The discussions continued as the verification official on stage displayed the painted scrolls to the audience, demonstrating the fairness of the results.
Fan Liu'er and Zhao Yan's paintings followed a similar theme—both depicted autumn chrysanthemums blooming in a garden. To be fair, they were quite beautiful, though somewhat conventional in artistic conception, naturally earning them lower rankings.
Qin Qing, on the other hand, painted a single large "Red Immortal" chrysanthemum, likely a variety she was familiar with. Her scroll focused solely on this one flower, rendered in exquisite detail, lifelike and vibrant. She had taken a different approach, completely disregarding the pursuit of artistic mood and instead boldly showcasing her technical skill. The "Red Immortal" seemed to leap off the paper, truly stunning. However, the verification wasn't solely about painting technique—it also evaluated the depth of artistic intent. Thus, no matter how beautiful the chrysanthemum was, it could only secure third place.
Soon, it was Shen Yue's turn. She sat stiffly beside Chen Ruoqiu, biting her lip, forcing a smile while her fists clenched tightly. In the past, she would have been smiling serenely, basking in the sincere praise and admiration of the crowd. But now, this "Second Class" result felt like a biting mockery, making her feel as if everyone's gazes were laced with scorn and ridicule.
Shen Yue had painted withered chrysanthemums. In the cold wind and rain, many petals had fallen, yet a few stubbornly clung to their stems, standing tall and straight, like noble figures of unyielding integrity. Beside them, she had inscribed two lines of poetry: "Rather die fragrant upon the branch, than be scattered by the northern wind."
Her painting conveyed lofty ideals. Generally, the painting reflects the painter—the noble resilience of the withered chrysanthemums would naturally suggest the artist's own upright and virtuous character. The examiners particularly admired talented individuals of such moral caliber. If Shen Yue's work couldn't earn "First Class," it was hard to imagine what Shen Miao could have painted to surpass it.
"It's so well done—how could it only be Second Class?" Bai Wei exclaimed in surprise. "I truly don’t understand."
Chen Ruoqiu was equally baffled. At first, she thought Shen Yue might have been nervous and strayed from her usual path. But once the painting was unveiled, she knew her daughter hadn’t erred—it was just as deserving of First Class as in previous years. So why the different outcome?
Ren Wanyun took some schadenfreude in the situation. Shen Yue, with her outstanding talent, had always overshadowed Shen Qing in these verifications. Seeing Shen Yue stumble now, even if Shen Miao's victory displeased her, was still a spectacle she could enjoy.
On stage, the verification official ordered two attendants to unfurl the next scroll, and the murmurs abruptly ceased.
The paper was large, yet Shen Miao's painting was sparse, with much left blank. Her technique was never remarkable, so she had loosely sketched a distant scene, yet it unexpectedly carried a grandeur that was vast and stirring.
On the canvas, yellow sand stretched endlessly beneath a blood-red setting sun. A broken sword stood embedded in the earth, and beneath it lay a small cluster of white chrysanthemums.
Here, the chrysanthemums seemed merely an accent—so tiny that even their petals and veins were indistinct. Yet in this composition, they were like the dotting of the dragon's eyes, evoking an overwhelming sense of desolation and sorrow.
For a moment, the audience fell silent. Through ink and paper, they could almost feel the bleakness, the tragedy, the helpless struggle.
It was war.
Chen Ruoqiu and Shen Yue both trembled. Once they saw what the painting truly depicted, they knew there was no chance of overturning the result.
True, Shen Yue's work was elegant in conception, untainted by vulgarity, reflecting noble character and purity. But Shen Miao's painting transcended the individual. If Shen Yue used chrysanthemums to praise human virtues, Shen Miao used them to voice ambition. How could personal sentiment compare to the brutality of war?
No wonder the examiners had argued so fiercely, hesitating to conclude. They likely never imagined such a majestic painting could come from the "incompetent" Shen Miao.
The chief examiner, Grand Scholar Zhong Ziqi of the Inner Court, spoke: "Student Shen Miao, come forward and explain why you painted this."
Every First-Class student was required to share their reflections on achieving the top honor. But today, Shen Miao was asked to explain her inspiration—clearly, no one believed she could have conceived this herself, suspecting she had borrowed the idea from elsewhere.
Shen Qing smirked, whispering to Yi Peilan beside her, "Now she’ll be exposed."
"But didn’t we all see her paint it herself, stroke by stroke?" Yi Peilan asked doubtfully.
"Her technique is mediocre, and who knows if someone guided her intent?" Shen Qing scoffed, eyeing Shen Miao as she ascended the stage. "After living with her for so many years, I know exactly what she’s capable of. Scholar Zhong is making her explain—she’ll be humiliated when she can’t."
Yi Peilan chuckled. "Exactly. No one becomes a prodigy overnight. She probably sought expert advice to impress him —" Her gaze flicked suggestively toward Prince Ding in the male guests' section. "Shen Miao must be desperate for his attention."
Shen Qing’s expression stiffened, but she suppressed her irritation. "Let’s see."
On stage, Shen Miao studied the unfurled scroll calmly. Slowly, under the crowd’s bewildered stares, she reached out and traced her fingers over the painting.
"I painted this because my father once told me how many heroes die on the battlefield each year, wrapped in horsehide and buried in the yellow sand. The journey home is too far, so they are laid to rest where they fall. In the northwestern deserts and northern grasslands, there are no chrysanthemums. Chrysanthemums bloom in the warm south, in the bustling Fixed Capital, where we enjoy peace and plenty—all at the cost of soldiers’ lives on the frontier."
The murmurs faded as all eyes fixed on the girl in purple.
Her gaze was serene as she spoke, like a storyteller: "My father said that soldiers who die in war don’t even receive a single white chrysanthemum in tribute. Flowers don’t bloom on battlefields; the fallen aren’t mourned properly. Their wives and children can only wear white chrysanthemums in their hair, offering them from afar in their homeland."
"I thought, the reason we can sit here peacefully admiring flowers is because brave men guard our borders. Sadly, I can do nothing for them—except paint a cluster of white chrysanthemums before a mound of earth, to comfort their spirits."
Standing in the wind, her eyes clear, her words rang with conviction, as if hers were the only voice in the world—pure and resonant, striking like morning bells and evening drums upon every heart.
Shen Miao lowered her gaze slightly.
The imperial family of Ming Qi wants to suppress the aristocratic clans, starting with the Shen family? But the world has eyes and ears. To silence the people is harder than damming a river. Since the imperial house seeks to make an example of the General’s Manor, I’ll let the world see.
See—the Shen family’s honors were earned with blood. The walls of Ming Qi stand firm because of Shen lives. Yet you nobles revel in the capital, your peace built on the flesh and bones of soldiers!
Trampling on their sacrifice, does the Ming Qi royal family dare openly oppress us now?
If you dare, then face the eyes of the world!
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