Chapter 59

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Cui Pengfei’s standards for articles and handwriting were not as stringent as those of the old scholars, which was closely tied to his personal principles. In terms of literary skill, he was not as accomplished as Master Cen; in fact, Cui often held critical and opposing views toward many Confucian ideas.

Early in his official career, he wrote an essay titled “On the Imperial Examination,” explicitly stating that the imperial exams should not rely solely on Confucian classics as the standard. He argued for reducing the weight of the Four Books and Five Classics and incorporating more practical subjects such as military strategy, law, architecture, and iron smelting. He also expressed concern that exam essays might become formulaic over time.

History has proven the foresight in Cui Pengfei’s essay, yet at the time—and even now—it was met only with criticism and hostility from scholars. Fortunately, the empire was not yet unified; the Emperor Qiyuan, who had only recently consolidated the south and was advancing northward, was himself of humble origin and began learning to read and write amidst rebellion. He held no reverence for Confucianism, seeing it merely as a tool for stabilizing governance. It was in the Empress Dowager’s quarters that he first encountered Cui’s essay.

Recognizing Cui Pengfei’s talent, Emperor Qiyuan suppressed any public controversy over the essay and continued to employ Cui, bringing him along in his campaigns. Upon ascending the throne, the emperor bypassed many elder ministers to appoint the young Cui as the head civil official. On his deathbed, the emperor even named him one of the three chief regents, reflecting great trust and favor.

Despite the emperor’s intervention preventing the essay’s public spread, those in the court who needed to know were aware that Cui had been ostracized by the Confucian scholars. His removal from the prime ministerial position had been facilitated by their concerted efforts.

Thus, while Master Cen was regarded as a great Confucian master with disciples far older than himself, Cui Pengfei never earned such renown. Few would have guessed that those in power did not seek to destroy him outright but rather used his disgrace as a pretext to remove him from office. To this day, most of those adversaries have been worn down by Cui’s perseverance, and he himself no longer cares for hollow fame or seeks to clear his name.

In sum, Cui Pengfei did not demand flowery prose or ornate writing, but his standards were not nonexistent. The atrocious quality of Xue Jin’an’s writing was so unbearable that even Cui overlooked the flaws of his handwriting.

Cui genuinely attempted to teach Xue Jin’an how to write well.

However, his instruction lasted only three days, which could be summarized as: teaching writing from novice to grave in three days.

It wasn’t for lack of effort, but the old teacher was simply too old to endure the frustration. Every time he read Xue Jin’an’s essays, Cui’s mood swung wildly, like jumping back and forth on a cliff’s edge. After three days, though his cold had nearly healed, Cui Pengfei was bedridden.

The old doctor, feeling his pulse, couldn’t help but advise: “At your age, there’s no need to argue with the younger generation. Each has their own fate. Ignore them and enjoy your peace! If you heed my advice, I can’t promise a hundred years, but I guarantee you’ll live to ninety.”

Having passed his eightieth birthday, Cui Pengfei was speechless.

“Well, Prince Qi doesn’t need to take the imperial exams. What harm if his writing resembles a vengeful ghost demanding souls? Once he ascends the throne and is enfeoffed, will the ministers dare to submit memorials criticizing him? He is already clever enough; some flaws are forgivable... Excessive wisdom leads to harm—perhaps this is Heaven’s mercy, letting him remain in this world longer.”

“Practical usefulness, practical usefulness...” To live longer, Cui fought hard to convince himself.

Eventually, he stopped making things difficult for himself. From then on, any essay questions set for the seventh prince were designed to restrict his freedom of expression. Even for the unavoidable policy argument topics, he was only required to state his position plainly, avoiding unnecessary words and rhetorical flourishes.

This way, Cui Pengfei could simply appreciate the prince’s talent without being tormented by ugly prose. Even the prince’s rigid handwriting suddenly seemed just right—square and proper.

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“Not a bit offensive to the eyes,” Cui sincerely praised.

Cui Zui, who had been criticized many times for his overly rigid script, couldn’t help but twitch his mouth. “Grandfather, are you serious?”

His own handwriting looked even more stiff.

Cui Pengfei did not reply but glanced at him and said, “A son should not speak ill of his father; you have overstepped.”

Originally intending to teach others but ending up with a master of his own, Cui Zui was speechless: “I underestimated this.”

Cui Zui regretted his rashness in becoming a disciple, but Cui Pengfei’s mood had stabilized, his liver fire subsided, and his illness nearly gone.

All of Cui Pengfei’s energy was devoted to educating Xue Jin’an, unaware that the essay questions he set had become a sensation in the capital, sparking heated debates among scholars. The Imperial Academy even debated several times whether the “Perfect Young Master” truly existed.

“Perfect Young Master” was a nickname given to Xue Jin’an by the scholarly community.

Whenever Xue Jin’an attempted policy argument questions, he would consult “Village Exam Questioners” online for problem-solving methods. “Village Exam Questioners” was just a website to him, but in reality, it was a society of examinees from outside the capital.

Among this society circulated a common saying: if all examinees in the realm had one bushel of talent, the capital would hold eight bushels, Jiangnan one bushel, and the rest of the world would share the remaining one bushel.

Though exaggerated, it reflected the flourishing literary culture in the capital and Jiangnan. Especially in the capital, even common folk could recognize a few characters and read a few lines.

As the emperor’s seat, the capital had the most comprehensive and abundant materials related to the imperial exams. From childhood, residents studied these extensively. For those from other regions, it was a challenge to find and complete these studies before the exams, and many candidates died en route to the capital each year.

Given this, it was not surprising that non-capital examinees formed alliances to share books, discuss literary gatherings, and recommend teachers and classmates—better than wandering alone in confusion.

Of course, this inevitably intensified factionalism in officialdom.

In short, the society included not only examinees but occasionally Imperial Academy tribute students, teachers, or officials, most of whom concealed their identities. Anonymous questions were common, and examinees strived to showcase their talents to gain favor from superiors.

Xue Jin’an only asked questions on the website, never answering others’, always anonymously. With no one knowing his real name, they gave him a striking title.

The “Rites of Zhou” states: “At year’s end, the doctor’s work is assessed to regulate future affairs. Ten cures without failure is the highest; ten cures with one failure, two failures, three failures, and four failures rank progressively lower.”

Originally a medical examination standard, “ten cures” meant perfect mastery. To them, Xue Jin’an could handle any question, fitting the “Perfect” epithet.

Initially, they called him “Mr. Perfect” because they believed such skill suggested he was not a mere youth but likely an official in the Ministry of Revenue or Works—since the Ministry of Revenue managed finances and census, and the Ministry of Works oversaw waterworks and agricultural projects. Those most familiar with the empire’s local conditions would be from the Ministry of Works.

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Later, someone noted that Xue Jin’an only appeared during the day and seemed never to be on duty. Most questions he asked were policy arguments, suggesting he was likely a student. Hence, they began calling him “Perfect Young Master.”

This also led some to doubt the existence of the Perfect Young Master.

The first skeptic was a tribute student at the Imperial Academy in the capital. At a teahouse, he argued confidently: “The immense calculations in these questions are beyond ordinary people. If such a person truly existed, why would the Ministry of Revenue require so many officials? One man alone could account for all the empire’s finances clearly. I have lived in the capital for years yet have never heard a whisper of him. Isn’t that suspicious?”

“Moreover, many have tried to find him but to no avail, as if… such a person never existed!” He glanced sideways at the group of society members, sneering with implication: “I suspect some are deliberately stirring trouble to inflate his reputation.”

“You! That’s slander!” The society’s examinees blushed with anger, glaring as though they might set the slanderer ablaze with their fury.

Suddenly, laughter rang out. Everyone looked toward a group of five seated by the window on the second floor. Among them were a young man in splendid brocade, one in faded, washed-out clothes, a rugged-looking warrior, a middle-aged scholar streaked with gray hair, and a youth not yet of age.

They looked an odd group to be together.

The one laughing was the brocade-clad young master, who held a folding fan, lightly tapping its ribs against the table. He said with amusement, “To hear frogs croaking in the depths of winter is truly rare and strange.”

“What frogs?” Everyone, including the tribute student, leaned in with curiosity.

Those who understood the joke smiled at the tribute student’s puzzled reaction: he hadn’t even caught the insult yet!

Clearly, the group had no intention of sparing him. The rugged warrior scoffed, “What frogs? I heard nothing.”

“Cough, cough, listen carefully,” said the pale, sickly scholar, touching his ear. “The call of the frog at the bottom of the well—does it sound loud to you?”

“Ha ha ha, loud indeed!” the rugged fellow laughed heartily, and the middle-aged scholar smiled faintly.

The youthful voice added clearly, “Limiting oneself to a narrow view and judging the world by it, believing that what you cannot do others cannot either—such people I last read about in the ‘Book of Han,’ known as the Marquis of Yelang.”

This was a reference to the tale of the Marquis of Yelang’s arrogance.

The entire teahouse burst into laughter.

Now flushed with anger, the tribute student shouted, “You! You are insolent! You must be members of the society, speaking thus to defend it, unwilling to admit your tales are lies and deceit!”

The young man looked at him with clear eyes and a calm, mature tone: “There are countless talented people in the world. Who can claim to have seen or known them all? Who dares say they know the ministers of the court inside and out? Who dares claim omniscience over the scholars of the Imperial Academy? Who can say they have met every learned person under heaven?”