Chapter 85
Chapter 85: Exam Prep
Qin Hui Yin slipped into the kitchen to brew tea, leaving Tang Yi Chen alone at the table with his books and his thoughts.
In her plan, he was supposed to win a degree. It sounded simple when she said it—like a task you could finish if you just worked hard enough.
But each sitting of the Imperial Exam was a single-plank bridge: one careless step and you plunged straight into the water.
Could he really do it?
He was only a farmer’s son. No patron. No famous clan behind him. No glimpse of the wider world beyond the dusty road that led out of the village. He hadn’t even read that many books—his tutors had searched and begged and bartered to scrape volumes together for him.
Those great scholarly families trained their sons from the cradle. They hired renowned teachers. They collected rare texts, some of them said to be long lost. Maybe not ten thousand volumes, but thousands—more words than he might touch in a lifetime.
How was he supposed to stand in the same hall with people like that and win on nothing but stubbornness?
The characters on the page blurred. Tang Yi Chen’s jaw tightened. Uncertainty sat heavy in his eyes.
Tap. Tap.
Qin Hui Yin rapped the tabletop lightly, the sound sharp enough to cut through his spiraling thoughts.
He looked up.
“If you’re tired, rest,” she said. “Don’t study yourself stupid.”
“I was thinking…” He swallowed. “If I don’t earn a degree, will everyone be disappointed?”
“No.” Her answer came without hesitation. “Life isn’t only one road. If one road doesn’t work, there’s another. Your road is yours to walk. No one else gets to interfere.”
He stared at her as if seeing her anew. “Are you really only 11?”
“I’m 11 in age.” Qin Hui Yin’s gaze didn’t waver. “My mind is older than that.”
She spoke like she was reciting something she’d already lived through, already buried and dug up again.
“Have you ever seen someone kill a child and eat them? I have. Have you ever seen people trade their old mothers for someone else’s old mothers—so they could eat them? I have.”
The air seemed to turn cold around the words.
“People talk about filial piety like it’s carved into bone,” she went on, voice steady. “But human nature is complicated. One day he’s holding his old mother and crying like a helpless child. The next day he knocks her out and hands her to someone else.”
Tang Yi Chen’s fist clenched hard enough to ache. “Beasts.”
Qin Hui Yin set a bowl of tea down in front of him as if she hadn’t just dropped a stone into his chest. “Here. I brewed some tea and saved you a bowl.”
He lifted it; the warmth seeped into his palms.
“When we earn more money,” she added, “we’ll buy better tea leaves and match them with a pretty tea set.”
Something in his expression softened—just a flicker, like light catching on water. “All right.”
“Don’t put so much pressure on yourself.” With the teapot in her hands, Qin Hui Yin turned and left.
Tang Yi Chen watched her disappear through the doorway, the hem of her clothes swaying as she went. For a long moment he didn’t move.
“What a clever little girl,” he murmured, half to himself.
After that short talk, he studied like a man trying to claw his way out of a pit. Over the next few days, he barely put his book down—still reading even while he stood over the men digging the well, keeping an eye on the depth and the sturdy ring of the walls.
Qin Hui Yin had glanced at his book more than once. The pages were crowded with annotations: some in Tang Yi Chen’s neat hand, others left by someone before him. Ink upon ink, like layers of effort pressed into paper.
While the well was being dug, Qin Hui Yin took Tang Lu Wu and Tang Yi Xiao to the market two more times. They brought home 15 taels of silver, then spent two taels on new shoes—proper ones that didn’t pinch or leak at the first puddle.
When the well was finally finished, the weather turned crisp. Cold noodles and Chilled Jelly Noodles disappeared from their stall as if the season had swallowed them whole. To soothe the die-hard noodle lovers, Qin Hui Yin swapped in stir-fried noodles instead—hot, fragrant, and easy to eat with numb fingers.
Tang Yi Chen returned to the academy soon after.
This time, the whole family saw him off.
They padded his old bed with a thick mattress, laid fresh sheets, and covered it with a new cotton quilt. Qin Hui Yin had prepared four jars of sauce ahead of time—mushroom and minced meat sauce, fermented black bean sauce, sweet bean paste, and crab roe sauce—lined up like little soldiers on the table.
“Elder Brother, these jars are for the tutors,” she said, nudging them closer to him. “Take them over yourself in a bit.”
She pulled out several smaller jars as well, setting them aside.
Tang Yi Chen’s eyes warmed. He reached out and patted her head, gentle despite the calluses in his palm. “Thank you. The household will be on your shoulders again. And teaching them to read—I’m counting on you, too.”
“They’ve learned a few characters lately,” Qin Hui Yin said, grinning. “When they see signs in the county seat, they can pick them out. They’re so excited they’re even more eager to learn. Don’t worry. I’ll manage it.”
From the side, Li Tao Hua clicked her tongue, sour as vinegar. “Anyone who didn’t know better would think you two were blood siblings.”
Qin Hui Yin laughed and hooked an arm around her. “What, I’m not allowed to be close to Elder Brother? Mother’s jealous, huh?”
Li Tao Hua huffed and lifted her chin like she was too proud to be teased. “We’ll wait for you outside.”
Once Tang Yi Chen had gone in, Qin Hui Yin took a slow look around his quarters. Plain. Bare. Practical in the way poor people learned to be.
An idea took root.
She led the others on a stroll around town, stopped by a family that raised plants, and bought a potted flower with sturdy leaves and a bright, hopeful color. She also picked up brush, ink, paper, and an inkstone—things a scholar could never have enough of.
Not wanting to disturb anyone, they handed everything directly to the gatekeeper.
By the time the gatekeeper went to fetch Tang Yi Chen, Qin Hui Yin and the others were already gone.
Tang Yi Chen carried the flowerpot inside like it was something fragile.
“Yi Chen,” one of his classmates called, eyes wide with mischief, “you’re getting more and more refined. Growing flowers now?”
Tang Yi Chen smiled faintly. “My sister bought it for me.”
He set the pot carefully on his desk. The room looked different at once—less like a cell, more like a place meant for living.
“My sister also made some dried fish,” he added, opening a small cupboard. “If any of you are interested, have a taste.”
“Interested? Of course we’re interested.”
They crowded in as if he’d offered them meat in a famine.
Tang Yi Chen washed his hands, then took out the little fish, fried golden and crisp. He opened the oiled paper packet, the scent rising immediately—salty and rich, with something that made the nose tingle.
“It smells so good…”
“Yi Chen, what’s this?” Someone had spotted the jars.
He’d already delivered the tutors’ share earlier. The jars on his shelf now were the ones Qin Hui Yin had prepared for him.
“My sister made these seasoning sauces,” he said. “When we eat later, everyone can try some.”
“It’s so fragrant it’s making my head spin,” another boy groaned, half joking, half sincere.
The fish disappeared quickly, everyone chewing and reaching for another.
“The little fish are great, too,” someone said through a mouthful. “There’s another flavor—what is it? It’s tingly, and somehow it makes you even hungrier.”
Tang Yi Chen shook his head, amused. “I don’t know either. Those are secret recipes my sister worked out on her own.”
“You’ve mentioned your sister several times now,” a classmate said, eyes gleaming. “This sister of yours is really something. When will she come again? Let us meet her.”
Tang Yi Chen’s smile tightened. He looked at the eager faces around him and felt their curiosity wasn’t entirely innocent. “She’s timid around strangers,” he said at once. “Another time.”
Not long after he returned, the tutors called him in and shoved a test in front of him.
A past-year Imperial Exam paper.
While Tang Yi Chen endured the tutors’ devilish training, Qin Hui Yin and the others kept grinding away at the stall.
The newly dug well needed time to settle before they could use it. Sediment had to sink. The water had to be flushed and rinsed again and again until it ran clear.
In the village, their well became everyone’s favorite topic. Sour talk seeped into every conversation.
Digging a well cost more than labor. It took materials, too. And most of all, the whole village shared one old well—yet Tang Da Fu’s household insisted on having their own. If that wasn’t showing off, what was?
That afternoon, Qin Hui Yin sat with the ledger open in front of her, counting the cash box coin by coin.
Li Tao Hua dropped beside her. “Daughter, what are you thinking about?”
“This house is too small,” Qin Hui Yin said, still staring at the numbers. “We don’t have enough room. I want to build a bigger one, but this money isn’t enough.”
Li Tao Hua blinked. “Still not enough? I’ve seen people build big houses without spending that much.”
“The big house I want has to look beautiful,” Qin Hui Yin said matter-of-factly. “A large garden. Roomy bedrooms for everyone. Built-in desks and wardrobes. I asked about house prices in the county seat—they’re far too expensive. I don’t think we can buy a big house there anytime soon. Living in the village is more cost-effective.”
Li Tao Hua frowned, still not convinced. “If your brother takes the Imperial Exam and earns a degree, won’t we have to move later?”
“Not in the short term,” Qin Hui Yin said. “And even if Elder Brother passes, his first post won’t be very high. We don’t need to rush to go running after him.”