The Yamen's Gate is Wide Open, But Without Money, Don't Bother Coming In

The Qinghe County yamen sat squarely in the north center of town, its vermilion gates standing imposingly, two stone lions baring fangs and brandishing claws.

The couplet plaques flanking the gate were mottled with age; the right read "Deceiving others is like deceiving heaven," the left "Do not deceive yourself." Yet in the pale morning light, these words seemed bitterly ironic against the dragon-like queue stretching from the entrance.

Chen Ping wrapped his faded blue cloth robe tighter, hunched his neck, and blended into the crowd.

The line was mostly rough-handed men—some carrying nine-ring broadswords on their backs, others with double axes tucked into their belts, all with fierce eyes and bodies reeking of sour sweat and cheap tobacco.

Occasionally, a few young masters in fine clothes and spirited horses would cut straight to the front under the escort of their guards, and no one dared to speak up.

"In this world, even signing up means relying on your old man."

Chen Ping kept his eyes lowered, seemingly staring blankly at his toes, but his peripheral vision took in everything around him.

He deliberately suppressed his aura, stooped his back, and looked like a poor scholar fresh to the city or some down-and-out son of a fallen house.

The sun climbed higher, and finally, it was Chen Ping's turn.

The registrar was a clerk with a goatee, his eyelids drooping, holding a wolf-hair brush and tapping it idly on the desk.

"Name, origin, letter of recommendation."

The clerk's voice was lazy, dripping with impatience.

"Your honor, this one is Chen Ping, a native of Qinghe County."

Chen Ping hurried forward, respectfully handing over the manumission document and letter of recommendation from the Lin Manor with both hands.

The clerk took the papers, glanced at them casually, and his drooping eyelids lifted slightly, pausing for a moment on the Lin Manor seal.

"From the Lin family?"

The clerk snorted, his attitude softening a bit, but the brush in his hand still hovered in midair, refusing to set down.

"The documents are fine, but signing up has its own rule."

Chen Ping knew it in his heart like a mirror, but put on a bewildered look on his face:

"Your... your honor, what rule?"

The clerk pointed to the dried-up inkstone at the corner of the desk and smirked without sincerity:

"The Imperial Court holds examinations at great expense. The ink, paper, venue upkeep, examiners' tea—none of it comes cheap. You look like someone who understands the way of things. This 'ink and paper fee'—fifty taels."

"Fifty taels?!"

Chen Ping yelped, his voice trembling.

His face went pale, his legs went weak, and he nearly dropped to his knees.

"What? Too expensive?"

The clerk's face darkened, slapping the papers onto the desk.

"If it's too expensive, don't bother with the Imperial Military Examination! Go back to farming! Next!"

"No! No! Your honor, calm down!"

Chen Ping scrambled to the desk, his pathetic demeanor the very picture of a desperate pauper with no way out.

Trembling, he bent down and, in front of everyone, pulled off one of his dusty cloth shoes.

A burst of laughter and disdainful jeers rose from the crowd.

Chen Ping ignored it all, gritted his teeth, and pried a few bits of silver from the hidden compartment in the sole.

The silver was stained with foot sweat and grime, enough to turn anyone's stomach. He fumbled in his chest for a while longer, pulling out a few crumpled banknotes, barely scraping together the amount.

"Your honor... this is all this one has... please be merciful..."

Chen Ping held out the pile of "aromatic" silver with both hands, his face twisted in pain as he offered it.

The clerk wrinkled his nose in disgust, pinched a corner of his robe to use as a buffer, swept the silver into his drawer, and tossed out a palm-sized wooden token.

"Take it! Get lost!"

Chen Ping caught the token as if it were a treasure, bowing repeatedly:

"Thank you, your honor! Thank you!"

He clutched the token and stepped aside, sighing inwardly.

This one cut alone must have shattered the martial dreams of countless poor scholars.

Just as he was thinking, a commotion erupted behind him.

"Your honor! I'm just two taels short! Please, bend the rules! This blade is a family heirloom—can I pawn it..."

"Pawning my ass! This is a government office, not a pawnshop! Men, drag him out!"

The sound of clubs and screams mixed together.

A sturdy man in patched clothes was dragged out like a dead dog by two runners and thrown heavily onto the steps.

His face was covered in blood, and he still clutched a rusty iron blade to his chest, pounding the ground in despair.

Chen Ping stood outside the crowd, watching coldly.

He didn't step forward to help, nor did he show a trace of sympathy.

In this world where the strong prey on the weak, without power, even compassion is a luxury.

"This is power."

Chen Ping murmured to himself, his fingers lightly rubbing the rough wooden token.

"Without this badge, in their eyes, we're worse than dogs."

Leaving the county office, the sun was blazing.

Chen Ping was about to find a place for a drink of water when a familiar figure caught the corner of his eye.

Liu Sanjin from the Weiyuan Escort Agency was hunched over, tailing a middle-aged fat man in silk like a lapdog. Chen Ping recognized the man—Steward Zhao of the Zhao Family, a wealthy clan in the city.

"Steward Zhao, rest assured, I'll personally oversee this escort. Guaranteed flawless..."

Liu Sanjin's face was plastered with a fawning smile, his demeanor even more servile than Chen Ping's had been before the clerk moments ago.

Chen Ping paused mid-step, about to greet him, when Liu Sanjin seemed to spot him too.

Their eyes met.

A flicker of shock flashed in Liu Sanjin's gaze, then he quickly turned away, as if he didn't know Chen Ping at all, continuing to bow and scrape as he led Steward Zhao toward a tavern.

A mocking smile curled at the corner of Chen Ping's mouth. He shook his head and melted into the bustling crowd.

"A poor man in a busy city goes unnoticed; a rich man in the deep mountains has distant kin." The ancients weren't wrong.

Now that he'd signed up, the main event was preparing for the exam.

Chen Ping took a familiar route into the herbal medicine street on the west side.

Though his internal energy had surged, to secure victory in the Imperial Military Examination, he still needed to toughen his body further.

"Shopkeeper, ten doses of Bone-Strengthening Powder," Chen Ping said, stepping into a pharmacy called Jishi Hall.

The clerk behind the counter was swatting flies with a feather duster and didn't even look up.

"Out."

"Out?"

Chen Ping frowned. "What time is it?"

"Not just now—won't have any for the next half month."

The clerk rolled his eyes. "The Golden Blade Martial Hall, the Iron Palm Gang, and a few big families in the city have already bought up all the Bone-Strengthening Powder and Qi-Blood Pills on the market. You small-timers want medicine? Try your luck at the Black Market."

Chen Ping's heart sank.

This wasn't just a monopoly—it was a purge.

The major powers were using their resource advantages to strangle potential competitors in the cradle.

Troublesome.

Chen Ping walked out of the pharmacy, eyeing the shops with "Sold Out" signs along the street, a sense of crisis settling over him.

But he didn't give up.

The sun set, and night fell.

At the end of a dead-end alley in the west district, a few dim lanterns swayed in the wind.

This was Jinguang City's Black Market, a gathering place for all walks of life.

Chen Ping donned a battered bamboo hat, pulled the brim low, and wove through the stalls.

Medicine here cost thirty percent more than outside, and fakes were rampant—carrots passing for ginseng, flour molded into pills, common as dirt.

Chen Ping crouched in an inconspicuous corner.

The stall owner was a one-eyed old man, with a pile of withered, blackened roots and bark laid out before him.

"Pick what you like, no haggling."

The old man's voice was hoarse, like two sheets of sandpaper rubbing together.

Chen Ping said nothing, silently circulating the Longevity of Pine and Crane.

This health-nurturing technique had no killing power, but it was most sensitive to life energy.

As his internal energy flowed to his eyes and fingertips, the world before Chen Ping shifted.

He sifted through the heap that looked like trash.

Suddenly, his fingertip stopped on a tangled clump of fine roots.

A faint yet resilient warmth traveled up his finger—the rich medicinal power sealed within the withered skin.

Was this... the tendrils of a century-old ginseng?

Though it looked terrible, as if chewed by bugs or soaked in water, to a knowledgeable eye, the potency of these few tendrils rivaled several whole ginsengs of a decade's age.

Chen Ping suppressed his elation, put on a look of disgust, and casually grabbed the clump of tendrils along with a few unknown pieces of bark.

"This pile of rotten roots, fifty coppers—deal or not?"

The old man's single eye rolled, as if sizing up whether Chen Ping was a fool.

"Take it."

Chen Ping dropped a few copper coins, stuffed the medicinal herbs into his chest, and rose to leave. His steps were steady, but his heart was blooming with joy.

This was a true bargain.

With these ginseng whiskers, refined through the Longevity of Pine and Crane technique, he could push his physique to the next level.

But no sooner had he left the Black Market than the feeling of being watched crept back over him.

Chen Ping didn't slow his pace, but his ears twitched.

The footsteps behind him were light, the breathing slightly hurried—and there was more than one person.

Were they the same pickpockets who'd been eyeing him outside the government office? Or reckless thugs from the Black Market, tempted by his newfound wealth?

Chen Ping sneered.

Perfect. Let's see how my Light Body Movement Technique holds up after all these years.

He pivoted sharply, ducking into a dark, narrow dead-end alley.

The footsteps behind him quickened. Three shadows rushed in, gleaming daggers in their hands.

"Kid, be smart and hand over your silver and herbs..."

The leader's words died in his throat.

The dead-end alley was empty. Only a few startled rats squeaked and scurried past.

That scrawny scholar had vanished into thin air.

"What the hell? Where'd he go?"

"I saw him come in here!"

As the three stood frozen in confusion, Chen Ping clung to the shadow of the eaves above, silent as a gecko against the wall.

He cycled the Light Body Movement Technique, his body weightless, his breath barely a whisper.

Looking down at the three thieves stumbling around the alley like headless flies, the mockery in Chen Ping's eyes slowly faded.

Killing them would be easy, but there was no need to dirty his hands—and no need to invite legal trouble before the exam.

These three fools weren't even worthy of him drawing his blade.

Only after they'd cursed and shuffled away did Chen Ping drift down like a fallen leaf, landing without a sound.

He dusted off his clothes and gazed toward the Training Ground in the depths of the night, where the Imperial Military Examination would be held.

He had the herbs. He had registered.

But that wasn't enough.

If those noble scions could monopolize the medicinal supply, they surely had other tricks up their sleeves. To stand out in the military exam, he had to know both himself and his enemies.

"Looks like I'll need to 'scout the terrain' and see just how much these so-called prodigies are really worth."

Chen Ping pulled the warm wooden token from his chest.

Under the moonlight, the engraved characters stood out sharp and clear—

"C-32."