[ Monday | The Walled City, Arghon Empire ]
The reckoning had arrived.
Following my reckless stunt at the pleasure house last Friday, I had returned to the Dan estate to find my knuckles raw and my back aching from Teacher Pu's transcription punishment. Over the weekend, our formal apologies were dispatched to the Yao household. Officer Yao, nursing a heavily bandaged palm, sent back a chilling warning: if my name failed to appear on the passing register this Monday, he would use the full weight of the Yun Clan's guards to shred me to pieces. I had laughed at the threat—though, internally, my stomach had twisted into nervous knots.
I am absolutely not permitted to fail this, I repeated like a mantra as Laohu and I marched toward the massive iron-reinforced gates of the Walled City.
Unlike the aristocratic heirs surrounding us, who had spent their entire lives under the tutelage of high-priced capital tutors, I had received zero formal guidelines for this examination. All I knew was that the trial was a grueling, single-day elimination divided into three distinct phases: Martial Arts, Primary Written Knowledge, and Political Discourse. The physical martial testing didn't frighten me; the general knowledge written exam was based on standard texts. But the final segment—the essay on political discourse—was a wild card. If the ministers targeted subversion, my natural tongue would be my absolute undoing.
The entire examination would conclude by sunset. Each phase would be graded in real-time, and the final list of the twenty-five accepted scholars would be announced directly by the Emperor himself.
Phase I: The Trial of Steel
The martial arts segment was split into distinct disciplines based on a candidate's primary weapon. Because the open plains of Weiyou had trained me to hunt since I was tall enough to pull a string, I registered for the archery bracket.
The targets were set at an extreme distance, buffeted by a sharp morning crosswind. The noble sons stepped up with their gilded, imported composite bows, taking long, calculated breaths before releasing their arrows. When it was my turn, I didn't waste time meditating. I stepped to the line, hoisted my simple wooden recurve bow, and released five successive arrows in a matter of milliseconds. Each one split the core of the central bullseye with a rhythmic, deafening thwack. I secured the top spot of the bracket effortlessly.
Laohu, meanwhile, competed in the agility and evasion courses. To a guy named Tiger who had spent his youth outrunning mountain panthers, the capital's structured obstacle arrays were a playground. He moved through the high-wire platforms like a blur of midnight fabric, effortlessly clocking the fastest time in the entire testing cohort.
By the time the midday gong echoed across the courtyard, the hundreds of initial applicants had been brutally whittled down to the last eighty survivors.
Phase II: The Trial of Ink
Without a moment to rest, the remaining eighty of us were ushered directly into the shaded examination pavilions for the primary written exam. It was an intentional design; forcing candidates to sit a comprehensive general knowledge test while their muscles were trembling from physical exhaustion was a test of psychological endurance.
As the papers were unrolled, my head began to feel incredibly groggy, my eyelids heavy from the morning's exertion. Yet, as my eyes scanned the classical passages and historical logs, a strange calm washed over me. I hadn't been allowed to touch Teacher Pu's official capital review books over the weekend, but these complex historical timelines and administrative philosophies weren't foreign to me. They were the very fabric of my childhood. Master Cui, the former Grand Leader of the Hill Academy, had carved these texts into my mind and Laohu's long before we ever set foot in the capital. We didn't possess the aristocratic advantages of the city youths, but we had been trained by the source.
An hour later, the papers were snatched from our desks. The proctors retreated to the grading tables, leaving the eighty exhausted candidates sweating in the dead silence of the hall. Only forty would survive this cut.
A high-ranking minister stepped back onto the raised platform, unrolling a preliminary roster. "The scores for the secondary trial have been calculated. As your name is called, you will receive a token of passage and proceed directly to the Grand Hall of Politics for the final evaluation."
My heart hammered against my ribs as name after name echoed through the high-ceilinged room. Thirty slots were filled, leaving nearly fifty of us sitting in an agonizing pool of uncertainty.
"The final ten remaining students to make the cut," the minister announced, his booming voice echoing off the stone walls. "Let us begin with Dan Laohu."
Laohu stood up with fluid grace, walking to the front to bow deeply and receive his dark wooden token. As he turned to walk toward the exit, he caught my eye and flashed a small, encouraging smile.
Two more names were called. Then, the minister's voice rang out: "Dan Weicheng."
I exhaled a breath I didn't realize I was holding, stepping forward with a stoic, masculine stride to claim my second token. As I walked down the aisle toward the exit, the hushed whispers of the eliminated noble heirs trailed behind me.
"That's the one who aced the archery bracket in the blink of an eye. He's the nephew of scholar Dan." "Ah, so they are cousins? The one who topped the agility trials and the archer? The Dan household has bred savages this year."
Phase III: The Imperial Discourse
We were ushered into the majestic Grand Hall of Politics for the final, decisive segment of the day. The architecture was suffocatingly grand—massive crimson pillars wrapped in golden dragons holding up a vaulted ceiling. At the far end of the hall sat the Imperial Ministers, their faces unreadable.
Suddenly, the heavy drums rolled, and the entire assembly dropped to their knees as Emperor Wang Long entered the hall, his golden robes sweeping across the polished stone floor as he took his place upon the Dragon Throne.
"The final twenty-five of you remaining in this hall shall be granted formal admission into the Hill Academy," the Emperor's voice echoed, carrying an immense, unyielding authority. "There is but one final hurdle. A single question for all candidates. You must articulate your response in no more than one hundred characters. Tomorrow, your new life begins. Prove your intellect, secure your future, and serve the Arghon crown."
The heavy iron gong resonated through the hall, signaling the start of the hour.
A senior minister stepped to the front of the dais, unrolling a massive silk scroll to reveal the singular prompt for the essay:
"At fifteen I set my heart upon learning. At thirty, I had planted my feet firm upon the ground. At forty, I no longer suffered from perplexities. At fifty, I knew what were the biddings of Heaven. At sixty, I heard them with docile ear. At seventy, I could follow the dictates of my own heart; for what I desired no longer overstepped the boundaries of right."
I leaned over my desk, reading the characters with intense scrutiny. If my memory served me correctly, this absolute pillars-of-thought passage was lifted directly from the classical Analects of Confucius.
"Analyze the analect," the minister commanded. "Provide your perspective on its core methodology, and explain precisely how this philosophical progression makes an empire stronger. Your one hour begins now."
The scratching of dozens of brushes filled the hall as candidates immediately began churning out standard, sycophantic praise. I dipped my brush in the black ink, analyzing the text through the lens of political survival.
According to traditional Confucian doctrine, a life entirely surrendered to knowledge and self-cultivation yields the ultimate societal harmony. Learning is presented as a lifelong, generational process. The ultimate reward for such absolute devotion is the cultivation of an innate, unshakeable goodness within a person, allowing them to eventually follow their heart's desires without ever violating moral boundaries.
But as I stared at the blank parchment, the cynical voice of Weiyou's survival flared up within me. Does a highly structured, rigid education system truly make an empire strong? Or does unguided knowledge eventually foster rebellion by giving citizens the independent will to question their masters? The prompt claimed that education was intended solely for protection, order, and national abundance. For certain, every single noble heir in this room would write an identical, affirmative essay stating that continuous, blind learning and absolute submission to the system would lead to eternal prosperity.
I refused to write a lie. I bent over the paper and began to write, matching the constraints perfectly.
"Time is up! Cease your brushes!"
The proctors moved systematically through the rows, snatching the papers. They were delivered directly to the high table, where the ministers began grading them under the watchful eye of the Emperor. Red stamps of rejection and black stamps of acceptance echoed through the silence of the hall.
Suddenly, the grading came to an abrupt halt. A cluster of ministers huddled together, whispering frantically over a single sheet of parchment.
Emperor Wang Long noticed the commotion. He stood up from his throne, descending the golden steps of the dais until he reached the final tier. He held out his hand, taking the disputed paper from the head minister's trembling fingers. The Emperor scanned the text, his face a mask of unreadable intensity, before reading my response aloud to the entire hall:
$$ \text{"When we have intelligence resulting from sincerity, this condition is to be ascribed to nature;"} $$ $$ \text{"when we have sincerity resulting from intelligence, this condition is to be ascribed to instruction."} $$ $$ \text{"But given the sincerity, and there shall be the intelligence; given the intelligence, and there shall be the sincerity."} $$
A suffocating silence descended upon the grand hall. I could feel Laohu's frantic, panicked gaze burning into the side of my face from three rows over; he knew my syntax too well.
The Emperor lowered the paper, his dark eyes scanning the rows of candidates. "Step forward, Dan Weicheng."
I kept my composure perfectly, rising from my desk with a calm, deliberate grace. I walked down the central aisle and bowed deeply before the throne. The surrounding ministers looked at me as if I were a dead man walking, and in the corner of the hall, I saw Teacher Pu's gaze drop to the floor in absolute despair.
"Do you possess a formal explanation for this response, candidate Dan?" the Emperor asked, his voice deceptively calm.
"Yes, Your Imperial Majesty," I replied, rising from my bow.
The Emperor waited, his hands tucked into his golden sleeves.
"The imperial education system is offered to all individuals, irrespective of rank, noble lineage, or provincial state," I began, my voice projecting clearly across the stone rafters. "The imperial law dictates that this knowledge is designed to construct the foundation of our nation. Proper education is indeed the root of an empire's greatness—but it can also become the veil that hides its rot. Education is designed to instruct the mind; it cannot alter the fundamental, innate nature of a person's heart. If an individual's roots and sincerity are corrupted from the very beginning, all the knowledge in the world will merely be weaponized by their insincerity. Knowledge can construct the outer walls of an empire, but without absolute sincerity, that same knowledge will fracture the gates and cause massive, internal destruction. To ensure true strength, the subjects of the crown must be united in a singular, sincere objective: to protect the realm without hidden agendas, and without demanding transactional rewards."
I offered a faint, calculated smile.
"If a single rotten apple is placed into a basket of pristine harvest, the remaining fruit will inevitably succumb to the same decay. That is the true vulnerability of any system. It is not the rigid education structure alone that guarantees our security; rather, it is the active, fearless removal of the rotten apple that ensures the empire's eternal prosperity."
Before the Emperor could respond, the heavy silk curtains at the back of the dais parted, and the Empress arrived, flanked by her imperial handmaidens. I immediately dropped my gaze and returned to my seat. As she took her place beside the Emperor, I caught a glimpse of her face. A chill ran down my spine—her high cheekbones and razor-sharp posture looked incredibly similar to the Queen of the North, Yun Ni Xiua, though her facial features carried a slightly softer, capital refinement.
The Final Roster
We were dismissed from the grand hall and directed to a large, opulent lounge area to await the final cumulative tallies. The moment the heavy oak doors shut, Laohu cornered me against a marble pillar, his face flushed with panic.
"Why in the name of the ancestors would you answer like that?!" he whispered hoarsely, gripping my sleeve. "Emperor Wang Long is a devout, literal Confucian! You are actively begging to be dragged to the execution square!"
"He is a true scholar of the text, Hu; he understands exactly the philosophical nuance of what I wrote," I argued softly, swatting his hand away. "Every single candidate in that room wrote a safe, affirmative essay to flatter the court. Why would I conform to a sea of identical answers? Besides, I know your metrics—you passed the exam, Laohu."
"You would have passed too if you had just written the standard response!"
"My answer was directly synthesized from the classical texts of the Doctrine of the Mean," I countered dryly. "I didn't violate a single protocol. Stop being so nosy."
The heavy lounge doors swung open. The tension in the room spiked as the remaining forty candidates fell silent. Emperor Wang Long stepped into the room himself to announce the final top twenty-five passers based on cumulative points across all three examinations.
"The top twenty-five candidates are as follows," the herald announced, handing the official acceptance scrolls to the Emperor.
Names were called one by one, the noble heirs stepping forward to claim their futures.
"Garnering a total cumulative score of 274.9 out of 300: Dan Laohu."
I smiled as Hu walked forward. Despite making ten distinct errors on his written knowledge exam, his historic agility metrics had pushed him squarely into the top six ranks of the entire capital cohort.
"And now, for our top three elite scores," the herald projected. "Rank three: Wang Tae Hua, with a cumulative score of 287 out of 300, and recipient of the Imperial Swordsmanship Distinction."
A young man in striking, heavy black robes stepped forward, arrogantly brushing his shoulder blades against mine as he passed my direction. My eyes narrowed as I noticed the heavy silver hairpin securing his high bun—it was an exact match to the one worn by the First Prince. The confusion vanished the moment he reached the Emperor and dropped to his knees.
"This servant is honored to receive the scroll, Father Emperor," Tae Hua intoned.
The Third Prince. Unlike his older brother, Prince Ji Wok, who possessed calm, calculative hazel eyes, the Third Prince possessed pitch-black orbs that radiated an aggressive, volatile seriousness. I shook my head internally. If I ended up in a tactical class with this royal brat, Officer Yao would be the least of my concerns.
I glanced across the room and noticed the First Prince, Ji Wok, standing near the royal guard line, watching the ceremony. I offered him a tiny, subtle nod of gratitude for his help last Friday. He caught my eye, his face remaining entirely expressionless as he smoothly averted his gaze.
"Rank two," the herald bellowed. "Yun Ji Wok, with an exceptional score of 295 out of 300, and second place in the Swordsmanship Distinction."
My breath hitched in my throat as the candidate stepped into the light.
It was him. The stranger from the pleasure house. The man who had dragged me into the bushes to escape the Yun Clan guards was wearing his signature, deep midnight-blue silks.
The surrounding candidates immediately began whispering in hushed, reverent tones.
"The second state minister's youngest son is always his pride." "True, but his older brother achieved the absolute top score during the previous exam cycle. He must be feeling immense pressure from the Yun Clan elders to match that legacy."
I watched Yun Ji Wok claim his scroll, my mind spinning. I began shifting my weight toward the rear exit, preparing to slip away before the crowd noticed me.
"First place," the herald called out, "belongs to Bai Ku Ji of the Bai Family, garnering 297 out of 300 and acing the Tactical Strategy Examination."
The twenty-four accepted scholars stood in a flawless line at the front of the hall. I turned to slip through the heavy oak doors to head home, assuming my subversion had disqualified me.
"And lastly," the Emperor's voice cut through the room, halting me mid-stride. "Our twenty-fifth examiner, who managed to match the top metrics of our primary brackets. Step forward, Dan Weicheng."
My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. I froze flat on my feet, my boots feeling as though they were nailed to the floorboards.
"What..." I whispered under my breath.
Laohu didn't waste a second. He marched back down the aisle, grabbed the back of my collar, and forcefully dragged me toward the front of the dais. The surrounding noble heirs let out a collective, sharp gasp as the Emperor looked down at me, a rare, faint smile touching his lips.
"You executed the advanced archery trials in a matter of milliseconds," Emperor Long noted, handing me the final golden-threaded scroll. "You achieved a flawless score on the primary knowledge papers, and your discourse on sincerity provided the exact tenacity this academy requires. I expect to see your philosophy put into action within these walls, young Dan."
"This servant thanks Your Imperial Majesty," I murmured, bowing until my forehead nearly touched my boots.
The moment the formal ceremony dissolved, the room erupted into a chaos of congratulations. I scanned the crowd, spotting Yun Ji Wok standing near a marble pillar. I began moving toward him, determined to thank him for saving my life on Friday night, but Laohu's iron grip clamped onto my forearm, spinning me around toward the eastern exit.
"We need to report to Uncle Pu immediately. Move," Hu ordered, his voice tense as he hauled me out of the grand hall.
I gritted my teeth in intense annoyance, casting one final glance over my shoulder at the blue-robed noble before the heavy oak doors shut behind us.
Teacher Pu was waiting for us near the academy's outer carriage house. When we showed him our golden-threaded scrolls, a profound look of relief washed over his weathered face.
"You both did exceptionally well," Teacher Pu said, his voice dropping to a proud whisper. He leaned in closer, a soft smile breaking through his stern demeanor. "I received word from the inner palace gates just an hour ago: Mu Lin passed her medical and dietary trials flawlessly. Her hard work was not in vain—and because you secured your place, Weicheng, her position in the imperial infirmary is legally protected. Once the upcoming holiday arrives, I shall treat the three of you to a grand dinner in the city."
We returned to our quiet estate late that evening. Walking into Mu Lin's vacant room, I found a small, neatly folded parchment sitting inside her empty dresser drawer. She had already been moved into the secure inner dormitories to begin her training at sunrise tomorrow.
I stared out the window at the looming silhouette of the Hill Academy against the night sky. Tomorrow morning, our formal admission began. The chessboard was set, our pieces were inside the walls, and the game for Weiyou's vengeance had officially begun.