Huang Xiuxiu and Mo Xuan entered the examination grounds. Though Lu Zhishan was the commandery governor, he had no authority to enter. He stayed outside to maintain order, issuing one directive after another—all to keep the city as quiet as possible during the exam.
At the very center of the grounds stood a small wooden hut. Inside were only a desk and two rosewood chairs. This was the office for the chief examiner and the proctoring immortal. From the roof beam hung a square golden seal.
Huang Xiuxiu and Mo Xuan sat down and quietly waited for the Hour of Si to arrive.
All armed soldiers had withdrawn from the exam towers, leaving only two guards at the staircase on the ground floor.
The human invigilators filed out from the resting hall. They wore cloth shoes wrapped in layers of cotton, so their steps made no sound at all—even climbing stairs.
Each floor had two invigilators, patrolling back and forth.
All invigilators were examinees themselves, veterans of the Grand Exam. They knew that the smallest noise could disrupt candidates, so they even kept their breathing as soft as possible.
The Hour of Si arrived!
Huang Xiuxiu stood, removed the golden seal from the roof beam, infused it with immortal essence, and tossed it into the air. The seal shot upward, halted abruptly, and began to gleam—then transformed into a transparent, gigantic cauldron-lid that covered the entire examination grounds like a dome.
Mo Xuan knew this seal was the Seal of Suppressing Fortune, used to press down luck and fate so that candidates would compete fairly through genuine literary talent.
With over two hundred thousand examinees gathered in one place writing essays, if nothing suppressed their collective "literary aura," it would condense and flare with spiritual radiance—interfering with others' work.
As the proctoring immortal, Mo Xuan's main duty was to detect anyone using spirit tools to cheat. But under an immortal's gaze, who would dare? So Mo Xuan was extremely relaxed.
Most matters were handled by Chief Examiner Huang Xiuxiu.
Her voice covered the entire grounds:
"The Grand Examination begins. The first session is a question set by Dao Lord Qianzao. Listen!"
In a small exam room, Mo Que'er blinked in surprise. Listen? What kind of prompt is that?
Huang Xiuxiu took out a jade slip and tapped it gently three times with fingers pale as scallions. At once, Dao Lord Qianzao's clear, melodious voice spread in all directions.
Mo Que'er froze.
At her ear came the sound of someone reciting the Daoist classics—faint at first, then growing louder and louder until it was like a great horn shouting straight into her ear, harsh and grating.
Just as Mo Que'er frowned, the sound faded again. Through a muffled, indistinct voice, the exam question was spoken… and before it finished, the words vanished into silence.
Mo Que'er—like all the candidates—felt totally unaccustomed to it. What is this? Are we even allowed to take the exam properly? Didn't the chief examiner usually read the question aloud? What is this nonsense? It's so unclear I can barely make it out—how are we supposed to answer?
Mo Xuan's expression turned odd.
Dao Lord Qianzao really did have a playful streak. The prompt itself was standard enough, but the delivery tested one's hearing and one's sensitivity to ambient spiritual currents. And Dao Lord Qianzao had even built in a "back door": if one could hear the final four words—so soft they were nearly inaudible—one would score a perfect mark immediately.
Even Mo Xuan, as an immortal, could only barely make them out. If an ordinary examinee could hear those four words… that would be a true prodigy.
Huang Xiuxiu tapped three times again.
Across the grounds, candidates strained their ears with total concentration. This time most finally heard the question clearly.
Mo Que'er frowned. What did Dao Lord Qianzao say at the very end? That was far too quiet. Could it be the key to the question?
"One last time," Huang Xiuxiu said, and tapped three more times.
Those who still hadn't caught the question after two tries were sweating hard, panic rising. Years of bitter study—if I can't even hear the prompt, what face do I have to return home to my parents?
Fortunately, the third recitation was louder. Combined with having heard it twice already, even those who missed a few words could still grasp the final prompt well enough to answer.
Only a very small number still failed to hear it clearly. They were devastated—already doomed to return next year.
Mo Que'er, however, narrowed her brows in thought. Her dark eyes blinked once, twice. She lifted her brush, dipped it in ink, and wrote four bold, flying characters on the paper:
Heaven rewards diligence.
She set the brush down, still hesitant. Is the first question really… a listening test?
Huang Xiuxiu let out a soft gasp.
That little girl had actually heard the final four words—and she even seemed to have cultivated already. Oh… it's Mo Que'er.
Huang Xiuxiu smiled faintly at Mo Xuan. Your little girl really is something.
Mo Xuan beamed. Mo Que'er was their family's little phoenix, after all.
Even though the "quota" outcome was already arranged, Dao Lord Qianzao's first question this year was special: anyone who heard those four words was a rare genius, and Qianzao Sect would take them in as a disciple. As for a cultivation quota—at the Dao Lord's level, it was as easy as signing a name.
The only question was: across the thirteen prefectures, how many could possibly hear those words?
At noon, baskets of flatbreads were carried into the exam towers and distributed by the invigilators.
Everyone was hungry. The flatbread was simple, but made with vegetable oil, eggs, and flour—its fragrance tempting. Candidates gnawed it down with big bites, washing it with clear water.
It wasn't that the commandery capital was stingy. Greasy meat could upset the stomach; if someone fell ill suddenly, how could they keep testing? Thus tradition formed: lunch during the Grand Exam was flatbread and water. Breakfast and dinner were plain steamed buns with white rice porridge—filling, if not exciting.
Mo Que'er ate without any appetite. She dearly missed that specialty roast chicken from the small eatery on Exam Street—so fragrant it made her mouth water just thinking about it. She decided she would buy dozens to bring home and eat slowly. With Great-Grandfather's storage pearl, she could keep them hot and fresh even after a year or more.
Because cultivating inside the exam grounds would affect others, Mo Que'er had completed her daily half-hour of cultivation late at night. The second day would be spent entirely inside the exam grounds—no cultivation possible. On the third day she would finish early and hurry back to cultivate.
That afternoon and night, Mo Que'er had nothing to do and felt restless with boredom. She thought quietly: My temperament still isn't mature enough. I need more honing.
On the second day, Huang Xiuxiu set five questions—three testing Daoist interpretation, two on statecraft.
On the third day, Mo Xuan set three questions. By then the candidates were exhausted in body and mind, so the number of questions couldn't be too great.
When the exam ended, candidates submitted their papers and left in batches. Once the last candidate departed, the gates were sealed again.
Huang Xiuxiu took out the four "pre-decided" exam scrolls and set them aside. Then she picked up Mo Que'er's papers to read, nodding again and again in admiration, reluctant to put them down.
Mo Xuan reviewed the other three. The first paper had flaws, but the second and third—thanks to "tips" and foreknowledge—were answered extremely well.
The examiners worked day and night for three days to grade. In the end, they selected the top 1,500, rolled them into scrolls, and arranged them neatly on the desk. The remaining failed papers were piled outside into a small mountain.
Every examiner had dark circles under their eyes. Even with ginseng broth at every meal, they were drained—utterly unable to cope.
Huang Xiuxiu didn't waste a breath. She pointed at the sky. The transparent dome abruptly shrank, becoming the golden seal again, which floated back into her palm.
With the suppression gone, the literary aura of over two hundred thousand papers surged like springs bursting forth. White qi rose from each paper. Outside, the mountain of failed scripts seemed to explode—papers whirling everywhere, white qi billowing, with only the rare faint-red literary glow mixed in.
Mo Xuan merely swept a glance outside. Nothing truly dazzling. He focused on the papers inside.
From the 1,500 scrolls, literary qi erupted—above faint red. Many reached vivid red; above that came yellow, bright gold; and a few even began to shimmer with pale azure—only a handful.
White qi meant the writer had talent; most examinees could manage that. Faint red and vivid red meant outstanding talent. Yellow was extraordinary—writing already refined. Azure writing belonged to true luminaries: even if they never cultivated, they would become great pillars of governance and be heavily fostered by prefecture and commandery.
The examiners watched, entranced. This spectacle was not something anyone could see at will. And to avoid bias, examiners couldn't serve consecutive years. The next time they saw anything like this—who knew how many years it would be? Perhaps never again.
Soon their attention was drawn to the four scrolls set aside. All four were above pale azure—and one was pure azure, even threaded with a sliver of purple!
The examiners looked at each other in shock.
A trace of purple—even the faintest trace—meant the writing resonated with Heaven's Great Dao. Anyone who could produce such a paper was surely a cultivation prodigy!
"Rank them," Huang Xiuxiu said calmly.
Observing literary qi gave only a rough sense; the actual ranking depended on how candidates answered all three papers. Wrong answers or missing responses meant deductions. The examiners had already reviewed these papers multiple times and sorted them into tiers; now they only needed slight adjustments based on the qi.
The examiners snapped out of their trance. All pale-azure, bright-gold, and yellow papers were kept. Among vivid red and faint red, they compared again and again, finally eliminating 504 scrolls.
Then they began ranking from first place downward.
They treated Mo Que'er's papers like treasure, passing them around in admiration. Her second and third papers were flawless—but her first paper had only four characters. That… was awkward.
Huang Xiuxiu explained simply:
"With those four characters, it's full marks."
The examiners didn't understand, but none dared question an immortal's authority. They proceeded with the ranking.
Mo Que'er naturally took first. Of the other three "pre-decided," two landed within the top three; the third was placed sixth.
The examiners worked another long stretch. At last, the full top 1,000 were ranked. Everyone released a heavy breath; several examiners collapsed directly onto the ground. They were truly spent.
Final placement, however, was for Chief Examiner Huang Xiuxiu alone to decide.
The examiners already suspected something, staring at the four special scrolls set aside, guessing quietly.
Mo Xuan was curious too. In past years there were three quotas—so how would four work?
Huang Xiuxiu had done her homework beforehand. She picked up her brush and rapidly filled in names on the grand ranking list.
Mo Que'er's first place was unquestionable.
The "pre-decided" sixth place was moved up—made joint third.
Fourth and fifth each slid back one rank. All others remained unchanged.
Four quotas?
The examiners were dumbstruck. You can do that?
They felt lost, then uneasy.
If four cultivation quotas appeared, would it cause unrest?
Huang Xiuxiu set down the brush and stamped the golden seal onto the grand list.
Then she shook the seal a few times. Instantly, all the surging literary qi—inside and out—was s*ck*d into it, and everything became calm again.
Finally, she hung the seal back on the roof beam.
Work finished.
Outside the exam grounds, over two hundred thousand examinees waited with necks craned, black masses filling the street, packed so tightly it was impossible to move.
The sun blazed overhead; sweat soaked everyone's backs. Yet none cared. Their eyes were full of hope. Even knowing the chances were vanishingly small, they still clung to a single thread—until the final moment, no one would surrender.
Those who felt they hadn't done well hoped only to enter the list. Those with the strength to make the list hoped to rank higher. And those who believed they'd performed well stared desperately at the top three, praying for a cultivation quota.
Naturally, this didn't include Mo Que'er.
She couldn't be absolutely certain she was first—but second was impossible to lose. Besides, she'd already begun cultivating. Did the ranking still matter to her?
These days Lu Zhishan had stayed outside the exam grounds the whole time. He already knew the outcome, so he wasn't anxious. What mattered to him was which new talents would emerge—and how he could recruit them to strengthen the Lu clan and pave the way for future generations.
At last—after endless anticipation—the grand list was posted.
On the platform, the golden grand scroll unfurled and hung horizontally, packed with one thousand names.
A herald with a booming voice began reading from first place.
"Qing Shan Commandery—Mo Que'er!"
As expected—Mo Que'er! Last year's fourth place, this year's top seed. Taking first was completely reasonable!
Second place was also a famous great talent—someone who had ranked well before. That, too, was acceptable.
But many examinees who'd secretly dreamed of miracles turned pale. Only one quota remained!
Third place…
It was a double winner—two names tied.
These two were slightly less famous, but still known talents, not nobodies.
The three quota-winners erupted into wild joy, tears streaming. Amid friends' congratulations, they still felt dazed—acting the full part, of course… but also truly elated. To reach this day had cost oceans of blood and bitterness.
Even "hidden rules" had to be handled carefully. If it was too blatant, examinees would revolt and disorder would erupt.
As it stood, only a handful were openly furious.
Judging by real ability, several believed they were no worse than the two tied for third—some had even performed exceptionally well this year. So why wasn't their name among the joint third?
Soon those angry ones heard their own names—top ten.
But top ten and top three were separated by an unbridgeable gulf between mortal and immortal.
How tragic!
The top ten candidates pounded their thighs in fury.
They were angry, resentful. This year they had performed well—yet still couldn't enter the top three. Next year might be worse. The chief examiner and proctor set different styles and emphases, and the Dao Lord's question could shift unpredictably. No one could guarantee they'd still be top ten next year. One mistake might drop them out of the top thousand entirely.
Lu Zhishan quietly memorized all the high-ranking names and nodded faintly.
These were rare talents indeed.