The east wind, at night, blows open a thousand trees of blossoms.

In the second-floor hall of Old Rain Tower, Li Pin’s clear voice carried to everyone’s ears while, at the table beside him, Ning Yi’s brush swept swiftly across the paper. With just this first line spoken aloud, many faces in the room had already begun to shift—some grew still and solemn, waiting attentively for what came next; others furrowed their brows, an uneasy feeling stirring in their chests.

Among those present, Su Chonghua leaned toward believing Ning Yi possessed only modest talent. He certainly didn’t believe the story about some Daoist priest composing “Prelude to Water Melody”—but being at Yushan Academy himself, he had a fairly thorough understanding of Ning Yi’s daily conduct there, and his teaching methods struck him as almost childishly colloquial. The man had presumably read the classics and canonical texts, but as for real scholarly talent, Su Chonghua found it hard to credit. Even after Song Mao had personally praised Ning Yi’s teaching abilities that day, Su Chonghua still saw it as little more than clever trickery—effective for a moment, perhaps, but bound to fall apart given enough time.

In truth, he had no particular objection to how Ning Yi chose to coast through life; he’d understood Elder Su’s intentions from the very start. As a man who’d navigated officialdom himself, he had a high tolerance for such murky business—buying a poem to build a reputation as a talented scholar was nothing new; had he been able to pull off something similar in his own youth, he wouldn’t have hesitated either. So he’d never voiced any opinion about Ning Yi’s teaching. But Song Mao’s praise changed things. When Elder Su had sought Ning Yi out to discuss teaching matters on New Year’s Day, what Su Chonghua had felt, thick and unmistakable, was the sense of a threat.

Ning Yi had always kept a low profile, avoiding too much contact with others—leaving no opening to exploit. As a member of the Su household, with Elder Su having spoken up for him, trying to undercut him from within the family was practically impossible. But tonight had presented a genuine opportunity. Running into him here by chance, truly impossible to avoid—Su Chonghua had thought it over for only a moment before making his decision, speaking up to have Puyang Yi call him upstairs. Once he was up there, as an elder, he need only ask him to compose a poem, and there’d be no way for him to refuse—especially with Xue Jin here stirring things further, and so many other scholars gathered around besides. As the saying goes, scholars hold each other in contempt—if one poem at Mid-Autumn had eclipsed everyone else and then nothing more had come of it since, who would truly be convinced of his talent?

This scheme of his was, in truth, much like the thinking behind Su Wenxing and the others on the day Song Mao arrived at the Su residence—letting others expose the man’s true colors. Su Chonghua had fully prepared himself for tonight to be the night Ning Yi’s reputation collapsed entirely. And everything that followed had gone exactly as he’d planned: amid the crowd’s murmuring, no one was willing to let Ning Yi leave; Xue Jin’s theatrics, however exaggerated, had landed precisely right in this setting, and his own final remark had served as the last straw breaking the camel’s back—delivered at just the right moment.

And yet the look Ning Yi had given him afterward had caught him off guard, and then the man’s decisive move to pick up the brush made something drop in Su Chonghua’s chest—he suddenly realized his scheme had gone wrong. And with the appearance of that very first line of verse, he understood at once: right at the peak of his own carefully laid trap, he’d been turned against.

Too decisive.

Though their focal points may have differed, he and Xue Jin both felt the same thing at that moment—Ning Yi’s composed, unhurried manner could only mean he had nothing to fear here. The first line alone hadn’t given anyone time to truly parse its meaning—a single line, at best, could be called flawless, but not yet judged good or bad. Yet moments later, when Li Pin read out “and blows down, like scattered stars, a rain,” the poem’s initial contours were already taking shape before everyone’s eyes—a grand, resplendent vision unfolding as the verses formed.

The brush swept on.

“Fine horses, carved carriages… fragrance filling the road.”

“Phoenix flutes sound…”

“Jade vessel’s light turns…”

“All night long—fish and dragons dance—”

The first stanza was complete. Su Chonghua sat there, sighing faintly, lifting the cup before him for a drink, then closing his eyes—knowing now that all his hopes for tonight had come to nothing. The feeling was like scheming against someone in officialdom and having the plan completely backfire—a thoroughly unpleasant sensation. He genuinely found himself unable to see through this young man anymore. Beside him, Xue Jin sat with his mouth slightly open, an expression of astonishment on his face, blinking, unable to find words. The entire hall had fallen utterly silent, someone quietly repeating the verse under their breath, the distant clamor from outside drifting in through the stillness.

If the “Prelude to Water Melody” at Mid-Autumn had built gradually, starting from something plain and unfolding, through masterful and unobtrusive technique, into a vast, refined, and enduring grandeur, then this piece, from its very first stroke, was bold and sweeping without the slightest hesitation—like ink splashed freely across a landscape painting, wild cursive brushwork, opening with the most resplendent imagery from the very start. “The east wind, at night, blows open a thousand trees of blossoms. And blows down, like scattered stars, a rain. Fine horses, carved carriages, fragrance filling the road. Phoenix flutes sound, the jade vessel’s light turns, all night long, fish and dragons dance.” In just this one stanza, an unceasing stream of imagery had already captured the full splendor of Lantern Festival night, as if the entire scene’s liveliness had been compressed dozens of times over and replayed before everyone’s eyes.

The atmosphere in the hall had grown somewhat solemn. Ning Yi paused, glancing back—outwardly as if gauging the crowd’s reaction, but in truth still watching the blue-clad serving girl moving about. Even as he wrote, he’d been stealing glances at her movements; she had only glanced this way once, puzzled, before returning to her work, pouring wine and the like, now standing slightly turned beside a pillar, her gaze angled toward the corridor outside the window. In the entire hall, likely no one but Ning Yi was paying her any attention.

Ning Yi turned back, swirled the brush in the inkstone, and murmured under his breath: “Moth ornaments, snow willows, threads of gold…” Li Pin, not quite catching it, said, “Hm?” Then, seeing Ning Yi’s brush come down, understood.

“Moth ornaments, snow willows, threads of gold…”

The characters continued to form as Ning Yi’s gaze shifted—the blue-clad girl had turned again, pouring wine for someone else, then, without any change in expression, glanced elsewhere. Out in the corridor, the two blue-clad men had turned back and were now peering inward. Puyang Yi seemed to have noticed this; someone of apparent standing among the guests went over to inquire and negotiate, speaking in low tones by the doorway—but with everyone absorbed in the poem, no one else paid it any mind.

Ning Yi lifted his brush and wrote the next line: “Laughing words, faint fragrance drifting away.”

The two blue-clad soldiers ultimately didn’t dare disturb such a large gathering of scholars; their voices dropped low, and eventually they turned and headed back down the corridor, glancing in through the window once more as they went. Ning Yi finished the line and paused; the two men vanished from the window. The blue-clad woman, too, made her way along the curved path toward the door, pausing to pour more wine for someone at a table near the entrance—likely timing how long it would take the two men to reach the third floor.

“Searching for her, through the crowd, a thousand times over…”

As Li Pin’s voice carried the words, Ning Yi watched the woman from the corner of his eye. At last, without any change in expression, she slipped out through the door. She glanced down the corridor—perhaps confirming the blue-clad men were gone—and took a step to go, just as the next line, “Suddenly, turning back,” rang out. The woman seemed to notice something; her steps halted, and she glanced this way once, her brow seeming to furrow slightly. A fleeting glimpse—Ning Yi calmly looked away and focused on writing the final line of the poem.

As the last stroke fell, Li Pin beside him let out a sigh, his gaze sweeping the room. “Suddenly, turning back… there she is, where the lantern light is dim.”

As these words fell, into the silence someone breathed out, “Wonderful…” The renowned Qilan had already been listening with shimmering eyes, and upon hearing “searching for her through the crowd a thousand times over, suddenly turning back, there she is, where the lantern light is dim,” she rose to her feet almost without meaning to, as if wanting to say something or step closer—only to catch herself, realizing it wouldn’t do, biting her lower lip gently, twisting the handkerchief in her hands, turning her head to glance aside. Most of the others were still savoring the mood of this second stanza. Ning Yi set down his brush; Li Pin carefully lifted the paper, shook it lightly, examined it once more, then handed it to Puyang Yi beside him, looking at Ning Yi with an unspeakable sigh before stepping back and offering a formal bow.

The poem’s first stanza had captured the height of splendor with brushwork that commanded admiration, painting the full grandeur of the Lantern Festival scene—remarkable enough on its own. But then the second stanza drew out an entirely different mood from within that very splendor: the first stanza worldly and immersed, the second transcendent and aloof, the contrast between them creating an impact almost impossible to put into words. Among those present, some were still turning the meaning over in their minds; others had already understood, sighing softly, their expressions complicated. Given the circumstances, this particular sentiment clearly carried a meaning beyond the poem itself.

Naturally, a few people immediately noticed the reactions of those around them—Xue Jin, for instance, was quick to notice Qilan rising to her feet. Having said all that he’d said earlier, he’d now been made an outright laughingstock by a single poem; no one had much attention to spare for him at the moment, though he could hardly contain his frustration, having been the one squared off against Ning Yi just moments before. After a pause, he couldn’t help but blurt out: “Then… then why did you tell your family elders that ‘Prelude to Water Melody’ was composed by some Daoist priest?”

Ning Yi set down his brush, mentally tracking how much time had passed since the blue-clad serving girl had vanished from the window. He’d never had much feeling toward someone like Xue Jin one way or another; hearing him speak now, he glanced over with a smile. “Brother Xue, where exactly did you hear this from?”

Xue Jin faltered. “It was secondhand, admittedly, but told quite vividly. Did you… did you actually say it or not?”

Ning Yi looked at him for a few seconds, blinked, and smiled. “I did say it. But rumors stop with the wise, Brother Xue—perhaps you only heard half the sentence.”

As the two of them spoke, Xue Jin’s tone rose somewhat, while Ning Yi spoke calmly, his voice likely not carrying nearly as far as Li Pin’s had. But the moment those words left his mouth, Su Chonghua’s eyes widened as well—clearly he hadn’t expected Ning Yi to say something like that. Xue Jin looked utterly stunned, and before he could respond, Ning Yi cupped his hands toward the room. “I truly do have urgent matters to attend to, and I haven’t been dishonest about it in the least. With that, I’ll take my leave. Farewell.”

No one dared to stop him this time; some even returned his bow, saying things like “Go on then, Brother Ning, if you have business,” or “No trouble at all, no trouble at all.”

Xue Jin’s eyes widened. “You—” But before he could get further, Ning Yi patted his shoulder as if about to say something more. Li Pin, Wu Qihao, Puyang Yi, and the others all leaned in, listening intently. Two seconds later, “That Daoist priest, that day…” was all that could be heard as Ning Yi finished: “…chanted two poems.”

He didn’t actually lower his voice for this. Having said it plainly, Ning Yi nodded and turned to leave. Xue Jin’s face flushed crimson in an instant, unable to say a word. Xiao Chan, who had been quietly memorizing the verses from behind the crowd, hurried after him with a smile, and the two of them, one after the other, disappeared down the corridor.

The room fell briefly quiet, with no one quite able to find another topic. Li Pin looked at the poem and said with a smile, “With this poem out, writing another Lantern Festival verse is going to be a tall order.”

Puyang Yi nodded, tapping the paper lightly, sighing, “What a poem…” before passing it around to the others. Qilan, meanwhile, turned to gaze toward the window where Ning Yi and Xiao Chan had disappeared, sitting back down with a touch of wistfulness. A moment later, she smiled again, chatting naturally with those around her, working to lift the mood once more, waiting for the poem to be passed her way so she could give her own performance of it.

Within half an hour, this “Green Jade Cup” had spread throughout every corner of Jiangning…