Chapter Three: The Baili Siblings, The Third Poem

"Miss, Miss..."

In the rear courtyard of the Zhou residence, a petite figure clad in light green hurried down a path paved with pebbles, weaving through the shrubbery toward the lakeside pavilion with quick, short steps. Clutched in her hand was a folded piece of paper; were it to be unfolded, one would find upon it the very poem "Bamboo and Stone" composed earlier by Han Fu.

"Miss, you must look at this." Ping’er laid the folded paper on the stone table and addressed the young lady who sat quietly nearby, savoring poetry.

This young lady was Bai Li Mingsu, niece to Zhou Xinyi, seventeen years of age. Her delicate, oval face was framed by gentle brows like autumn waters, her jade-like skin caressed by the evening breeze. Though her beauty was clear and refined, a trace of melancholy lingered in her gaze, lending her an air not only of fragile grace but also of poetic sorrow. Her heart was laid bare, revealing that the contest outside the manor was not of her desire, but something she had been compelled to accept.

She wore simple white garments overlaid with a light gauze, and before her on the stone table were the poems composed by those outside the residence. Of course, only those of at least moderate quality made it to her hands. There were seventeen sheets in total, six bearing the works of Qin Weiren, three by Liu Shilin. The remaining eight were chosen from among the hundreds who had attempted the contest. Such numbers were as expected.

Liu Shilin's poetic talent was renowned, but as these were extemporaneous compositions, to produce two above average and one moderate poem was already a rare feat, worthy of his reputation. That eight out of a hundred or more contestants were selected was also reasonable. As for Qin Weiren's six poems—he had gathered many scholars and prepared for three months; this was no surprise.

"Another fine poem? Judging by your excitement, it cannot be by Qin Weiren. Has someone else taken the stage? Or is it Liu Shilin’s fourth?" Bai Li Mingsu asked in an unhurried, melodious voice, her composure revealing the confidence of one who felt she held the winning hand.

"It is neither the second young master Qin nor Liu Shilin. Liu Shilin has conceded," Ping’er replied hastily.

Ping’er, fifteen, was Bai Li Mingsu’s attendant since childhood, her round face fair and her brows delicately painted. Seeing Bai Li Mingsu only slightly surprised, Ping’er maintained her air of calm, as if all was proceeding as expected. She continued, "It was him—the man betrothed to General Qin’s family. He entered the contest. No one expected much, but without a moment’s hesitation, he recited a masterpiece. Those outside were left speechless."

"Oh?" Bai Li Mingsu arched an elegant brow, finally intrigued. She picked up the folded paper and began to read carefully.

"Clinging to the green hills, never letting go... Enduring the winds from east, south, west, and north..."

As her eyes drifted over the lines, a look of astonishment gradually appeared on her refined face. She closed her eyes, savoring the poem, and at last could not help but exclaim, "Such a masterpiece should be passed down through the ages."

"What? A work for the ages?" Ping’er was stunned, her mouth agape as if it could swallow an egg.

What did it mean for a poem to be immortalized? In common understanding, poetry was graded—lower, middle, upper, and immortal, with further subdivisions within each tier. None of today’s entries had reached the level of immortality, not even Qin Weiren, who had prepared for months. That showed just how rare, how precious, an immortal work was.

Yet what had she just heard? The young lady she held as nearly divine had declared this poem worthy of the ages.

"Yes," Bai Li Mingsu nodded, affirming it, but then seemed to recall something and turned to ask, "You said just now that he spoke it without thinking, that it flowed from him instantly?"

"That's what Zhou Dong said," Ping’er replied.

Zhou Dong, a servant of the Zhou household and heir apparent to the steward's position, had been wise and perceptive from a young age, earning the name Zhou Dong.

Today, he had been summoned by Bai Li Mingsu to deliver the poems to her.

Hearing this, Bai Li Mingsu was momentarily dazed.

To compose a work for the ages at a whim—there were only two possibilities. Either this man’s poetic talent was unparalleled, greater even than Liu Shilin’s, or he had happened upon a stroke of luck. Yet Bai Li Mingsu did not believe in luck; she preferred to think that Han Fu was a poetic immortal descended to earth.

If that were true, then the remaining six poems would come as easily to him. He need not produce immortal works each time; as long as the rest matched Qin Weiren’s, he would win.

And the price Bai Li Mingsu must pay would be to marry him.

If so, all her previous preparations, all her carefully laid plans, would dissolve like a dream, vanishing without a trace. Bai Li Mingsu, who prided herself on her unfailing foresight, had calculated even her own marriage for the future of the Zhou family, only to fail at this critical juncture?

She could not accept it. Even if she felt nothing for Qin Weiren, an alliance with the Qin family was, at least, a beacon of hope for the Zhou family’s future.

For today’s contest, she had begun plotting three months prior, even at the cost of her own hand in marriage. If something went awry now… Bai Li Mingsu’s mind went blank.

Why must the marriage alliance be staged with such spectacle, with a public poetry contest? It all stemmed from that figure in the palace.

That person did not wish to see the Zhou and Qin families allied, though never openly declared it. Indeed, that person preferred not to see any two great houses combine their strength. After the first failed campaign against Dongli, that person had, overtly or subtly, suppressed the nobility. Riding the current of Emperor Xiaokang’s policies, those noble families opposed to the Zhou and Qin naturally sought to interfere as well.

Thus, the contest and the poetic challenge were acts of necessity. Even if Emperor Xiaokang and the powerful nobility wished to intervene, there was nothing they could do.

To Bai Li Mingsu, poetry was an art of little consequence, a display of minor talent. Her true path was strategic brilliance and the talent to govern a nation.

“It can’t be. Poetry is a minor art, but still requires talent. Seven topics for seven poems—even a poetic immortal could not…” Bai Li Mingsu thought, but then recalled something else.

Yesterday, on a whim, she had sought her brother Bai Li Mingda for a divination.

The siblings, both raised by their uncle Zhou Xinyi, were gifted in different arts—her brother in divination, herself in strategy.

After casting the hexagram, Bai Li Mingda had assured her, “The signs are most auspicious. Do not worry, sister; the Zhou-Qin alliance will proceed without a hitch tomorrow.”

Yet upon hearing this, Bai Li Mingsu’s heart had fluttered with unease.

Everyone in the Zhou household knew that young master Bai Li’s divinations always produced the opposite result.

What was a reverse hexagram? The final outcome always ran counter to the omen. So uncanny was this that, since becoming obsessed with divination, Bai Li Mingda had never once been correct.

Later, Bai Li Mingsu had pondered repeatedly, finding no flaws in her own plans, and for a time even hoped that perhaps, as his sister, she might witness his first accurate divination.

But now, it seemed that in this unseen contest between siblings, she would lose.

No, she refused to believe it. Bai Li Mingsu shook her head, pushing aside her anxiety.

As for the young man in question, she had heard a little—no teacher, no family, no… in sum, he had no real background, no benefit to the Zhou family’s future. If he won, would all her scheming be for nothing? Not to mention, she herself would be lost in the bargain.

Though from the start, she had already staked herself…

Suddenly, another thought struck her, and her worry vanished, replaced by a bright glimmer in her eyes.

If this man truly won, would it not be a blessing in disguise?

She disliked Qin Weiren’s character, but for the Zhou family, the Qin family was the best choice. Her careful planning had been a last resort.

Yet the Qin family had prepared for three months—if they were still defeated, it could only prove one thing: Han Fu’s poetic talent was beyond compare.

Throughout the Xu Dynasty, Liu Shilin was famed for his poetry, but even he fell far short of the miraculous. To gain such a husband, with only a little maneuvering, the Zhou family might find itself rising in court. For her, too, it would not be a bad outcome.

With this in mind, Bai Li Mingsu became eager, instructing, “Go, see what his second poem is like.”

“I’ll go at once.” Ping’er did not delay, turning to run off.

Before long, Ping’er returned, handing another folded paper to Bai Li Mingsu.

With a mixture of nerves and anticipation, Bai Li Mingsu unfolded it and read carefully.

“A few plum branches at the corner of the wall, blooming alone in the cold. From afar, I know it is not snow—for a subtle fragrance drifts near…”

“This… another work for the ages…”

Bai Li Mingsu was astonished, a bright smile emerging. She grew ever more expectant, holding the poem in both hands and reading it over and over.

“Another immortal work?” Ping’er was utterly bewildered. Seeing that Bai Li Mingsu was not worried but instead savoring the poems with leisure, she grew even more puzzled.

Having grown up together, Ping’er knew most of the story behind the Zhou-Qin marriage alliance. She could not help but ask, “Miss, aren’t you worried?”

“Worried about what?” Bai Li Mingsu replied, eyes never leaving the poem.

“That’s two immortal works already,” Ping’er emphasized. “If he writes five more, he wins. Wouldn’t that ruin all your plans? Then…”

“All the better,” Bai Li Mingsu interrupted with a light laugh, turning her head. “Would you have me marry into the Qin family?”

“No,” Ping’er shook her head at once. After a moment’s thought, she wrinkled her nose and added, “I’ve heard the second young master Qin is not a good sort.”

“Just so.” Bai Li Mingsu set the poem aside, placing Han Fu’s two works separately. She continued, “I know what troubles you. If he can win, it is better than marrying into the Qin family.”

“Because his poetry is better?” Ping’er asked, suddenly understanding but still puzzled. “But isn’t Liu Shilin widely regarded as a genius poet as well?”

“There is a difference between being a genius and being miraculous,” Bai Li Mingsu shook her head, momentarily lost in thought. “The gap between them is as great as between heaven and earth. Besides, Han Fu comes from humble origins; for me, there is greater room to maneuver.”

“Room to maneuver?” Ping’er was thoroughly confused by Bai Li Mingsu’s subtle thoughts.

“Yes.” Bai Li Mingsu nodded slowly, and then, with a bright, almost mischievous look, said, “On the day of the wedding, I can refuse the bridal chamber. I will observe him for a time and only decide when I know his true character.”

Isn’t that just bullying an honest man? Ping’er thought, but said nothing, only curious, “And if Young Master Han proves unworthy?”

“Then I shall simply live out my days as such, until the end.”

Meanwhile, beyond the Zhou residence, under the astonished gaze of the crowd, Han Fu was beginning to recite his third poem.