Cheng Jinzhou returned to his quarters with mixed feelings—half disappointment, half excitement.
His mother, by contrast, was positively radiant.
Without even removing her ceremonial makeup after the ancestral rites, Madam Cheng came sweeping into his room, sleeves fluttering. "My son," she beamed, "you've brought great honor to your mother today."
Clearly, Cheng Jinzhou's performance had made her the envy of all the noble ladies present.
The young man idly flicked the beads of his abacus with little enthusiasm. "Doesn't such an achievement deserve a reward?"
"Here." Oblivious to her son's mood, Madam Cheng tossed him a small brocade pouch. "Grandmother said the gift from Master Liu Kuang is too precious for daily use—you must keep it safe. Use this instead."
She'd cleverly preempted any attempt to pawn his ceremonial gift.
"I understand." Cheng Jinzhou weighed the pouch in his palm—unusually heavy, with a granular texture unlike silver.
After exchanging a few more words about the busy ancestral rites, his mother departed. Languidly, Cheng Jinzhou emptied the pouch's contents onto his bed—and his eyes widened.
Golden sunflower seeds. Dozens of them, gleaming like miniature suns.
Among Great Xia's aristocracy, gold in small denominations was favored for tipping servants and gambling. Initially minted as golden beans, the impractical design—requiring trays for gambling and causing servants to scramble under tables when thrown—led to their replacement. The flattened sunflower seed shape proved perfect: substantial enough to handle easily, yet compact for carrying. They'd become the currency of choice among nobility.
Young Master Cheng, being sickly and still in his early teens, had never received such lavish allowances before. Even his scholarly alter-ego had never encountered these gilded seeds up close.
Far from resembling actual sunflower seeds, each golden piece mimicked the broad melon-seed shape. Handcrafted variations made each unique, yet all weighed precisely 20 grams—the artisans' skill keeping deviations under 0.2 grams.
Fifty seeds filled the pouch—a full twenty taels of gold. At the standard twenty-to-one gold-silver exchange rate, this amounted to four hundred taels of silver.
"The privileges of nobility," Cheng Jinzhou sighed silently.
Too dispirited for his usual activities—currency exchange or manuscript copying—he simply curled up with his golden treasure, daydreaming of protagonist glory.
...
Dawn's first light found Cheng Jinzhou still steeped in fragrant dreams when a maid's call shattered his slumber: "Third Young Master, breakfast is served!"
Two maidservants bustled in, dressing his drowsy form—a privilege only permitted in moderately strict households like the Chengs. In more rigid families, young masters would be fully roused before servants touched them; in less proper establishments, the waking methods might involve... more persuasive techniques.
"Six already?" Rubbing his eyes, Cheng Jinzhou's morning gaze lingered appreciatively on the girls' developing figures—his twelve-year-old body's sole hormonal rebellion.
Pearl, the plumper of the two (though still barely a precocious adolescent), answered while dressing him: "Half past five. Madam wishes you to rise early."
The other maid, more delicate-featured but painfully young, made Cheng Jinzhou sigh. His frail "sickly Cheng" vessel remained frustratingly prepubescent—without proper hormones, even fantasy proved difficult.
A sudden cough from the doorway snapped his attention.
Affecting innocent curiosity, Cheng Jinzhou turned to find a gray-robed female astrologer—one of the three he'd seen during the rites. Her cropped, ear-revealing hairstyle marked her profession; only astrologers or the naturally bald sported such cuts in Great Xia.
Her status far surpassed the Cheng family's resident astrologers.
"You wished to see me?" Cheng Jinzhou sprang upright, suddenly alert.
Women in Great Xia occupied positions akin to Louis XIV's France—noble ladies could attain political influence through certain channels, chief among them becoming astrologers. Though her insignia suggested she wasn't fully ranked, her status remained formidable.
"My teacher requests your presence. I'm his disciple, Xiang Xin." Her polished manners and flawless etiquette hinted at noble upbringing.
Cheng Jinzhou needed no confirmation from his maids—this visit had clearly received parental approval, else no woman would've passed the inner gates.
"Your teacher being...?" he asked while adjusting his robes.
"Fourth-Rank Astrologer Liu Kuang," came the disinterested reply.
Touching his earlobe, Cheng Jinzhou turned slightly for the maids to finish dressing him. "Regarding my ceremonial gift?"
"The mathematical instruments and balance scale, yes."
A fourth-rank astrologer—a figure of immense prestige across Great Xia. Cheng Jinzhou exhaled imperceptibly, pulse quickening.
An astrologer had actually come for him.
...
The main hall hosted not just Cheng Jinzhou's parents, but representatives from all three branch families—stiff-backed on hardwood chairs lining the walls.
At the center sat the elderly yet vigorous astrologer from the rites, his black robes devoid of insignia. The vein-like tattoo creeping up his neck lent an intimidating air, yet all present regarded him with reverent warmth.
"Cheng Jinzhou, I presume?" The legendary fourth-rank astrologer Liu Kuang smiled benevolently.
"Yes." Twenty years of life experience proved useless—faced with someone who could dramatically alter his destiny, Cheng Jinzhou's nerves betrayed him.
Liu Kuang maintained his kindly expression. "How did you open that mathematics kit?"
At his gesture, a gray-robed disciple unfurled a paper scroll on the wall—displaying a right triangle with legs marked 12 and 35, the hypotenuse left blank.
"Can you solve this?" Liu Kuang asked jovially, his neck tattoo seeming less ominous now.
The simplest application of the Pythagorean theorem—Cheng Jinzhou nearly laughed aloud. He couldn't recall which grade this elementary problem belonged to; the only challenge being the mental arithmetic of squares and roots.
Even a fake scholar had his pride. Somewhat indignant, Cheng Jinzhou blurted: "Thirty-seven."
To his surprise, gasps came from Xiang Xin and the scroll-holding disciple behind him.
Liu Kuang, who'd been reclining casually, abruptly straightened.
...