Yao Fu Lang: “……”
Yao Fu Lang immediately called out to Da Qiang, “Yuan Yuan Dad! Quick, quick, draw two people for me too!”
Da Qiang let out a desperate wail:
“Heavens above! I don’t know how to draw at all!”
The commotion over there caught Chen Jiu’s attention. Feeling curious, he had Wang Meng bring him along to join in.
When Lu Liu saw him, he carried his lantern over so Chen Jiu could take a look.
Chen Jiu pursed his lips and snorted: “What’s so interesting? I only need to look at you.”
He thought he was teasing Lu Liu, but Lu Liu understood it as a compliment.
After playing there for a while, Lu Liu went home and found Li Feng, pestering him about the drawings:
“The picture I tucked into my book—you’ve seen it, right? And the one on my lantern—you’ve seen that too?”
Li Feng had looked at both, eyes following each in turn.
Lu Liu snorted: “You looked at the pictures but not at me.”
Li Feng: ?
“I was looking at you, right then.”
Lu Liu wanted to mimic his phrasing. It wasn’t the right time to say, “I only need to look at you,” so he said instead, “I didn’t look at the pictures.”
His face and eyes practically shouted: “Ask me why!” Li Feng obliged.
Lu Liu was overjoyed, loudly declaring, “I only need to look at you!”
He made Li Feng melt, hugging him and planting a kiss.
The house had poor soundproofing. Shun Ge’er, eating mooncakes with his mother, whispered:
“Mother, did you know? That line my sister-in-law said, she learned it from Jiu Ge’er.”
Chen Guizhi, nibbling on a flaky mooncake, one hand holding it, the other grabbing another, remarked, “Jiu Ge’er knows how to speak sweetly? Maybe he learned from your sister-in-law.”
Shun Ge’er: “……”
Stereotypes can be terrifying.
During the Mid-Autumn holiday, Xie Yan stayed in, not going out to play. Early in the morning, he went straight to the study room.
It was festival time, and very few students remained at the prefectural school.
He sat at the gatekeeper’s desk; anyone borrowing books had to register with him.
In the morning, a few people trickled in. By the afternoon, he was the only one left.
The study didn’t allow book boys inside, so Xie Yan left his outside, letting him copy notes. Once organized, they could be shown to Wu Pingzhi. Ideally, he’d copy two sets—one for Li Feng as well.
With the old teachers home for the holiday, no one was supervising. To avoid the habit of tearing books, he didn’t dare touch a paper knife. His plan was to study all day, carrying a thick stack of manuscript paper to the study.
While others were around, he focused on reading—poring over preserved essays from the prefectural school’s scholars and candidates. In the empty afternoon, he reviewed peer exam papers.
He habitually examined both the good and bad.
Those who could study at the prefectural school already surpassed county-level students. Their structure had no major flaws; arguments were clear, their stance evident at a glance.
At this level, improvement was difficult. Talent set the baseline, which in turn defined the ceiling. Those who stalled here weren’t incapable—they just couldn’t inject novelty into their essays, mostly repeating standard arguments and examples.
Only a certain opportunity or stroke of luck could lead to substantial growth. Otherwise, such straightforward essays rarely reached full potential.
When Xie Yan compiled his Imperial Examination Answer Manual, Mr. Jin had reviewed each volume’s table of contents and general content, even asking why he didn’t include more genres—stopping at classical essays, with guidance on structure, openings, and conclusions wasn’t enough.
Xie Yan couldn’t explain. Like these peer essays—neat, well-reasoned, coherent—they were already good. After obtaining the top scholar title, many still refined their skills.
The next steps? Uncertain and unspoken.
He couldn’t take these essays home. The school instructors weren’t particularly partial to him, so he couldn’t copy everything, and didn’t have the time. Mostly, he scanned through them.
Interesting ones he set aside; well-written ones in another pile; dull ones he returned immediately.
For good essays, he analyzed why they worked, taking notes, sometimes drafting a response to debate in writing.
For interesting pieces, he copied them. In strict formats, writing something engaging was rare; flaws aside, these were treasures to him. He simply couldn’t produce such lively writing himself.
He had long intended to do this. Because of publication restrictions, most classmates avoided lending essays. Only in the study’s reserved papers, or when someone privately asked, could he discreetly review them.
Normally, he read at night, not much at a time.
Today, during the holiday, he seized the chance.
Time flew while reading. Lunch was simple. As indoor light dimmed, the book boy announced it was dinner time.
Tonight, there would be a special Mid-Autumn meal. Lu Yang had noted it on the restaurant order specifically for the festival.
Besides a few home-style dishes, there was a jar of fine wine and a basin of crabs.
Eating crabs and drinking wine at Mid-Autumn was a refined pleasure.
Outside the study was a small courtyard with a stone table. Xie Yan closed the door and ate there.
The book boy described the outside festivities in gestures and words. Even fetching the food opened Xie Yan’s eyes.
“I just got to the gate and saw the lantern parade ahead on the street. People carried bamboo poles with strings of lanterns, so many you couldn’t see them all. Round, flat, big, small, all kinds of patterns. Zodiac lanterns too—lots of rabbit lanterns for the festival, and many fish lanterns. The servers said that at this time, all restaurants with second-floor windows were fully booked—best views from above. From our level, it’s less interesting.”
Xie Yan didn’t join the crowd. If Lu Yang were here, he might go, but alone he was too lazy.
The book boy continued, “The lantern parade moves east, where water is abundant. Many small boats link together, singing along the way—a rare sight. Courtesans may appear. Students mostly go south, to Moonlit Bridge, where a poetry contest takes place. Each year, they compose works on the full moon; the prefect notices talented individuals and may present calligraphy as gifts.”
Xie Yan perked up slightly. “Calligraphy? What do they write?”
“Poems, the best of the year,” the book boy replied.
Xie Yan lost interest. It was useless to him.
A large meal was laid out; he couldn’t finish it alone, so he had the book boy help, especially with the crabs. He hadn’t eaten crabs in years and was clumsy at picking them apart.
The book boy removed shells, legs, gills, hearts, and stomachs, leaving only edible parts, dividing crab meat and roe into two neat piles on a plate.
The restaurant provided dipping sauce; the wine arrived warm. Xie Yan poured two bowls.
The book boy didn’t eat at the same table, sticking to his manners.
Xie Yan used communal chopsticks to serve him a bowl of vegetables, a plate of crab meat and roe, plus a bowl of rice and wine.
The book boy stayed nearby on the steps.
Twilight came as he finished picking the crabs.
Xie Yan lit a candle from his bag—fortunately, the wind was light enough tonight.
He tasted all the dishes but ate mostly rice, worried about hunger later.
Finally, he drank the wine while enjoying the crabs and gazed at the moon.
He raised his cup to the moon—the three of them, moonlight, and himself.
Setting the cup down, wiping his mouth, he left the candle for the book boy to clear the stone table and returned to the study to read a bit more.
