments.

After all, becoming a provincial graduate meant being eligible for office; an official had to know how to write memorials to the throne, draft edicts, and judge cases. Without both knowledge and logic, one wouldn’t stand a chance.

The third session covered policy essays and poetry, ranging across every field—economics, governance, disaster relief, strengthening the nation. It was like an ancient version of a comprehensive essay exam. If your answers didn’t please the examiner, well—better luck next time.

No wonder Fan Jin went mad with joy when he passed! No wonder the body’s original owner had been so crushed by failure. To endure such torment only to fall short—who could bear it?

Chu Ci banged his forehead against the desk with a groan. Imperial exams—too hard!

When he hadn’t thought about it, it seemed manageable. The more he did, the more panic crept in. What if he failed this grace examination? What if he failed again next time? What if he spent his whole life as a mere Xiucai?

He could almost see the queue of gray-haired scholars before him, waiting year after year. The thought made his skin crawl.

“Uncle, what are you doing?” Xiaoyuan’s voice broke in as the door creaked open—he’d heard the thud.

That sound snapped Chu Ci out of his spiral. He suddenly realized his mood had gone wrong.

Ever since hearing he had only five months to prepare, anxiety had been simmering deep down. He hadn’t noticed it until now.

Thank goodness he’d caught it early. If he’d let it fester until it exploded—he’d be finished.

Breaking out in a cold sweat, he forced a smile and said, “Nothing’s wrong. Uncle’s going to the back hill to look at bamboo. Want to come along?”