Chapter 11: The Perfect Essay

"Xiao Cui, did you just come across a perfect score composition?"

Li Xiuwei, the gray-haired head of the essay grading team for the National College Entrance Examination in Jiangdong Province, strode quickly over. He was the most renowned language teacher in the province, a special-grade instructor who either participated in drafting the exam every year or in the grading process—his experience and expertise were beyond question.

The moment Cui Chungui gave her score, the grading system alerted them: a perfect score essay required the independent agreement of three teachers. Her verdict alone wasn’t enough.

It was the first day of essay grading. None of the other teachers had yet awarded a full 60 points. As soon as they heard Li Xiuwei’s words, everyone gathered around.

“Let’s take a look. This might be our first perfect essay,” someone said.

“Sister Cui, what exactly did this essay say to deserve a perfect score? I’ve hardly seen anything above fifty.”

“I wonder whether it’ll hold up under review. Still, it would be nice to have a perfect score on the books.”

‘The Death of Red Hare’? That’s an intriguing title!”

“Red Hare—isn’t that the famous horse from the Three Kingdoms? What does that have to do with our essay topic?”

“Why not? Even Red Hare could trust in humans. Let’s read the content before we judge.”

The teachers had all been selected for closed-off, intensive grading. There was little amusement in their daily routine, so the possibility of a perfect score composition was enough to pique everyone’s interest. Not only the essay team, but other teams were waiting to see it as well.

A diversion like this was a welcome break from the relentless workload.

Cui Chungui saw nothing inappropriate in the attention. Smiling, she turned to Li Xiuwei. “Mr. Li, shall we begin the review?”

“All right, it seems this essay really is extraordinary.”

“I just didn’t want to see such a fine piece overlooked. Please, see for yourself.”

At last, ‘The Death of Red Hare’ was revealed in its entirety. The teachers didn’t dare speak behind Li Xiuwei’s back; instead, they crowded together on the other side of the room and called up the essay on their screens.

The moment Li Xiuwei saw the title, his spirits lifted. He had been immersed in the world of calligraphy for decades, yet never expected that a young student’s handwriting could surpass his own—a style combining the strength of Yan’s regular script and the grace of Liu’s.

“Remarkable handwriting! This semi-cursive script shows the mark of a true master!”

Li Xiuwei, usually so composed, couldn’t help but praise it. Each stroke was disciplined yet lively, marrying the fluidity of running script with the structure of regular script. Not only were the strokes perfect, but the overall structure was flawless—the order of the dots and lines, the spacing between characters, the balance of blank space—all were handled with expert precision. At a glance, it was a work of art.

Were it not for the requirement to seal and archive national exam essays, Li Xiuwei would have wanted to keep this one for his own collection.

If someone displayed this handwriting and claimed it was the work of a master from the National Calligraphy Association, few would dispute it.

He quickly composed himself. Good handwriting did not guarantee good writing.

But as he read, he was astonished. Past examinees had occasionally attempted classical Chinese or archaic vernacular for their essays, but these were usually riddled with awkward sentences and rarely managed a coherent story.

This composition, by contrast, was concise and spirited, employing classical vernacular with remarkable fluency.

To produce such a piece in such a short time was truly extraordinary.

Li Xiuwei nodded repeatedly. “This candidate’s capacity for imaginative thought and skill with language are exceptional. To write in classical vernacular and possess such calligraphic mastery—could this be a grandmaster having a bit of fun with us?”

He read the justification for the perfect score that Cui Chungui had provided. Xiao Cui’s judgment was indeed sound—there was simply no reason not to award full marks.

“Clear and elegant, brilliantly written, tightly focused on the theme—this level of linguistic sophistication is beyond the reach of most candidates,” read Cui Chungui’s appraisal, which lavishly praised ‘The Death of Red Hare.’

When the rest of the essay team had finished reading, Li Xiuwei concluded, “Barring any surprises, this will be the most famous composition of this year’s exams, perhaps of the past few years. It deserves a perfect score. Any objections?”

The other teachers all shook their heads. They knew quality when they saw it—none could bring themselves to argue otherwise.

“I don’t believe this student was taught by an ordinary teacher. There must be a family tradition here—ten years of calligraphy practice at the very least to reach this level.”

“To be honest, I doubt even I could write an essay of this caliber.”

“I’m suddenly curious which school this student attends. Do any of you know who their teacher might be?”

“Who could teach a student like this? I used to think my handwriting was decent, but compared to this, I’m left in the dust. Truly humbling!”

“Heh, this year Jiangdong’s college entrance exams are bound to make a splash!”

“What a pity we can’t see the candidate’s name. Once the results are published, we must find out.”

“I’ll be showing this essay to my students as an example—but honestly, I wouldn’t recommend writing in classical Chinese. Without deep foundations, it’s far too risky.”

“Exactly. This is an exception, not a rule.”

‘The Death of Red Hare’ had completely won over the essay graders. One after another, they expressed their admiration. There was no controversy: it was the first perfect score composition in Jiangdong Province’s exams that year.

Teachers from other grading teams, hearing the commotion, hurried over to see what was causing such a stir. They, too, were soon captivated by Zhang Chu’s essay and handwriting.

“Wait! This handwriting looks familiar—I marked his reading comprehension section earlier!” a bespectacled male teacher exclaimed. “His script is remarkable—I remember clearly. I only deducted three points on his reading questions. He’s truly outstanding!”

“With reading and essay scores like that, the gap will be significant. Why couldn’t he be one of my students?” Cui Chungui said with a touch of regret. She would have loved to have such a talent in her class.

There were countless exam papers, but handwriting as exquisite as Zhang Chu’s was one of a kind.

“I’ll have to remember this handwriting well. Who knows, I might grade his papers again in the future.”

Each section was graded by different teachers—the essay team handled compositions, the reading team the comprehension, the classical poetry fill-ins by yet another group.

“Judging by this, he’s likely to have the highest language score this year. And with handwriting like that, it’s definitely not a girl.”

“Enough chatter—there are still so many papers. Have you all finished your batches?”

Because of the strict anonymity rules, all this admiration could not reach Zhang Chu. The praise simply accumulated in silence, waiting for the day the results would be announced.