The grass lay green, and the river breeze stirred the gauze curtains hanging beneath the long pavilion. Not far off, the figure who had tossed down his verses and left was already nearing the courtyard gate; a few people had chased after him, calling out: “Don’t go, get this sorted out first…” “Ning Liheng, you think just walking off settles this!” “Enough of your games!” But then they, too, noticed something was off behind them, and some stopped in their tracks, turning to look back.

Xue Gongyuan’s fiery temper, and the poem sheet clutched in his hand as he prepared to chase after Ning Yi, had been the very backbone of the others’ resolve to keep him from leaving — with an elder speaking up, how dare he simply run, and only then could the rest use their own sense of propriety as grounds to block his way. But what happened to Xue Gongyuan next left everyone thoroughly baffled, unable to make heads or tails of it. As for what exactly was written on that page to provoke such a reaction, hardly anyone could guess.

If this Ning Yi truly had talent, then what he’d written on the page might well be a rather fine poem — but to write one poem and simply walk off was, in that case, nothing but self-deception; word would surely get around afterward that the man was far too arrogant, thinking a single poem could overawe an entire gathering. The elders present had all seen a great many things in their time; for something to leave Xue Gongyuan this stunned was no small matter, and the few sharper minds in the crowd began to wonder whether the page held some sort of secret — something Xue Gongyuan recognized, the kind of thing that, once seen, demanded silence.

Ji Wanqing frowned, her first thought being that this Ning Liheng might have gotten hold of some compromising secret about Xue Gongyuan and written it out in coded language, leaving Xue Gongyuan too afraid to press the matter further. But amid her unease, she shook her head inwardly — even if he could silence Xue Gongyuan, he couldn’t silence the countless other tongues that would keep talking; at most, it would only drag Xue Gongyuan down with him, ruining his reputation as well. In Bianliang, it was hardly rare for some venerable figure of letters or a retired official, having spent a lifetime building a good name, to lose it all in his later years — she’d seen plenty of such cases.

Still, this Ning Liheng was clever — recognizing that the situation couldn’t be salvaged, he’d thrown down something like this and simply left; if he really could drag Xue Gongyuan into it, then afterward, even if many people had doubts, at least he would avoid being branded on the spot as a “swindler,” sparing himself total ruin. As Ji Wanqing turned this possibility over in her mind, she glanced sideways at her rival Li Shishi, who sat there with one hand resting near her lips, apparently lost in thought. But whatever the case, this man was her friend, someone she had brought here — and even if things didn’t end in complete disaster this time, he was now tied to her all the same. In this clash before the Dragon Boat Festival, she had already come out badly the worse for it, and surely realized as much; if their positions were reversed, Ji Wanqing thought, she too would have no choice but to sit there and feign composure.

Sunlight poured down over the clear midsummer noon. In the brief span of commotion and uncertainty, each person present had their own thoughts and speculations, though most, for the moment, could only wonder aloud what the poem might actually say, murmuring to one another: “…’A magnolia-wood oar, a sandalwood-plank boat, jade flutes and gilded pipes seated at either end’ — what kind of line is that…”

“Well-crafted enough, but… ordinary, isn’t it?”

Having only caught these two lines, no one felt confident enough to venture much of an opinion. Yan Lingzhong and the others had already gathered around. “Master Xue…”

“Gongyuan, what’s wrong?”

“Let me see, let me have a look at what this fellow’s written — Gongyuan, let go of it…”

Pan Hongda, stern and straightforward by nature, pried the poem sheet from Xue Gongyuan’s grip. Only then did Xue Gongyuan seem to come back to himself; he set the paper down, swallowed hard, glanced around at everyone, his expression still complicated, staring wide-eyed without a word. Pan Hongda, fired up, began to read, and no sooner had he spoken the first two lines than his own expression, too, began to shift. Yan Lingzhong, Mo Gong, and the others soon turned to look as well.

These were all men who had spent long years navigating the world of letters; whatever Ji Wanqing could imagine, they too could brace themselves for. In a situation like this, if someone wanted to ruin another’s reputation utterly, there was little they wouldn’t stoop to. They, too, had considered that if there was something genuinely suspicious in this poem, better to look now, so as to choose their response quickly — to see whether it could still be covered up. But as they read the sheet together, their expressions all turned to astonishment, and they exchanged glances: “This poem… a poem like this…”

Their expressions unsettled, Yu Shaoyuan, Fang Wenyang, and the others had already crowded around out of curiosity. Ning Yi had earlier set down both Yu Shaoyuan’s poem sheet and his own together, and now Yu Shaoyuan, cupping his hands with a smile, said, “Esteemed teachers, might Master Ning’s poem be read aloud for all to appreciate?” He was certain there was something unusual about it, and wanted to bring the matter out into the open first — his own Nian Nu Jiao, after all, represented years of accumulated mastery finally coming to fruition; surely it couldn’t simply be overshadowed like this…

But no sooner had he said this than Pan Hongda and the others glanced at him, and someone helped Xue Gongyuan to a seat off to one side. Yan Lingzhong looked at the situation, then at Yu Shaoyuan, and finally sighed, handing him the poem sheet. “Very well. Shaoyuan, why don’t you read it aloud for everyone… go ahead.”

His tone carried a note of resignation. Yu Shaoyuan, faintly puzzled, took the sheet, unfolded it, and looked around at the gathered crowd. Someone was already saying, “Shaoyuan, go on, read it.” Fang Wenyang and the others moved to the side to look as well. Yu Shaoyuan lowered his head and began to read aloud directly: “A magnolia-wood oar, a sandalwood-plank boat, jade flutes and gilded pipes seated at either end. Fine wine fills the vessels by the thousand measure, singing girls aboard, drifting with the waves — heh — wherever they may go.”

Poetry of this era placed great weight on rhythm and cadence, and Yu Shaoyuan read it out with full inflection, at a measured pace, giving everyone time to take it in and remember it. The first few lines were simply well-crafted, elegant phrases; but upon reaching “singing girls aboard, drifting with the waves,” Yu Shaoyuan gave a soft chuckle. Someone in the crowd laughed: “Ordinary enough.” But not many joined in, because the lines were, in truth, quite good — nearly flawless — just not yet enough to stun anyone outright.

Yu Shaoyuan continued to the next line: “The immortal still waits to ride his yellow crane; the wanderer of the sea, heart empty, drifts with the white gulls.” By this point, his expression had already begun to shift, ever so slightly.

And yet, with everyone around him listening intently, his face couldn’t show much for the moment, nor could he easily break the rhythm and cadence of his reading. He paused briefly, glanced at those beside him, and continued reciting from the page: “…Qu Yuan’s verses hang like the sun and the moon; the King of Chu’s terraces and towers are now but empty hills… Drunk with inspiration, his brush shakes the Five Great Peaks; the poem done, he laughs disdainfully, soaring above the misty isles!” By now, the poem’s overwhelming, commanding force had come surging forth in full, and Yu Shaoyuan’s tone rose helplessly with the rhythm. By the time he reached “Drunk with inspiration, his brush shakes the Five Great Peaks; the poem done, he laughs disdainfully, soaring above the misty isles,” his whole voice had been swept upward — this, too, because men of letters in this era had studied poetry since childhood with great rigor, and when a poem’s sheer force came bearing down like this, even reading it aloud in keeping with that force left one almost unable to hold it back. Still, mindful that he mustn’t let himself be carried away, he tried to rein his voice back down, which only made it sound rather strange.

His lips moved; looking at the final two lines, he found himself momentarily unable to go on, his eyes sweeping over the crowd. Among the men of letters listening, some murmured the lines over to themselves, others bowed their heads in quiet contemplation, fingers tapping the rhythm against their legs, not even noticing Yu Shaoyuan’s unease. But in that brief moment of his distraction, Fang Wenyang beside him had already finished reading the sheet, and, shaking his head, simply turned and walked away. After a moment, once the crowd had absorbed those two lines and still no one stirred, someone finally looked up. “Shaoyuan, what comes after?”

“After that…” His voice came out low, as if from deep in his throat, but then he gave a small laugh. “…’If fame and fortune could last forever, then the Han River too would flow backward to the northwest.’ This poem, gentlemen — judge it for yourselves.”

He recited the final two lines as though the page had grown too hot to hold, and immediately passed the sheet on; someone took it at once. Someone else said, “This poem’s ordinary too… isn’t it.” Another chimed in, “This poem…” Everyone present, of course, wanted to render an immediate verdict on the piece, but looking at the expressions around them, no one dared to be the first to offer an opinion and risk being mocked for speaking rashly, and no one wanted to be the one to declare outright that the poem was excellent either — everyone was waiting for someone else to speak first.

Having already heard it once, people now passed the sheet around to read for themselves; some, having already read it once, glanced toward the direction Ning Yi had gone, mulled it over, then returned to the page. Those who didn’t want to keep jostling for a look simply went off to the side and copied it out onto their own paper. In these few moments, as the crowd of literary men lost their composure, Zhou Qing on one side and Ji Wanqing on the other found themselves somewhat left out.

Ji Wanqing, having heard the poem once through, privately judged that it likely wasn’t all that remarkable — but then she glanced at Yu Shaoyuan, who stood not far off, bent in agonized contemplation, holding his own Nian Nu Jiao, his expression shifting unpredictably. Looking to the side again, she saw Shishi sitting there on her cushion, one hand covering her mouth, yet seeming to murmur something under her breath, her body swaying gently from side to side, her eyes smiling, her expression graceful and refined. Her other pale, slender hand was dipped in wine and tracing characters on the small table before her — clearly the very poem Ning Liheng had left behind — humming softly along with its rhythm, as though entirely oblivious to those around her, lost in her own quiet delight, occasionally breaking into laughter.

Ji Wanqing sat there, her expression soft, a faint smile on her lips, yet inwardly she could never have anticipated a result like this, and few had guessed that the page held simply a poem of this caliber. In theory, no matter how fine a poem might be, there was a limit to what it could accomplish in a setting like this — even if what Ning Yi had written could stand alongside Yu Shaoyuan’s Nian Nu Jiao, there would still be plenty to say about it either way. But this poem exceeded that entire category.

If not for this group’s calculated scheming and relentless pressure, Ning Yi would never have wanted to bring this particular poem out for the occasion — at most, Su Shi’s love poem “Huanxi Sha” would have been more than enough to hold the room. But with matters having come to this point, bringing out this poem carried an entirely different weight. Li Bai’s “Song on the River.” If one had to sum it up in a single sentence, this was one of the works that most fully embodied the mind of the Poet Immortal in the prime of his life.

The one and only Li Taibai, unmatched through all the ages.

When it came to impassioned, unrestrained expression, pouring out the heart’s truest feelings, Li Taibai’s poetry was the kind of thing capable of striking straight into a person’s soul in an instant, shaking them to their core — especially before men who had spent their whole lives in the company of poetry. “Qu Yuan’s verses hang like the sun and the moon; the King of Chu’s terraces and towers are now but empty hills. Drunk with inspiration, his brush shakes the Five Great Peaks; the poem done, he laughs disdainfully, soaring above the misty isles!” Landing here, with barely any need for deep analysis or scrutiny, there was hardly anyone who could withstand its weight.

Though in later ages, perhaps because of the line about “singing girls aboard, drifting with the waves,” this poem had never been included in any textbook, and its fame seemed to fall short of more celebrated pieces like “Bring in the Wine,” it was nonetheless a masterwork from Li Taibai’s thirties or forties — comparatively restrained in form, yet sweeping and fluid, like a great river surging forward in one unbroken breath. Set loose at this gathering, it wasn’t merely shaking the Five Peaks or soaring above misty isles — it was, quite simply, bearing down on the entire assembly with overwhelming force. Were it not so, it would never have left Xue Gongyuan speechless.

No one had imagined this slap would land with such devastating, exaggerated force. At that moment, clusters of literary men were still murmuring among themselves in low voices, while the group of wealthy young nobles around Zhou Qing whispered to one another as well — they had, after all, come along to watch the fun largely because Zhou Pei had praised her teacher so extravagantly, and having grown up in Bianliang themselves, none of them were inclined to simply accept someone else’s superiority. But they had come to watch a spectacle, not to make an enemy, and now they murmured, “Who’d have thought her teacher was really this impressive…”

Beside Shishi, Ji Wanqing sat there, wrestling with herself, choosing her words carefully. “I never would have guessed this Ning Liheng could truly write a poem this fine — matched against Shaoyuan’s, it’s genuinely hard to say which is superior. Sister Shishi…” Her gaze remained steady, fixed ahead, as she turned her head to speak to Shishi in what seemed a casual, friendly manner — only to hear Shishi let out a soft “hoo, hoo” of laughter, oddly strange. Turning to look, she saw that Shishi, though covering her mouth and laughing occasionally, still carried her usual graceful, captivating air, only now her fingers kept writing on the table, her gaze not meeting Ji Wanqing’s at all.

“Hoo… Sister Wanqing, I don’t even know what you all thought you were doing…”

“Hm?”

“Do you even know, any of you, just how formidable this elder brother of mine truly is… hoo…”

“Sister Shishi… whatever do you mean…”

“Ever since I sat down here… watching you all press him like that… I’ve just been laughing, heh heh, Sister Wanqing…”

“Er…”

“I don’t know how formidable he is either… but, little sister, there’s one thing I do know…” Shishi laughed, lowering her head, propping one hand against her forehead for a moment. “Zhou Meicheng himself once admitted that in this man’s presence, he’d hardly dare write a poem at all… Sister Wanqing, why on earth… did you all have to push him so hard, hee hee… forgive me, this is just too funny…”

On the surface, the two of them had always maintained a friendly rapport, but between reigning courtesans vying for reputation, the mask had, in fact, already slipped a few times in private. Shishi had always presented herself with an air of refined intelligence and clear-eyed grace, but when harboring genuine ill will, her words, too, could turn sharp; often, a single mild-sounding remark from her could pierce someone through without them quite knowing how to respond — she was not the sort to simply take things lying down. With everyone else’s attention elsewhere for the moment, she sat there laughing freely, and Ji Wanqing’s face flushed red and pale by turns, thoroughly discomfited. Zhou Meicheng, too afraid to write in his presence? If that were really true, replaying the whole sequence of events in her mind, she could see with perfect clarity just what sort of clownish role she and the others must now cut in Ning Yi’s eyes…

Her expression shifted, complicated beyond words. But in Shishi’s mind at that moment, she wasn’t particularly concerned with the wretched state of her defeated rival — what occupied her thoughts far more was the full course of events itself.

Honestly, the way Ning Yi had broken the deadlock with this poem had left even her rather startled, so much so that the picture of Ning Yi that had seemed to be coming into focus in her mind had now grown murky and mysterious once more.

Singing girls aboard, drifting with the waves wherever they might go… It was, admittedly, wonderfully carefree — but what exactly, she wondered, had he really been thinking…

Just as Shishi sat there lost in her own thoughts, Ning Yi, with Zhou Pei beside him, had already left the estate grounds and reached the shaded path outside.