HE With the Cold Male Protagonist C62

Chapter 62: The First of the Lists, and the Wounded Hand

Lu Lizhi felt the great hand, by now so accustomed to resting at his waist, its warmth vigorous, its master’s chest heaving with anger. Without looking back, he knew at once who it was.

Unconsciously, he leaned into that embrace.

Amidst the clamour of the crowd, it seemed the two of them were locked together, yet in that moment, none paid heed to such subtle gestures.

Jiang Baiye, still burning with wrath, was momentarily startled. But it must have been but his fancy, for Lu Lizhi soon withdrew, even deliberately widening the space between them, his face composed and solemn once more.

Yet Jiang Baiye did not believe it had been an accident.

His Lizhi grew ever more skilled at stealing his very breath!

A sudden itch seized his heart, unbearable in its sweetness.

While chaos reigned, Ding Lihui had already scrambled to his feet, pale and shaken. “Thank you, Lizhi. Someone trod upon my leg just now—I nearly lost my life!”

“Hm? Master Jiang, what brings you here?”

Jiang Baiye, who had been secretly attempting to entwine their little fingers, suddenly grasped at nothing. “…”

By then, the commotion stirred by Yu Zhijie’s faction had drawn the notice of the constables. A heavy gong resounded, silencing the tumult at once.

“Silence!”

“Another disturbance, and none shall be permitted to view the list!”

No sooner had the words fallen than a servant, who had squeezed his way to the front, cried aloud with joy—

“The First Scholar of the Xuānhe Prefecture Examinations—Lu Lizhi of Changlin County!”

Fearing he had not been heard, he cried again, and yet again: “The First Scholar of the Xuānhe Prefecture Examinations—Lu Lizhi of Changlin County!”

Thrice he shouted it, each time more resounding than the last, until the declaration rang throughout the throng.

At this, Lu Qinghong, who had been preparing to verify with his own eyes a result he thought assured, fell into speechless silence.

Yu Zhijie, bent low, searching for his lost shoe, froze in place.

The scholars of Mingli Academy—“…”

The students of Qingsong Academy—“…”

And above all, those who had contrived to hinder him, nearly bulged their eyes from their sockets. Impossible! How could this be? Was not Lord Tai Song known to abhor those accused of the passions of Longyang? Did not all whisper that Lu Lizhi’s conduct was unseemly? Why, then, would he elevate him to First?

No, surely there must be hidden dealings! How could a mute, half-crippled wretch ascend the dais of honor?

Yet when they pressed forward to behold with their own eyes, there it was: at the very head of the list, written with all clarity—three bold characters: Lu Lizhi.

Darkness swam before Lu Qinghong’s eyes.

He himself was second. Perhaps, he thought, by the narrowest margin, he might have been named First!

Yet he erred. In other examinations, indeed, there might be contention among the examiners, debates over first, second, third, until at last an arbiter must decide.

But not here. In this trial, there had been no dispute at all. With one accord, every examiner had chosen him. It was swift, decisive, and wholly without hesitation.

Only for the lesser ranks had they quibbled. At length, recalling Lu Qinghong’s family name and his steady past performance, they granted him the second place.

Meanwhile Yu Zhijie, searching in dread, at last found his number—dead last. Nearly he spat blood upon the ground.

Not even a stipend student!

For the degree of xiùcái was not one alone. The highest were stipendiary scholars, who received rations from the state. Next were supplementary scholars, without stipend. Lowest of all were attached scholars, mere substitutes, who must prove themselves anew in the seasonal examinations ere they might advance.

Yu Zhijie staggered, barefoot, humiliated beyond endurance.

His gaze rose, inch by inch, until at last it reached the very top. One, ranked first of all. The other, cast to the very bottom. Heaven and earth apart.

As for the rest of Mingli Academy, their results were middling indeed. Though many had survived the first trial, half were culled in the second, and save Lu Qinghong, none attained the stipend rank.

Qingsong Academy had sent seven. Three fell in the first trial, the remaining four became mere supplementary scholars.

Yet to all surprise, Ding Lihui, who had all but despaired, was named a stipendiary scholar. Overjoyed, he near wept, and rushed to throw himself upon Lu Lizhi.

“Lizhi! You are my lucky star! I should never have attained this without you!”

But Jiang Baiye pressed a single finger to his shoulder, pushing him away. “Thanks are thanks—keep your hands to yourself.”

Lu Lizhi, who had fulfilled his late father’s regret by securing a place among the three small primes, wore a genuine smile, his whole bearing lightened with ease.

Even when Jiang Baiye secretly clasped his hand, he did not pull away, but returned the grasp—only to feel the thickened calluses, the blister raw and bleeding. He quickly sought to examine it.

“Afraid of being discovered?” Jiang Baiye leaned close in teasing whisper.

Lu Lizhi frowned, intent on seeing, but Jiang Baiye denied him. “That was He Lun’s servant—clever lad.”

He meant the one who had cried his name so loudly amidst the crowd.

At Lu Lizhi’s glance, Jiang Baiye straightened, claiming merit. “Indeed—it was I who borrowed him, chose him for his mighty voice. Did you not see their faces? Truly delightful!”

At Mingli and Qingsong alike, disappointment abounded. Perhaps they had overestimated themselves; their fall was bitter.

By contrast, Ding Lihui and his fellows, so long oppressed, fared well indeed: four all passed, two stipendiary, two supplementary, a slap in the face to those who had scorned them.

Seeing their joy, Yu Zhijie felt only greater despair. Even they had risen, while he was cast down! Surely there must be some error—he clamored for his papers to be reviewed.

But none gave heed.

As the crowd dispersed, many strangers pressed forth to offer congratulations, eager to forge ties. Some hoped for insight into future examinations, others that should he ascend, his glory might benefit them.

Lu Lizhi ignored them all. To the common folk who came with well-wishes, he scattered coins in return.

The constables themselves hurried to Qing Shui Village to carry the glad tidings, certain of reward. Thus the news spread like fire from Baishi Town to every nearby hamlet: Lu Lizhi, First Scholar, small three primes. Envy and awe stirred every heart.

At once, many schemed to seek a marriage tie.

And the first to regret most bitterly was Madam Feng, who had once so stubbornly broken the betrothal.

“He has passed—he truly has passed, a xiùcái! And not only that, but small three primes! Curse that Jiang Yueming, who deceived me into believing he would bring disaster! Disaster? This is fortune itself!” She stormed into Wang Yujiao’s chamber in a fury.

In recent days, Wang Yujiao had lain ill, and thus Wang Lizheng, who had once thought to drive out Feng Lan’er, relented, for the girl tended her kindly, easing her spirits.

So it was that when Madam Feng declared, “Yujiao, we must not break the betrothal—go at once to tell Lu Lizhi!”—little Feng’er, eyes bright, hurried to Lan’er, and whispered, “That Lu student—no, that Lu xiùcái—he is handsome indeed, and well-suited to you.”

Lan’er thought of him—austere as snow upon high mountains, cold as the peak itself. Yet she preferred the burning sun, that consumed all it touched.

Even now, she could not believe Jiang Baiye truly favored men. He seemed so normal, so proper.

Yet she could only watch from afar, as his workshop flourished, wealth pouring in daily, surpassing even her father’s success.

Having tasted poverty, she now yearned not for rank, but for solid silver.

But all had ended when she was cast out.

Her thoughts turned to the young master He of the He family, who often came to Jichun Pharmacy. He Er was no choice—but there was rumor of an elder brother…

In the prefectural city, Jiang Baiye had just drawn Lizhi into their inn chamber. Before they could share a tender moment, Lizhi seized his hand to inspect it.

“Must you not wait a moment? At least let me steal a kiss first—just one…”

His warm breath brushed Lizhi’s cheek, his lips near to triumph.

But ere Lizhi could see the injury, a knock came at the door.

“Lu Xiùcái, our lord summons you.”

The prefect? Surely Prefect Yan.

Indeed, the men were his.

Jiang Baiye, who knew the course of events, guessed the prefect meant to take him as disciple—an honor usually reserved for scholars bound for the capital. But some eyes were keen, some hearts discerning; talent would not be overlooked.

It was a rare chance. And so Jiang Baiye, with feigned magnanimity, yielded him.

He drooped at once, burying his face in Lizhi’s neck. “So hard, now, to steal a kiss.”

Lizhi’s heart softened. He glanced at those lips—neither too thin nor too full, lips he had kissed countless times, from awkward first to seasoned ease, until even he himself had grown skilled. Sometimes, their kisses lingered long, sweet beyond measure.

“Lu Xiùcái?” the summons grew urgent outside.

Lizhi rose, smoothing his robes, and departed. Baiye waved from the bed, muffled in blankets. “Go, quickly return. I shall nap a while.”

Suppressing his worry, Lizhi went. At the prefect’s residence, he found not only Prefect Yan, but Tai Song himself.

Gone was any hint of hauteur; now all eagerness, scheming how to draw him as pupil, if not himself, then at least to one of his circle.

By the time Lizhi departed, it was past midday. He did not linger to dine—improper, and discourteous to presume. More pressing still, he must hasten back to see Jiang Baiye.

On his way, he stopped at Huichun Hall to buy salve. He had not yet seen, but he suspected Baiye’s hand was wounded.

“Lizhi? You here?” He Lun entered and was instantly elated. Rare indeed, to find him without Baiye.

Lizhi gave him no heed; they could not well converse in any case.

But He Lun prattled on, until his words cut to Baiye. “I know not which young lady he fancies, but he has labored three days and nights to craft her a gift. Mad, is he not? You are his closest friend—do you know who she is?”

Lizhi: “…”

“He bought a great boulder of fine jade for but fifty taels, sheer luck! Carved several gifts, though rather clumsy.”

Had Baiye known his surprise was so blithely revealed, he might have wrung his neck like a chicken.

Lizhi could listen no longer. Three days and nights without rest—no wonder his eyes were shadowed, his hands torn.

He seized the medicine, near crushing it in his grasp. He had thought it but a trifle, chosen common salves. Now he wrote firmly:

—Bring me the finest.

The shopkeeper protested. “Such wounds hardly require it.”

At Benevolent Hall, they would have seized the chance to sell the costliest ointment. But Lizhi insisted, and at last purchased a white balm, delicate in its box, said even to prevent scarring.

It cost eighty taels entire.

He Lun tried to spare him. “No need to pay—consider it my gift.”

But Lizhi pressed a note of one hundred taels into his hand. Only days before, he had received three hundred in dividends from Ning the shopkeeper and Master Yi; he was no longer in want.

Without pause for refusal, he departed.

He Lun sighed. “When will I ever breach their walls?”

The shopkeeper shook his head. Every word his young master had uttered had blackened Lizhi’s face further. Invite him? Impossible!

Lizhi all but ran back to the inn. Baiye had readied it beforehand, fresh bedding and comforts.

There he lay, fast asleep, not stirring at Lizhi’s return.

Lizhi’s heart swelled, aching and full, as he gently drew forth his hand to apply the salve.

The calluses were split, the blisters darkened with blood. How had he borne it for three days and nights?

Lizhi’s own hands trembled. He longed to touch, to ease his pain. But seeing him still lost in slumber, he felt the hurt in his stead.

He forced himself calm, washed his own hands, and applied the ointment—layer upon layer, careful and tender. When done, he laid the hand to rest, each finger splayed, to dry.

To keep such a pose was no easy matter. Yet Baiye did not stir.

Lizhi’s heart twisted—sore and aggrieved.