The three days leading up to the Magistrate's Gathering were a blur of domestic industry that rivaled the frantic cloak-weaving marathon.
The focus this time was not on a product to be sold, but on a person to be presented.
"Chin up. Shoulders back. You are not a shepherd boy today; you are a scholar."
Chen Yuan stood in the courtyard, holding a straight bamboo stick. He tapped Little Ming's slouching back lightly.
"I'm not a scholar yet," Little Ming mumbled, wincing as he corrected his posture. He was wearing his "best" outfit—a set of dark blue hemp robes that had been washed so many times they were almost grey.
"Today, you are," Chen Yuan said firmly. "Perception creates reality. If you walk in there looking like a beggar, they treat you like a beggar. If you walk in there like you own the place, they'll wonder which noble family you belong to."
Wang Shi sat on the porch, critically examining the robe. She had spent two nights unpicking the seams and re-sewing them to make the fit tighter, more tailored. She had boiled the fabric with a handful of wild chestnuts to darken the color and stiffen the weave, giving it a texture that resembled rough silk rather than peasant cloth.
"The collar is still crooked," she fussed, standing up to adjust it. "And your boots. They are patched."
"Polish them with ink," Mother suggested from the kitchen door. "It will cover the fade."
"We're not deceiving anyone," Little Ming said, his voice trembling. "They will know. The Steward's son... he wears real silk. He smells of agarwood. I smell like... like the stove."
"He smells like hard work," Chen Yuan said, gripping his brother's shoulder. "And that is a scent these town officials rarely encounter. Do not apologize for it."
He knelt down, looking his brother in the eye.
"Little Ming, listen to me. The Magistrate is a man of power. He hears flattery every day. He hears poems about flowers and moonlight every hour. If you go in there and act like a frightened servant, you lose. But if you go in there and speak your truth—the truth of the mud, the frost, the hunger—you might just surprise him."
"My truth?"
"The poem you wrote. The one Teacher Liu liked. The one about the pine and the snow. Do not change it to please them. Speak it like you mean it."
Little Ming took a deep breath, his small fists clenching at his sides. He nodded. "I will not shame the family."
"Good. Now, go wash your face. And use the good soap."
---
The journey to Qinghe Town the next morning was tense.
Chen Yuan drove the ox cart, while Little Ming sat in the back, reciting classical texts under his breath. Xu Tie had stayed behind to guard the ranch; the wolf threat was still too real to leave the Wasteland unattended.
The town was bustling. The Winter Gathering was a significant social event, drawing scholars, merchants, and minor gentry from the surrounding counties. The venue was the "Pavilion of Literary Virtue," a grand building near the Magistrate's yamen.
Chen Yuan dropped Little Ming off at the entrance. The contrast was stark. Carriages with crested curtains deposited boys in bright silks—crimson, azure, emerald—surrounded by servants carrying hand warmers and ink stones.
Little Ming, in his stiff, dark hemp, looked like a crow among peacocks.
"I'll be at the teahouse across the street," Chen Yuan said, handing him a small bundle. "A brush, ink, and a bun. Eat before you go in."
"Aren't you coming?"
"Peasants aren't allowed in the Pavilion," Chen Yuan lied—technically, family could wait in the outer courtyard, but he didn't want to embarrass Ming with his own rough presence. "I'll wait for the results. Go."
Little Ming squared his shoulders, clutched his bundle, and walked toward the gate. The guard looked at his clothes, sniffed, but saw the official invitation. He waved him through.
Chen Yuan watched until his brother disappeared into the crowd, then turned to find a spot to wait.
---
The interior of the Pavilion of Literary Virtue was a sensory assault of wealth.
Incense burners shaped as bronze cranes spewed sandalwood smoke. Heavy silk tapestries hung from the rafters, insulating the hall from the winter cold. The floor was covered in red carpets.
Little Ming stood near the back, clutching his writing kit. He felt small. The boys around him spoke with accents that clipped and curled, unlike his flat village drawl. They discussed famous courtesans in the capital, or new tea varieties from the south.
"Look at that," a voice sneered.
Little Ming looked up. It was Liu Wen, the Steward's son. He was dressed in a robe of snowy white fox fur, a jade pendant at his waist. He was surrounded by a gaggle of sycophants.
"A scarecrow in the library," Liu Wen laughed. "Did you come to sweep the floor, village boy?"
Little Ming's face burned. He looked down at his boots, freshly inked but still undeniably patched.
"I was invited," Little Ming said quietly.
"Invited? Did Teacher Liu run out of real students?" Liu Wen stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Listen to me. This gathering is for the future of the county. Not for mud-footed farmers who want to play pretend. Know your place."
"Silence!"
A sharp rap of a gavel silenced the room.
A portly man in official robes—the Magistrate, Master Li—stepped onto the raised dais. He had a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that seemed tired but sharp.
"Sit," the Magistrate commanded.
The students scrambled for seats. Little Ming found a spot at the very edge of the last row, behind a pillar.
"We are here to celebrate the winter and cultivate talent," the Magistrate announced. "The theme of today's gathering is... *Expectation*."
He waved his hand. Servants placed paper and ink on every desk.
"You have one hour. Write a poem or an essay. The winner will receive... a set of the Four Treasures of the Study, and a personal recommendation to the Prefectural Academy."
A gasp went through the room. The Prefectural Academy was the stepping stone to the Imperial Exams. A recommendation was worth a thousand taels of silver.
Little Ming's hand shook as he unrolled his paper.
*Expectation.*
He dipped his brush. He thought of the theme. The rich boys would write about the expectation of spring blossoms, or the expectation of a lover's return.
He thought of his brother. He thought of the frozen Wasteland. He thought of the cow, "Hope," shivering in the lean-to.
*What do we expect?*
He began to write.
---
One hour later.
The Magistrate's clerk collected the scrolls. The tension in the room was palpable.
The Magistrate sat on his chair, sipping tea, flipping through the submissions with a look of bored disdain.
" 'The snow melts, the flowers bloom'. Boring."
" 'The moon waits for the sun'. Cliché."
" 'My heart yearns for capital'. Presumptuous."
He tossed scrolls aside like trash. The students whose work was rejected slumped in their seats.
He picked up a scroll written on high-quality Xuan paper. The calligraphy was elegant.
" 'Winter's white blanket covers the jade pavilion, awaiting the phoenix's return'," the Magistrate read aloud. "A bit flowery, but the technique is sound. Liu Wen?"
Liu Wen stood up, beaming, bowing low. "This student humbly offers his thoughts."
"It is skillful," the Magistrate said. "But lacks spirit. It is pretty, but empty. Like a painted lantern with no candle inside."
Liu Wen's smile faltered. "Sir?"
"Sit."
The Magistrate continued. He reached the bottom of the pile. The last scroll was written on rough, yellow paper—the cheap kind village schools used.
He unfurled it. The calligraphy wasn't elegant; it was stiff and bold, the strokes heavy.
"This one," the Magistrate said, his voice changing.
The room went silent.
He read aloud:
*"The frost is thick, the earth is hard as stone,*
*The ox is lean, the wind cuts to the bone.*
*Yet deep within the muck, the seed is sleeping,*
*For spring comes not to those who sit and weep,*
*But to the hands that sow while others sleep."*
The Magistrate looked up. "Who wrote this?"
Little Ming's heart hammered against his ribs. He stood up, his knees shaking. "This... this student."
The Magistrate stared at him. He looked at the rough robes, the patched boots.
"Come forward."
Little Ming walked down the aisle. He could feel the stares—Liu Wen's hateful glare, the curiosity of the others. He reached the dais and bowed deeply.
"What is your name?"
"Chen Ming. From Willow Creek Village."
"A farmer's son?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"You wrote about 'muck' and 'oxen' in a literary gathering," the Magistrate said, his voice dangerous. "Do you think this is appropriate? We are discussing high culture."
Little Ming remembered Chen Yuan's words. *Speak your truth.*
He looked up, meeting the Magistrate's eyes.
"Your Excellency, this student believes that culture is rooted in the earth. Without the oxen and the muck, there is no food for the scholars, no silk for the robes. The expectation of spring is not a dream for the farmer. It is a promise of survival. That is what I wrote."
The hall held its breath. It was a rebuke to the noble's detachment.
The Magistrate stared at Little Ming for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes.
"Rooted in the earth," the Magistrate repeated. "It has weight. It has grit. Unlike the floating clouds written by the rest of you."
He tapped the scroll.
"This takes second place."
Second place. Not first. But it was a ranking.
Liu Wen stood up, his face red. "Your Excellency! His paper is cheap! His ink is stale! He—"
"Silence!" The Magistrate snapped. "Literature is about the heart, not the paper. Liu Wen, your work was technically proficient but lacked soul. You are third."
Liu Wen froze, humiliated.
The Magistrate turned back to Little Ming. "Second place. You win a prize. A brush set."
He paused.
"And... I hear your family has recently taken up... ranching?"
Little Ming blinked, surprised the Magistrate knew. "Yes, sir. My brother is building a ranch on the Wasteland."
"I see. A fitting backdrop for such a poem." The Magistrate nodded. "Keep writing. And keep working the muck. It seems to suit you."
---
The doors of the Pavilion opened.
Chen Yuan, who had been pacing outside the teahouse, looked up.
Little Ming walked out. He was carrying a lacquered wooden box—the prize—and his face was pale but his eyes were blazing.
"Ming! How did it go?"
Little Ming walked up to his brother. He didn't say a word. He just handed him the box.
Chen Yuan opened it. Inside lay a set of three brushes, an ink stone, and a seal made of soapstone.
"Second place," Little Ming whispered. "And the Magistrate... he liked the poem. The one about the ox."
Chen Yuan felt a lump in his throat. Second place. In a competition against the sons of merchants and stewards.
He grabbed his brother and hugged him, right there in the street, ignoring the passersby.
"You did it," Chen Yuan said, patting his back roughly. "You showed them."
"Liu Wen came third," Little Ming giggled, a hint of childish vindictiveness creeping in. "He looked like he swallowed a toad."
Chen Yuan laughed. "Good. Let him choke on it."
They walked back to the cart, walking taller.
But as they reached the cart, a figure stepped out from the shadows of an alleyway.
It was Steward Liu.
He wasn't smiling. His face was a mask of cold fury. Two thugs stood behind him, arms crossed.
"Second place," Liu said, his voice soft. "Impressive, for a peasant."
Chen Yuan stepped in front of Little Ming. "Steward Liu. A beautiful day for a gathering."
"It was," Liu said. "Until my family was insulted by a mud-caked urchin."
He looked at Chen Yuan.
"You have spirit, Chen Yuan. I'll give you that. But spirit doesn't stop the taxman. Or the weather. Or... accidents."
He leaned in close.
"That cow of yours. The one you walked to the stud farm? I heard about it. You think a single calf will save you? The principal debt is still due in the spring. And I will be collecting."
"We will pay," Chen Yuan said calmly.
"See that you do. Because if you don't..." Liu glanced at the Wasteland road. "I hear wolves are very aggressive this year. It would be a shame if something... happened to that nice new shelter you built."
It was a threat. A direct, violent threat.
Chen Yuan felt the cowboy in him rise up. The desire to defend his herd.
"Steward Liu," Chen Yuan said, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I caught a wolf last week. Skinned it myself. I have no problem dealing with predators. Of any kind."
Liu's eyes widened slightly at the aggression. He hadn't expected the farmer to push back.
He sneered. "Big words. Let's see if you have the silver to back them up. Get out of my sight."
Liu turned and walked away, his thugs flanking him.
Little Ming clutched Chen Yuan's arm. "Brother... he threatened us."
"He did," Chen Yuan said, watching Liu disappear into the crowd. "Which means he's worried."
"Worried?"
"He sees us rising, Ming. He sees the ranch, the goats, the milk. And he's afraid we might actually pay him off. A predator is most dangerous when it's cornered."
Chen Yuan turned to his brother.
"We need to speed things up. The calf is coming. We need that grass to grow. And we need to turn this ranch into a fortress."
He helped Little Ming onto the cart.
"Come on. Let's go home. We have work to do."
As they drove the cart out of the town, the winter sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the road ahead.
The "Scholar" had made his mark. Now the "Rancher" had to hold the line.