Chapter 86

Chapter 86

Song Qiao and his crew were repeat offenders. Previously, there hadn’t been enough evidence to arrest them, but now, with both the culprits and the stolen goods caught red-handed, the officers quickly arrived and took all three to the yamen (local magistrate's office) for trial.

Though the incident ended without serious consequences, it taught the three brothers a lesson: when traveling, you can't trust strangers one bit!

Back at the inn, Chen Qingyan didn’t dare tell his teacher about the incident—it had been too dangerous, and he feared Old Liang would worry himself sick if he found out.

Moreover, Liang Boqing had taken responsibility for bringing the three brothers along on this educational journey. If safety concerns arose, he might refuse to let them continue, which would be troublesome.

So the three brothers made a pact to keep the matter to themselves, pretending it never happened.

Qing Song couldn’t help but ask, “Brother, how did you suddenly disappear earlier…?”

Chen Qingyan had expected the question and had no choice but to make up a story for his younger brothers.

“Years ago, when I was seriously ill and nearly died, I unexpectedly gained an opportunity—the ability to access a space invisible to others. However, it’s only about two square feet, just enough for one person to hide in. So I hid some weapons there in case of emergencies. I never thought I’d actually use them today.”

Chen Qingyan didn’t mention Wang Ying. The fewer people who knew about the experimental field, the better. If it were ever exposed, he would have to take the blame for A Ying himself.

“You must never speak of this to anyone,” he warned. “If others found out, they might think I’m some kind of supernatural being.”

Qing Song and Qing Huai nodded repeatedly. “Don’t worry, we’ll keep our mouths shut. We won’t say a word to anyone!”

“Good.”

There was still the poetry gathering that evening, but Qing Song’s face was still swollen, so he couldn’t attend.

Chen Qingyan decided to go with Qing Huai. They had already agreed to attend, and backing out last minute would be rude. Moreover, backing out without a reason would surely arouse Old Liang’s suspicions.

After changing their clothes and getting ready, it was already late. By the time they arrived at the teahouse, the second floor was packed with attendees of the Poetry Society.

Some were students from the prefectural school, while others were prominent scholars and writers of Jizhou Prefecture.

Just as when Old Liang had attended such gatherings, many had come specifically to see the disciples of the Foremost Scholar of Jiangnan—Liang Liufang. Everyone was eager to witness the talents of Old Liang’s students.

As soon as Chen Qingyan and Qing Huai reached the second floor, Liu Changyi waved them over. “You’re here! Come quickly.” Seats had been reserved for them near the center.

Once they were seated, Liu Changyi whispered, “I thought you might not make it today.”

Chen Qingyan replied, “Sorry, we were delayed by some matters.”

“No problem, I’m just glad you could come.”

Once most of the attendees had arrived, someone clapped to get attention and announced, “Since everyone is here, let the Poetry Society begin!”

The event was hosted by a scholar named Fang Wenke, who was quite famous in Jizhou’s literary circles. He excelled at poetry, and even Lu Zhongqi had praised his work, saying it had echoes of Li Bai and Du Fu.

Talented scholars often shared a common flaw: pride.

This was unavoidable. Fang Wenke had already aced the county-level imperial examination at a young age—such a gifted individual couldn’t help but be proud.

Back when Old Liang visited Jizhou, he had been even more arrogant, to the point of looking down his nose at everyone.

Fang Wenke had been too young to attend that gathering but had heard of Liang Liufang’s brilliance from others. He had always admired him and now, hearing that Liang Liufang’s disciples were present, he was eager to see their skills.

He approached Chen Qingyan and said, “I’ve heard you are disciples of the great scholar Liang. You must be exceptionally talented. Please show us what you've got today.”

Chen Qingyan and Qing Huai were still shaken by the events of the afternoon, their minds in disarray. However, if they declined the invitation, it would seem cowardly and make their teacher look bad.

Chen Qingyan asked, “What will be the theme?”

Liu Changyi explained, “There’s a bamboo container over there with ten slips inside, each with a different theme. To prevent anyone from recycling old poems, the theme will be determined by the slip drawn.”

Chen Qingyan understood and turned to Qing Huai. “Do you want to give it a try?”

Qing Huai whispered, “I’ll try.”

Chen Qingyan said, “Alright, both of us will participate.”

“Excellent!” Fang Wenke raised an eyebrow, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of a good competition.

The Poetry Society began with an elderly scholar standing up first. “As the oldest here, I’ll boldly go first and set the stage for you talented gentlemen.”

He shook the bamboo container and tossed it, and soon a slip fell out. It read: “Write a seven-character poem (a poem with seven characters per line) on the theme of flowers and birds.”

The theme was relatively simple. Countless poets throughout history had written about flowers and birds, but making it memorable would be challenging.

The old scholar sat down to ponder his poem, and the next person drew a slip.

The second participant was a student from the prefectural school. He drew a slip requiring a five-character quatrain on the theme of wind and rain.

The third was Fang Wenke. He drew a slip asking for a seven-character poem on the theme of mountains and rivers.

This was a lucky draw. Mountain and water poetry was easiest to write impressively—if done well, it could easily win the contest. Even an average effort wouldn’t be too embarrassing.

The others drew their slips in turn. When it was Chen Qingyan’s turn, only three slips remained in the tube. He handed it to his cousin. “You draw first.”

Qing Huai took a deep, steadying breath, picked up the tube, and shook it. After a moment, a slip fell out. He picked it up and read, “Write a poem on the theme of fine wine…”

This theme was particularly challenging. He had only tasted wine a few times—how could he possibly write a poem about it?

Chen Qingyan broke into a cold sweat for his cousin and whispered, “Can you manage?”

“I’ll try.”

Chen Qingyan took the tube. Only two slips remained. The pressure was immense—he was worried about Qing Huai’s nerves and his own ability to avoid a difficult theme that might embarrass their teacher.

He shook the tube, but the last two slips seemed to taunt him, refusing to fall out.

Chen Qingyan sighed helplessly. Liu Changyi spoke up, “It’s just the two of us left. Why don’t we each just take a slip?”

Everyone nodded in agreement. Chen Qingyan reached into the tube and pulled out a slip. It bore only two words: “Untitled.”

This theme had its pros and cons. Without a fixed topic, he had free rein to write anything. But could he really take it lightly?

If he carelessly dashed off a poem, word would spread across Jizhou Prefecture by the next day: “The Foremost Scholar of Jiangnan, Liang Liufang, is overrated—his disciples are worthless.” The thought of Old Liang’s fury made him shudder.

Chen Qingyan sat down, clutching the slip, and began pondering how to approach the poem.

Meanwhile, Liu Changyi drew the last slip. His theme was to compose a poem on the scenery of spring.

Chen Qingyan couldn’t help but curse his luck. If only he had drawn that slip! During their journey, the three brothers had written dozens of poems on spring themes, some even praised by their teacher. Adapting one of those would surely impress everyone.

But it was too late. The slip was drawn, and he had no choice but to grit his teeth and write.

The first scholar, who had drawn his slip earlier, had already finished his poem—titled “Ode to Flowers and Birds.”

"Last night the east wind passed the western garden, blowing crabapple blossoms against the embroidered curtain. Yellow birds, unaware that spring has ended, still carry petal scraps to play by the carved rail." These four short lines include both flowers and birds, fitting the theme well.

Yet the artistic conception falls somewhat short; it can only be called merely adequate but unremarkable, not particularly outstanding.

The elderly scholar also knew his work was mediocre and remarked with self-deprecation, "I, Zhu, am of my limited talent and shallow learning. I hope the students who follow can compose better poems."

The second student also finished. His theme was wind and rain, and he wrote a five-character quatrain: "Tangled leaves beat against the cold window, a lone lamp lengthens the shadow. The wind sounds like an angry guest, rain arrows pierce the sorrow-laden gut."

Everyone began to weigh in, praising the last line as exquisite—comparing the wind to an angry guest and rain to arrows vividly captures the mercilessness of the storm, adding a bleak, desolate mood.

"Excellent poem, excellent poem!" someone started clapping in praise.

The student couldn't hide his delight, cupping his hands in modest reciprocation. "You flatter me, you flatter me."

When it was Fang Wenke's turn, everyone stopped their chatter, waiting quietly for him to recite his poem.

"‘On West Stream in Jiangzhou’: Alone, I favor the secluded grasses by the creek's edge, above, orioles sing deep within the trees. Spring floods bring rushing evening rain, the wild ferry deserted, a boat lies athwart."①

After he finished, the room fell into a momentary silence as everyone repeated the lines in their minds. After a pause, Scholar Zhu was the first to speak: "This landscape poem is sheer genius! The scenery leaps off the page like a painting, transporting the reader right there. This poem is undoubtedly the best!"

A student sitting nearby snorted, "It's too early to say that. There are still seven people left to present."

Others, who disliked Fang Wenke's usual demeanor, whispered criticisms: "Jiangzhou is over six hundred li away from Jizhou. Who knows when he went there? This poem might have been written long ago."

Fang Wenke coldly snorted in disdain, "Do you think everyone enjoys padding with old poems?"

The faces of those who had drawn lots later turned red—some had indeed used old poems to fill the quota. Not everyone is so brilliantly talented that they can compose on the spot!

Chen Qingyan, distracted by the noise, couldn't collect his thoughts. He bit his pen and glanced at those around him.

Qing Huai had already begun preparing ink, clearly with ideas in mind, while Liu Changyi behind him had started writing.

Chen Qingyan closed his eyes, emptying his mind. Unexpectedly, an image of Wang Ying from the day he left home surfaced in his mind.

Wang Ying adjusted his collar, urging him to be safe outdoors. A surge of indescribable emotion burst forth, and lines poured forth like a stream. Almost without thinking, he picked up his brush and began to write.

Perhaps Fang Juren's poem was too stunning, making the subsequent pieces pale in comparison. Soon, it was Chen Qinghuai's turn.

When he presented his poem, everyone sat up straight and pricked up their ears to listen.

Chen Qinghuai had drawn the theme of fine wine. Having rarely drunk alcohol, his only experiences were at his aunt's house, particularly the memorable Mid-Autumn Festival last August, which inspired this poem.

He took a deep breath and began to recite: "‘Drinking Alone Under the Moon’: From jade pots, amber wine pours, drinking alone facing the moon. Wishing to ask the guest of Guanghan Palace, tonight, for how many years will you stay drunk?"②

The room fell so quiet one could hear a pin drop.

Likely due to Liang Boqing's influence, everyone paid extra attention to Chen Qingyan and Chen Qinghuai, making their poems the focus of collective scrutiny.

Fang Dengke was the first to speak, "Excellent poem! Comparing wine to amber—marvelous, truly marvelous!"

Scholar Zhu also sighed in admiration, "As expected of Liang Liufang's disciples, their poetic skill is beyond compare!"

Others quietly memorized the poem. Though it was beautifully written, the five-character quatrain was too short—while stunning, it fell just short of top honors.

Soon, it was Chen Qingyan's turn, and all eyes fell on him once again.

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Author's Note: ① "West Creek of Chuzhou" by Wei Yingwu of the Tang Dynasty.

② Adapted from "Drinking Alone Under the Moon" by Li Bai.

The previous chapter has been rewritten. Those who haven't read it may want to take another look. [Droopy-eared rabbit head]