Chapter Six: Assassination

With the crowing of a rooster, the gates of the Examination Hall thundered open. The chief examiners were already in position, and the examinees, carrying their brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones, along with food and bedding, filed in one after another.

Zhu Yang cast a glance at the line of scholars waiting to enter, noticing that more than half bore panda-like dark circles under their eyes. Especially the top scholars who had competed with him—they looked utterly drained.

He sighed inwardly. “I hope I haven’t brought this upon them,” Zhu Yang whispered a brief prayer in his examination cubicle before heading straight for his private booth. Having spent the previous night restlessly evading the Xu family, he hadn’t slept well and was determined to catch up on his rest. As for the other candidates, he had already prayed on their behalf—there was nothing more he could do.

Meanwhile, as Zhu Yang drifted into a deep sleep, Wu Wentao, Sun Decai, and others sat rigidly before their exam papers, their minds a tangled fog. Having spent the entire night wrestling with the questions Zhu Yang had posed, not only had they failed to find answers, but the queries had spawned even more puzzles.

Why, for instance, does one plus one equal two? Then why does one plus two make three, and two plus two make four? Why does a Kongming lantern float? Why do fish die when brought ashore? Why do relatives share similarities? Questions that once seemed self-evident now became unsolvable mysteries, haunting their thoughts like a curse.

Sitting in the examination hall, Wu Wentao and his peers knew they needed to cast aside all doubts and focus on the test, but as they stared at the questions, their minds wandered—not on how to solve them, but on why the questions were written as they were, why a character was pronounced “yang” instead of “yin.”

Wu Wentao clutched his brush but found himself unable to write. With a heavy sigh, he finally put the brush down, retreated to the hard cot in his cubicle, and pulled the bedding over his head, forcing himself to sleep in hopes that slumber might purge the chaos from his mind.

He was not alone; Zhao Jin, Jiang Jitong, and other young talents from various regions, all possessed of keen curiosity, found themselves equally tormented by the relentless questioning.

Yet, Yuan Cheng’s torment was of another kind. Unlike Wu Wentao and the others, he was not searching for answers. Instead, the talk about “Old Wang next door” had awakened memories long buried in his heart.

Yuan Cheng was born into a landowning family. With a hundred acres of fertile fields and his father, Yuan Bomin, running several shops, their life, while not one of noble privilege, was nonetheless comfortable and adorned with fine clothes and rich food.

Yet, for such a well-off household, his father and mother barely spoke. At first, Yuan Cheng believed his mother, having aged after bearing him, had lost her husband’s affection, especially as Yuan Bomin took several younger concubines. But as Yuan Cheng grew older, he noticed he bore almost no resemblance to his father.

Initially, he thought perhaps he simply took after his mother. He didn’t dwell on it. Later, after winning top marks in the children’s exam, neighbors from miles around came to celebrate. Then Yuan Cheng noticed that Uncle Wang from next door bore an uncanny resemblance to him.

Yuan Cheng, ignorant of biology, merely found it curious—how marvelous that there should be a middle-aged man so similar to himself.

He didn’t think much of it, and life went on. Until, the day before, Zhu Yang’s four questions were posed. When Yuan Cheng heard the third, it was as if he’d been struck by lightning, his body turning cold, trembling uncontrollably.

The phrase “Old Wang next door” stabbed at his heart like a knife.

“Impossible!” Back in his room, Yuan Cheng raked through fragments of memory. In ancient times, they said a true gentleman carried his grandson, not his son. Yuan Bomin, in Yuan Cheng’s recollection, was silent and stern, rarely speaking more than a few words, even when Yuan Cheng took first place or became runner-up in the provincial exams. The most praise he ever received was: “Keep working hard, do not grow arrogant.”

To Yuan Cheng, his father was always a severe figure.

But, upon reflection, Yuan Bomin seemed only that way with him. He often took his younger half-brother out, buying him treats, sweet hawthorn skewers and the like.

And Uncle Wang, after learning of Yuan Cheng’s success, began visiting frequently, always bringing rare books as gifts, his eyes brimming with pride each time they spoke.

Lying in his room, Yuan Cheng replayed the differences in the way Yuan Bomin and Uncle Wang treated him, and then compared it to how Yuan Bomin treated his half-brother.

“As Zhu Yang said, ‘You and Old Wang next door don’t look alike—unless Old Wang is your real father!’” The words echoed in his mind.

“No… He’s not my father. My father is Yuan Bomin!” Yuan Cheng gripped his exam paper so tightly his nails pierced the page and sank into his flesh, blood blooming across the sheet.

“Zhu Yang must be deceiving me. He knows I’m jealous of him and is using this question to hurt me!” Over and over, Yuan Cheng tried to convince himself, unable to accept that Uncle Wang was his true father, or that his gentle, loving mother might have strayed.

“Yes, it must be a lie!” At length, he persuaded himself, but it wasn’t enough.

The vivid blood spread across the paper, blooming like a devouring flower.

Blood? Of course. If he wants to hurt me, I’ll see him dead. Snapping his brush in two, Yuan Cheng found one half jagged enough to pierce flesh. He tested it—it would work.

I’ll kill him. Once he’s dead, this secret will be buried forever! Eyes bloodshot, Yuan Cheng leapt from his cot.

“What are you doing?” The chief examiner, seeing a candidate leave his cubicle, shouted. “Guards, seize him!”

“Yes, sir!” The guards rushed towards Yuan Cheng.

But Yuan Cheng, being closer, reached Zhu Yang’s booth first.

Zhu Yang was snoring peacefully, lips smacking in his sleep.

“Die!” Yuan Cheng stormed in. Seeing Zhu Yang slumbering, his murderous intent only grew. He raised the brush and drove it toward Zhu Yang’s temple.

“Hurry!” The chief examiner, paralyzed with terror, cried out. He didn’t know Zhu Yang was the emperor’s eldest grandson, but it was enough that “an attack in the examination hall resulting in death” would surely see the emperor’s wrath fall on all present.

“Hm?” Zhu Yang caught Yuan Cheng’s hand, bewildered. Why was this fellow in his cubicle instead of sitting the exam? Was he here to copy answers? But he hadn’t written a single word yet.

“I’ll kill you!” Yuan Cheng struggled with all his might to break free.

“Are you insane? You’re trying to kill me?” Zhu Yang was startled—if not for the nightmare he’d just had, in which the emperor smilingly draped him in a golden robe before three executioners hacked at his neck, he might not have woken in time.

“You’re out of your mind!” Zhu Yang, regaining his composure, kicked Yuan Cheng hard.

With a tremendous crash, Yuan Cheng was sent flying.

By then, the guards had arrived and pinned Yuan Cheng to the ground.