Xinghua is a fine place that has produced two renowned literati: Shi Nai'an and Zheng Banqiao. The former wrote *Water Margin*, while the latter was one of the "Eight Eccentrics of Yangzhou," celebrated especially for his paintings of bamboo. It is a pity he passed away over twenty years ago; otherwise, Zhao An would certainly have gone to pay his respects to the famous Master Banqiao.
Beyond these two, Xinghua also produced three Grand Secretaries during the Ming Dynasty: Gao Gu, the Senior Grand Secretary during the Tianshun reign; Li Chunfang, the Senior Grand Secretary during the Longqing reign; and Wu Shi, the Junior Grand Secretary during the Chongzhen reign.
Historically, the scholarly atmosphere in Xinghua has been exceptionally strong. Since the Xianchun era of the Southern Song Dynasty, over 200 people from Xinghua have passed the provincial examinations, and more than 80 have become *Jinshi*. They even produced a top scholar (*Zhuangyuan*) in Li Chunfang. Consequently, any family in Xinghua with even the slightest means would send their children to school. This led to a scale of community schools in Xinghua County that far exceeded other regions, with over thirty such institutions of various sizes.
In Chenbao, the village where Zhao An’s family originated, there were two community schools. One was located in the town, and the other served their specific manor. The two schools divided the student population between the eastern and western sectors, a system no different from the educational zoning of later generations. The difference was that the town school was larger, with over a hundred students, while the manor school only had fifty or sixty. Naturally, the quality of instruction in the town was better, so many parents in the manor, desperate for their children to pass the *xiucai* exams, would go to great lengths—even borrowing money—to send them to the town school. This was only possible because Xinghua was a land of fish and rice, where people lived better than in other regions. In poorer areas, one would be grateful just to have access to schooling at all; the idea of bankrupting the family to secure a better school would be unthinkable.
Returning from Yangzhou, Zhao An had first taken a "bus"—a cart pulled by horses or donkeys that operated between the two locations. The fare was low, only ten copper coins for a one-way trip. Wealthier families could hire private carriages, and the truly affluent would travel by sedan chair. Along the way, Zhao An spotted a "procession" of several sedan chairs, likely the family of a wealthy Yangzhou salt merchant out for a spring excursion. As far as living conditions in the Yangzhou area were concerned, one might say it lived up to the reputation of the "Prosperous Era of Kangxi and Qianlong," but Zhao An knew well that this was because Yangzhou had always been an affluent region, and the salt trade had fostered localized prosperity. In other places, one would likely see only sallow-faced peasants subsisting on the meagerest of rations.
It is said that being born into a certain family is a technical skill. For the common folk, being born into a land of fish and rice is the best-case scenario. Of course, this "best" is limited to simply not starving. The poor remain poor, and the rich remain rich.
After getting off the bus in Xinghua County, Zhao An bought a boat ticket home. The county seat was dozens of miles from Chenbao Town, and since the territory of Xinghua was riddled with lakes and rivers, most travel was done by boat. The vessel was a *wu-peng* boat—the kind written about by Lu Xun—featuring a canopy, with the boatman sitting in the stern working the oar. It was not fast, but it was smooth, and passengers rarely felt seasick. The boat made several stops along the way, and by the time they reached Chenbao, it was already dark.
The temperature in March was pleasant during the day but turned biting cold at night. Fortunately, Zhao An was young and full of vigor, so he didn't feel the chill despite his thin clothing. Once he disembarked, he stretched his limbs and walked toward his home in the moonlight.
The houses in the Zhao family’s village were built along the lake, using materials found nearby—reeds harvested from the lakeside served as the main building material. In short, they were mud-plastered huts. Families with means had long since moved into the town to live in blue-brick tile houses. These people were better described as fishermen than farmers; they simply lived off the resources of the land and water.
Zhao An’s mother had died over a decade ago. His father had raised him alone, but he passed away from an illness contracted from years of fishing and shrimping in the lakes before he could ever see his son marry. As for his grandparents, Zhao An had never met them. He only heard from neighbors that the Zhao family were not locals but had migrated from elsewhere generations ago. Judging by the timing, it was likely during the Qing conquest, when the family fled the chaos of war to live in these remote wetlands where the Qing soldiers could not easily find them.
Inside the hut, there was nothing but a few simple necessities, and the rice jar was empty. Looking at his "home," which could be set ablaze with a single spark, Zhao An offered a wry, helpless smile. He put away the items he had brought from Yangzhou and went to bed. He wasn't hungry; he had eaten a bowl of plain noodle soup while waiting for the boat in the county seat.
Early the next morning, Zhao An took two packages and headed straight for the village community school. Upon arriving, he heard the rhythmic sound of students reading aloud—they were reciting the *Thousand Character Classic*, the standard introductory text alongside the *Three Character Classic* and the *Hundred Family Surnames*. Zhao An had learned it as a child, and he still remembered the opening lines: "Heaven and earth are dark and yellow; the universe is vast and desolate."
The teacher was the same man from Zhao An’s childhood, a sixty-year-old pedant named Zhang. His highest qualification, however, was only that of a Licentiate. Anyone with a *xiucai* degree would not be here teaching the children of fishermen. Teacher Zhang was not the man Zhao An needed to see; he was looking for the principal, Jiang En.
Officially, Jiang En was an academic official appointed by the county, but in reality, he was a temporary worker. He wasn't an official, nor even a low-level clerk. His salary wasn't even paid by the county directly, but by the Confucian education instructor. However, because he was part of the educational system, and scholars were naturally held in higher regard, they exchanged empty courtesies, leading the common people to mistake this temporary hire for a real official.
Jiang En’s "office" was in the southeast corner of the school. Perhaps because successive magistrates valued education, they had allocated enough funds for Jiang En to have a dedicated blue-brick room rather than a mud hut. It was the only respectable building in the entire village.
Why did Zhao An need to see Principal Jiang? No other reason than the fact that Jiang was not only stingy but also loved to take advantage of others. In short, Principal Jiang possessed none of the virtues of a scholar but had every one of their petty vices.
Looking around to ensure the teachers were in class, Zhao An crept up to Jiang En’s office, knocked lightly, and said respectfully, "Student Zhao An requests an audience with the Master!"
This was appropriate; the Chinese believe that one who is a teacher for a day is a father for life. Zhao An had spent two years in the school as a child, so the teachers—including Principal Jiang—were all his "masters." If he had wanted to be shameless, he could have even called him "father."
"Zhao An?"
Inside, Jiang En, who was busy studying official documents from the county, was surprised by the visit. As far as he knew, ever since his father died, the boy had been loafing around, getting into trouble because he had learned some martial arts, and was rarely seen. Why was he here today? It was as if the sun had risen in the west.
"Master, you are busy," Zhao An said upon entering, keeping his demeanor respectful and wearing a cautious, sycophantic smile. Before Jiang En could ask why he was there, Zhao An placed the two bags of snacks he had brought from Yangzhou on the table.
"What is this?"
Though he was a principal, the gifts Jiang En usually received were mere salted fish or millet from students' parents. He had never seen such fine goods from a big city. His eyes lit up, and he glanced at Zhao An with a light chuckle. "Zhao An, you never come to pay your respects to me, your teacher, on normal days. Bringing a gift today—you must have a favor to ask, don't you?"
"The worms in my stomach can never hide from your eyes, Master," Zhao An said with a grin. He leaned in closer. "I went to Yangzhou to visit my cousin..." He briefly explained his purpose.
"Oh?" Jiang En stroked his long beard, his brow furrowing slightly. "You mean you want me to issue you a Licentiate certificate?"
"That is the idea. Without the certificate, I cannot take the post. Please, Master, help me. I would be eternally grateful!" Zhao An made a gesture to kneel and kowtow three times. When one needs a favor, one must humble oneself.
Jiang En clearly didn't want to help, shaking his head and humming, "Do you know that issuing a private Licentiate certificate is a violation of the law?"
"For others, it is a violation, but for you, Master, it is a kindness—you are like the merciful Bodhisattva Guanyin." As he spoke, Zhao An stood up and placed several pieces of silver, gifted to him by his cousin Wang Defa, onto the table. One must cast a long line to catch a big fish; to secure a steady job, this money was as good as gone.
The effect was immediate. Jiang En’s eyebrows lifted, and his expression softened, though he remained silent, weighing whether to help. A mere Licentiate certificate was hardly a major issue; the county issued hundreds every year. Who would notice one extra? Besides, the boy wasn't planning on doing anything illegal—he was going to serve at the Yangzhou Tax Bureau. If he did well, he might even be able to help him out in the future. Even if he couldn't, the gift and the silver were enough to warrant turning a blind eye. Why let a duck that had flown into his mouth get away?
Having weighed his options, Jiang En agreed, but told Zhao An to wait a few days, as the school did not have blank certificates on hand. Zhao An was impatient, but he had no choice; he offered endless thanks and went home to wait.
They say money makes the ghost turn the mill. A few days later, Jiang En sent a seven or eight-year-old student to fetch Zhao An. Upon arrival, he was handed a Licentiate certificate with his name, place of origin, and age already filled in.
Zhao An was ecstatic and quickly checked it. It was a graduation certificate certifying he had earned the status of Licentiate at thirteen. It looked perfect. Just as he was about to thank him, Jiang En added, "I’ve issued the certificate for you, but there is no record of you in the county files."
What did that mean? You couldn't say the certificate was fake—it was the genuine document issued by the Great Qing court to Licentiates. But you couldn't call it entirely real, either—sorry, there was no backup file. It was like depositing money in a bank, only for the bank to refuse to give you a deposit slip. Clearly, the old fox Jiang En was keeping an ace up his sleeve—or rather, he had preemptively neutralized any potential trouble for himself in the future.