Chapter 38: That's Right, I Wrote It!

"There's still another poem?"

"Did you write lines of this caliber in bulk? It feels like composing poetry is easier than breathing for you."

"This can't be real, can it? Am I dreaming?"

"Hiss... I'm gasping so hard I might just turn into a bellows!"

The audience erupted in uproar, a cacophony rising. Everyone gazed up at the private box on the top floor, at the noble young heir seated loftily, his expression serene, his attire splendid as if a celestial being had descended to the mortal world. At this moment, not a trace of doubt or disbelief remained in their eyes.

He had already presented two poems of such astonishing brilliance, masterpieces that would be renowned for generations—what more proof did anyone need?

Poetry of this level—where could you even buy it if you wanted to? Who would sell it? Who would dare?

Unnoticed, a subtle transformation took hold in the crowd's collective mood. The commotion gradually faded, and silence reclaimed the hall.

Amidst the hush, someone suddenly spoke.

"That's all, isn't it? The young heir has already given us two poems of this standard—surely that's all?"

His voice was not loud, yet in the utter quiet of the Jade Pavilion it sounded perfectly clear.

"That must be it..." someone else chimed in uncertainly.

A few murmurs arose.

"Is it enough? If not, there's more—my boss has written plenty," Qiao Songshan said calmly, as if this were nothing out of the ordinary.

He began to recite:

"In the moonlit night, shadows flicker by a thousand gates as horse-drawn carriages pass.
Behind closed palace doors tonight, no tears are seen upon the skirts."

The crowd stood dumbfounded, mouths agape.

Was this real? There was still more?

Before they could react, Qiao Songshan continued:

"The western wind flutters the traveler's sleeves; the bright moon casts light on his fur cloak.
Endless longing for distant lands drifts away with the boat."

The audience stared, eyes wide as saucers, frozen like wooden statues. They had not yet digested the previous masterpiece before another was thrown at them, leaving them reeling.

Qiao Songshan, reciting as he stroked his chin, muttered to himself,

"No one is speaking—are you still not satisfied? Your standards are quite high..."

"The moon rises above the eastern mountain, clouds part, revealing clear skies for ten thousand miles.
The night is cold and the road home dark, while spring's end makes the traveler's sail light."

"Hmm, this one might not be as good; my boss's poetry is too profound, I don't quite understand it..."

"The Silver River stretches across autumn waters, golden ripples soak the azure sky.
Where does the jade wheel go? The immortal dwells among the clouds."

"This one should be about right."

As Qiao Songshan mumbled, he tossed out several more breathtaking poems. Yet perhaps it was simply too much at once—at some point, the hall fell completely silent.

"Unfamiliar with the mortal path, I now wander below the earth."

"Mountains and rivers are like a dream, the wind and moon serene and pure."

"This one's passable; my boss really does write well," Qiao Songshan remarked, reciting yet another poem, only to find the audience as unresponsive as stones.

His lips curled with disinterest, and he fell silent. It took a long while before the crowd below finally came to their senses, all sighing with relief. None dared utter a word.

Many of the academy's scholars now only wished to kneel and beg Qiao Songshan to stop revealing his master's divine talents, to stop reciting the young heir's poetry. Otherwise, their scholarly hearts would surely shatter.

After decades of study, they had dreamed their whole lives of writing a single fine poem. Now, in less time than it takes to finish a cup of tea, the young heir had produced five or six awe-inspiring masterpieces! If not for Qiao Songshan, the simple-minded one, the young heir probably would never have revealed them at all!

Many of these poems, which the young heir himself considered only passable, were nonetheless far beyond anything they could ever hope to achieve.

The disparity was simply too immense. Who could they complain to?

As Qiao Songshan scanned the crowd, everyone lowered their heads to avoid his gaze, hastily shielding their faces with their books. They no longer dared look him in the eye—how could they face him?

"Young heir, Miss Bai has been waiting for you in her room for some time. You may enter directly. If she chooses you as her guest of honor, please be gentle with her, as she has no experience," the red-clad maid Hongzhu interjected, trying to ease the tension before the Jade Pavilion completely devolved into Qiao Songshan's one-man poetry recital.

Her words steered the conversation back on course, and many in the hall breathed a sigh of relief. Now, all they wanted was for the young heir to go and enjoy his pleasures, anything to stop Qiao Songshan from reciting another poem.

Seated quietly to one side, Cheng Guang, his expression calm, glanced briefly at the silhouette behind the central room's screen. After a moment's gaze, a barely noticeable smile touched his lips.

"Very well," Cheng Guang replied softly, then walked toward Bai Shuxuan's room.

Many now felt it was time to leave. Everyone believed Bai Shuxuan would certainly choose Cheng Guang as her honored guest. After all, in the entire hall, who could compare to him in status, position, or talent?

There was little regret in their hearts. Bai Shuxuan, famed throughout the capital as the most beautiful courtesan, was destined for the young heir. None felt any bitterness over it.

Just as Cheng Guang approached Bai Shuxuan's room, Wen Qinghe, somewhat dazed as if only now returning to himself, suddenly seemed to recall something and called out loudly,

"Young heir!"

Cheng Guang paused, his noble gaze lowering to Wen Qinghe.

"What is it?"

Under Cheng Guang's gaze, Wen Qinghe felt immense pressure; beads of sweat rolled down his forehead. Still, he mustered the courage to ask,

"Young heir, that first poem about the bright moon—may I ask if it was your work? You said earlier that it was not, but I simply cannot imagine anyone else here capable of composing such a poem."

Wen Qinghe was truly perplexed. His pride had been utterly trampled by Cheng Guang tonight. He accepted being bested by him, but he simply could not fathom one thing: the first poem recited earlier by Hongzhu—"A Glimpse of the Bright Moon."

Who was its author?

If it was Cheng Guang, there was no question. But since the young heir denied it, and if it was someone else present, did that mean Wen Qinghe wasn't even second best among those here?

He anxiously watched Cheng Guang's expression, awaiting his answer. The rest of the Jade Pavilion, equally curious, turned their eyes to Cheng Guang as well.

Cheng Guang smiled faintly, answering in a casual tone, "Oh, that poem? It really wasn’t mine."

He did not say outright that it was Bai Shuxuan’s. First, he had no proof; who could tell if the scroll delivered by the turtle-servant bore her hand or that of her maid? Second, doing so would serve him no purpose—his priority was still revenge against that troublesome woman. Though it would be satisfying to cast aspersions on Bai Shuxuan now, it would only disrupt his plans.

At that moment, Qiao Songshan, previously rather bewildered, sensed trouble as soon as Wen Qinghe mentioned the poem delivered by the turtle-servant. He couldn’t judge the poem’s quality, and assumed that since it was presented by a turtle-servant, it must be nothing special. To protect his boss, Qiao Songshan decided to shoulder the "blame" himself.

He thumped his chest and bellowed, "What of it, Wen Qinghe? That lousy poem was written by me! If you’re not convinced—well, I just dashed it off. What’s your problem with that?"

He stood proud and fierce, as if to say, "I am the author of that so-called lousy poem."

Silence once again fell over the hall. The crowd stared at Qiao Songshan, burly and rough, as if his muscles might burst from his very face; several mouths twitched involuntarily.

Many scholars present were moved to tears on the spot. It was one thing to be outshone by the refined and handsome young heir, but to be inferior even to this big oaf?

Wen Qinghe was struck as if by lightning, standing dazed and ashen, swaying so violently he nearly collapsed. His fellow scholars hurried to steady him.

"Wen, don't be upset."

"Are you alright?"

Their anxious concern reached Wen Qinghe's ears, but he could feel no comfort—only a chill spreading through his whole being. Not even last year's beating at the hands of the young heir and Qiao Songshan had left him so disheartened.

"I'm third... ha... I'm third..." Wen Qinghe laughed bitterly, gazing up at the celestial figure on the top floor, his heart full of sorrow.

It’s not so bad if someone of higher status outshines you. But when someone superior in status, talent, and effort all at once leaves you behind...

...

[Author’s note: Thanks to Shen Yuan Wu Jin for the fifty-thousand reward!]
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