Ch 87: Reborn to Raise My Husband

In early May, the results of the metropolitan examination were released. Before the successful candidates could even catch their breath, those who had made the list were required to proceed to the palace examination in midmonth, where they would appear before the emperor himself.

At this time, the examination system had not yet been reformed, so even among the tribute scholars who passed the metropolitan exam, some would still fail the palace exam. Only those who passed the palace examination would officially earn the title of jinshi, allowing the Ministries of Personnel and Rites to assign them government posts.

Years later, however, imperial policy grew more generous toward scholars. The new decree granted jinshi status to all who passed the metropolitan exam, making the palace examination a mere formality—serving only to rearrange rankings rather than determine success or failure.

But prosperity often leads to decline. As the number of degree-holders multiplied, so too did the ranks of idle officials and bureaucrats. Scholars became increasingly common, and thus, less valuable.

In time, many below the jinshi rank found themselves without any official post at all. Even those who held the title had to wait for vacancies. Some passed the exam in their forties and did not receive a position until their hair turned gray; others never did and were forced to seek other livelihoods.

Later, when a new emperor ascended the throne, he dismissed many corrupt or ineffectual officials, reduced bloated ranks, and tightened the quotas for examinations, restoring the rigor of the selection process.

Year by year, the worth of a scholar’s title began to recover.

So it is with life—one’s fortunes rise and fall with the times.
If born under the right star, the world opens its doors; if not, every path is a wall.

In this particular spring examination, one hundred and twenty candidates had passed. Based on past years, around eighty would eventually become jinshi, leaving forty to try again the next year.

Qi Beinan, however, was not worried. He had placed in the top tier of the metropolitan exam. Translated on Hololo novels.
As long as he conducted himself properly in the palace examination—without offense or error—his title as jinshi was nearly assured. The only matter left to shape was his final rank.

When they returned home, less than a stick of incense later, the messengers arrived with drums and gongs to announce the good news.

The ceremony was much like the one for passing the provincial exam.

This time, Xiao Yuanbao handled it with practiced ease. After tossing silver coins to the cheering crowd, he discreetly handed the herald a heavy pouch.

“Please, come inside and rest, have a cup of tea for your trouble,” he said warmly.

The officer, clearly accustomed to such gestures, pocketed the money and replied politely, “Many thanks, but we’ve still more houses to visit.” With that, he led the troupe onward.

Xiao Yuanbao noticed that though the man smiled, it was a thin, formal smile—nothing like the hearty congratulations they’d received back in the county.

The others saw it too, but said nothing. They simply maintained decorum, greeting the well-wishers who came for red packets.

Though the official’s tone was cool, the procession itself was far grander than before—drums, gongs, and a long parade of attendants. Every street they passed through filled with curious onlookers.

In the capital, even among the wealth and splendor, there were plenty of ordinary and poor families; at the sound of the drums, many rushed out hoping to catch a few scattered coins.

After the herald departed, Xiao Yuanbao threw more coins three separate times before finally returning indoors.

“Strange,” Zhao Guangzong muttered once the door closed behind them. “You’d think passing as a tribute scholar would be even more glorious than the provincial exam—but somehow it doesn’t feel that way.”

“Exactly,” Xiao Yuanbao said. “That man took the silver fast enough, but he couldn’t even muster a smile.”

Qi Beinan chuckled. “The heralds of the metropolitan exam only deliver the message—they don’t know the candidate’s rank. When they looked at our doorway and saw no plaque or household insignia, they could tell at a glance we’re just visitors lodging here from the provinces.”

He added, “And since we have no influential relatives in the capital, their attitude is nothing unusual. They weren’t rude—merely reserved. If we took offense over that, it would only make us seem petty.”

Xiao Yuanbao frowned, realizing how complicated the capital’s ways were—how easily warmth turned to calculation.

Qi Beinan soothed them with a smile. “Come now, let’s see what reward the tribute scholars receive.”

At that, the mood brightened again. They opened the red lacquered box trimmed with gold. Inside was a silver token engraved with “Tribute Scholar,” along with the official certificates. The paper itself was finer than that used for the provincial degree, but otherwise there was nothing remarkable.

What surprised them most was the lack of any property grant—only a set of imperial ink, a pair of five-tael gold ingots, and a porcelain vase from the royal kilns.

Xiao Yuanbao shook the empty box. “That’s it?”

Qi Beinan laughed. “Once you reach this level, rewards aren’t about wealth but status. The ink and the vase are imperial gifts—things you can’t simply buy. In a city like this, surrounded by nobles and scholars, that carries more weight than gold or land.”

Xiao Yuanbao blinked. “Then I’ll have to set them on a fine shelf, dust them every day, and make sure they shine.”

Two days later, Zhao Guangzong packed his things and set off for Ling County once more.

Zhao Guangzong hadn’t made the list, and with nothing left for him in the capital, he decided to return home early to deliver the good news of Qi Beinan’s success.

At dawn, Qi Beinan and Xiao Yuanbao accompanied him to the city gate.

Though farewells always carried a trace of melancholy, both felt a quiet gladness too—for now, at last, it was just the two of them.

The morning breeze met their faces, cool and light, refreshing to the spirit.

Qi Beinan looked at Xiao Yuanbao beside him, something stirring in his chest. “No rush to go back,” he said. “Let me take you somewhere.”

He took Xiao Yuanbao’s hand and led him down a narrow lane so tight that not even a cart could pass.

Xiao Yuanbao followed curiously as Qi Beinan guided him through two winding streets.

He found these cramped alleys of the capital oddly charming—so narrow that when they walked side by side, their sleeves brushed together, bringing them close. Suddenly, they emerged from the alley’s end into a grove of ginkgo trees.

A wide street stretched ahead, lined on both sides with tall, thick-trunked ginkgoes rising straight toward the sky.

The new leaves were lush and fan-shaped, overlapping like green scales. The air was filled with their fresh scent.

There were few ginkgoes back in Ling County, and seeing an entire avenue of them amazed Xiao Yuanbao.

He tilted his chin upward, gazing at the verdant canopy glowing under the morning sun, and drew a deep breath.

“I can’t even imagine how this place must look in autumn, when all these leaves turn gold.”

His eyes sparkled as he looked at Qi Beinan.

“There are many tea houses and taverns along this street,” Qi Beinan said. “They all use the ginkgo trees as their draw. Each season brings a new view, so business never wanes.”

“If we’re still here come autumn,” said Xiao Yuanbao, “I’d love to sit in one of those tea houses and watch the golden leaves fall.”

Qi Beinan smiled—he had known Xiao Yuanbao would like this place, just as before.

When he’d lived in the capital, he rarely went out, but when he did, he often came here.

They had once walked this same ginkgo avenue through the four seasons together—seen the buds sprout, the leaves thicken, the fruits form, the leaves fall, and snow blanket the bare branches.

But back then, Xiao Yuanbao’s brows always carried a faint sadness, as if happiness stayed just out of reach. It had made Qi Beinan’s heart ache.

He had even wondered then—perhaps Xiao Yuanbao did not truly love him.

Now, walking this path again, the memory overlapped with the present so vividly that Qi Beinan felt disoriented, unsure which time he was in.

Xiao Yuanbao was glancing around, curious and bright. When no reply came, he turned and found Qi Beinan standing still, watching him with an absent expression.

“Are you worrying about the palace exam?” he asked, stepping closer.

It was strange—Qi Beinan had been the one to suggest this outing, yet now he looked far from cheerful.

Qi Beinan reached out and lightly tapped between Xiao Yuanbao’s brows.

The young man’s eyes were lively and clear—where could sorrow hide in such a face?

Qi Beinan smiled suddenly and shook his head, then took Xiao Yuanbao’s hand.

“I’m not worried about the exam,” he said softly. “I’m just…”

After a moment’s pause, he finished, “Just grateful.”

He drew Xiao Yuanbao into his arms. The real, solid warmth of the embrace steadied the uneasy flutter in his chest.

Xiao Yuanbao blinked up at him. “Grateful for what?”

Grateful—to have you again.

But Qi Beinan didn’t say that aloud. Instead, he smiled faintly. “Grateful for many things. For making the list… and for you being here.”

Then he loosened his hold just enough for Xiao Yuanbao to meet his gaze, still resting one arm lightly around his waist.

“Xiaobao,” he said, “once everything here is settled, once life steadies—”

“When spring comes again and the flowers bloom, let’s get married. Will you?”

Xiao Yuanbao froze, taken aback.

Though the engagement had been set long ago, hearing the word “marriage” spoken aloud felt entirely different.

In truth, his father had sent him to the capital with the very purpose of sounding Qi Beinan out—to see when he intended to wed.

During the journey, Xiao Yuanbao had tried to think of how to bring up the matter delicately, but no phrasing ever felt right.

And once he arrived in the bustling capital, swept up in the joy of Qi Beinan’s success, he’d pushed the matter entirely from his mind.

Now, unexpectedly, Qi Beinan had brought it up first.

Caught unprepared, Xiao Yuanbao’s heart leapt with joy, though he was too shy to show it.

He lowered his gaze, avoiding Qi Beinan’s steady eyes, and gave a small nod.

Then, feeling that seemed too slight an answer, he quickly added, “All right.”

Spring would be warm—perfect for a wedding.

And truthfully, he wanted it too.
He wanted not only to live under the same roof, but to share the same bed.

The thought startled him; his face grew hot all at once.

It wasn’t Qi Beinan’s proposal that embarrassed him—it was his own thought that did.

“But—” he stammered, “but I’ll have to tell Father first. He has to agree.”

Qi Beinan laughed softly. Seeing Xiao Yuanbao’s bashful acceptance filled him with warmth.

For years, all the affection he’d lost with his parents’ deaths, all his hope for love and life itself—he had placed them in this young man he had once been promised to without even seeing his face.

He still remembered clearly the first time he saw Xiao Yuanbao. Even though the young man had not been particularly striking, he had liked him right away.

In his past life, he had also asked Xiao Yuanbao if he was willing to marry him, and Xiao Yuanbao had said yes.

But that “yes” had felt different then. Back then, Xiao Yuanbao had seemed to agree only because he had no better choice.

At that time, Xiao Yuanbao had been timid and reserved, barely daring to look him in the eye or speak more than a few words. Perhaps that agreement had simply been a chance to escape the household controlled by the Qin family.

Now, however, his “yes” came after thought and sincerity. The answer was the same, but the meaning was entirely different.

Qi Beinan was not usually one to overthink, but when it came to Xiao Yuanbao, he couldn’t help it—his calm always faltered.

Like now, when he still found himself asking, “Of course. But… what if Uncle Xiao doesn’t agree?”

“How could he not?” said Xiao Yuanbao. “Father likes you so much. Now that you’re a tribute scholar, he’ll only be prouder of you.”

Qi Beinan teased, “But what if—just what if—he still refuses? What would you do then?”

Xiao Yuanbao blinked. A first-tier tribute scholar, almost certain to become a jinshi, asking such childish questions—it was absurd.

But he’d long grown used to such moments from Qi Beinan. “If Father doesn’t agree,” he said matter-of-factly, “then you’ll just have to make him agree. It’s not me who’s unwilling. Whatever happens, I’m not the sort to run off with you and elope without a proper matchmaker or betrothal gifts.”

Qi Beinan burst out laughing. He pinched Xiao Yuanbao’s cheek—no matter how he pinched, he found it unbearably endearing.

“Our little Bao has grown up. Not so easy to fool anymore.”

Xiao Yuanbao swatted his hand away. His face was no longer the soft, round one of childhood; his features had grown firm, and the pinch was uncomfortable.

He reached out to pinch Qi Beinan’s cheek in return, but before his fingers could touch, Qi Beinan turned his head and brushed his lips against them.

His lips were cool and soft.

The sensation sent a current through Xiao Yuanbao’s finger, running all the way up his spine. His whole body tingled; his ears turned crimson.

Qi Beinan chuckled at the sight of him frozen. “Even that flusters you?”

Xiao Yuanbao’s face was aflame. He turned away quickly, curling his fingers tight, unable to steady his gaze.

It wasn’t that it couldn’t happen—it was just… overwhelming.

The palace examination was held on the sixteenth of May.

Before dawn, Qi Beinan climbed into a rented carriage bound for the palace gates.

The capital was vast, divided into the Imperial City, the Inner City, and the Outer City. Even with clear roads and no traffic, the journey from the outer districts to the palace took nearly the time of two sticks of incense.

But the city was dense with people. Morning court began early, and even before sunrise the streets were alive—shops sweeping their thresholds, vendors preparing their wares. It wasn’t as crowded as midday, but swift passage was impossible.

For those officials living outside the Inner City, commuting to court was daily torment.

Qi Beinan had suffered that once himself—when he’d first come to the capital for the metropolitan exam, lured by cheap lodging in the outer districts.

On the morning of the test, he had nearly lost his wits hurrying to make it on time.

This time, wiser for the experience, he had paid extra to stay near the edge of the Inner City. Even so, reaching the palace still took nearly a stick of incense.

When he arrived at the towering red gates, dozens of tribute scholars were already gathered, waiting.

Luo Tingfeng had come early and was leaning against a carriage, flipping through a book. His eyes barely tracked the words—clearly reading only for distraction.

When he spotted Qi Beinan, he closed the book and greeted him in a low voice.

It was everyone’s first time appearing before the emperor. For provincial candidates like them—who had barely glimpsed high-ranking officials, let alone the Son of Heaven—it was hard not to feel nervous.

Those born in the capital or into bureaucratic families, on the other hand, were chatting and laughing easily.

Qi Beinan offered Luo Tingfeng a few quiet reminders about palace exam etiquette.

Not long after, Jiang Tangyuan arrived late as always.

Barely had he joined them when an official from the Ministry of Rites appeared, register in hand, calling names and ordering them into formation.

The murmuring crowd fell silent at once. Each name called received a crisp reply.

The lineup followed their metropolitan exam rankings: Qi Beinan, being first-tier, stood third in line.

The candidate in second place glanced back at him—impressive bearing, dignified. Then looked toward the first-ranked scholar at the front—graceful and elegant as jade.

His own lips twitched downward. Quietly, he slipped the small mirror he’d been hiding in his sleeve back where it belonged.

When the appointed hour came, the ritual officer recited the rules of entry. Then, with a solemn creak, the vermilion gates opened, and the procession of scholars filed in.

Marble pillars gleamed white as frost; golden roofs dazzled in the dawn light. Though the scholars kept their eyes lowered, the grandeur around them was impossible to ignore.

By the time they reached the Hall of Supreme Harmony, the chill morning air had already turned their backs damp with sweat.

The emperor was seated within, robed in gold and crimson, crowned with jade strings that shimmered faintly as he moved.

Emperor Kaide was in his middle years, a little heavy at the waist but still stately—one could imagine that in youth he had been a striking prince.

The candidates knelt and bowed according to custom. The emperor addressed them briefly, and when the time came, bade them take their seats.

The palace examination, being imperial, had no formal examiners. The emperor himself presided, assisted only by two grand secretaries of the Inner Cabinet, six ministers of the Six Boards, and four censors to supervise.

Unlike the cramped cells of previous exams, this one was held openly within the vast hall—one hundred and twenty desks neatly arranged beneath the soaring ceiling, each scholar seated in full view of the throne.

Around the hall, a dozen court ministers moved among the rows of desks, and even the emperor himself strolled between them, observing how the candidates wrote their essays.

For those sitting the palace examination for the first time, it was sheer torment—cold sweat running down their backs, hearts pounding.
It turned out that being confined in a tiny exam cubicle had been far more comforting than sitting here under the emperor’s gaze.

In those narrow cells, at least one could settle the mind. But here, as they wrote, someone might suddenly stop beside them—perhaps a Grand Secretary, perhaps the emperor himself—standing close enough to feel his shadow. It was enough to make any man’s hand tremble.

The palace examination consisted of a single policy essay, submitted the same day.
The question was personally chosen by the emperor.

When Qi Beinan took the palace exam for the first time, he too had been uneasy. It had taken him nearly a stick of incense to calm his nerves and focus.

In truth, although the emperor set the question, the topic was usually simple and never deliberately obscure.
For candidates who had survived the fierce trials of the provincial and metropolitan exams, it was not truly difficult.

This test measured not knowledge, but composure.
Hence, many who failed the first time would pass the second, and if not, then surely the third.
As the saying went—once unfamiliar, twice routine.

Now, this was Qi Beinan’s second palace examination.
Even setting aside the fact that he had passed on his first try, his years as an official had made him deeply familiar with the system.
He had served as a regional examiner, supervised exams in the Hall of Supreme Harmony itself, and even graded papers.

This time, the exam was almost effortless for him.

Still, he did not dare appear too relaxed. He forced himself to act a little nervous for a quarter hour before finally setting brush to paper, his writing flowing steadily across the page.

Then, a faint scent of dragon musk drifted past.
A flash of imperial yellow brushed the corner of his vision and stopped beside him.
Qi Beinan’s brush paused ever so slightly—but he did not look up. He simply continued writing.

The presence lingered for a long while before moving on.

When they finally handed in their papers and exited the Hall of Supreme Harmony, many of the candidates still looked dazed, as if their souls had been left behind in the hall.

“How was it? Went smoothly?”

Qi Beinan found Luo Tingfeng outside. The crowd was thick, the carriages endless. He didn’t see Jiang Tangyuan anywhere.

Once they had moved to a quieter street, Luo Tingfeng said, “His Majesty’s question was ingenious—benevolent toward scholars.”
Of course, he didn’t dare say outright that the topic had been easy.

“It was only the emperor’s presence,” he added, “that made it hard to concentrate at first.”

Qi Beinan replied, “With your learning, Brother Luo, you surely did the emperor’s grace justice.”

The two shared a knowing smile.

Meanwhile, inside the palace, the emperor himself was in fine spirits.

“Your Majesty’s pleasure shows these tribute scholars have met your expectations,” said the chief eunuch, offering him tea. When the emperor was happy, his servants were too.

“I found the first-tier candidates quite satisfactory,” said the emperor after a sip of Longjing. “Their essays show genuine scholarship. The Ministry of Rites has not sent me mediocrities this year.”

He chuckled again. “And they are all handsome, well-mannered fellows. Talented and pleasing to the eye—what more could one ask?”

Indeed, when he had looked upon the top three candidates, his eyes had brightened again and again.
He had always appreciated scholars who possessed both talent and beauty.

“The third-place one,” he said, “writes a fine hand—elegant strokes, true mastery. Young, too. Rare to see such refinement at that age.”

The eunuch laughed softly, cautious but eager to please. “All three are fine—good essays, good faces, good calligraphy. Still in the prime of youth, not old repeaters like before. Your Majesty, you may well have trouble choosing this year.”

The emperor set down his cup, amused. “Indeed! In past years I’ve worried there wasn’t a single decent face among the top ranks—how could one choose a tanhua like that? But this time, they’re all striking. How is a man to decide?”

Emperor Kaide had been handsome in his youth and prided himself on a keen eye for beauty.

When it came time to select the tanhua—the third-ranked jinshi—he was notoriously particular, refusing to pick a man who was merely learned but plain of face.

After all, when the tanhua rode through the streets in scarlet robes, it was meant to be a sight of grace and elegance.

In his younger days, as a carefree prince, he had once watched such a parade and been captivated by the sight of a tanhua riding high on horseback, radiant as a flower in spring.

Even after ascending the throne, he still enjoyed inviting the new tanhua to his banquets, where music and dance mingled with poetry and laughter.

For a ruler burdened with endless affairs of state, such beauty—whether in a man’s grace or a woman’s charm—was a welcome respite for the heart.

Emperor Kaide was a wise sovereign, but he too had his private tastes and pleasures.

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