"A bucket of icy well-water dumped on his head—how could he not stay sharp?!" Zhao Ping'er huffed, her tone sharp as she swiped at the water dripping from her hair. Zhao Xunan, still chuckling, softened his smile and said earnestly, "I'm saying we've both been stuck in a funk these past days, fixated on things that don't matter. It's like… being possessed by a ghost."
Zhao Ping'er furrowed her brows, pondering. Slowly, realization dawned on her face. "…You're right. What on earth have we been doing lately?"
She shook her head vigorously, sending droplets flying from her hairpin, then grinned and grabbed the well-bucket. With a playful shriek, she upended it over Zhao Xunan's head. "You can't let a grudge fester, right? A gentleman settles scores at once!"
Zhao Xunan, drenched but grinning, shook his head. A gentleman? More like a mischievous child. He changed into dry clothes, and for the first time in days, the two ventured out. Everything felt fresh and vibrant—the bustling streets, the chatter of merchants, the scent of osmanthus in the air.
Zhao Ping'er's sharp eyes caught sight of something odd. "Master, look—so many people here are dressed differently from the locals. Where are they from?"
Zhao Xunan, wiping sugar residue from the corner of his mouth with a napkin, chuckled. "You think we're the only ones with strange hair? These are scholars from across the province. The Governor-General announced that before the results are posted, students can wander freely—no troublemaking, of course."
"Exams are over, but the results won't come till the end of October. For now, it's a rare chance to relax," Zhao Xunan explained. "These scholars have spent years cramming—if they pass, they'll be officials; if not, back to books. Life's tough for literati."
As they strolled, a group of scholars in long robes and green sashes approached. "Zhao Xunan!" one called out. "We're organizing a poetry gathering in Autumn Mountain. Join us—you're the top scholar of Qingliang Prefecture; your verses will make the event!"
Zhao Xunan hesitated, then nodded. "Very well. Talent deserves recognition, and sharing it with peers is the best way to grow."
Autumn Mountain, nestled north of the city, was a riot of color in autumn—maple leaves scarlet, ginkgos golden, and pines deep green. The scholars gathered on a trail, reciting verses inspired by the scenery. Most were passable, but a silver-haired elder's work stood out:
"Autumn Mountain, cloudless and windless,
A stream flows past pines where the moon rises.
A thatched hut stands silent, stone beds still,
Dewdrops patter on leaves like rain."
The crowd erupted in applause. "Brilliant!" someone cried. "This captures the mountain's soul!"
Then, a voice called out, "Zhao Xunan—don't just watch the scenery. We're waiting for your verse!"
Zhao Xunan smiled, stepping forward. His voice, clear and resonant, carried over the mountain:
"I am a madman of Shu, laughing at the old sages.
With a green jade staff, I bid farewell to Stork Tower at dawn.
I seek immortals beyond the Qilian Mountains,
Loving the fame of great peaks my whole life.
Autumn Mountain towers by the Southern Dipper,
Nine layers of clouds like brocade unfold…"
Hundreds of lines poured forth, painting a vivid picture of the mountain. The crowd was spellbound. "This could outshine the nation!" one scholar marveled. "It's a masterpiece for the ages!"
As they reached the summit's Autumn Water Pond, exhaustion crept in. "Zhao Xunan—you're a genius with boundless energy!" a classmate joked. "We're spent, but we need a grand closing poem. Will you write it?"
All eyes turned to him. Zhao Xunan, overlooking the vast landscape, began:
"I am a wild man of Shu, singing to the ancients.
With a green jade staff, I leave Stork Tower at dawn.
I seek immortals beyond the Qilian Mountains,
Loving the fame of great peaks my whole life…"
Wait—hadn't he just recited that? The crowd frowned. Then, his voice shifted, deeper, more powerful:
"…Today, I climb Autumn Mountain,
Where the Southern Dipper hangs bright.
Nine layers of clouds like brocade unfold,
A dragon's roar shakes the sky.
I ride a crane to the heavens,
Where the immortals dwell…"
The final line—"I wish to roam the vast, boundless void with Lu Ao"—echoed across the mountain. The crowd erupted in thunderous applause. "This is a national treasure!" someone cried. "It will be remembered for millennia!"
Zhao Xunan, watching the mist swirl around him, was stunned. His "literary aura"—the white mist of talent—had surged, thick and tangible. So this is the power of fame…
Three days later, the Autumn Mountain Poetry Collection was printed, spreading Zhao Xunan's name across Qingliang and beyond. By October, even the capital, Yujing, had heard of "Qingliang's Top Scholar."
As the end of October neared, the exam results loomed. On the morning of the 30th, the square outside the examination hall teemed with scholars, their nerves frayed. Zhao Xunan, however, was calm—he'd already checked his fate.
At dawn, two green-clad clerks emerged from the Governor-General's office, holding red scrolls. "Results are up!" someone shouted. The crowd surged forward, pressing against the hall's gates.
Three cannons roared, silencing the chaos. A clerk climbed a ladder, pasting the scroll onto the wall with rice paste. "One hundred twenty-one scholars pass the Autumn Examinations of the first year of Kaiyuan!"
"Number 121: Zhao Youwei!" A white-haired man sobbed, tears streaming. "I made it—I'm a scholar!"
"Number 120: Xie Mingshan!"
"Number 119: Cao Guanlu!"
The crowd erupted in cheers and sobs. Near the top, a name made everyone freeze.
"Number 1: Zhao Xunan!"
The clerk's voice cracked with emotion. The crowd went wild—cheers, tears, applause. In the teahouse, Zhao Ping'er knocked over a table, tea splashing Zhao Xunan. He just smiled, unconcerned.
As the name left his lips, his literary aura—white mist—burst into the sky, swirling like clouds before shrinking back into him. In his mind's eye, his green "fate star" glowed brighter, veiled by silver clouds. Success…
Later, as scholars toasted him, Zhao Xunan drank quietly. A classmate asked, "Will you go to Yujing for the Spring Examinations?"
Zhao Xunan shook his head. "Tomorrow, I head north—to Far North."
"Are you mad?!" the classmate exclaimed. "Far North is a wasteland—barbarians, demons, endless snow. No one returns!"
Zhao Xunan raised his cup, grinning. "I need to temper my body for the next realm. Far North's wilds are the perfect place."