The Brush That Stirs Storms, The Strategy That Moves Spirits

The instant their brushes touched the paper, it was as though wind and thunder shook the hall, as though even spirits wept at the force of their words!

Inside the grand examination hall, the tribute scholars bent earnestly over their desks, their sleeves rolled high, their wrists suspended with dignity. Each stroke of ink carried the burden of their aspirations, their loyal visions of governance, and their painstakingly refined strategies for bringing peace and prosperity to the empire. Excitement burned hot in their chests, trembling in every movement as their brushes raced across the scrolls.

We have studied day and night, tempered both literature and martial skill, for this moment alone. To serve the throne, to present our hearts to the Son of Heaven—my Emperor, this is what we have been waiting for!

The sound of writing filled the vast hall: shua, shua, shua— an endless rustle, feverish and unyielding. No one wished to pause, no one dared to lose momentum.

Compared to this frantic tide of scholars pouring their souls onto the page, Zhu Ping’an remained unusually calm. His brush did not flail in excitement; his eyes did not burn with reckless eagerness. He had already come to understand the mind of Emperor Jiajing. Once you grasped the ruler’s heart, the question before them was no longer so difficult.

Opinion?

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Forgive me, Your Majesty. This unworthy student possesses shallow learning and dares not offer reckless suggestions. Under the reign of our peerless Emperor Jiajing—a sovereign of unmatched talent in both civil and martial affairs—the realm prospers. The world is at peace, four seas united, the people secure.

Remove AdsThe Emperor, burdened by cares great and small, frets not only over the northern tribes and the southern pirates but also the very sores and itches of his subjects’ daily lives. Such vast magnanimity belongs only to a ruler destined to be recorded among the wise sovereigns of all ages. For us, the people of the realm, this is a fortune unparalleled.

Compared to such brilliance, what are we scholars? Even combined, all of us together are not worth a ten-thousandth of His Majesty’s wisdom. Our only duty is to rally around His Imperial Person, to uphold his strategies and decrees. As long as we adhere to his governance, the realm will surely remain stable, tranquil, and everlasting.

As for why, under such a perfect reign, troubles like the northern raiders and the southern pirates still persisted? Zhu Ping’an’s brush moved with steady rhythm: The blame lies not with the sovereign, but with the officials beneath him. They fail to grasp the Emperor’s intention, fail to enforce his strategy with true sincerity, fail to implement his will with honesty and precision. In short: the ruler is wise, but the ministers are negligent.

Of course, he would not simply heap praises and leave it at that. Zhu Ping’an knew well—mere flattery would never secure him the highest place in the examination. The principle was clear: the Emperor was never at fault; it was the bureaucracy beneath that faltered. From that foundation, Zhu Ping’an began to develop his own views on administrative reform. Drawing not only from his own insights but also from the echoes of future knowledge—borrowing inspiration from Zhang Juzheng’s later reforms—he wrote about the selection of officials, the regulation of duties, strict evaluation, removal of redundancies, and systems of supervision. His suggestions formed a complete, structured proposal, one that balanced realism with foresight.

Yes. That should suffice.

Having mapped the structure in his mind, Zhu Ping’an sat back just as eunuchs and palace maids began to file into the hall. With faces calm and eyes lowered, the maids placed simple breakfast trays before each examinee, their movements quiet, as if the air itself held its breath. A respectful bow, a rustle of silk, and they withdrew like shadows.

Zhu Ping’an lifted the lid of his tray, only to feel a flicker of disappointment. Two plain vegetable dishes, a bowl of porridge, and two white buns—nothing more. The fare was austere, almost pitifully simple, not a hint of meat or richness.

Is this because the Emperor practices alchemy, forbidding meat from his table? Impossible. If he truly followed Taoist purity, he would abstain from women as well… but everyone knows His Majesty is far from restrained in that regard. Zhu Ping’an’s lips twitched at the thought. If anything, he is famed for the opposite. Shao Yuanjie and Tao Zhongwen earned his favor by preaching that intimacy not only failed to hinder Taoist progress but could, in fact, prolong life. With such indulgence, surely His Majesty is no ascetic vegetarian. Even if he is, must the rest of us scholars suffer the same fate?

Another suspicion crept into his mind. Could it be… saving money for his alchemy furnaces?

Suppressing a sigh, Zhu Ping’an picked up a bun, then lifted his chopsticks to take a piece of tofu. The moment it touched his tongue, his body froze. His eyes widened, his breath halted. Slowly, reverently, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, savoring the taste.

Forgive me, Your Majesty—I have wronged you.

This was no ordinary tofu. Each bite carried a depth of flavor that eclipsed even the rarest delicacies. It was as though he were chewing on bear’s paw itself, yet richer, more refined, more transcendent. The memory of Yan Shifan’s banquet, where he had once tasted genuine bear’s paw, paled in comparison. Not even the most exquisite dishes of modern cuisine could compare.

Indeed, such taste had its price. This tofu was simmered with the essence of twenty bear paws, slow-steeped over ten days, fused with rare herbs and precious ingredients to create a honeyed broth of impossible richness. The skill of the imperial chefs was worthy of every legend.

Zhu Ping’an devoured the two vegetable dishes clean, not a leaf or crumb left behind. His fervent appetite drew sidelong glances from others in the hall.

Shameless, some whispered with disdain.

But Zhu Ping’an ignored them. With his stomach content, his spirit surged anew. His brush was steady, his mind sharp as steel. After a short rest, he bent once again to write his draft.

His opening lines poured onto the page with solemn reverence:

“Your servant humbly replies: This servant’s learning is shallow, his wisdom insufficient, unworthy of answering Your Majesty’s great inquiry. Yet under Your Majesty’s reign, where civil glory and martial prowess shine, the four seas rest in peace and the world thrives. Your Majesty worries before the people worry, loves them deeply, mourns their hardships—such is the mark of a sage-king. Truly, it is the fortune of the people, of the realm, of us all. Yet why, then, do the northern raiders and southern pirates still plague us? Why do natural disasters still trouble the farmers?”

“Is it not because the officials fail to understand Your Majesty’s intent? Or because they execute it without diligence, their efforts empty and insincere? This, above all, is what terrifies me.”

Line by line, Zhu Ping’an built his case. “The governance of officials is the bridge between ruler and people. It is the backbone of the state. Respect the throne, choose the right men, measure their duty, supervise their conduct, reward and punish with fairness—these are the roots of lasting peace. I dare not offer hollow words or empty praise to cloud Your Majesty’s hearing. If my essay is found shallow or untrue, let the authorities discard it and punish me. I would don plain robes and accept my guilt without complaint. This is the truest cry of my heart, and to present it before Your Majesty is my greatest fortune.”

With a final flourish, he concluded, trembling with both fear and gratitude:

“This humble, unlearned scholar has risked his life to speak before Heaven’s Son. I tremble in awe. Thus, I submit.”

In little more than an hour and a half, Zhu Ping’an completed his draft. Though only a draft, he poured every ounce of skill into it—his brushstrokes strong, his script vigorous and full of spirit. The characters seemed like sails straining against the wind, ready to leap from the page with heroic force, brimming with righteous energy.

On calligraphy alone, Zhu Ping’an believed none among the gathered scholars could surpass him.

By the time he laid down his brush, the sun outside had climbed high into the sky. Around him, other scholars were also finishing their drafts. Some wrote bold essays exposing flaws in the empire’s military system. Others—reckless in their honesty—penned lengthy arguments against the Emperor’s Taoist alchemy. (How such men hoped to survive after this exam was anyone’s guess.)

As Zhu Ping’an stretched his fingers, a Ministry of Rites official strolled past his desk. With practiced subtlety, the man cast more than one glance at Zhu Ping’an’s draft, committing both phrases and brushstrokes to memory. Moments later, he drifted casually toward another corner of the hall, where he bent close to whisper with Grand Secretary Yan Song. The two shared quiet words, then separated once more, returning to their duties as if nothing had passed between them.

Remove AdsAcross from Zhu Ping’an, Ouyang Zishi still scribbled furiously, his face flushed with excitement. He cast scornful looks at the other examinees, Zhu Ping’an included. When the official passed by a second time, offering a barely hidden signal, Ouyang finally grasped his uncle Yan Song’s intention.

Like a tiger gaining wings! His heart soared with confidence. With this, victory is mine. None of these fools could hope to compete. The laurels of First Place are destined for me, Ouyang Zishi!

With feverish passion, his brush swept across the paper.

At last, as the sun set and crimson clouds flooded the horizon, the day’s palace examination came to an end. The gates of the Western Garden swung open once more. After a full day of struggle, the scholars filed out, their hearts buoyant with pride and relief.

Who will seize the laurels of the Champion? Who will stand alone at the top? That will be known only three days hence.

But for now, each man exhaled the tension of ten years of study and sacrifice. The grueling gauntlet of the imperial examinations was over.

No matter the result—whether they won the top rank or fell short—every one of them would see their names on the rolls. No one would be cast aside. And that alone was cause enough for celebration.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep