The dawn over the Imperial Academy was brittle and too bright, each tiled roof glinting like a line of unsheathed blades. The second courtyard teemed with candidates, some shifting nervously under scholar robes still heavy with last night's ink, others whispering confident boasts that curled like smoke.
An official in sober gray stood before them, voice echoing against the columns.
"This third test is your alliance trial. Your groups will each receive three tasks: draft a joint decree to resolve an internal conflict, present a coordinated artistic expression of state harmony, and devise a defense plan against hypothetical invaders. Unity, subtlety, and balance — these are the virtues Qi's court prizes. Discord will weigh against you."
The nobles smiled too easily. For them, alliances were the family tradition — wheeling gold, favor, marriage. Ziyan felt the cold creep under her collar.
When they drew lots, her slip bore the same twisted lotus as Yuan Jie's. The merchant daughters who had once giggled behind Lianhua's back were there too, one of them paired to Li Qiang.
They bowed in neat formality, lips curved in sweet barbs.
"Shall we see what wonders peasant wits produce?" Yuan Jie murmured.
The judges handed them a scroll:
"A feud between two inland markets over rice tolls threatens local tax flows. Draft a decree balancing noble landholders' demands against village headmen's pleas."
Ziyan tried to argue for reduced tolls in poor years, invoking precedents from the early Taizu reign. But Yuan Jie shook his head, smiling faintly.
"Oh, let us be wise stewards and impress our judges properly. We'll keep tolls high to fund regiments — after all, these taxes keep Qi's armies on their feet."
He turned to the judges mid-discussion, overriding Ziyan. "My lady here suggests perhaps reducing them by a few coins, but we know seasoned ministers would never risk the treasury over village tears."
Ziyan's pulse stuttered. Her mouth opened — but the judge already dipped his brush, noting something cold on his register. Her mark under her sleeve burned, angry and hot.
Then came the joint artistic expression. They were to present a short sequence — poetry, music, or even dance — symbolizing the Empire's unity after hardship.
Lianhua stepped forward, pipa cradled close, intent on guiding them through a carefully chosen ballad of returning soldiers greeted by farmers with lanterns. But one merchant daughter interrupted with airy amusement.
"Oh, something so rustic? Surely the judges would prefer a refined tale — perhaps the phoenix at court, dazzling ministers with golden wings."
And without waiting, she swept into her own practiced recitation, fluttering her fan as though guiding invisible courtiers. The others followed her lead, leaving Lianhua to trail awkwardly, pipa notes stumbling after the last line.
When it ended, one judge lifted a brow. "Disjointed," he murmured to his assistant. "Each part sung for itself, not for the Empire."
Lianhua lowered her head, cheeks hot with humiliation. Her hands shook against the strings.
Finally, they were given a map:
"Xia's small raiding parties test the border. How will you secure supply lines and maintain morale in outlying provinces?"
Li Qiang laid out a blunt, honest plan — establish granaries just inside the safer provinces so local militias could feed directly. Build small stockades to reassure farmers. Simple, solid.
But the merchant daughter beside him tittered. "How delightfully crude. Build your fences and feed your peasants? No ceremony to keep them loyal, no lavish festivals to show Qi's grandeur? Clearly you know little beyond rough wagons and barns."
She turned to the judges with bright eyes. "Surely such rustic measures are beneath Qi's honor. We would host traveling officials with banners and theater troupes, to show our might."
Li Qiang tried to interrupt. "If you feed them poorly, no banner stops a knife in the dark."
But by then the head proctor was already writing a sharp line on his record slip.
When they left the final chamber, Ziyan felt hollow. Each of them had watched their best ideas twisted, their voices drowned under finer brocades.
In the main courtyard, Yuan Jie leaned close, voice soft enough to pass as courtesy. "Do not fret, my lady. Not all flowers take root in palace soil. Some are prettier crushed underfoot."
Behind him, the merchant daughters giggled, tossing tiny sachets of dried petals that burst against the stones — as if mocking their own ruined performance.
At dusk, the judges gathered under high awnings. Attendants unrolled silk scrolls, the brush strokes stark and black against pale cream. They read quietly, sometimes pausing to confer. One official's gaze settled on Ziyan with faint disgust before continuing.
Ziyan's hand curled at her side, nails breaking skin. Lianhua held her pipa so tightly her knuckles stood out like carved bone. Li Qiang simply stared ahead, jaw set, scars standing out dark against strained skin.
When at last the final clerk stepped forward to read which groups advanced to the last pair of trials, the entire courtyard seemed to hold its breath.
And the chapter broke there — on Ziyan's racing heart, the judges' unreadable faces, and the final slip being slowly unrolled under a breathless hush.