Chapter Three: Driven to Desperation

There is a saying in the world of calligraphy: writing large characters is difficult, but writing small characters is even more so. When writing large characters, one must approach it as if writing small ones; when writing small characters, one must treat it as if writing large ones.

At first glance, this seems contradictory, but it actually contains the essence and truth of writing both large and small characters. A scroll with large characters typically features only a few words, perhaps even just a phrase, and the spacing between characters and between scrolls must not appear sparse. Hence, the crucial requirement is tightness and cohesion. In contrast, small characters usually fill a whole article or a letter, with hundreds or even thousands of densely packed words, making spaciousness the key. That is to say: large characters should possess the precision of small ones, and small characters should have the openness of large ones.

This is the challenge in writing both large and small characters.

Pei Min’s small characters achieved this balance perfectly. The words were spaced generously, and regardless of how complex or difficult the strokes, he managed to write each line with a single character, neat as if carefully measured. Each stroke was imbued with the roundness, grace, and uprightness characteristic of fine script, faintly echoing the style of the Sage of Calligraphy, Wang Xizhi.

Wang Xizhi is the benchmark in the calligraphy world. Among ten famous calligraphers, at least seven or eight began by emulating Wang Xizhi’s characters before developing their own styles. This is a common practice in calligraphy, so imitation is hardly surprising. Yet, for Pei Min to capture that essence at such a young age is rare indeed—he was much like his elder cousin, He Zhizhang, perhaps even surpassing him.

“Young men are to be feared, truly to be feared!” He Xu Zhi murmured inwardly. Turning his gaze, he looked around at others who had paused mid-writing to ponder, scribbled with ink, or abandoned their drafts to start anew, and felt all the more admiration for Pei Min’s steadiness and ingenuity.

On Pei Min’s side, as his brush touched paper, memories of hurriedly copying books days earlier surged in his mind. Word after word, phrase after phrase flowed like a spring, and places that once puzzled him now became clear. Excited, he buried himself in wild writing, no longer distracted by other thoughts.

He completed the Book of Shang in a single sweep.

Next came the “Rites for Serving a Grandee” and the “Rites for a Scholar’s Funeral” from the Rituals of the Zhou, one of the thirteen classics of Confucianism. The Rituals of the Zhou records various ceremonies from the Zhou dynasty—coming-of-age, marriage, funerals, sacrifices, village gatherings, archery, court, and diplomatic visits—encompassing all aspects of life. Rituals are the core of Confucianism: among the six classics before the Qin, there was the Book of Rites; in the Han, the five classics included the Book of Rites; in the Tang, the nine classics included the “Three Rites”; in the Song, the thirteen classics again had the “Three Rites.”

Following later generations’ practice, Pei Min predicted the focus of the exam, supposing the Rituals of the Zhou would certainly be included, so he copied it carefully. Now, seeing his prediction come true, he was delighted.

This time, Pei Min only pondered for half an hour before confidently grinding his ink and setting to work.

When he finished all the questions, with time to spare, Pei Min did not hand in his paper early. He drank water and checked his answers, and when he could find no mistakes, he practiced calligraphy in the exam hall, writing an extra draft and comparing it to the first. He destroyed the less satisfactory one, keeping the better copy.

Only at sunset did Pei Min finally cover his exam paper, hand it to the examiner, and look back at the hall—many still hadn’t finished, lighting candles at their desks. According to humane rules, they had the time of three candles; when the last candle burned out, their chance would be gone.

The next day’s exam was the fill-in-the-blank classics. To prevent collusion, seating was rearranged for this round, even for the proctors.

Pei Min drew a seat in Hall A, unexpectedly sharing the exam hall with Yuan Lv Qian. However, their seats were far apart, preventing even a glance.

The so-called fill-in-the-blank classics were essentially gap-filling questions: the beginning and end were concealed, only a single line in the middle revealed, with the paper cut to fit. The examinees had to fill in the blanks. All questions were drawn from over twenty classic historical texts, with a passage randomly chosen—only the middle given, requiring the candidate to supply the missing parts. Compared to simple dictation, this was even more challenging.

The material was so vast and varied that even Pei Min could not answer every question. There were several he simply had to give up on, unable to recall their sources.

The third day’s exam was essay interpretation—understanding the meaning of a given passage from the classics.

This was Pei Min’s forte. As someone with the memories of an ancient scholar and a modern Chinese literature major, Pei Min had a unique advantage: he could interpret according to ancient understanding and modern thinking, cross-referencing both. His answers were innovative yet stayed within the bounds of traditional interpretation, sure to impress any examiner.

Three days of exams passed in the blink of an eye.

**********

Chang’an, Taiji Palace, Hall of Martial Virtue!

“Outrageous!” Li Longji had just received a secret report and was so angry he nearly flung his teacup. He raised his hand, but after a moment’s thought, managed to restrain himself. Growing up under the iron rule of Wu Zetian, seeing his relatives slain one after another by his own grandmother, Li Longji had developed extraordinary composure. Even when furious, he could quickly regain his calm. Alone, he never allowed himself to indulge in reckless outbursts.

“Attend me—summon Wang Ju, Zhang Shuo, and Cui Riyong to the rear hall…”

He gripped the secret report so tightly that his nails dug into his flesh.

Soon, Wang Ju, Zhang Shuo, and Cui Riyong arrived together.

Li Longji silently handed them the report.

Their expressions changed as they read.

The report concerned the former prime minister Liu Youqiu. Liu Youqiu was a master of intrigue and strategy, a rare talent of his era, and Li Longji’s most trusted aide. Years ago, Liu Youqiu had helped Li Longji plan the Tanglong coup with Zhong Shaojing, Ma Sizong, Xue Chongjian, and others, entering the palace to kill Empress Wei and issuing over a hundred edicts to place Li Dan on the throne. As a result, Liu Youqiu was promoted to Secretary of the Central Secretariat, participated in government affairs, became prime minister, and was later appointed as Grand Preceptor. Emperor Ruizong Li Dan even granted him an iron certificate, ten exemptions from execution, and the hereditary title of Duke of Xu for his descendants.

When Princess Taiping wielded power above the emperor, Liu Youqiu plotted her demise, but his scheme was discovered. To protect Liu Youqiu, Li Longji preemptively accused him before Li Dan, pleaded for his life, and secured permission to spare him, resulting in exile to Fengzhou in Lingnan.

Li Longji had planned to recall Liu Youqiu to Chang’an and restore him to office once he held real power. Unexpectedly, Princess Taiping, ruthless as ever, ignored the imperial decree and ordered Governor Zhou Lizhen of Guangzhou to kill him, merely to vent her anger.

Fortunately, Governor Wang Jun of Guizhou learned of the plot and detained Liu Youqiu in Guizhou, barely saving his life.

The secret report was from Wang Jun, urging them to devise a countermeasure.

“What do you think?” Li Longji asked in a low voice, his gaze sharp and fierce as an eagle’s.

Princess Taiping had pushed him step by step to the brink.