WSMTATMC C86

Chapter 86

Song Qiao’s gang were repeat offenders. Previously, there hadn’t been evidence, so they couldn’t be arrested; this time, caught red-handed, the constables quickly arrived and hauled all three back to the yamen for questioning.

The incident ended in fright but no harm, and it served as a sharp warning to the three: when away from home, don’t trust a stranger’s word— not even half a sentence!

Back at the relay station, Chen Qingyan didn’t dare tell his teacher; it had been too dangerous—he feared it would anger and distress Master Liang.

Besides, Master Liang bore responsibility for taking them out traveling. If concerns over safety made him stop the study tour, that would be troublesome.

The three brothers agreed not to mention it to anyone and to act as if nothing had happened.

Qingsong couldn’t help asking, “Big Brother… how did you suddenly disappear like that?”

Qingyan had expected the question. He had no choice but to spin a cover story for his brothers.

“Years ago I fell gravely ill and nearly died, but by a stroke of fortune I gained a chance—access to a space no one else can see. It’s only two feet across—just enough to hide one person. I’ve stashed weapons there in case of emergency, and today, by chance, it proved useful.”

He did not mention Wang Ying; the less known about the experimental field, the better. If it were ever exposed, he would stand in front for Ah Ying.

“This must never be told to anyone. If people hear of it, they’ll think I’m a demon.”

Qingsong and Qinghuai nodded vigorously. “Rest assured—we’ll keep our lips sealed. Not a word to outsiders!”

“Good.”

There was still the poetry gathering that night, but Qingsong’s face hadn’t stopped swelling—he couldn’t go.

Qingyan decided to go with Qinghuai. Having already accepted, backing out at the last minute would be poor form and might also arouse Master Liang’s suspicions.

They changed clothes, tidied up, and set out—by the time they reached the teahouse, the second floor was already full.

Among those present were academy students and well-known literati of Jizhou.

Just as when Master Liang once attended a poetry meet, many had come for the name “Foremost Talent of Jiangnan”—Liang Liufang’s disciples. They wanted to see what the master’s pupils could do.

As soon as they came upstairs, Liu Changyi waved them over. “You’re here—come, seats are saved in the center.”

When they sat, Liu whispered, “We thought you wouldn’t make it.”

“Apologies—we were delayed.”

“No matter—only glad you came.”

When the crowd was nearly complete, someone clapped to begin. “Since everyone is here, let us start the poetry meet.”

The host was a licentiate named Fang Wenke, a notable in Jizhou’s literary circle, skilled in verse—even Master Lu had praised his work as having the lingering style of Li and Du.

A common defect of geniuses: pride.

It was unavoidable—he had passed as a prefectural top-scorer at a young age. How could such a prodigy not be proud?

When Liang came to Jizhou years ago, he had been prouder still—high-headed and untouchable.

Fang Wenke had not attended that famous meet, being too young, but he had long heard of Liang’s brilliance. Knowing Liang’s disciples had come, naturally he wished to test them.

He stepped to Qingyan’s side. “I’ve heard you are disciples of Master Liang. Your literary grace must be dazzling. Today, please broaden our horizons.”

Qingyan and Qinghuai were still shaken by the afternoon’s events—their minds a muddle. Yet when invited, refusing would look timid; they could not tarnish their teacher’s name.

Qingyan said, “What topic shall be used?”

Liu Changyi explained, “There is a lottery tube—ten slips within, each with a different topic. To prevent old poems being recycled, whatever slip you draw will set the theme.”

Qingyan understood, and turned to Qinghuai. “Shall we write?”

“I’ll try.”

“Alright. We both will.”

“Good!” Fang arched a brow, eager to measure himself against them.

The meet began. An elder licentiate stood first. “I am the oldest here. Let Zhu, with thick skin, open clumsily and throw a brick to invite jade.”

He shook the tube and drew a bamboo slip: flowers and birds, a seven-character verse.

A simple topic—countless poets had written of flowers and birds—but to write with brilliance is not easy.

The old scholar sat to ponder, while the next man drew.

The second, an academy student, drew wind and rain—one five-character quatrain.

The third was Fang Wenke—he drew landscape poetry.

An auspicious draw. Landscape poems are easiest to shine with; a fine one can seize the laurel—even if not, it will rank high.

One by one, they drew. When it reached Qingyan, three slips remained. He handed the tube to his cousin. “You first.”

Qinghuai shook it. A slip fell: wine, one poem.

He had barely drunk in his life—how to write of wine?

Qingyan worried, “Can you manage?”

“I’ll try.”

Qingyan took the tube. Only two slips remained. The pressure mounted: worried his cousin might freeze, worried his own draw might be too strange—he must not shame his master.

He shook and shook—the last two slips seemed to tease him, refusing to fall.

Liu laughed. “It’s just us left—each take one.”

All agreed. Qingyan reached in and pulled a slip with only two characters: Untitled.

A boon and a bane: with no set topic, one could write anything—and get away with mediocrity.

But could he be lax?

If he tossed off a flimsy piece, tomorrow the prefecture would be awash with talk: “Liang Liufang’s fame is empty; his disciples are worthless.” He would not have Master Liang laughed at.

He sat with the slip and began to plan.

Meanwhile, Liu drew the final slip—spring scenery, one poem.

Qingyan could only sigh inwardly at his ill luck. Had he drawn it, he’d be secure; on the road, they had composed countless spring-themed verses—some praised by their teacher. Bringing one out would have dazzled the room.

Too late. The draw was done—he would simply have to write.

The first to finish was the elder scholar with “Ode to Flowers and Birds.”

“Last night the east wind swept through the western garden,

Knocking hall-crabapple petals against the embroidered screens.

Yellow warblers know not that spring grows old;

Still they mouth shattered petals, teasing carved rails.”

Flowers and birds were present; the theme met. But the mood was thin—respectable, not brilliant.

He knew as much and smiled at himself. “Shallow learning—let the later scholars surpass me.”

The second student read his wind-and-rain quatrain:

“Wild leaves strike the wintry pane,

A lonely lamp throws shadows long.

The wind, an angry guest, rails;

Rain’s arrows pierce the grieving heart.”

Murmurs of appreciation rippled. “Angry guest” and “rain’s arrows” gave wind and rain a pitiless edge—adding bleakness.

“Fine poem!” Applause rose.

A blush of pride lit the student’s face; he bowed. “Undeserved praise.”

When Fang’s turn came, the room hushed.

“‘West Creek of Jiangzhou’:

My fondness rests on hidden greens by the rill,

Above, oriole calls from the trees’ deep shade.

The evening tide comes swift with rain in spring,

At the wild ferry, no one—only a boat lying crosswise.”

Silence, then a murmur—Zhu spoke first. “Superb! The landscape leaps from the page. We are transported into a painted scroll. Surely the laurel!”

A nearby student snorted. “Too early to say. Seven yet to come.”

Another muttered, “Jiangzhou is six hundred li from here—who knows when he went. How long has this poem lain in his sleeve?”

Fang snorted coldly. “Not everyone fills in with old verse.”

Several reddened—indeed, some had planned to do just that. Not everyone is a born prodigy, able to compose on command.

Qingyan, distracted by the squabble, struggled to focus. Beside him, Qinghuai had begun grinding ink, his mind already fixed. Behind them, Liu bowed over his own sheet.

Qingyan shut his eyes, emptied his mind—and suddenly saw Wang Ying’s face the day they parted: straightening his collar, urging care on the road. A wave of indescribable feeling surged; lines flowed like water. Without thinking, he bent and wrote.

Perhaps Fang’s brilliance had dulled those after him; each poem seemed dimmer. Soon, it was Qinghuai’s turn.

He stood, and all leaned in to listen.

His theme was wine. He seldom drank; what stuck in memory was the Mid-Autumn of last year—so he wrote:

“‘Drinking Alone Beneath the Moon’:

From a jade ewer, amber pours;

Alone I drink, facing fair Chang’e.

I ask the guest of the Cold Palace:

How many years’ worth of tonight’s drunk?”

The room grew still.

Because of Master Liang’s presence, all paid special attention to Qingyan and Qinghuai—their poems, a focus of everyone’s eye.

Fang spoke first. “Good verse! Comparing wine to amber—marvelous!”

Zhu added, “Worthy disciples indeed—their grasp of poetry is not that of ordinary men.”

Others quietly memorized the lines. But though exquisite, a five-character quatrain was short—brilliant, yet perhaps not a laurel.

Then it was Qingyan’s turn. All eyes returned to him.