Chapter Thirty-Five: Entering the Imperial Academy

“Book Studies has triumphed!”

When the messenger delivered the news to Kong Yingda, all the scholars of the Imperial Academy breathed a sigh of relief. Thankfully, the Academy had not entirely lost face; the final subject, Book Studies, had restored their honor.

“Hahaha, I told you the Mohist youth isn’t invincible—he has his weaknesses!” Liu Yinian, the professor of Book Studies, laughed heartily. Now he was proud of himself. The other five disciplines had suffered humiliating defeats, but only his Book Studies had prevailed, greatly elevating his prestige.

“Hurry, present the handwriting of both contestants for the Prefect to critique!” Liu Yinian said, showing off.

“Uh…,” the messenger hesitated. “Reporting to the lord, neither of them wrote anything.”

“What’s this? Wasn’t it said that Xiong Maocai won?” Liu Yinian shouted angrily. This was supposed to be his moment to shine, yet such a twist had occurred.

“Reporting to the lord, the Mohist youth and Scholar Xiong did not write. The Mohist youth admitted defeat and surrendered without contest!” the messenger replied quickly.

“Ah!”

Liu Yinian’s face turned crimson, like a duck caught by the neck, involuntarily emitting awkward sounds.

“He conceded?” The scholars of the Imperial Academy immediately began to speculate. Calligraphy, after all, is something everyone can attempt, though mastery is difficult. Yet with diligence, anyone might succeed.

Was it truly that the Mohist youth lacked skill in calligraphy, or was he simply preserving the Academy’s dignity by conceding, saving them from utter disgrace?

Most leaned toward the latter. After all, someone capable of composing the three border poems couldn’t possibly be inept at calligraphy.

“The Mohist youth is admirable,” Kong Yingda said, stroking his beard and nodding slightly. Such a talented, socially astute young man, though an adversary in this setting, could not be denied respect.

The other professors nodded as well. The Mohist youth’s gesture allowed the Imperial Academy to retain some face, indicating he had no wish to completely sever ties.

“Well then, since our Academy has lost five to one, we must accept the outcome. Summon the Mohist youth and complete his admission procedures!” Kong Yingda declared, honoring his commitment. The other professors did not object; after all, the Mohist youth had won by genuine merit.

“Yes, sir!”

The messenger hurried away.

Soon after—

Knock, knock, knock! A series of knocks sounded at the door.

Kong Yingda looked up and saw a handsome youth in black standing politely at the entrance.

“Such courtesy!” Kong Yingda thought, moved by the gentle knocking, which announced someone’s presence without causing annoyance. Such manners ought to be promoted in the Academy.

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“Mo Dun pays his respects to the gentlemen!” Mo Dun bowed deeply.

“The Mohist youth!”

The scholars of the Academy silently repeated the name, each gazing complexly at the young man before them. It was this very youth, barely of age, who had brought the entire Academy to its knees, stripping it of its dignity.

Yet he also knew how to advance and retreat, had not pressed his advantage, and had ultimately spared the Academy in Book Studies. How could such a talented and tactful individual not be a disciple of Confucius?

“Mo Dun!” Kong Yingda looked at him solemnly.

“I am here,” Mo Dun answered, bowing.

“Since His Majesty has arranged your entry into the Academy, it is a sign of favor. You must devote yourself diligently to your studies and never disappoint His Majesty’s expectations. When you’ve mastered your learning, serve the nation loyally!” Kong Yingda admonished.

“I shall heed the Prefect’s teaching!” Mo Dun replied formally.

“Then let us complete your admission.”

Admission procedures at the Academy were usually complex, but Mo Dun’s case was an exception; all materials had been prepared, requiring only a few formalities.

Mo Dun respectfully accepted the register and, at a nearby desk, took a brush and carefully wrote his name.

Kong Yingda watched the Mohist youth’s solemn demeanor with satisfaction. Whatever their opposing positions, he could see Mo Dun was a teachable talent.

“I have finished writing,” Mo Dun said, closing the register and handing it to Kong Yingda.

“You may go,” Kong Yingda said, stroking his beard.

“Yes, sir,” Mo Dun replied.

He retreated swiftly, feeling as though he and the professors had fled in embarrassment.

Kong Yingda opened the register casually. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he spat out tea in a burst, completely flustered.

“What happened, Prefect?” The professors were alarmed; they could not fathom why a man of such composure would lose his poise.

Kong Yingda coughed for a long while, then handed the register to the group.

The professors eagerly opened it.

“There’s nothing amiss,” they said, puzzled.

---

But when they reached the last entry and saw Mo Dun’s scribbled, worm-like handwriting, as if an earthworm searching for its mother, each felt a surge of blood rise.

Was this the handwriting of an Academy student? Even a beginner could write better.

“The Mohist youth has gone too far!” Liu Yinian howled to the heavens. So, the Mohist youth had not spared the Academy out of courtesy; his calligraphy was truly atrocious—not merely poor, but absolutely disgraceful, utterly unworkable.

Mo Dun fled in embarrassment, feeling aggrieved. He could make up for shortcomings elsewhere, but brush calligraphy was something he had practiced for only a few days as a child before giving up. Now, there was no time to improve!

“Thankfully, I ran quickly! If they changed their minds, what would I do?” Mo Dun thought, patting his chest in lingering fear. He had entered the Academy by imperial decree; if his handwriting failed to meet expectations, the impression he left on Li Shimin would be terrible. He hoped to thrive in the Tang Dynasty, and he must cling tightly to Li Shimin’s support.

Fortunately, Kong Yingda honored his commitment, did not trouble Mo Dun further, and instead dispatched a clerk to guide him through the admission process.

“Scholar Mo, these are your assignments,” the clerk said, curious yet courteous toward the new student.

Mo Dun smiled wryly, accepting a thick stack of Confucian classics, as heavy as a schoolchild’s backpack.

The clerk then led Mo Dun to his classroom and dormitory. The Academy housed four students per room, but since none wished to share quarters with the Mohist youth, Mo Dun was honored with a single room.

“The Academy has a weekly rest; ordinarily, boarding is not required, but should the weather turn or exams approach, staying in the dormitory is necessary,” the clerk advised kindly.

“Thank you!” Mo Dun replied gratefully. “May I ask your name, senior? I shall remember your kindness.”

Clerks were usually Academy graduates awaiting appointment, so Mo Dun’s address was appropriate.

“No need for formality. I am Shangguan Yi,” he replied.

“Oh!” Mo Dun’s mouth dropped open. This was a future luminary!

No, wait—his granddaughter would be even more remarkable.

“At noon the dormitory serves meals, more affordable than outside,” Shangguan Yi added, politely declining Mo Dun’s invitation, and then departed.

“Very well,” Mo Dun did not insist. His reputation as a Mohist was poor in the Academy; it was only natural that others kept their distance.