Essay, Martial Meet (Seeking Daily Reads)

The next morning was the strategy essay session.

Small desks had been set up early across the Martial Arts Arena, allowing all candidates to sit and write their papers right there.

Since this was only one portion of the martial examination, the standards were naturally not as rigorous as those of the civil service exams.

The exam lasted only half a day, with papers collected at noon.

The first part of the exam was rote memorization. The Great Wu Dynasty had compiled a definitive collection of military strategy, spanning thirty-six volumes in total.

Every year, a selection of passages from these thirty-six volumes would be chosen for the candidates to transcribe from memory.

Those who could transcribe the most and the most accurately would naturally receive higher scores.

Next came two strategy questions, which tested the candidates' ability to discuss the application of military tactics.

As this was only a county-level exam, the questions were not overly devious.

Zhao An had already filled his head with a significant amount of military theory; while he had never been on a real battlefield, he was quite well-prepared in terms of theoretical knowledge.

He did not expect to get a top-tier score, but as long as his strategy essay didn't drag him down too much, he was confident he would be named on the list and secure the status of a government-recognized Martial Student.

By noon, a gong sounded, marking the end of the strategy exam.

During the session, many candidates had been scratching their heads in anxiety, their minds blank, unable to squeeze out more than a few words after a long time.

There was no helping it; asking these brawny, rough men to hunch over small stools and try to write with their thick, heavy arms was a struggle in itself, let alone composing long, detailed essays.

It was easy to say "literary and martial excellence," but in this world, those who could truly achieve both were few and far between.

Those who had performed poorly were already dejected and crestfallen the moment they stood up.

They could only pin their hopes on the final martial arts tournament.

Before the tournament began, each candidate drew lots to determine their opponent. This round tested individual raw strength, but also involved a fair amount of luck.

The number of rounds a candidate could survive would influence their final score.

Because of this, no one wanted to run into the popular favorites for the Martial Student title right at the start.

"Master Zhao, please draw a lot." The minor official, who had been dismissive toward other candidates, suddenly became much more courteous as he approached Zhao An, a smile plastered on his face.

"For you, any lot is a lucky one. You have nothing to fear regardless of who you face."

"..." Zhao An ignored the flattery and casually grabbed a lot, which had a number written on it.

He waited for the unlucky soul who matched his number.

On the other side, the County Magistrate had already arrived at the Martial Arts Arena, sitting on the high platform just as he had the day before.

"Did the morning strategy session go smoothly?" Tao Heng asked the guard beside him.

Perhaps finding it dull to watch a bunch of muscle-bound men trying to write, the Magistrate had not been present during the morning.

He was clearly more interested in the afternoon's combat.

"Everything went smoothly; no one cheated," Tao Jinyi replied with a nod.

"Hmm." Tao Heng scanned the area and suddenly asked, "What about that lad? How did he write?"

"He has a sharp mind; it was decent enough." Tao Jinyi knew who the Magistrate was asking about, so his gaze drifted to Zhao An in the crowd as he answered.

"Heh, being able to read and write is enough. After all, a person's energy is limited; if one's martial prowess is high, it is inevitable that other areas will be somewhat weaker."

"Even if this person were sent to the Prefecture City, he would still have a bright future." Tao Heng stroked the stubble on his chin and smiled.

Tao Jinyi remained noncommittal.

Soon, the tournament began.

The entire Martial Arts Arena was suddenly packed with people, all pairing off to fight until only those left standing remained.

Candidates could choose their weapons from the racks, which held specially crafted arms suitable for such tournament settings.

Zhao An picked out a Wild Goose Blade, identical to the one he used daily, though the edge was dulled so that as long as one didn't harbor a murderous intent, it wouldn't kill anyone.

The moment Zhao An stood his ground in the arena, the expression of the man paired against him turned ghastly.

He had drawn the worst possible lot that every candidate had been dreading.

The scene from yesterday, where Zhao An had swung the Thousand-Catty Tripod with a single arm, was still fresh in everyone's memory; no one had the courage to face this powerhouse head-on.

"You may begin once you are ready; do not waste time," the official on the sidelines frowned and urged the dawdling brute.

The man was broad-shouldered and thick-waisted, but he steeled his heart, swung his heavy saber, and charged at Zhao An, fearing that if he were too slow, he wouldn't even get a chance to strike.

Zhao An remained calm, lifting a leg to kick out. The man looked as if he had been struck by a runaway carriage, flying backward at an even greater speed before crashing into a nearby weapon rack.

"Zh-Zhao An wins!" The official swallowed hard, regained his composure, and shouted, then looked at the man with nothing but sympathy in his eyes.

If that kick had landed squarely on him, foaming at the mouth would have been the least of his worries.

With the first round over, since his opponent had been a Martial Savage who hadn't even cultivated Internal Breath, there was nothing much to say.

By the second round, the number of candidates left in the arena had been halved, and it looked much less crowded.

"It's over!"

The expression on Zhao An's second-round opponent was as dismal as ever; he could only lament his poor luck, knowing his journey would end here in the second round.

"Please," Zhao An said calmly.

"Please..."

This second-round opponent was indeed a martial artist who had cultivated Internal Breath, but with a volume of only twenty or thirty units, encountering Zhao An was like a mayfly trying to topple a tree.

Zhao An ended the second round just as he had the first: with a single kick that sent his opponent flying.

The only difference was that this opponent remained conscious enough not to end up dangling helplessly from the weapon rack.

The reason Zhao An did not draw his blade was his fear that he might fail to hold back his strength; even with an unsharpened edge, his opponent might not be able to withstand the impact of the iron weapon in his hands.

By the third round, the candidates who had made it this far were no longer weak, and many martial artists who had cultivated Internal Breath were gathered here.

Zhao An's opponent was slightly stronger than the last—a spear wielder who might have advanced further had he not run into Zhao An.

But it was not to be.

Zhao An swept his blade out, sending both spear and man flying, passing the round with ease once again.

By the fourth round, the number of candidates remaining in the Martial Arts Arena had dropped to under a hundred, more than half of whom were martial artists who had cultivated Internal Breath.

The wealthy gentlemen watching from the sidelines ordered their servants to note down the appearances and names of these individuals.

They were simply waiting for the county examination to conclude before sending people to make contact.

"Hmm..." Zhao An looked at his opponent for this round, his expression turning slightly more serious.

The man was the only other candidate besides himself to have lifted the Thousand-Catty Tripod.

He wore standard martial attire, his hair tied back simply with a ribbon.

His face bore the weathered look of one who had seen much of the world, clearly indicating he was no longer young.

In this Great Wu Dynasty, there were no age restrictions for either the civil or martial examinations; only talent and genuine skill mattered.

Thus, one could sometimes see gray-haired veterans on the examination grounds.

By comparison, the man before him was likely in his thirties or forties, in the prime of his strength.

"Diancang Blade, Xu Hong," Xu Hong said, drawing his long blade with a solemn expression and a grave tone.

"Please." Zhao An did not share the martial arts custom of announcing his name before a fight; he simply raised his own blade, signaling to his opponent that he, too, was a blade user.