A few days later, Du Heng went to the academy to formally resign. He no longer intended to continue his studies there.
This was not due to a blow to his confidence from failing the palace exam—three years lay ahead before the next attempt. What he had learned over the past two years at the academy was sufficient, and now, having experienced the results of the capital exams, he preferred to devote most of his time at home to study.
Many scholars, after achieving juren status, did the same. Few stayed on at academies in smaller regions; even xiucai often only held nominal positions at county schools, attending in person only for major ceremonies or official duties, spending most of their time studying independently.
Those like Mu Ti and You Huo were exceptions—their families wealthy, young, and without responsibilities at home. Their first priority was the honor of high ranking in the imperial examinations, which was why they had dedicated themselves fully at the academy.
Du Heng had written to congratulate his senior academy brothers Mu Ti and You Huo upon seeing their success on the lists. In truth, he was happy for them, yet cautious, not daring to comment too much for fear of stirring unnecessary trouble.
Du Heng kept an eye on the capital’s happenings, but as Luoxia County was remote, only major news filtered through. Even when news did arrive, it first passed through provincial authorities, delaying the information considerably.
After the capital exams, April brought the palace-level exams and announcements, all seemingly calm. Whether the situation in Beijing had truly shifted, the county could not discern.
Days passed smoothly, and summer arrived.
That year, the county magistrate celebrated his fiftieth birthday. Elderly yet fond of festivities, and with a legitimate pretext for receiving gifts, he invited the local gentry and numerous merchants to celebrate with grandeur. Du Heng, as a local landowner, naturally received an invitation.
He and Qin Xiaoman prepared modest gifts; they were not the sort to ingratiate themselves, and with the magistrate leaving next year, there was no need to curry favor.
In the morning, after a breakfast shared by the four of them, Du Heng gathered their belongings to attend the celebration with Qin Xiaoman.
Summer in the county felt hotter than in the countryside. Qin Xiaoman, already burdened by pregnancy, found the heat more oppressive. Du Heng had purchased ice to help cool their rooms, hoping to ease her discomfort, as this second child was more restless and her morning sickness harsher than with Cheng Yi. He could not bear for her to suffer from the heat.
They aimed to reach the magistrate’s office before the day became fully hot, avoiding a stifling ride in the carriage.
As the carriage entered the main road, Du Heng rolled up the curtains. Qin Xiaoman, holding his belly, said, “I hear the magistrate’s birthday feast will be grand, with deer and all sorts of delicacies. I must try them all later.”
Du Heng chuckled. “With the gift given, you may indulge. Cheng Yi even asked me to bring him a small birthday peach.”
They were laughing when sudden, urgent hoofbeats drew near. Du Heng was about to peek outside to see who dared ride so recklessly in the market, when a deep, commanding voice called out:
“Clear the way! An urgent report!”
The sound drew closer. Du Heng and Qin Xiaoman could see armored soldiers riding fast, one holding a proclamation aloft as he raced toward the county office. Two words struck their ears sharply:
“National mourning!”
The words hit like thunder on a clear day, startling the townsfolk along the street. Everyone paused, letting go of their work, staring at the galloping horse. Only after a while did the market resume its usual bustle, though whispers of the shocking news rippled everywhere.
For the common people, the emperor’s authority was distant. Many had never left Luoxia County in their lives, let alone seen the emperor, knowing only that he ruled the people but as a remote figure, almost abstract in daily life.
Hearing the shocking news so suddenly, the townsfolk could hardly show outward grief; instead, their discussions turned to how to observe the strictures of national mourning.
Those who had lived through a previous national mourning knew well the numerous rules. Even aside from the regulations for royal family members, court officials, and palace attendants, commoners in plain attire had to follow strict observances: no weddings, no haircuts, no banquets or entertainment during daylight hours.
Temples and Taoist shrines were required to strike their bells thirty thousand times to honor the deceased emperor.
Qin Xiaoman glanced at the townspeople murmuring along the streets and turned to Du Heng. “Do you think today’s banquet will still happen, or is it canceled?”
Du Heng hadn’t anticipated the news arriving so suddenly, nor so conveniently. The common people knew well that no feasts were permitted during mourning, and the county magistrate, as the head of the county, certainly understood the severity.
The banquet was effectively canceled. Any attempt to hold it could jeopardize the magistrate’s position, and few would dare to defy the order.
Du Heng instructed the carriage driver to return home immediately. He safely escorted Qin Xiaoman back to their residence and then went alone to inquire further.
By the time he arrived at the county office, he was not alone; several other gentry had also come upon hearing the news. Some had come to collect stipends, others to show concern over state affairs, and some to discreetly reassure the magistrate about the canceled banquet.
Du Heng stayed behind the elder gentry, waiting outside the office for roughly the time of a single incense stick before being summoned.
The magistrate, who had earlier appeared robust and cheerful in preparation for his birthday, now hurriedly changed out of his celebratory attire, his face drawn tight with anxiety. Despite his inner frustration, he dared not voice a word of complaint. Calmly, he delivered the urgent dispatch:
“Listen carefully, all of you. His Majesty has passed away, and the new emperor has ascended the throne…”
Du Heng listened intently, absorbing each word of the proclamation brought by the mounted soldiers. Two shocking pieces of news followed:
A month prior, Emperor Guangyun had died. The throne was succeeded not by the Crown Prince, nor the second prince, but directly by the third prince, Yan Chengqi, under the new era name “Ming.”
Consequently, the spring-level examination results were voided. All who had passed were returned to juren status and would have to wait three years before trying again.
The gentry knelt silently, outwardly respectful while inwardly stunned. The emperor’s succession had leapfrogged over the Crown Prince and second prince, and the previously announced golden lists of the spring examination were suddenly annulled.
All present were scholars; even though the proclamation did not explicitly accuse anyone of wrongdoing, many understood the gravity. Spring-level exams were major events, strictly conducted year after year without precedent for annulment. To see such an event voided was unprecedented.
After the proclamation, notices were posted outside the county office for public reading, and the magistrate summoned the village heads to inform local households, ensuring that farmers also complied with mourning regulations. Only then were those who had come to hear the dispatch dismissed.
“Clerk Ma,” one gentry whispered, “this time only the Ma family among the county candidates has received favor. With the palace succession and the annulment of the spring exams, we humble officials know little of the court’s inner workings. Perhaps your young master, just returned from the capital, might share some insight?”
While even minor officials and gentry had little real impact on a change of dynasty, they still maintained the outward decorum of mourning. Yet the most discomfited by the upheaval were clearly the magistrate, who had been preparing the birthday banquet, and Ma Youcai, who had recently been riding high on his son’s success.
His son had ranked among the top three jinshi, though at the tail end—a phoenix’s tail, as they said. The county candidates, returning empty-handed, had no achievements to boast of, making Ma Youcai haughty and condescending. He had been flaunting his position in the county office, looking down on peers and even officials, much to their silent annoyance.
Yet Ma Youcai’s triumph was short-lived. Within two months, his son’s jinshi rank was annulled, reverting him to juren status. Seeing this, others could hardly suppress their amusement.
Surrounded by colleagues, Ma Youcai maintained a façade of inquiry, ostensibly asking about the capital, while internally boiling with resentment. When ridiculed by his peers, his temper flared. “My son focused solely on the exams. How could he know of the court’s succession? We would not wish to disappoint anyone.”
Qin Zhiyan nodded. “Indeed. One’s attention is limited; his thoughts were fixed on the exams, leaving little room for other matters.”
Ma Youcai forced a smile. “With the new emperor’s accession, there may well be a special examination next year. My son, having qualified for the palace exam, may witness it. Then, anyone curious about court matters can be assured that my son will keep an eye out.”
The others merely smiled, unconvinced, sensing his overconfidence.
As they were about to leave the county office, a panicked young servant arrived. Anyone familiar with Ma Youcai knew him as the Ma family’s household attendant.
“What is the meaning of rushing about in such a manner?” Ma Youcai snapped, irritated by the servant’s intrusion, drawing the gaze of nearby colleagues.
Flustered, the servant stammered, “Just now, several officers came to the residence and took young master away!”
Ma Youcai roared, “Why? Who sent them?”
“They are official messengers, sir, sent to summon your young master for questioning!”
Ma Youcai, upon learning that the officials were sent from higher up, immediately panicked. He hurried into his carriage, urging the driver to return home at top speed.
Those around exchanged puzzled glances, unsure of what had occurred.
Du Heng’s brow furrowed slightly. He had already found it peculiar that the Ma family’s candidate had passed the provincial exam so effortlessly, despite not being particularly outstanding academically. The sudden appearance of officials to take him away only confirmed his suspicions: there must have been some irregularity with the Ma family candidate’s results. Otherwise, why would someone be summoned after the spring-level examination had already been annulled?
A sense of unease crept into Du Heng’s mind. The authorities were clearly investigating, and he worried that the inquiry might somehow touch him as well.
He quickly returned home and wrote to his friend You Huo in the capital, hoping to glean the latest news. However, before his letter could reach the capital, a message arrived for him.
Du Heng had been paying close attention to the capital’s affairs, often writing to his fellow students and senior brothers there in the hope of learning something. And now, a letter had arrived.
Although letters were slower than official dispatches from the court, the contents were far more detailed. The spring-level examination scandal had been caused by a power struggle between the second prince and the Crown Prince. When the matter came to light, the late emperor had ordered the removal of officials involved, with the chief examiner exiled overnight.
The emperor, enraged and ill, had no means to rectify the situation, and on his deathbed issued a decree for the third prince to succeed the throne. The upheaval—national mourning, the new emperor’s accession, and related affairs—took over a month to settle.
Only now was the court showing signs of stability. The third prince was ambitious, and his first priority was to investigate the spring-level examination scandal. The results were nullified. The chief examiners were punished, and all successful candidates not only had their jinshi titles revoked but were also subjected to questioning and review.
Several individuals implicated in the scandal were not only demoted to commoners but also permanently barred from taking future examinations, including descendants of high-ranking officials. You Huo and Mu Ti were also questioned, but being innocent, they escaped any punishment.
Thus, the spring examination had brought only fleeting joy. Amid such upheaval, merely protecting oneself from implication was already a considerable relief; there was no room to hope for more.
Du Heng exhaled slowly, grateful that the primary focus of the inquiry had been on the successful candidates. Fortunately, his prior decisions had spared him; had all candidates been investigated, even a trace of impropriety might have been discovered.
The letter also revealed that, with the new emperor on the throne, sweeping reforms and personnel changes were inevitable. The young emperor, strong and ambitious, had long been dissatisfied with bureaucratic inefficiency. Newly enthroned, he was expected to launch significant reforms.
There were no plans for special examinations to reward scholars immediately, and oversight of officials would tighten. Future imperial exams would likely be far stricter, with fewer rewards and appointments than before. You Huo advised Du Heng that, should he wish to succeed in the next spring-level examination, he would need to study with several times the previous effort. Otherwise, under the new regulations, achieving an official post would become even more difficult.
Du Heng exhaled again. A crackdown on inefficient officials was not necessarily good news for scholars. He knew that with border defeats, the new emperor would likely attend to both civil and military affairs. Being a man of letters, he had no means to serve in the military.
Three years remained until the next spring-level examination, and who knew how circumstances might shift during that time. Du Heng had been following a steady path of study and preparation for the exams, but this sudden upheaval made him realize he had scarcely considered his future beyond academic pursuits. For a moment, his path forward seemed uncertain.
A few days later, the county posted an official notice: Ma Youcai’s son had been investigated and found guilty of exam fraud. All titles and rewards from the spring-level examination were revoked, and he was permanently barred from taking future exams.
The county magistrate, faced with the failure of his birthday banquet plans and the disgrace brought by the local candidate scandal, had little face left to spare. Using the incident, he summoned scholars to admonish them, effectively serving as a vent for his frustration. Ma Youcai himself lost his county office. After a lifetime of striving, the Ma family ended up empty-handed.
“Now there’s a vacancy at the county office,” Qin Zhiyan remarked later to Du Heng. “Do you wish to take it?”
During lunch that afternoon, Du Heng and Qin Xiaoman discussed the Ma family’s misfortune. Qin Xiaoman, having just returned from the Qin household, relayed Qin Zhiyan’s words.
“The clerk’s post is a minor office. You’ve already achieved juren rank, so it may seem beneath you. In a prefectural office it might make sense, but even a minor position has its benefits: you could hold the post and still continue to prepare for exams.”
Qin Xiaoman took a bite of pickled cucumber, refreshing on the scorching afternoon. Du Heng had more opportunities to cook for her since leaving the academy. She ate carefully, her face having filled out a bit, reflecting a comfortable life. Family members joked that he had the demeanor of a wealthy household, despite having lived in the county for less than a year.
She was nearly nine months pregnant, heavier than with her first child, Chengyi. Likely, with comfortable living and good care, the child was thriving.
After dinner, Du Heng would walk with her outside the alley, worried about an easy delivery. Old physician Zhang visited occasionally to check her pulse, but there were no serious issues.
Whether the child was a boy or girl remained unknown. This one seemed even more languid than Chengyi, giving no dreams to his father.
Du Heng fed small greens to Chengyi, who opened his mouth obediently. In the hot summer, he spent most of his time at home caring for Qin Xiaoman and entertaining Chengyi, living comfortably, without planning much for the future. Qin Xiaoman was nearing her due date, and his attention was fully on that.
“I don’t mind whether the post is high or low. As long as there’s work to do, that’s enough.”
If it weren’t for the fact that Qin Zhifeng and Qin Zhiyan were father and son, making it improper to serve in the same office, Qin Xiaoman might have asked Du Heng directly.
She said, “If you aim for an official career, you can’t stay at home running a shop. Scholars talk, and anyone seen with the smell of money on them won’t pass scrutiny for an official post. That’s why scholars often seek respectable posts—working at a county office, teaching at an academy, or running a school. These roles help build reputation and prestige, which the court favors. In the past, second-class jinshi with renown would already be assigned posts early, so scholars seeking careers always cultivated their reputation in advance.”
Du Heng nodded. “I understand. Since you think it’s good, I’ll go to the county office this afternoon and take a look.”
After lunch, he helped Qin Xiaoman down for her nap. When the county office opened, he went to inquire about available posts. Even if he didn’t take one, he wanted a sense of the requirements.
Yet upon arrival, he saw many scholars already waiting outside the office. Upon asking around, he learned that someone had spread the news that the new emperor would tighten oversight on exams and purge redundant officials. Scholars who had been focusing solely on exams now feared the path to an official post would become even narrower.
Those who had once considered themselves above minor posts were now anxiously seeking employment in the county office, hoping to secure a position before opportunities closed. The competition was fierce: only five posts were available—two clerks, one county academy teacher, one recently vacated clerk, and one more—yet more than ten scholars had shown up that day.
The magistrate greeted them warmly, conversing as if catching up with old acquaintances, without formal questioning, which made the situation even harder to gauge.
“Du Heng,” the magistrate said, smiling at him, “I have watched you grow until now. Your knowledge is extensive, and your success in the autumn-level exam has brought much credit to the county. If you are willing to serve here, it would be wonderful.”
He added, “However, I feel that the clerk post might underutilize your talents. How about teaching at the county academy instead? You could instruct students while staying immersed in books, which would aid future exams. A position at the academy pays a salary, and holding such a post closer to the court would also be a plus for your career.”
Du Heng reflected. He had recently sought advice from his mentor at the Bai Rong Academy regarding his future. His mentor had suggested he pursue an official career.
“You have studied under me for only two years, but I know you well. Unlike your peers, who may not understand the common people’s hardships, you do. If you enter government service, you will truly serve the people.”
Changes in the court were inevitable; even if temporary upheaval arose, governance would eventually stabilize. Talented and virtuous men would always be needed. If Du Heng stayed at the academy, he would likely remain there for years. If he needed to support his family, taking a position at the county office would provide both a livelihood and an opportunity to build reputation, which could enhance his prospects for a future official career. Teaching at the county academy would also be advantageous.
Du Heng absorbed the magistrate’s words. They seemed thoroughly considered, as if from a capable and caring official.
He bowed and replied, “Many thanks, Your Honor. I have long admired the county academy. If I may contribute even a little to the education here, I would consider it an honor.”
The scholars present looked on with envy. Young, talented, and favored by the magistrate, Du Heng’s position was enviable. Few could argue, especially since he had placed highly in the autumn-level exam, an achievement none of them had matched.
The magistrate continued, “Many scholars are seeking positions these days. For now, we will record your name. When suitable opportunities arise, others will be considered as well, and subsequent assessments will follow. This is fair. What say you, Du Heng?”
“You are wise, Your Honor. That would be most agreeable,” Du Heng answered.
The magistrate smiled and nodded, then did the same for two other juren candidates. This counted as the preliminary selection; those whose names were not recorded were initially eliminated.
Looking at the list, eight names were recorded for five positions, with four eliminated. No further details about later assessments were given—candidates were simply to wait for notification.
About ten days later, Qin Zhiyan hurried to Du Heng’s home. “The county office has finalized the new staff list!”
Du Heng’s brow moved. “Finalized? I thought only my name had been recorded; I’ve had no further notice.”
Qin Zhiyan sighed. “Recording a name was merely a courtesy. Whether you actually get the post depends on subsequent arrangements. There won’t be another formal assessment.”
Du Heng froze, his eyes widening slightly. “Uncle means…?”
Qin Zhiyan sighed and nodded. The county magistrate’s term was ending, and he had originally planned a farewell banquet—but it coincided with the imperial mourning, so the banquet was canceled, leaving the magistrate’s plans fruitless.
In reality, the dismissal of Ma Youcai was officially due to strict governance, but it also conveniently provided an excuse for private favors. Du Heng finally understood: recording names for the assessment was a superficial process; the actual selection depended on the magistrate’s discretion. Over time, those who wished to curry favor would offer gifts or favors to the magistrate—whoever pleased him more would gain the advantage.
No wonder the candidates eliminated during the preliminary round were local xiucai scholars. Du Heng had initially thought it was due to insufficient prestige or family wealth, but it was really the magistrate’s discretion at play. He shook his head. Local officials would go to extreme lengths for personal gain; if only half of that effort were directed toward governance, they might have accomplished much more.
Qin Zhiyan added, “Court salaries are never high, and local officials are even less well-off. Magistrates often have multiple wives and many children; supporting a family in comfort requires such measures. It’s a pity you couldn’t get a post at the county academy.”
He regretted it too. With two juren sons in the family, none had secured a good position—a consequence of not having advised Du Heng sooner. Still, he believed Du Heng’s integrity would prevent him from taking such crooked paths.
Du Heng replied, “What’s done is done. There’s nothing more to be done.”
“Just keep that in mind,” Qin Zhiyan said.
Du Heng wasn’t upset—yet a new uncertainty arose. With all county positions filled, what post could he even seek? He and his uncle were discussing perhaps looking to the prefectural capital when suddenly—bang!—a muffled sound. Yi Yan dropped down before Du Heng like a large bat.
“Husband! The carriage was bumped. She’s in terrible pain—she’s going into labor!”