Documentation has never been an insurmountable obstacle to success.
After all, these things can be handled with some flexibility.
If you have it, good; if you don't, you just go get one made.
The Tax Bureau required an academic qualification—that was a basic hiring prerequisite. It was perfectly reasonable, and Zhao An fully understood this. He didn't actually possess any such qualification, but his rather forward-thinking mindset led him to decide to simply procure one.
Whether genuine or fake, a certificate was a certificate.
In this day and age, there was no such thing as an online database. He didn't believe the Tax Bureau in Ganquan County had any way to verify the authenticity of a primary school diploma issued by a town in the neighboring Xinghua County.
If they were truly that capable, Zhao An would just have to accept his fate.
The trade of forging documents was not a skill that had suddenly appeared in Zhao An’s previous life; it was a profession with thousands of years of history. Yangzhou City was the most prosperous place under heaven, so the demand for forged documents had to be immense. Consequently, forgers must be as numerous as the hairs on an ox.
Moreover, Zhao An figured he was only looking to get a Licentiate license, which was the lowliest, cheapest, and most inconspicuous type of forged document—absolutely foolproof.
After all, how many normal people would go out of their way to verify a primary school diploma just because they had nothing better to do?
If you dare to imagine it, you dare to do it.
The immediate problem was that his uncle, Wang Defa, upon hearing that his nephew was a Licentiate, had joyfully insisted that he bring his license to the Tax Bureau early the next morning to meet Commissioner Ding. He wanted to finalize the position while the office was short-staffed, lest any complications arise.
As for how to grease the wheels for Commissioner Ding or handle the socializing between colleagues, his uncle didn't say a word, acting as if there was nothing to worry about.
Having lived two lifetimes, Zhao An certainly knew the score. He felt a sense of admiration and genuine closeness toward this uncle he had never met before. To be such a caring relative—Wang Defa truly left nothing to be desired.
However, he could not go to the Tax Bureau tomorrow because he didn't actually have the document yet.
To avoid being exposed, he claimed he hadn't expected this to come up when he left home, so he had left his Licentiate license behind.
Wang Defa was slightly disappointed but didn't think much of it. After all, it was his nephew’s first time traveling for work, and since his cousin, Da Rong, had died young, it was easy for a young man to be forgetful without anyone to remind him.
After thinking for a moment, he said, "Go home tomorrow and bring the license back. I’ll give Commissioner Ding a heads-up. I’ve been working at the Bureau for nearly thirty years, and I still have a bit of pull with the higher-ups."
Perhaps he had drunk too much, as Wang Defa was visibly tipsy. Thinking of his shift the next morning, he asked his wife to prepare a room for his nephew, muttered a few more words, and went to bed.
Xinghua was not far from Yangzhou City. A round trip by boat would take only a day or two, and even walking on foot would only take three days.
Zhao An stayed in the west wing of the Wang residence. He tossed and turned all night, feeling a mix of joy and anxiety.
He was happy that his uncle, Wang Defa, could help him secure a "stable position" and solve his employment problem.
He was anxious because he didn't know how much a Licentiate license would cost. He only had a few copper coins left; if the price was too high, he wouldn't be able to afford it.
He eventually fell into a fitful sleep. He didn't know how long he had been asleep when he vaguely heard movement outside, followed by Wang Defa whispering a few words to his wife. Then came the sound of the courtyard gate opening and closing.
His uncle must have headed off to work.
He would likely eat breakfast on the street or the "office" would provide it.
After lying there for a while, Zhao An got up. As soon as he stepped out of the room, he saw his aunt, Madam Ma, placing a pot of porridge on the Eight Immortals table in the main room. There were also a few salted duck eggs, a dish of pickled vegetables, and two deep-fried dough sticks on the table.
"You're awake, Xiao An. Go wash your face—use your uncle's towel—then come eat breakfast."
Madam Ma was a typical housewife; she didn't talk much but was diligent, keeping the house spotlessly clean.
"Alright!"
Zhao An hurried to wash his face. Once he was finished, Madam Ma told him to eat. After he had finished his meal, she went to the east wing, retrieved a small purse from the head of her bed, and brought it to him. She poured several dozen copper coins and a few pieces of silver, weighing about three to five mace each, onto the table.
"Your uncle said he hasn't been back to Xinghua in decades. Take this money for your travel expenses. Use the extra to buy some joss paper and incense to pay your respects to your grandmother and father. This is your uncle's wish; if you don't take it, I won't be able to answer to him."
With that, Madam Ma sat down to drink her porridge.
Zhao An didn't stand on ceremony; he silently accepted the money and told Madam Ma he would head home soon.
Madam Ma didn't say much, only telling him to be careful on the road and to keep his money tucked away so it wouldn't be stolen by thieves.
Zhao An agreed to everything and casually asked, "Aunt, has something happened in this alley before? When I came yesterday, people were saying that nobody dares to come here."
Madam Ma hesitated for a moment before saying, "I'm not too sure. I only heard your uncle say that people died here a hundred years ago. They say the bodies were piled higher than the rooftops. It’s quite terrifying."
"When did that happen?"
Zhao An stood up from the stool, tucking the money Madam Ma had given him into his robe.
"They say it was back when Master Shi was defending Yangzhou."
Madam Ma was elderly and drank her porridge slowly, unlike Zhao An, who finished half a bowl in one gulp.
"Oh."
Zhao An didn't ask any further. He more or less understood what had happened.
There was no need to ask—it was certainly from the Ten-Day Massacre of Yangzhou.
In a rush to secure his fake qualification, he said goodbye to Madam Ma and headed straight for the busier parts of the city. He spent half the day wandering around Yangzhou, but he couldn't find any small advertisements posted on street corners. He had no idea who to go to for such a thing.
Unfamiliar with the area, he was soon at a loss, his thoughts in a jumble.
Upon reflection, he realized he might have fallen into a misconception: because forgers were as common as dirt in his previous life, he assumed the same was true for this era.
He had overlooked the difference in the times. In his previous life, forging documents was at most a public order offense; in this day and age, it could cost you your head.
With the risks far outweighing the profits, there were certainly no street-side forgers.
And if they did exist, they were surely operating in high-end circles, hidden very deep.
If he couldn't get a certificate, how could he get the job?
Troubled and aimless, he didn't know how he ended up in front of a school.
To be precise, it was a village school under the jurisdiction of Ganquan County.
In ancient times, besides the Imperial Academy directly under the central government, there were also village schools and charitable schools established at the local level.
Village schools were government-run, while charitable schools were private or semi-official. Both were schools aimed at cultivating talent, with curricula centered on the Four Books and Five Classics.
Charitable schools were generally managed by local gentry of repute, while village schools were directly managed by the local government. Regardless of the type, they all fell under the authority of the county instructor, and the village schools were specifically overseen by an academic official dispatched by the county—the principal.
Looking at the young students coming and going, and watching the teachers inside chatting and laughing, an idea struck Zhao An. He touched the travel money in his robe that Wang Defa and his wife had given him, and his mind was made up.
If he couldn't get a fake certificate, he would just go and get a real one.