Rise of the Poor

Chapter 399: A Chilly Welcome on the First Day (3)

Li Mo’s outburst at Zhu Ping’an inside the Hanlin Academy had been witnessed by far too many pairs of eyes. Those who saw the scene exchanged glances filled with sympathy before quietly making up their minds: they would be keeping a careful distance from Zhu Ping’an from now on. No one wanted to risk being caught in the crossfire should the Academy’s highest-ranking leader decide to release his temper again. That would be… tremendously unfortunate.In truth, when Li Mo scolded him just now, it wasn’t even time for the Academy to officially begin work. Morning duties hadn’t started.

But—he was the leader. And leaders, by right or by whim, were allowed their storms.

Zhu Ping’an touched the bridge of his nose with a helpless little smile as he watched Li Mo stride away, robes billowing like a dark cloud retreating across the courtyard. Then he exhaled softly and continued on his registration journey through the Hanlin Academy.

The Academy sat with its back against the Western Gardens, and because it enjoyed imperial favor, its compound was impressively large. A three-sectioned government yamen stretched inward like nested courtyards; on each side, rows of office rooms stood in neat order. The first section served as the main administrative area. Following the directions of a yamen runner, Zhu Ping’an made his way to the hall responsible for registering new Hanlin scholars.

Most of the other new appointees had already finished reporting in—right around the time Li Mo was berating him—and had been dispatched to their assigned offices. Zhu Ping’an was the last one to arrive.

Inside the hall sat two Shidu Scholars in their forties, the officials in charge of onboarding new Hanlin members.

The first had a gentle, warm demeanour—his face calm, his gaze steady and kind. The second was short in stature, dark-skinned, with unremarkable features yet an unmistakable air of towering self-importance. His chin pointed skyward as if he were examining clouds no one else could see, his expression stiff with pride and emotional distance.

“Junior Zhu Ping’an greets the two honored adults.” Zhu Ping’an stepped into the hall and cupped his hands respectfully toward the pair seated at the desks.

“Please rise. So you are Zhu Ping’an? Such youthful talent—truly impressive for someone so young.” The gentle scholar stood up at once, offering Zhu Ping’an a courteous smile and warmly spoken praise.

Remove AdsThe other scholar reacted quite differently. He let out a disdainful snort, his nostrils flaring in a pointed display of contempt—especially when he heard the words ‘youthful talent’ and ‘impressive’. His posture became even more rigid, his dissatisfaction practically written across his face.

“Your words flatter me too much, honored sir. Ping’an merely passed by luck alone, unworthy of such praise,” Zhu Ping’an replied with humble sincerity.

“Young people brim with life and vigor,” the warm scholar chuckled. “Humility is good, but losing your spirit is not. Come, sit and drink some tea while we talk.”

“You honor me, but standing is perfectly fine,” Zhu Ping’an said with a pleasant smile, shaking his head lightly.

Even in the modern world, one would never sit casually during a first meeting with one’s superior—much less in an era so steeped in hierarchy and etiquette.

The warm scholar nodded in approval and did not push the matter further. He continued explaining the structure and workings of the Hanlin Academy while Zhu Ping’an stood respectfully before him.

Despite being a Fifth-Rank institution, the Academy housed a surprisingly large staff: a Chief Hanlin Scholar—the position currently held by Li Mo, who also served as Minister of Personnel, a far more prestigious post; two Assistant Shidu Scholars; two Assistant Shijiang Scholars; several Sixth-Rank Readers and Lecturers; nine Eighth-Rank ‘Five Classics Doctors,’ all hereditary positions typically passed down by descendants of Confucius and Mencius; and over a dozen scribes, attendants, clerks, and record-keepers.

Beyond these were five fellow Xiuzhuan scholars—Zhu Ping’an’s own rank—along with more than ten Bianxiu, Jiǎntǎo, and Shùjíshì scholars.

In total, over forty officials held formal ranks within the Academy, not counting the numerous unranked clerks and runners bustling around the compound.

As they spoke, Zhu Ping’an also learned the names of the two scholars before him—and realized with a jolt that both were towering historical figures.

The gentle one was Li Chunfang, later renowned as both a Grand Secretariat Prime Minister and a master of ceremonial qingci. He succeeded Xu Jie as the head of the Cabinet and was, like Zhu Ping’an, a top-ranking zhuangyuan. Perhaps that shared fate made him especially amiable toward Zhu Ping’an.

The other, the arrogant one, was none other than Yuan Wei—a man equally famed for qingci writing, mentioned alongside strict Yan Nai, upright Guo Pu, and elegant Li Chunfang. His talent for composing ceremonial texts was unmatched throughout the empire. That famous qingci—“The black tortoise first shows its auspicious sign upon the Luo River…”—was his creation.

The Jiajing Emperor adored him for such skill. Whenever some strange omen or celestial portent appeared, or whenever praise-filled essays were required on short notice, Yuan Wei’s work always stood above the rest. The emperor was said to send urgent notes to the Cabinet in the dead of night, demanding qingci immediately—and Yuan Wei would always produce them effortlessly, perfectly attuned to imperial taste.

Thus, although his official rank was not high, his favor at court inflated his pride to an extraordinary degree.

Zhu Ping’an glanced at Yuan Wei’s haughty face and silently applauded the accuracy of the historical records: they described him as gifted yet unbearably arrogant, harshly criticizing any writing that displeased him.

So that’s why he looks at me like he swallowed something bitter.

Most likely, Yuan Wei had seen the ceremonial text Zhu Ping’an wrote in the examinations. Even though Zhu had rewritten a piece by Gong Zizhen, it naturally couldn’t surpass the original. No wonder Yuan Wei was displeased—it suited his character perfectly.

Remove AdsLegend claimed that his arrogance began in childhood. The day before he was born, both his parents dreamed the same dream: a great black dragon spiraling down onto their roof before soaring away. When their son arrived—a dark-skinned infant with bright, piercing eyes—they believed wholeheartedly that he was the dragon reincarnated. They raised him with the reverence befitting a celestial being.

He never disappointed them. At five, he matched couplets with the county magistrate. At ten, he memorized bagu essays after reading them once. At seventeen, he became a county student; he ranked second in the provincial exam, first in the metropolitan exam, and finally placed as tanhua in the palace exam.

Seeing Zhu Ping’an—a zhuangyuan—assigned the same rank he himself only reached as tanhua, Yuan Wei’s heart naturally twisted with displeasure. And after hearing Li Chunfang praise this young scholar, his irritation only grew.

After nearly ten minutes of explanation, Li Chunfang finally shifted the discussion to Zhu Ping’an’s actual assignment.

“Well then, that sums up the structure of the Hanlin Academy,” Li Chunfang said gently. “Let us return to the matter at hand. While Chief Li oversees the Academy, he is often busy with his many duties. Thus, most of the Academy’s daily affairs fall to us Shidu and Shijiang Scholars.”

“Today, despite his heavy workload, Chief Li visited the Academy and personally arranged the new scholars’ assignments. According to his instructions—Zihou, you will be responsible for cataloguing and organizing the classics, histories, and collected works in our archives. The Academy’s collection is vast as the sea, and its arrangement… far from orderly. This task will rest primarily on your shoulders. Other duties may be assigned as needed, but this will be your chief responsibility. The workload is heavy, and the task demanding—Zihou, you must prepare yourself.”

At this announcement, several people in the hall cast Zhu Ping’an looks filled with pity—or, in a few cases, thinly veiled glee.

Cataloguing and organizing the archives was widely considered the worst, most grueling, most thankless task in the entire Hanlin Academy—and misfortune often found those who undertook it.

Usually, such a duty was reserved as punishment for those who had erred.

What a pity, the onlookers seemed to sigh silently.

Such a waste… for a newly minted zhuangyuan.