Chapter 5: Composing a Poem in Seven Steps

Composing a poem using the character “tower”? There are far too many! Thanks to the ancestors of every dynasty, I, Ying Shuo, will certainly burn extra offerings for each of you in the future!

Full of confidence, Ying Shuo stood tall, ready to speak at once. Yet, after a moment’s thought, he realized that reciting any poem at random would be beneath him. What if that fellow surnamed Fan accused him of being careless or sloppy? With this in mind, Ying Shuo furrowed his brow, earnestly sifting through his memory.

The crowd fell quiet. Fan Zeng, lost in thought, glanced up and saw Ying Shuo’s furrowed brow, mistaking it for desperation.

He couldn’t resist a taunt: “Well, Young Lord Ying, have you already run out of ideas? I suppose you’ve not an ounce of learning in you—so I’ll wait right here while you compose your poem. Once you’re done, I’ll write one myself to expose your lack of talent to all!”

Fan Zeng beamed with satisfaction, unaware that Ying Shuo was merely deliberating over which poem to choose.

Ying Shuo looked at him as if he were a fool. “No need to be so polite,” he said. “If you’re so capable, why not go first? Don’t worry about me. I can compose a poem in seven steps!”

A ripple of excitement swept through the assembled guests. Compose a poem in seven steps? What sort of extraordinary talent does that require? A poet-immortal of the age! Judging by Ying Shuo’s expression, he wasn’t joking. Curiosity and anticipation gripped the crowd.

Fan Zeng sneered, “A poem in seven steps? I’ll believe it when pigs fly!” Realizing his crude words, he quickly covered his mouth, but inwardly he remained scornful. Seven steps to a poem—possible, perhaps, but only for the truly gifted! A humble boy from a poor family, whatever he produces will surely be rubbish.

Ying Shuo merely smiled. “Since Young Master Fan’s inkstone seems dry, allow me to proceed!”

“By all means,” Fan Zeng replied with a roll of his eyes, his disdain plain.

Ying Shuo stepped forward, an idea crystallized in his mind. The guests craned their necks, listening intently.

“Beyond the green hills, another hill; beyond the tower, another tower.
When will the music and dancing by West Lake ever cease?”

His tone rose and fell, each word measured, the poem meeting every requirement. And it was composed by Ying Shuo upon his fourth step.

“What splendid lines! What a poem!” The guests could not contain themselves, showering him with applause and praise, though some looked puzzled. Why had Ying Shuo chosen these lines?

But Ying Shuo’s next two lines dispelled all doubt:

“The warm breeze intoxicates the travelers,
Mistaking Hangzhou for Bianzhou!”

With the last line, his seventh step touched the ground. The entire Eight Treasures Pavilion fell silent—one could hear a pin drop.

“To mistake Hangzhou for Bianzhou…”

“What a line! Mistaking Hangzhou for Bianzhou!”

“He’s satirizing the ancient rulers, who, lost in pleasure, brought ruin to the nation and shame upon themselves.”

“He’s using the past to criticize the present, mocking Young Master Fan for indulging in drink and desire, caring nothing for the affairs of state.”

“A young man of his standing, clearly of official descent, ought to shoulder the nation’s concerns. How can he waste his life in pursuit of pleasure?”

An elderly man, stroking his white beard, spoke the thoughts in Ying Shuo’s heart. With someone else explaining for him, Ying Shuo simply clasped his hands in thanks.

“Exactly so. Thank you, sir.”

A wave of excitement swept the guests—some were so moved they wept openly.

“Heavens! What day is this? Has the God of Literature descended among us?”

“With such talent in our Qin Yang Dynasty, the people are truly blessed!”

“A poet-immortal of our age! Such youthful brilliance! Such talent!”

Compliments echoed without end. The wine flowing, spirits high, the guests insisted Ying Shuo sign his name on the spot as a keepsake.

“Little poet-immortal! Would you sign a piece for me? My son is sitting for the examinations this year!”

“With your calligraphy at his side, he’s sure to succeed!”

“I want one too! And me!”

Pressed from all sides, Ying Shuo, his face squashed, could only sigh in resignation.

“Is this the age of idol-chasing already? Are autographs fashionable now?”

The hall buzzed with excitement. Strangers crowded in, blocking the street.

Behind the gauze curtain, Ruan Qingzhu’s slender fingers trembled as she murmured:

“Beyond the green hills, another hill; beyond the tower, another tower. When will the music and dancing by West Lake ever cease…”

“He’s woven my Eight Treasures Pavilion and my own status as the court’s leading songstress into his poem…”

A smile played beneath her veil.

“The warm breeze intoxicates the travelers, mistaking Hangzhou for Bianzhou…”

Jiang Lanfeng also mouthed the lines. A poem in seven steps—what dazzling brilliance! In youth, to meet one such as this: miss him, and you’ll regret it forever. Quietly, she made a decision, her gaze turning from dreamy to resolute, a bold idea forming in her heart.

“Impossible! How can this be?” An untimely shout broke the spell.

It was Fan Zeng, his face flushed, veins bulging, his eyes brimming with hatred for Ying Shuo.

He jabbed a finger in Ying Shuo’s face. “How could a pauper like you compose a poem in seven steps? You probably can’t even read! You mongrel, daring to trick me with someone else’s poem!”

He grew more and more animated, turning to the crowd, flinging his arm wide, seeking their approval.

“Don’t let him fool you! He must have cheated! If he really wrote that poem on the spot, I’ll kneel and lick his shoes!”

Those nearest to Ying Shuo shrank back, fearing the madman might bite, muttering, “What kind of nobleman is this? Such vulgarity! He’s a disgrace to all scholars! He shouldn’t bother with the exams—his family should get him a job instead!”

In the Qin Yang Dynasty, titles might pass by inheritance, but an unworthy heir would only become a laughingstock. The speaker had clearly branded Fan Zeng just that.

Ying Shuo simply smiled, about to retort, when Ruan Qingzhu’s voice, tinged with anger, rang out from above.

“Oh? Young Master Fan, are you accusing me and Lord Ying of conspiring to deceive you?”

Fan Zeng turned red and green, stammering, “N-no, I mean…”

Before he could finish, Ruan Qingzhu cut him off.

“I have never met Lord Ying before, and the topic was set before everyone. Moreover, the poem perfectly fits the occasion—someone has already explained its meaning. Young Master Fan, do you not understand? Or do you claim Lord Ying foresaw your return today and colluded with me purely to embarrass you?”

Any fool could see that was impossible. Fan Zeng’s accusations of cheating were thus thoroughly refuted.

“Be off, now! This isn’t your family manor, and we are not your parents. We have no obligation to indulge you!”

Laughter erupted, the crowd demanding Fan Zeng leave at once.

His face ashen, head bowed, body trembling, bloodshot eyes fixed on Ying Shuo.

How dare you humiliate me before everyone… If only I’d brought my men, you’d be dead already! Fine, laugh while you can. When I return with reinforcements, your end will come!

With that, Fan Zeng hurried away, his two maids trailing behind.

“Wait.”

A voice stopped him. All eyes turned—Ying Shuo, smiling slyly, called out.

“Have you forgotten something, Young Master Fan? You haven’t licked my shoe yet.”