Du Heng sprang up, nearly knocking over a teacup on the table, ignoring the pain in his waist. “Where is she? Is she all right?”
“She was just brought back.”
“What’s wrong with that driver? I’ve told him hundreds of times!”
He dashed toward the birthing room, instructing Yi Yan to summon the midwife and doctor immediately, and to have the household staff boil water.
Qin Zhiyan hurried after him, astonished at how methodically Du Heng managed the crisis—experience he had not seen before, despite being an elder himself.
Inside the birthing room, Qin Xiaoman, heavily pregnant, lay on the couch. Her water had broken, and she grimaced in pain, teeth clenched. Sweat beaded on her forehead, soaking her hair. She grabbed Du Heng’s hand tightly.
“It hurts! It’s worse than last time! If I die in this labor, you must guard me in widowhood!” she cried.
Du Heng panicked, kneeling on the floor and rubbing her hands. “Don’t say such things! No ominous words!”
He turned to the household staff. “How did the carriage get bumped again?”
The servant explained nervously, “Recently there have been carts carrying autumn-harvested corn. The streets are crowded. It wasn’t a real collision—just that the horse was startled and the carriage jolted.”
The county streets were narrow, with livestock and carts constantly moving. Accidents were common. During the harvest season in previous years, the magistrate would send officers to manage the streets, but now, with the magistrate’s term ending, he was negligent—focused solely on lining his own pockets. Du Heng realized it wasn’t really the staff’s fault; it was just circumstance. He only blamed himself for letting Qin Xiaoman go out while so heavily pregnant.
Seeing her drenched in sweat, his worry caused him to sweat as well. He held her hands to his nose. “It’ll be fine. The midwife is almost here.”
Qin Xiaoman, teeth clenched and pain evident, saw him trembling with worry and stopped shouting, lest he become more anxious.
“You’re overreacting. It’s not your first child—it won’t be that hard.”
Du Heng recalled her last labor, which he hadn’t witnessed in the county city. He had hurried back home, worried the whole way, yet when the child was born, he hadn’t seen the difficulty firsthand. Now, seeing her labor, he truly realized how arduous it was.
He held her hands firmly. “We’re not aiming for many children. After this second child, I won’t let you suffer like this again.”
Qin Xiaoman bit her teeth and swatted his head. “What are you saying? Sounds like you’re trying to make me have fewer children than anyone else. Hiss!”
“I won’t make you have them—you’d better not expect others to do it either!”
“If you don’t, I’d accept it from someone else,” she teased.
Du Heng: “…”
“Enough talking. Focus on the child.”
Shortly after, the midwife and doctor were ushered in by Yi Yan. Du Heng was told to wait outside. From behind the window lattices, he could still hear the sounds inside, pacing anxiously.
“Daddy!”
Little Chengyi, sensing the commotion, had darted past the servants and ran straight to Du Heng. Fearing the child might fall, Du Heng quickly scooped him up.
Chengyi’s sharp little ears had picked up the sound of his father inside. He clutched Du Heng’s neck tightly, furrowing his brows. “It’s Daddy… Daddy, what’s wrong?”
Du Heng soothed him, “Daddy’s having your little brother. It’ll be quick—don’t worry.”
“But Daddy sounds like it hurts… Chengyi’s scared,” the little boy said, hugging Du Heng and staring toward the room. His eyes quickly welled with tears. “Chengyi wants to see Daddy.”
“Daddy is bringing a little baby into the world—you can’t go in,” Du Heng said gently, rubbing the back of Chengyi’s head. “If you go in and scare the baby, it’ll make it harder for Daddy, and he’ll be in more pain. Be good, Chengyi, and wait out here, okay?”
Hearing this, Chengyi quieted immediately, clinging to Du Heng’s neck. His little guava-colored lips pressed together, tears streaming down, carving tiny trails on his cheeks.
Du Heng’s heart ached, torn between both children.
Servants carried in basin after basin of water. Time dragged on; everyone inside and outside sweated through the ordeal. Then, finally, a crisp, strong cry pierced the air—a newborn’s first cry.
Chengyi, eyes red and nose damp, lifted his head from Du Heng’s shoulder, tears glistening and clinging to long lashes. “It’s the baby!” he whispered.
The midwife soon came out with joyful news: “Congratulations to Master Du! It’s a healthy little boy, mother and child both safe!”
Du Heng instantly scooped up Chengyi and rushed inside.
The room still smelled faintly of blood. The newborn was quickly wiped clean and swaddled. Qin Xiaoman lay exhausted on stacked pillows, breathing shallowly.
Seeing Chengyi’s teary face, Qin Xiaoman teased weakly, “You already have a little brother—why the crying?”
Chengyi slid from Du Heng’s arms and ran to the bedside. He reached just above the mattress, hugged Qin Xiaoman, and rested his head on her chest. “Daddy, does it hurt?”
Qin Xiaoman stroked his soft hair. “No, it doesn’t.”
Du Heng sat beside her, holding her hand, both of them leaning close as if having survived a calamity together.
“The little master weighs eight jin,” the midwife said. “A big, chubby boy.”
After a while, the midwife brought the baby over. Du Heng took the tiny bundle in his arms. The newborn was still slightly reddish, eyes moist from crying.
Chengyi marveled, seeing the little brother he had carried in his father’s belly finally born. He leaned on Du Heng to look at the swaddled infant, half his size.
The baby felt soft, like dough Du Heng had kneaded for cooking, or a ripe persimmon—so delicate that a gentle poke seemed to risk breaking it.
He blinked, turning to Qin Xiaoman. “Daddy, the little brother looks like you.”
Qin Xiaoman weakly smiled. “How can you tell at this age?”
Du Heng brought the baby closer so she could see. “The eyes and mouth—Chengyi already noticed.”
Qin Xiaoman glanced at their son, lips curving. “So it wasn’t all for nothing, giving birth to him.”
Chengyi, seeing her pale face, wiped her sweat with his little handkerchief. “Daddy, is it like this when you had me?”
“Yes.”
Chengyi felt tender for her. “I’ll be a good boy from now on—eat a big bowl of rice every meal, and I won’t secretly spit out my vegetables anymore.”
“You’re such a perfect little boy,” Qin Xiaoman smiled. “Come, let Daddy give you a kiss.”
Du Heng felt a deep contentment. To all those bustling about, he said, “It’s a day of great joy—everyone will be generously rewarded.”
Once everything was tidied, Du Heng handed the baby to Qin Zhiyan, who had been anxiously waiting outside.
The Qin family rejoiced once more.
Since the second son was born in autumn, Du Heng named him Dan Ce, drawing the characters “Dan” and “Ce” from a line he liked: “Frost turns into clear cold wind; a few households among faint smoke.”
The family had a son to carry on the family line—everyone inside and outside the Qin household was overjoyed.
Qin Zhiyan, as the baby’s great-uncle, couldn’t register him himself, so he hurried to handle the household registration. Before doing so, he checked with the couple:
“When Chengyi was born, his registration was under the Qin family. How do you plan to register Dan Ce?”
The village knew Du Heng was a son-in-law living in the Qin household. At the time of their marriage, Du Heng had given generous gifts and brought a cow to the Qin home. Though outsiders didn’t know who had really paid, the family’s reputation remained good.
Later, Du Heng had passed the xiucai exam and became a juren. Villagers sought his favor, and no one dared bring up his status as a live-in son-in-law. Over time, the matter faded, and many in the county didn’t even know.
The Qin family suggested registering the child under their family, so he would carry the Qin surname, and Du Heng agreed without hesitation.
Now circumstances had changed. Du Heng was a juren with the qualifications to hold office, and the newborn would continue the family line. To maintain harmony, neither could make the decision unilaterally; it could cause friction.
“Then let’s follow the previous arrangement,” Du Heng said. He had never minded in such matters—after all, it was Xiaoman who had brought about this timing.
All these formalities mattered little. The children were born with Xiaoman, and the surname was secondary. If keeping one surname would reassure Xiaoman and the Qin family, why not?
While sipping chicken soup, Qin Xiaoman tugged Du Heng’s sleeve. “Chengyi is already registered under the Qin family—Dan Ce can be under your name.”
Du Heng shook his head. “That would be troublesome. Why have two surnames in one family? If you and I are gone, how will Chengyi and Dan Ce manage with different surnames? It will only cause trouble.”
Qin Xiaoman furrowed her brows. “I just worry it might trouble your heart.”
“It’s fine. Let it be settled that way,” Du Heng replied.
Qin Zhiyan said, “What matters is that the two of you agree with each other. We elders should not override your wishes.”
Qin Xiaoman nodded. “Then let’s follow Du Heng’s decision.”
With the household now welcoming a new member, the occasional cries of the newborn added warmth and liveliness to the estate. Many visitors brought gifts, congratulating Du Heng on having a son. They assumed he must be delighted to have an heir and that those with other intentions would be discouraged.
In truth, Du Heng didn’t dwell on such matters. He was simply happy to have another child—whether the child would grow up to be a son or not was irrelevant to him.
Little Chengyi, no longer playing with his usual companions, spent his days in the house, amusing the newborn with his old toys. Life for the four of them was peaceful and content.
At the end of the autumn harvest, Du Heng took advantage of the season to hold a one-hundred-day celebration for the second son, a lively affair for the family.
The following year, the court held its official examination and selection of officials, which caused quite a stir.
The court conducted annual evaluations for officials, usually lenient. As long as an official managed their duties without major mistakes, there were rarely any consequences.
Every five years, however, a grand selection took place, much stricter. During the last two selections under the previous emperor, he was already advanced in age and lenient, allowing officials to coast through with little merit or fault. Some who erred were merely reassigned, and by the time the Guangyun Emperor ascended, the government had become lax.
Officials had grown accustomed to shirking duties. While they knew a new emperor would scrutinize them, it was hard to correct habits formed over years of complacency. Many had made no real progress in recent years, and half a year of work could not make up for it.
The new emperor, however, wielded authority decisively. This selection was far stricter than officials anticipated.
The court cut many redundant officials. Even in the capital, where scrutiny was obvious, evaluations were severe.
For local officials, whom common people interacted with, the emperor examined population management, agriculture, irrigation, litigation, and education rigorously. Those failing in three areas would face demotion, whereas in previous years, they might have simply remained unremarkable.
Prefects were reduced to sub-prefects, county magistrates reassigned from wealthy to poor counties, some demoted to assistant magistrates, and the worst-performing were dismissed outright.
Officials witnessing these actions realized the new emperor’s iron-handed approach. No one could lament their tenure and expect relief.
For example, the current county magistrate of Luoxia County was demoted from the chief official of the county to assistant magistrate, dropping from the seventh to the eighth official rank. In a small county like Luoxia, where the assistant magistrate position didn’t exist, this meant being under constant supervision—a harsh adjustment for someone used to authority.
Regret and lamentation were futile; nothing could change the outcome.
The emperor’s sweeping reforms reinstated many former jinshi scholars who had waited long for office. Those in the top three of the imperial examinations finally found positions suitable for their talents.
Du Heng discussed this casually over tea with Qin Zhifeng at a tavern, where everyone was talking about the new appointments.
The emperor’s action, ignoring court dissatisfaction, removed redundant officials and cleared out members of the previous crown prince and second prince factions. New, competent officials were installed, grateful to the emperor for the opportunity and loyal to him—benefiting multiple aims at once.
Qin Zhifeng agreed. “Many local posts will now be vacated. Talented candidates, such as the juren, might have the opportunity to compete for official positions, just as the jinshi do.”
Du Heng nodded. “Exactly.”
“And what do you plan to do?” Qin Zhifeng asked. He meant, if the opportunity arose, would Du Heng participate in the selection?
Du Heng paused. “I hadn’t thought about it. If I take office, I can’t pursue the imperial exams anymore.”
Qin Zhifeng nodded. “Indeed.”
Juren could hold office but rarely reached high ranks. Exceptions existed, but generally a juren became an official after repeatedly failing the higher exams. Scholars always desired to become officials through the jinshi route, not only for prestige and honor but also for higher starting positions and clearer prospects.
Ordinary people assumed juren officials lacked ability and would only occupy minor posts. Du Heng and Qin Zhifeng both felt uncertain, lacking firm plans.
By March, officials who received their evaluations prepared to depart for their assignments. Luoxia County awaited the new magistrate, and local gentry and clerks observed cautiously.
Reports indicated that the assistant magistrate from a large county would be reassigned here. Rising under such strict evaluations suggested a diligent, benevolent official, giving locals little cause for concern.
The new magistrate had not yet arrived, but an official from the prefecture appeared first:
“Eligible juren between twenty and forty with notable abilities may present themselves at the prefecture for evaluation and appointment. Additionally, His Majesty is reopening the military selection pathway: all young, strong, and skilled candidates may participate in martial exams as well.”
After the prefectural official read the documents aloud, he immediately ordered them posted on the county office’s bulletin board for the locals to see.
The notice made it clear to Du Heng and Qin Zhifeng: several local posts had been vacated due to the recent cuts, and the prefecture was now selecting people to fill them.
The county stirred into a frenzy. Scholars rejoiced—jinshi had found openings, and the juren finally had chances for official appointments.
Many had intentions in mind. They ignored the fine print about reputation or ability; as long as they met the basic criteria—being a juren, aged twenty to forty, physically healthy—they assumed they were eligible. Hands were rubbed, preparations made, and plans set to travel to the prefecture for the selection.
Two notices had arrived: one encouraging juren to participate in civil appointments, and another reopening the military examination for young and capable men. Both were well-received.
“Have you decided? Will you go to the prefecture for the selection?” Qin Xiaoman asked, having heard the news in the county. She had just put the second child down to sleep in his cradle.
Originally, Du Heng was ineligible. Juren needed to have taken the spring provincial exam three times without success to leave a record in the court for selection. But the new emperor’s decree now allowed any juren to participate without prior registration in the capital.
Since returning from last year’s spring exam, Du Heng had been seeking a suitable post but had been unsuccessful. He had been idle for nearly a year.
Qin Xiaoman was not pressuring him to find work; she simply hoped he would enjoy some peaceful days reading at home. Still, a man’s ambition seldom rests—idle youth felt like wasted time.
Du Heng considered the options. Two notices had come: one urging juren to try for civil office, the other inviting young men to attempt military exams.
He recalled what You Huo had said: future imperial exams would be even more difficult. Over tea with Qin Zhifeng, he had already weighed his options. Opportunities like this should not be missed. More opportunities meant more paths; he could not place all his hopes on the civil exams alone. The court was unpredictable; who could know what changes lay ahead?
“I plan to go and try my luck. It will be good experience,” Du Heng said.
“Think carefully,” Qin Xiaoman warned. “Once you are selected, you can no longer continue the imperial exams.”
Du Heng smiled. “Many young juren hesitate for the same reason. But I think His Majesty’s decree, combined with the strict evaluations, makes it no easy feat to succeed. Even here in our county, I could not easily secure a minor post.”
Competition for civil appointments had always been fierce under the previous emperor, and now, although more positions were available, the stricter regulations made selection far from guaranteed.
Qin Xiaoman pouted. “Earlier, that wasn’t a real selection—it was about who could bribe the most. The magistrate deserved his demotion.”
“Indeed. That is why I want to go to the prefecture. The large-scale selection will serve as a warning to those who abuse their posts; this time, it should be fairer,” Du Heng said.
The path through the civil exams would be harder than before. If another opportunity presented itself, he would seize it. Should he rank highly in the spring exam later, the emperor’s favor might secure him a post and help shape policy. But judging from current regulations, success would be far from easy.
Even juren who ranked in the top three of their exams rarely held high positions; many with limited connections could only serve in minor local posts, unlike jinshi who remained in the capital.
Du Heng reviewed the documents: positions included county magistrate, assistant magistrate, and teaching posts. All minor roles, starting at the seventh or eighth official rank. Capable men could rise; the less able would remain lowly throughout their careers.
Official appointments were not purely about scholarship. Being a jinshi helped, but practical ability determined one’s career. Those with theory but little experience might rise slowly. Families with a scholarly tradition had advantages, but those like Du Heng, from farming families, were often left to serve wherever the court assigned them.
Du Heng personally preferred local office—more opportunities to achieve results, fewer social entanglements.
“Since you’ve decided, then go participate in the selection,” Qin Xiaoman said.