Chapter Fifteen: An Unexpected Failure to Place

Xi’an Prefecture, once the ancient capital of the Han and Tang dynasties, remained a vital stronghold in the northwest under the Ming dynasty. Not only was it the seat of the Shaanxi Provincial Administration, but it was also densely populated. Among its inhabitants were Han people from the interior, as well as merchants from the Western Regions and northern borderlands. Their varied attire and distinctive features—marked by unusual hair and eye colors—gave the city a vibrant, cosmopolitan feel reminiscent of a bustling metropolis of later centuries.

However, having witnessed grander spectacles in later times, you showed little awe at this prosperous millennia-old city, your expression merely tinged with curiosity. Your master, observing you closely, was struck with admiration: truly a prodigy from birth! Yet he couldn’t help but shake his head—no matter how gifted, if you failed this examination, you simply failed; your abilities would speak for themselves.

With mixed emotions, he navigated the familiar path to the examination hall and presented your identification to prove your eligibility for the provincial exam. The clerk at the gate widened his eyes in disbelief: “What? A five-year-old top candidate?!” He stared as though you were a rare creature, then frowned thoughtfully before casting a strange glance at you both and whispering, “Are you affiliated with the Prefect of Northern Shaanxi?”

You and your master exchanged puzzled looks. The clerk, clearly displeased, snapped, “Don’t play coy with me. I’ve seen plenty of your kind! A four-year-old scholar topping the list… no way that’s from merit alone. If you bought your degree, then you must have connections to the Prefect of Northern Shaanxi!”

“Let me guess… are you a relative of the Prefect?” he pressed.

You were at a loss for words.

Seeing your silence, he furrowed his brow and asked, “No? Then are you here with money to buy your title?”

“This guy is so blatant about selling offices now? Even my master…” His certainty that you bribed the Prefect to secure your scholar’s rank led him to mutter unintelligibly, then lower his voice seriously: “Since you dare come here, I’ll be frank—fixed price: 100,000 taels for a provincial graduate, 500,000 for the top scorer! Even if someone else bids higher later, we won’t raise the price. Business is all about integrity—no cheating, no deception…”

You and your master were speechless.

You seemed to have stumbled upon something monumental.

Even the seasoned Zhou Liang gaped in astonishment at this bombshell. This was nothing less than a youthful version of the notorious selling of offices! “Ordinary provincial graduates going for 100,000 taels, top scorers for 500,000… this is…” Although Zhou Liang knew Ming officialdom was rife with corruption, seeing such brazen price tags took him aback.

Wasn’t this group afraid of being caught by the Provincial Administration? Even if the officials were in cahoots, the Imperial Guards—the Jinyiwei—were constantly conducting inspections. What? You say the Jinyiwei aren’t clean either? Fine, then even if they all colluded, openly stopping candidates at the gate to ask if they wanted to buy titles was blatant beyond measure. The Jinyiwei and the Provincial Administration aren’t fools; if they didn’t act soon, the problem would spiral out of control.

So Zhou Liang’s first thought was: “This must be a sting operation!”

With the clerk’s foolish tactics, Zhou Liang doubted he was genuinely selling titles. More likely, he was an undercover agent sent from above to catch cheaters.

You agreed. This man’s behavior was far too suspicious to be genuine—selling titles so brazenly? Sounds more like a trap to me.

You and your master exchanged glances and shook your heads in unison.

The clerk frowned, “Think it’s expensive? This has been the price for years!” He snorted disdainfully. “Fine, if you don’t want to buy, there are plenty who will. I’m curious just how much this bought scholar is really worth…”

After this brief exchange, encouraged by your master’s gaze, you stepped into the examination hall. After thorough searches and formalities, you finally took your seat.

The booths were small compartments, each just large enough for one examinee. Writing materials and food were distributed uniformly by the examination staff, and restroom breaks had to be taken on site to prevent cheating.

You paid no mind to these restrictions—you had no intention of cheating. You were someone who innately valued justice and honesty, and besides, you didn’t even know how to cheat.

A five-year-old participating in the provincial exam was unprecedented and naturally stirred curiosity and attention. Not only did your fellow candidates watch you closely, but the examiners couldn’t help but keep a closer eye on you as well. Under such scrutiny, cheating was impossible.

Seated in your cramped booth, nerves rising, you found your thoughts drifting back to that suspicious clerk: Could he really be an undercover agent? Or was he truly selling titles?

You didn’t know. But even if he was a legitimate dealer, you couldn’t afford his prices—100,000 taels was an astronomical sum for someone who had only recently started from scratch.

Sighing, you resigned yourself to fate.

After some time, the sounding of a gong signaled the arrival of the exam papers, handed out by several stern-faced proctors.

When you received your paper, you quickly scanned the questions, then closed your eyes in despair. Sure enough, your fears were justified; passing this was almost impossible!

You already had an idea of the outcome, but having come this far, you resolved to try your best. Drawing a deep breath, you began to answer seriously.

This moment marked the turning point of your destiny.

…

*Ding!* Because the simulated character lacked confidence in the exam but needed to achieve a passing score, despairing, the system prompted: “Would you like to manually assist with answering?”

Manual assistance?

Still pondering whether the clerk was a sting agent, Zhou Liang was stunned, then burst out laughing.

“That’s just hiring a ghostwriter!”

“Well, it’s come down to me then. Guess I’ll be the old man helping out…”

But on second thought, this was after all “another self.” Zhou Liang had always had a good impression of him, and considering his value, this was a favor he had to grant.

“Ah well… I’m just too kind-hearted. Besides, I’m counting on you to help me find hope to overthrow this decrepit Ming regime…”

With a sigh, Zhou Liang nodded solemnly: “I agree.”

*Ding!* The simulation perspective loaded.

With a chime, the scenery before Zhou Liang shifted.

When the scene stabilized, he found himself temporarily inhabiting the body of a child, seated before an examination paper.

Clearly, this was the simulated viewpoint.

“The provincial exam, huh…”

Amidst this novel sensation, Zhou Liang slowly gazed at the paper and smiled faintly. Recalling his repeated failures in past provincial exams, though he had eventually thrown down his pen in frustration and gone on to build an anti-Ming society, he had always harbored a grievance:

Why couldn’t I pass? My skills were no worse than those of my contemporaries who became provincial graduates!

Now, here was a chance to prove his true ability—and the questions were old ones he had studied thoroughly. He knew the standard answers by heart. If he failed now, there would truly be no justice!

“A provincial graduate? Hah!”

Zhou Liang smiled confidently.

Just a trifle.

Watch closely, little one, this is how a provincial graduate performs!

With a grin, he began to answer diligently.

…

The provincial exam was divided into three sessions, each lasting three days, totaling nine days. Zhou Liang’s answering spanned the entire period.

Although these old questions posed no real challenge for him and he could have finished quickly, he deliberately used up the time, reviewing his answers multiple times after each session to avoid mistakes.

With this overwhelming advantage, the exam’s difficulties melted away.

Thus, as the nine days drew to a close and the submission deadline approached, Zhou Liang put down his brush, satisfied.

The scenery shifted again, returning him to the old mansion where he had died from poison.

“System, continue simulation!”

In high spirits, Zhou Liang waved his hand, unable to hide his pride:

“I can’t wait to see his shocked reaction after he passes!”

*Ding!* Simulation resumes.

Half-awake, you finished all the questions, remembering only that you answered well—confident you would pass. Though confused, the system’s logic convinced you it was your own effort.

You left the exam hall and, with your long-waiting master, lodged temporarily in an inn in Xi’an, awaiting the day the results would be announced.

You eagerly anticipated the news: “Good tidings for Master Zhou Liang—top of the Shaanxi provincial exam, first place, provincial graduate, advancing to the capital’s prestigious ranks!”

Yet you resolved not to act like Fan Jin, who went mad upon passing. When the herald arrived with the good news, you would stay low-key, exuding calm control, then, amidst your master’s and everyone else’s astonished gazes, give a subtle sideways smile.

✓

In any case, you were ready to celebrate.

But fate proved unpredictable.

On announcement day, you waited from dawn till dusk, heart full of hope until your hands and feet grew cold—no one came to deliver good news.

The truth was crueler than expected.

You had, it seemed, failed the exam…

Zhou Liang: …

…