Chapter Two: The Shame of That Day, Repaid Today!

Today’s challenge on the stage was unlike his visit to the Qin family three days prior.

Back then, he had no cards up his sleeve, no support to rely on. He entered the Qin household with nothing but a marriage contract, gambling from the very outset.

He wagered on whether the Qin family would honor their word.

If they did, marrying Qin Zhaoning and joining the ranks of the nobility would be a meteoric rise.

If not, Han Fu could only accept their decision, having nothing else to say.

In this Xu dynasty, he was no more than a willow without roots—toppled by the gentlest breeze, let alone by a behemoth like the Qin family.

Opposing them would only bring utter ruin, with no other outcome possible.

So, when the Qin family broke off the engagement and humiliated him, Han Fu accepted it and offered only a token, painless retaliation.

The Qin family, for their part, would not stoop to pursue the matter.

First, because he was of no consequence to them. Second, for the sake of their reputation, they would not trouble him.

Imagine—a common youth comes to their door with a marriage contract, fails to wed Qin Zhaoning, and then loses his life. What would people think? How would they judge the Qin family?

At that moment, their political rivals would seize the opportunity to attack, and the Qin family would suffer more than they gained.

For Han Fu, accepting and compromising in the face of the Qin family’s breach of promise was not shameful.

Understanding the times and protecting oneself—these were the hard-earned lessons for a transmigrator without any golden finger.

This was why Han Fu had dared to step into the Qin residence.

Clearly, he had lost that first wager.

And so, fate granted him a second chance: today’s marriage contest held by the Zhou family.

Today, he could stride confidently onto the stage, and with the cultural treasures of five thousand years of Chinese civilization, borrow a few poems and effortlessly outshine any youth present.

His literary knowledge might not be exhaustive; he had not committed every Chinese poem to memory. But in his previous life, he was a civil servant who read widely in his leisure. Navigating today’s contest would be a trivial challenge.

This was thanks to an old habit—no matter the genre, he would not turn the page unless he had memorized the text.

A victory today would mean marrying Bai Li Mingsu. Whether she was a woman of supernatural wit or otherworldly beauty did not matter—what Han Fu valued was her status.

Niece of Zhou Xinyi, Vice Minister of Revenue and Duke of Pei!

Marrying her was no different in effect from marrying Qin Zhaoning.

It would lay the foundation for a transmigrator to realize his ambitions.

Would the Zhou family refuse to acknowledge him, or would someone retaliate after the fact?

Upon careful consideration, Han Fu concluded they would not. Even if, at this moment, it appeared that the Zhou and Qin families were eager to ally through marriage, and the contest was merely a show for others to see.

Their miscalculation lay in believing that the poems Qin Weiren had prepared would suffice.

They failed to anticipate the appearance of Han Fu, who carried with him fragments of Chinese civilization.

In the end, both families would have to swallow their grievances and accept the outcome for the sake of their reputations.

Otherwise, how could the Zhou family maintain their standing?

Even if the two families tried to renege, what would Emperor Xiaokang think? What about the nobility of the court? What about the ordinary people?

To do so would be to show they could not accept defeat.

In short, they dared not.

On the stage, Qin Weiren was in high spirits, having already composed six poems in response to seven topics.

Yet he remained calm and unruffled, a faint smile gracing his lips—unmoved by success or failure.

Anyone who saw him would have to praise the composure and grace of the Qin family’s second son.

Almost all other contestants had withdrawn; even if they were unwilling, they could only accept defeat in the face of six masterful poems.

Only one man remained, struggling to hold out.

Liu Shilin, one of Dingxing’s famed talents, his poetic skill renowned throughout Xu. If he claimed second place, only a fool would contest it.

Even so, he managed only two above-average poems and a third of middling quality. Stuck on the fourth topic, he frowned, pondering long before sighing in frustration.

He had done his utmost; now his inspiration was spent. With a wry smile, he clasped his hands and said, “I must admit my skills are lacking. I concede.”

With that, he cast a lingering glance at Qin Weiren, then turned and left the stage with dignity.

A loss is a loss. Even if the other had come prepared, Liu Shilin was not one to begrudge defeat.

He saw through the charade: this so-called marriage contest was but a facade.

As Liu Shilin departed, a commotion erupted below the stage—murmurs, sighs, and fervent discussions.

Many had pinned their hopes on Liu Shilin, wishing he might reverse the tide and outshine Qin Weiren.

But at this point, Qin Weiren’s calm confidence appeared to some as arrogance.

People are strange; when Liu Shilin was dominating, they hoped someone would humble him. When Qin Weiren was in the lead, Liu Shilin became their champion.

Such are the contradictions of human nature.

After Liu Shilin’s exit, Qin Weiren relaxed almost imperceptibly and smiled graciously, “Thank you, Brother Liu, for your concession.”

In the entire capital, only Liu Shilin warranted his caution.

On the viewing platform, Zhou Xinyi and Qin Ping exchanged a meaningful smile.

It was settled—no one else remained on the stage.

Qin Weiren believed as much. He surveyed the arena and said modestly, “Thank you all for your deference. With no more challengers, I shall recite the seventh poem for your enjoyment—”

Suddenly, he stopped mid-sentence, his gaze fixing on a particular spot.

The crowd, puzzled, followed his line of sight and was instantly astonished.

Han Fu had not ascended by the steps but had scrambled up at one side of the stage. It looked somewhat comical, but no one laughed.

To take the stage at this moment—was that not courting humiliation?

It truly took courage.

“Who is this scholar? I have never seen him before.”

“Wearing such shabby clothes—how could a scholar be so poor?”

“Even Liu Shilin has conceded; yet he dares to step up?”

The audience murmured in surprise. At that moment, someone recognized Han Fu.

“I remember now—that’s the young man!” one person exclaimed.

“Which young man?” another asked.

“That one!” came the reply.

“Are you doubting my memory?”

“Yes, the one...” The man grew anxious and added, “The youth who had a marriage contract with the Jade-Faced Qin General. At first, I didn’t believe he broke it off, but seeing him take the stage now, I understand. It seems his heart was set on Miss Bai Li all along—now it makes sense.”

“Him?”

The news spread like wildfire.

Everyone gazed at Han Fu in astonishment, as if to scrutinize the looks of someone once betrothed to Qin Zhaoning. Then, all eyes turned to Qin Ping.

He too was surprised, his hand stroking his beard frozen midair. Noticing the attention, he smiled kindly and rose, saying, “So it is my virtuous nephew. When you ended the engagement with Zhaoning, I wondered how you would fare, with no support in Dingxing. Seeing you well today puts my mind at ease. I did not expect you to take the stage here as well. All the better—show us your talent. If you surpass Weiren, it will be a story for the ages.”

His words were gracious, but in his heart, he looked down on Han Fu.

A commoner's son would have struggled even to read and write—how could he compose poetry?

To him, Han Fu must have been left with no other path and was trying his luck. Childish behavior, nothing more.

The more amiable he appeared, the higher he raised Han Fu, the harder Han Fu would fall.

With Qin Ping’s confirmation, any remaining doubts in the crowd vanished.

Yet as they looked again at Han Fu, they could only shake their heads in resignation.

Though Han Fu stood tall, with a handsome and composed bearing, his shabby attire betrayed him as wholly outclassed. At best, he might manage a passable poem.

People often judge by appearances, not substance—so it is.

In truth, Han Fu could not compose even a decent poem. But... he could copy them.

Bah! Isn’t this what scholars do—how can it be called copying?

Qin Ping sat back down, and when Zhou Xinyi looked over, he whispered with a laugh, “He’s brought this on himself—let him have his moment.”

Zhou Xinyi replied with a smile, clearly amused and entertained.

Qin Weiren studied Han Fu in surprise, as if trying to see through the youth who had once declared his sister’s marriage contract worth only three copper coins.

Han Fu smiled and nodded, then turned away, ignoring the varied looks from the crowd. He addressed Qin Ping, “With your permission, Uncle, I shall do my humble best.”

Go ahead and make a fool of yourself... Qin Ping smiled and nodded.

Han Fu turned to the placard listing the poetic topics.

Bamboo, plum, pine, sentiment, wine, moon, self—the seven topics, with the first three being the “Three Friends of Winter.”

The first poem, naturally, must be about bamboo.

All eyes were on him. Under the weight of their collective skepticism, Han Fu spoke without hesitation, his voice clear and resonant:

“Clinging tight to the green mountain, never letting go,
Rooted deep within the shattered rocks below.
Enduring countless trials, steadfast through every blow,
Unmoved by winds from any way they blow.”

As his words fell, the crowd’s expressions shifted from anticipation of a spectacle to shock. Around the arena, among the thousands present, a hush fell—broken only by the faint but rising sound of breath.

The diction was plain, the meaning direct, yet the effect was stirring and electrifying.

At the poem’s end, all were left astonished.