“To call oneself a roc, transcending the mundane—just by that realm of thought alone, Young Lord Su is far beyond our reach.”
“A roc soaring ninety thousand meters through the skies… such ambition to look down on the world—we wouldn’t even dare dream it, let alone write it…”
Li Zihao and Wang Lun were truly awestruck by the poem. The two were still praising it when they suddenly realized the hall had gone completely quiet. Turning to look, they saw Su Wencai’s face darkened as if he had just swallowed dung.
This poem… wasn’t written by Su?
Only then did the two realize something was wrong.
Time for me to shine… Ji Huaian cleared his throat, stood up, and smiled, “Although your poems were pretty mediocre, I must say your taste isn’t bad.”
As soon as they heard the Young Marquis speak, everyone turned to him.
“You understand poetry, Young Marquis?” Li Zihao sneered.
“A little. Poetry is just a minor art. It’s not that hard to write,” Ji Huaian replied arrogantly.
“Poetry is a minor art? Hahaha…”
Several young lords burst into laughter.
The Great Qi Empire thrived on culture, and poetry, prose, and music had reached incredible heights—especially poetry.
Anyone who could compose a masterpiece could go from a nobody to a nationally adored star overnight. Poetry’s influence in this era far surpassed even the most popular songs in his past life.
To hear Ji Huaian call poetry a “minor art” deeply offended the pride of the gathered scholars.
“Poetry requires strict rules of meter and rhyme, and demands elegance, tone, and imagery…”
“Poetry is the highest form of literature.”
“If the Young Marquis doesn’t understand it, he shouldn’t speak so lightly.”
“Such a disgrace to literature.”
One after another, the young scholars voiced their indignation.
This Young Marquis… that shameless confidence… Qian Duoduo secretly clicked his tongue in awe.
Wang Lun said, “We’d like to know which poem the Young Marquis composed. Let us admire your poetic brilliance.”
“Indeed, let us see this masterpiece for ourselves.”
Everyone chimed in, eager to see him make a fool of himself.
“You’ve already seen it. It’s this one,” Ji Huaian said, pointing at the poem displayed by the two maids.
Li Zihao laughed out loud, “You’re saying you wrote that?”
“What, did you write it?” Ji Huaian shot back.
Li Zihao was speechless.
Du Niang said calmly, “This poem—’The roc rises on the wind one day, soaring ninety thousand meters high…’—was indeed written by the Young Marquis.”
As soon as she spoke, the entire hall fell silent, dead quiet.
After a long pause, Wang Lun slapped the table. “Impossible…”
Du Niang said nothing more. Everyone present was accounted for. If someone else had written it, they would’ve stepped forward already.
“This poem… did you plagiarize it?” Su Wencai sneered.
As soon as he said it, everyone understood what he meant.
In this era, some people desperate for fame would pay to buy a poem and pretend it was their own.
“Ah, so that’s how.”
“Buying poems? That’s a disgrace to the literary world.”
Facing the crowd’s disdain, Ji Huaian didn’t care. He smiled and said, “So what if I bought it? Do you have proof? Or are you just sore losers?”
His thick skin left everyone speechless.
Ji Huaian then turned to Du Niang and smiled, “Du Niang, does that mean I won this round?”
Du Niang nodded, “According to the rules, the Young Marquis is the winner of the second round.”
“Then I get to set the topic for the third round?”
“Of course…” Du Niang paused, then turned to the crowd, “Do any of you gentlemen object?”
No one replied. The atmosphere was awkward.
Is this brat really going to ruin the whole poetry contest? Du Niang looked helpless.
“Ahem, if I’d known you couldn’t handle losing, I wouldn’t have joined. Didn’t mean to embarrass all you so-called scholars,” Ji Huaian chuckled, then added, “Du Niang, from what I see, these scholars are just fame-seeking frauds. Next time you host a poetry contest, I’ll help you bring some real talent.”
“Arrogant…”
“A bought poem doesn’t count as skill.”
“If we let him set the topic, I’d like to see what else he can come up with,” Su Wencai scoffed coldly.
Ji Huaian laughed, “Now that’s the spirit, Young Lord Su.”
Du Niang quickly said, “Please, Young Marquis, announce the topic.”
Ji Huaian looked Du Niang up and down—voluptuous and stunning—and said with a grin, “Since we’re all romantic scholars, we should write about beauty. Let the third round be themed on ‘Du Niang.'”
Everyone turned to look at the courtesan. They had to admit, the topic was fitting. Many of them had written poems for Du Niang before to please her. Writing about beauty wasn’t too difficult either.
Du Niang was briefly stunned, then smiled gently, “Ping’er, light the incense.”
“Since I set the topic, I’ll go first.”
Du Niang walked over to watch. As she did, her expression grew complex, her eyes flickering with surprise and delight.
When Ji Huaian finished, Du Niang was still staring at the poem in a daze, as if under a spell.
“Du Niang, what do you think?” Ji Huaian asked playfully.
Du Niang came back to her senses, her cheeks flushing red. “A fine poem, Young Marquis, though I hardly deserve such praise.”
“Du Niang, your beauty is like a celestial fairy. In my eyes, no poem could ever capture even one ten-thousandth of your charm.”
“Young Marquis, you’re quite the sweet-talker.”
Just then, a maid stepped forward to collect the poem.
Ji Huaian stopped her, “No need to collect it. Leave it out for the other scholars to see. Young Lord Su said earlier one must know one’s limits. If they can’t write something better than this, they shouldn’t waste paper and ink.”
Du Niang sighed softly and motioned, “Please return to your seat, Young Marquis.”
Ji Huaian walked back, brimming with confidence.
“Arrogant. I don’t believe I write worse than you.”
One of the scholars stepped up, ready to write, but after glancing at Ji Huaian’s poem, his expression froze.
After a long pause, he set the brush down and walked away.
Soon another went up. After reading the poem, his face flushed, and he stepped down.
One after another, seven or eight scholars took the stage, saw the poem, and returned in defeat.
Finally, Su Wencai, Li Zihao, and Wang Lun could sit no longer. One by one, they approached the desk. But after reading Ji Huaian’s poem, they too returned with darkened expressions.
By the time the incense finished burning, aside from Ji Huaian’s poem, no one had written anything else.
The third round had only one entry. No need for comparison. Naturally, Ji Huaian had won again.
Du Niang signaled the maids to display the poem.
All the scholars rushed over to see. On the paper were four lines:
Clouds mirror her clothes, flowers her face,
Spring breeze brushes the railing, the dewdrops in grace.
If not seen atop the Jade Girl Peak,
Then surely beneath the moon at Jade Terrace we’d meet.
“What a poem—so natural in its imagery, and full of elegance. Truly excellent.”
“Not just excellent—perfection.”
“No other beauty-themed poem can compare to this.”
“This poem will surely become famous across the land. Congratulations, Du Niang.”
Du Niang looked at Ji Huaian, her gaze a little complicated.