1 JIN(Catty) = 600 gram(1.32277 pound)
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Three exam sessions were held in one day, with breaks for switching candidates and lunch. The final session ended right on time at 3 PM.
With over ten thousand test papers to grade, the workload was massive. Felix organized nearly a hundred people to handle the grading. The multiple-choice, true/false, and fill-in-the-blank questions could be easily graded by anyone literate. As for the essay questions, although Weiwei had provided standard answers, there wasn't only one "correct" answer. If someone proposed an original idea or a better solution, they could still score high.
However, evaluating those essays wasn't something just anyone could do. Therefore, after an initial round of grading, the promising papers were forwarded to Weiwei and Felix for final review.
It couldn't be helped. Sardinson lacked professional administrators and political experts. This was their first time conducting such an exam, and everyone was learning by doing.
Two days later, after the first round of grading, more than half of the papers were eliminated—those that were rambling, filled with spelling mistakes, or had barely attempted the essay questions.
The remaining relatively decent papers, about five thousand, were delivered to Weiwei and Felix.
Weiwei flipped through the stack. At the top of each paper, alongside the examinee's name and candidate number, there were also detailed notes of their home address and date of birth—necessary since there were so many duplicate names.
"How many papers are there here?" she asked.
"About five thousand," the servant replied. "The others were too poor in quality—no need to bother you and the Lord with them."
Well, at least it cut the workload in half.
"Alright, let me see what they wrote," Weiwei said casually.
She quickly skimmed the multiple-choice and fill-in-the-blank sections, satisfied that the earlier grading was fine, and then focused on the essay questions.
As the person who had written the questions, she was quite familiar with the content. It didn't take her long to tell whether an answer was all bluster or genuinely insightful. From there, it was just a matter of assigning scores.
Reading five thousand essays carefully would have taken months. Fortunately, she only needed to review the final questions.
Besides, most candidates in this first Sardinson civil service exam had very shallow foundations and no real work experience. Their essay answers were, frankly, painful to read—barely deserving passing marks at best. Very few truly satisfied Weiwei.
Thus, she graded quickly, sometimes finishing a paper in under a minute.
The rare good ones were set aside in a separate pile to discuss with Felix later.
Meanwhile, Felix was busy receiving gifts and congratulatory visits from local nobles after news of Weiwei's pregnancy had spread. Today he was entertaining a house steward sent by one of those families. Normally, Weiwei would have been expected to attend too, but given her condition and the mountain of work, she was excused.
By the time Felix finished the formalities and came looking for Weiwei, she had already graded a good chunk—but compared to the towering stack still left, it was like a drop in the bucket.
Seeing the pile, Felix's head hurt immediately. "How long will this take?"
"Even if it takes a month, we have to finish," Weiwei said matter-of-factly.
She pointed to the smaller pile beside her. "These are the ones I think are worth considering. Go through them—if you agree with my scores, fine. If not, we can discuss."
Felix wanted to protest. He wasn't even confident he could answer the exam questions himself, let alone judge others' essays. But since Weiwei asked, he had no choice but to sit down and start reading.
Thus began more than half a month of non-stop grading.
Finally, the results of the first written exam were posted. The list of the top 1,000 candidates was displayed prominently in Dingle Town's main square, along with details about the upcoming second round—the interview.
Each candidate was instructed to prepare a résumé and deliver a five-minute self-introduction during the interview, explaining their skills, interests, and desired position, followed by a Q&A session with the interviewers.
It was almost identical to modern job interviews.
Although Weiwei had never worked full-time before coming here, she had done part-time jobs during college and was familiar with the process.
As Sardinson's first official civil service exam, the results were... underwhelming.
In a 100-point system, the highest score was only 87. Half of the top 1,000 candidates barely scraped past the passing line. Looking at the list, Weiwei had even considered reducing the number of those advancing.
But ultimately, she didn't.
After all, most candidates had scored decently on the basic questions. It was mainly the essay section that had dragged their scores down due to lack of experience.
"Let's see how they perform in the interviews," Weiwei said, eating an orange that Felix had peeled for her.
At this stage, academic knowledge mattered less; character and personality became the focus. Skills could be taught—but a bad attitude was hard to fix.
The interviews were easier to organize than the written exams but took far longer. They started in early October and didn't finish until early November after the winter wheat had been sown and cold winds heralded the arrival of winter.
When the final list of those accepted was released, it wasn't simply the top 100 from the written exam.
Curious onlookers compared the new list to the old exam rankings and were shocked—some people who had been near the bottom of the written scores had made it in, while even some of the top ten candidates had been rejected.
Naturally, this caused dissatisfaction.
Those who had ranked high but were rejected were furious. They started organizing protests, gathering in front of the Dingle Town Hall to demand "fairness" and "transparency"—accusing the results of corruption without outright saying it.
"Protesting?" Weiwei was surprised when she heard the news.
She hadn't expected that, in this era, anyone would dare challenge a noble so openly. After all, here it wasn't like the democratic societies of the future—protesting could easily land you in jail or even get you executed.
"It's because the ringleader comes from a noble family," Felix said grimly, frowning.
Many of the top scorers in the exam weren't commoners. It was understandable—this was an era when only those with wealth and status could afford education. Compared to commoners, noble-born candidates had higher starting points and even some management experience.
For example, one noble youth who had aimed to become a tax officer stood out. Unlike commoners, who only vaguely knew tax officers collected money for the lord, he understood the entire taxation process. He spoke confidently during interviews, unshaken even before an audience.
However, he still failed to pass.
When asked during the interview, "If your lord wanted to raise taxes but the peasants couldn't afford it, risking mass starvation in winter, what would you do?"
The noble youth answered without hesitation, "Follow the lord's orders," and even went on to suggest how much taxes could be raised.
In a year of good harvest, many lords did exactly that. In his mind, it was perfectly normal—he never once considered the lives of the common folk. His tone, demeanor, and attitude all betrayed an arrogant disregard for the peasants, seeing them merely as resources to be exploited.
Naturally, he was rejected.
"Whether he was trying to flatter you or truly thought that way, either way, we don't need someone like him," Weiwei said coldly.
They were recruiting officials to manage the local population. If they hired people who despised commoners, it would only cause problems sooner or later.
And it wasn't just him—this attitude was widespread among noble candidates. Almost all of them looked down on commoners instinctively, seeing themselves as inherently superior.
Such people were unfit to serve as grassroots officials, no matter how clever or educated they were.
Clearly, the protesters still hadn't understood their mistake. They simply assumed their noble status would protect them, and that Felix wouldn't dare punish them.
Felix, of course, had no intention of tolerating this nonsense.
But he also didn't bother dealing with it personally. Instead, he sent an order: a team of cavalry would ride to Dingle to handle the situation.
"Tell them—no violence unless necessary. Try to reason with them. If they still refuse to disperse, arrest them and lock them up for a few days," Felix instructed calmly.
The castle jail had been empty for a while anyway—plenty of space for a few troublemakers.
Hearing this, Weiwei chuckled. Some people were about to learn a very hard lesson.
Felix was generally a mild-tempered man, but if outsiders dared stir up trouble on his land, he would not tolerate it. Back when he was still a knight, he would've simply challenged them to a duel on the spot.
The cavalry moved quickly. They rode out from the castle and reached Dingle in no time, where the protesters were still gathered, shouting slogans in front of the town mayor's house.
Seeing them from afar, the leading knight spat on the ground. "Cowards," he muttered.
His squire agreed, "Exactly. What does the mayor have to do with this? They're just too scared to protest at the castle."
The Dingle mayor, poor soul, had nothing to do with the exams at all. But because the newly recruited officials would be working in Dingle, the protesters targeted him, bullying the weak while fearing the strong.
The cavalry's arrival was impossible to ignore. People who had been spectating quickly backed away from the protesters, though they stayed nearby to watch the show unfold.
The protesters, still facing the mayor's house, didn't notice the cavalry behind them until too late.
It was the mayor himself—peeking anxiously from his second-floor window—who first spotted the arriving knights. His heart soared with relief.
The lead knight, riding a magnificent silver-armored warhorse, slowed to a walk and arrogantly surveyed the crowd without speaking, just waiting to see how long it would take them to realize their predicament.
Behind him, dozens of armored knights followed, eerily silent. Despite their numbers, the only sound was the horses' slow, deliberate steps.
An oppressive tension spread. Even the spectators hardly dared breathe.
Finally, the protesters sensed something wrong. One by one, they turned and saw the armored cavalry bearing down on them—bows strung, arrows glinting coldly, every movement radiating lethal intent.
The lead knight, his visor up just enough to show sharp, cold eyes, stared them down mercilessly.
The noisy protesters immediately fell silent, reduced to trembling wrecks under that gaze.
The entire scene shifted—the protesters looked ridiculous, like clowns in a farcical play.
Realizing they had no support left, the ringleaders paled and fell silent too.
The knight casually steered his horse through the shrinking crowd, everyone scrambling out of his way.
He halted in front of the mayor's house, lifted his visor, and revealed a rather handsome face.
"Why stop now? Go on, keep protesting," he said mockingly.
Many of the candidates immediately recognized him—Knight Kingsley, one of the exam interviewers.
When no one dared speak, Kingsley continued, "The Earl heard about your little demonstration and sent me here. I have a question—if you're so dissatisfied, why don't you bring your complaints to the castle directly? Why bully the mayor instead? He had nothing to do with it."
The mayor, emboldened by Kingsley's presence, rushed outside.
"Exactly!" the mayor chimed in furiously. "If you have complaints about the exam, go to the castle! What does my house have to do with it?"
The protesters muttered, refusing to meet his eyes. They had known perfectly well the mayor was uninvolved—they just hadn't dared approach the castle itself.
Kingsley sneered. "So, you're dissatisfied with the results?"
Most people kept their heads down. They were terrified of being arrested.
But someone, unwilling to give up, shouted from the crowd, "Of course we're dissatisfied! We had better scores—why weren't we chosen?"
Kingsley glanced in the direction of the voice, but the speaker quickly ducked away.
Among the onlookers, murmurs rose. Many had sympathized at first, assuming the results had been tampered with. After all, the final list included some candidates with poor written scores, while no second exam scores had been published.
Kingsley, who had sat through the interviews, decided it was time to make things clear.
"Think carefully," he said, raising his voice. "The Earl selected people who could work, who could communicate with commoners, who wouldn't cause trouble.
And you—" he swept his gaze over the crowd—"those of you who talked about raising taxes, who treated the lives of commoners like garbage—you think you're qualified?"
His words were cutting.
Kingsley himself dreamed of rising into the noble class, but he still respected the code of chivalry. He did not see peasants as livestock.
These failed candidates, who were even more arrogant than true nobles, disgusted him.
More importantly, their attitude disgusted the Earl, and that was reason enough to reject them.
Hearing this, the spectators' sympathy vanished instantly.
"Raising taxes?" someone muttered in horror.
"How could they be so cruel?" others cried.
Indeed, the one thing non-nobles feared most was taxation. Just recently, the Earl had generously reduced the head tax for many people. Now these candidates wanted to increase it.
People's hatred flared.
Even merchants and foreign workers grew wary—if taxes rose, their profits would suffer too.
The protesters, seeing the crowd turn against them, panicked.
"You're lying! We never suggested raising taxes!" one shouted.
Kingsley smiled coldly. "No? During the interview, the Earl asked you directly: 'What if I want to raise taxes, but the peasants can't afford it?' And what did you all say? You agreed. Every single one of you."
He paused, letting the silence sink in.
"The ones who were accepted were the ones who, without exception, advised the Earl not to raise taxes."
Clear enough.
Kingsley's speech didn't just defend the exam results—it publicly reinforced Felix's image as a just and merciful ruler.
"If you're still dissatisfied," Kingsley added, "you're welcome to come to the castle and repeat your complaints in front of the Earl himself."
Predictably, none of the protesters dared take that offer.
By now, the crowd despised them. No one would shelter them; even the inns refused them lodging. Merchants wouldn't sell to them. Rocks were even thrown at them from the shadows.
Within days, the troublemakers packed their belongings and slunk out of Sardinson in disgrace—never to return.
Peace returned to the county.
As November deepened, Sardinson grew cold. People switched into thick winter clothes; knitted wool sweaters and pants became hot commodities again.
Despite the winter, merchants didn't leave. Thanks to the booming sugar business—the beets were once again being processed into sugar—buyers flocked in from all over.
Even Princia's port city stayed busy instead of shutting down for winter as usual, its docks bustling with traffic.
This year, Felix and Weiwei didn't travel to the royal capital for the Queen's birthday. Instead, they sent gifts by ship—new perfumes, lipsticks in trendy colors, and the latest whitening and anti-aging skincare products, all future bestsellers Weiwei was preparing to launch.
She knew the Queen wasn't exactly fond of her, but there was no better walking advertisement than royalty.
And with that task done, Sardinson prepared for the next big event—it was time to start the annual hog harvest.