“Eight horses, five champions…”
The refined flower hall echoed with the raucous chants of a drinking game more suited to common laborers.
Ji Yong, his expression unchanged, extended his arm with a rolled-up sleeve and pointed at the wine cup in front of Song Mo.
Song Mo, without a word, smiled and drained his cup.
The hall once again resounded with the chant “Seven Stars Shine” from the drinking game.
This time, it was Ji Yong’s turn to drink.
Ma Youming, looking at his untouched cup and then at the pile of empty wine jars in the corner, quietly asked Dou Zhengchang, “What’s going on here? I haven’t had a single drop yet.”
Dou Zhengchang, his face flushed with embarrassment, quickly raised his cup, “Let me drink with you, Mr. Ma.”
But Ma Youming shook his head, covering his cup with his hand, “Don’t break the rules. That would spoil the fun.”
Dou Zhengchang’s face turned red as a cloth, and he awkwardly said, “I don’t know how to play this drinking game. How about we recite poetry instead?”
A glimmer of amusement flashed in Ma Youming’s eyes. He scratched his head and said, “But I don’t know how to recite poetry. I only know how to play drinking games!”
“What should we do then?” Dou Zhengchang asked, perplexed.
These scholars are too pedantic! Ma Youming shook his head inwardly.
What to do?
Naturally, find a way to separate these two men.
Otherwise, if they get drunk on such a joyous occasion, wouldn’t it cause trouble for the Zhao family?
He thought to himself.
He slapped Song Mo’s shoulder and laughed, “Young Master, let me play a round with Mr. Ji? Watching you drink so heartily makes me itch to join in.”
Song Mo, usually generous, smiled and pushed him away, saying, “You’re a guest today. Mr. Ji takes precedence. Please be patient.”
Aren’t you a guest too? Ji Yong grumbled inwardly but smiled and said, “One person drinking or two, it’s all the same to me. I’m not afraid of numbers. Why don’t we play a three-person game? Young Master, there’s no need to keep Mr. Ma at arm’s length.”
The implication was clear – Ji Yong wasn’t afraid even if Song Mo called for backup, but he suspected Song Mo might refuse to save face.
One shouldn’t sacrifice integrity for fame.
Song Mo wouldn’t fall for this trap. He smiled and said, “It seems Mr. Ji isn’t very familiar with the game. In a three-person game, each person plays for themselves. Mr. Ji, you’re being overly suspicious.”
This subtly suggested that Ji Yong lacked courage.
Ji Yong disdainfully raised an eyebrow at Ma Youming.
Ma Youming did indeed intend to team up with Song Mo, but his straightforward nature and respect for strength meant he wouldn’t indulge in verbal sparring. He also wouldn’t take Ji Yong’s sarcasm to heart. Smiling, he raised his cup and said, “I’ll drink this cup first as a show of respect,” officially joining their ranks.
The sound of the drinking game filled the flower hall once more.
This time, it was Ma Youming’s turn to drink.
Song Mo and Ji Yong both stared at Ma Youming.
Ma Youming could only say awkwardly, “How about we recite poetry instead?”
Ji Yong curled his lip and said, “I’m afraid the Young Master won’t agree!”
Song Mo smiled faintly, his expression both reserved and warm: “As hosts entertaining guests if Mr. Ji prefers it, why wouldn’t I agree? However, drinking from cups isn’t exciting enough. I suggest we use bowls instead.”
Ji Yong sneered. Glancing up, he noticed a set of dominoes on a nearby tea table. His gaze shifted slightly, and he loudly called for a maid to bring in some large bowls. Then he stood up, casually grabbed a few dominoes, and placed them on the black lacquered, gold-trimmed begonia-shaped tea tray, saying, “Then let’s use these dominoes as prompts. Each of us will compose a seven-character verse. What do you think, Young Master?”
Dou Dechang, who had been sitting silently nearby, suddenly spoke up.
Poetry recitation was the forte of scholars.
Moreover, most contemporary scholars focused on studying the Four Books, rarely putting effort into poetry. Even Seventh Uncle didn’t have the heart to test Song Mo, suggesting Song Mo’s poetry skills were mediocre. Regardless, Song Mo was his brother-in-law. Ji Yong’s brilliance was well-known, who knew what he was planning? He couldn’t just stand by and watch Song Mo be taken advantage of!
“The more people for poetry recitation, the better,” he said, pretending not to grasp the situation. “Let me join in too.”
Song Mo, realizing Dou Dechang was trying to help him, became even more reluctant to let Dou Dechang get involved.
He took the tea tray and turned the dominoes face down, smiling, “Then let me be the game master.”
Dou Dechang had no choice but to push the tea tray in front of Dou Zhengchang, saying, “Let my brother be the game master! I’ll drink with Cousin and Fourth… Fourth Brother-in-law!”
Song Mo always referred to him as “Brother-in-law,” and he had grown accustomed to calling Song Mo “Fourth Sister’s husband.” But seeing Ji Yong’s stern face, he quickly changed to address Song Mo more formally as “Fourth Brother-in-law.”
Ji Yong’s expression indeed darkened upon hearing this, but he didn’t dwell on it, gesturing for Dou Zhengchang to draw a tile.
Dou Zhengchang drew a tile and saw it was “One Branch of Spring.”
This prompt was a bit tricky, but not too obscure. He wondered if Mr. Ma could keep up.
He glanced worriedly at Ma Youming, who had claimed he couldn’t recite poetry and said, “Snow-filled ravines, green as painted brows,” then drank a bowl of wine.
It was a conventional verse, much like the man himself.
Ma Youming, feeling a bit embarrassed, smiled at Dou Zhengchang and said, “Jade steps of the thatched cottage, hidden fragrance grows,” then drank his wine.
This was beyond Dou Zhengchang’s expectations.
Ji Yong followed with, “Apricot rain on the emerald pond, spreading silk brocade,” then looked at Song Mo.
Song Mo unhurriedly drank his wine and said with a smile, “Willow’s last leaves dance with flying flowers.”
The entire verse contained no winter imagery, yet used spring elements to describe winter scenery.
Ji Yong’s gaze sharpened slightly.
Dou Zhengchang and Dou Dechang breathed sighs of relief.
Dou Dechang drained the wine before him and said with a smile, “Warm sun on parasol trees, sleeves full of wind.”
Surprisingly, the host lost.
Dou Zhengchang drank a large bowl of wine in solidarity, then drew another tile – “One Silk String.”
The corner of Ma Youming’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
The Young Master excelled at these scholarly drinking games but was less adept at the more common ones.
This Mr. Ji had challenged the Young Master to his strongest suit. It would be a miracle if he didn’t lose!
The room filled with the sound of poetry recitation.
Soon, Dou Zhengchang had seven or eight large bowls of wine in his stomach, his face as red as if blood might drip from it.
Ma Youming, unable to bear it, took over as the host.
Now it was Ma Youming’s turn to drink.
Ma Youming inwardly roared.
How were all these Dou family relatives so formidable? It seemed whoever acted as host was doomed!
Fortunately, his alcohol tolerance was good, so he could hold out for a while.
Ji Yong began to quote classics and add new rules with each tile drawn, eventually limiting the scope of poetry to the Four Books and Five Classics.
Song Mo remained unperturbed, elegantly drinking and reciting. Poor Dou Dechang could barely manage a line, while Dou Zhengchang was so drunk he was speaking nonsense. Ma Youming simply admitted defeat each time.
Half an hour later, only Song Mo and Ji Yong remained sober in the flower hall.
Ma Youming, with his last bit of clarity, grabbed a maid who came to change their wine bowls and whispered, “Quick, go tell your mistress.” The maid’s startled cry was stifled in her throat as she hurriedly ran out.
Soon, the master of ceremonies arrived, smiling at them, “The bride’s escort is about to arrive. Gentlemen, please move to the tea room for some tea and to discuss how to drink with the groom later.”
Ji Yong stared at Song Mo, unmoved.
“Mr. Ji, today the groom takes precedence. Why don’t we have a proper drink another day at Zhao Zishu’s place in Qianfo Temple?” Song Mo stood up, nodding meaningfully at him before turning to leave the flower hall.
Ji Yong’s face turned ashen.
Ma Youming, seeing Song Mo about to leave in his dazed state, stumbled to his feet and followed, saying, “Young Master, where are you going?”
Song Mo steadied Ma Youming and instructed Chen He, “Mr. Ma has had a bit too much to drink. Go tell the steward to arrange a place for Mr. Ma to rest.”
Chen He respectfully agreed and went to support Ma Youming.
But Ma Youming suddenly became agitated, waving his arms and nearly hitting Chen He’s face.
“I’m fine, I’m fine!” He tried to grab Song Mo’s arm but couldn’t see clearly, missing several times. “Young Master, I came to find you… but never got the chance. You don’t know, these days I’ve been living a hardly human life… Young Master, I know you’re clever, you move in and out of the palace as if it were your own home. I just want to ask for your guidance… I’m not smart, but I know to follow smart people… I’ll follow you through fire and water…”
He beat his chest, making loud thumping sounds.
However, when Ma Youming said, “You move in and out of the palace as if it were your own home,” Song Mo noticed Ji Yong and the master of ceremonies coming out. Without time to ponder Ma Youming’s words, he quietly scolded Chen He, “Hurry and find a suitable place for Mr. Ma,” then strode away.
Chen He half-dragged, half-carried Ma Youming away.
Ji Yong’s gaze turned cold.
The oblivious master of ceremonies enviously remarked, “When a man becomes the heir of Duke Ying, he can say he hasn’t lived in vain. Look at Mr. Ma, a third-rank military official, yet still pledging loyalty before the Young Master… They say the Young Master is only seventeen this year. Look at others his age, still burning the midnight oil, hoping for a degree. Even if they achieve early success in the examinations, to reach the Young Master’s position? They might strive their whole lives and still fall short!” By the end, his tone carried a hint of melancholy.
Ji Yong remained silent, his gaze growing increasingly cold as he stared in the direction Song Mo had departed.
“The Great Lessons of Literature” had received the Emperor’s praise. Yu Li, not taking sole credit, had commended his co-editors before the Emperor, especially the youngest, Ji Yong. With his title of Third Scholar and keen intellect, Yu Li felt Ji Yong had a bright future and wanted to establish a good relationship with him, praising him particularly highly.
The Emperor was pleased and specially summoned Ji Yong for a casual chat.
Ji Yong thought that was the end of it.
But a few days ago, the Emperor decreed that the Hanlin Academy should compile “The Collected Annotations of the Rites of Zhou” and specifically ordered Ji Yong to participate in the revisions.
His great-grandfather was overjoyed upon hearing this, reminding him, “This is an opportunity, a chance to leave your mark in history. You must seize it!”
His uncle and father were also elated. One wanted to present all the family’s treasures for him to choose from; the other walked on tiptoes, fearing to disturb him, which annoyed Ji Yong to no end. He longed to talk to someone. Yet everyone around him unanimously praised him: “At such a young age, not only have you earned the title of Third Scholar, but you’ve had two opportunities to participate in compiling imperial anthologies. You’re destined to leave an indelible mark on the literary world of our dynasty.”
The implication was clear – even if he spent his entire life as an editor at the Hanlin Academy, it would be something to be proud of.
Today, Yu Li had called him in for another cliché-ridden lecture, leaving him utterly frustrated. He pondered that if he were truly to be trapped in the Hanlin Academy, revising books day after day, year after year, he might as well be dead.