Chapter Five: Breaking Promises, Mocking Oneself

“When will the bright moon appear? I raise my cup and ask the blue heavens. I do not know, in the celestial palaces above, what year this night might be. I long to ride the wind and return, yet I fear the jade mansions and crystal towers, for such heights cannot withstand the chill. I rise to dance with my clear shadow—how unlike the mortal world is this.”

“Turning by the vermilion balconies, brushing the latticed windows, it shines on the sleepless. There should be no regrets—why must the moon be fullest at times of parting? People have sorrow and joy, partings and reunions; the moon waxes and wanes, is bright and dim—such things have been hard to perfect since ancient times. I only wish for long life, to share this fair moonlight across a thousand miles.”

Han Fu recited this poem slowly, and when he finished, he closed his eyes for a moment to savor it.

This poem had appeared so often in his previous life that it brought forth countless memories—fragments not of this world swirling chaotically in his mind.

But the quiet crowd erupted like a storm.

It was as if a tranquil lake—no, after five jewels of poetry, the surface was already rippling, not calm at all—had just been struck by a massive stone, sending waves surging high.

“This poem is not merely worthy to be passed down through the ages.”

“What, then, lies above a masterpiece?”

“There is nothing above a masterpiece, but if we must distinguish, this is the very classic among classics.”

“Now that this poem exists, who would dare sing of the moon again? Who would dare compose for the Mid-Autumn Festival?”

“Truly, this journey was not in vain, not in vain at all…”

“Never judge a book by its cover—the ancients never lied…”

“Only a Poet Immortal or Sage descended to the mortal realm could compose such work.”

“No wonder he dared to boast—he truly possesses genius.”

“If he wins, how will I ever bury the resentment in my heart?”

For most, their feelings toward Han Fu had shifted again and again.

If the first poem had left them shocked, the second left them incredulous, the third and fourth numb, and the fifth simply expected, then this sixth piece inspired reverence.

Yes, reverence.

From indifference and mockery, their stance had now transformed into awe.

And what is awe?

It is the worship and respect born toward one so far above, knowing oneself could never surpass them.

From this day forth, who here would ever dare look down on the humble, or scorn the unadorned scholar?

If such a day should come, they would surely recall today’s events.

Even those harboring malice toward Han Fu could not help but admire him, conceding in their hearts that he was beyond their reach.

In the audience, there were those excited, those admiring, those envious, and certainly those jealous.

“A man so prolific with wondrous poetry should not have come from humble origins.”

“A mere commoner, arrogant and ignorant—how is he worthy of such talent?”

“Truly infuriating—I cannot accept this.”

Liu Shilin leapt up in excitement. Watching Han Fu savor his own verse with eyes closed, he clapped repeatedly, thinking with delight, “This man shall be my cherished friend!”

Unlike the onlookers, Zhou Xinyi and Qin Ping nursed other thoughts.

Zhou Xinyi stroked his beard and smiled, ever more pleased with Han Fu.

Now, with six poems already composed, each one astonishing, Han Fu’s talent was far beyond what Qin Weiren could achieve even after three months of painstaking preparation.

Han Fu needed only to write one more, even if it was merely average, and he would win in a landslide.

As to whether he could produce a seventh—there was no need to worry.

A man who could compose six masterpieces in a single breath—how could he not write a seventh?

Pointless anxiety!

Thus, the outcome of today’s contest was already decided.

In time, his beloved niece would wed Han Fu, and the Zhou family would gain a son-in-law of unprecedented talent.

It would be like giving wings to a tiger.

Given time and a little maneuvering, Han Fu’s abilities would easily secure him a place among the literati, perhaps even make him a leader among them.

Though court appointments valued family background, with the Zhou family’s support, Han Fu could enter government service with ease.

Now that turmoil in the Xu Dynasty was beginning to show, if His Majesty remained stubborn, none could say how many years of peace were left.

Once Han Fu entered government, he must be fully supported to gain a foothold in court. In troubled times, one needs every advantage.

It was perfect. The only flaw Zhou Xinyi saw was Han Fu’s unyielding nature—he had made enemies today, but that was a small matter.

Without spirit, he would be less appealing.

Thinking thus, Zhou Xinyi could not help but laugh, ignoring Qin Ping’s expression.

At the sound, Qin Ping glanced over, his face growing darker.

“So you’re satisfied with this outcome, Brother Zhou?”

He knew Zhou Xinyi was pleased, but still felt aggrieved.

“Brother Qin, take it in stride,” Zhou Xinyi sighed, comforting him. “We have no choice but to accept things as they are. Better to look on the bright side.”

“You’re awfully optimistic,” Qin Ping sneered. “Don’t forget, this failed alliance wasted three months of the Qin family’s efforts.”

“This…” Zhou Xinyi’s face grew apologetic, truly embarrassed.

Heaven and earth bear witness—the sun and moon attest.

His original intent had indeed been to ally with the Qin family, but who could have foreseen Han Fu’s sudden emergence?

Han Fu was supposed to marry Qin Zhaoning; it was the Qin family who failed to recognize his worth, tore up the betrothal, and cast him out. Were it not for that, how could he have entered the contest and shone so brightly?

In this light, the Qin family had truly brought it upon themselves—totally in vain. So it is, all is determined by fate… Zhou Xinyi’s thoughts churned, but he knew better than to say this aloud to Qin Ping. In the end, he could only sigh, “If Brother Qin ever needs anything in court, just say the word.”

A promise—a form of compensation.

Qin Ping’s face remained cold as he shut his eyes, giving a single grunt.

“Hmph…”

On the stage.

Qin Weiren stood stiffly.

The air of calm and leisure he’d shown at the start was gone, impossible to feign now.

Only a raging inferno of hatred surged in his heart.

At that moment, he wished he could kill Han Fu, devour his flesh, and drink his blood to quench the fury inside.

Three months of plotting for this day—he could have basked in glory, won the beauty, and reveled as he pleased.

But Han Fu had suddenly appeared and dashed all his dreams.

“This man must die!”

Qin Weiren fixed Han Fu’s face in his memory, vowing to avenge himself one day.

He turned to leave.

Though furious, his mind was clear.

As unwilling as he was, he knew he had lost today, beyond hope of redemption, even if he produced his prepared seventh poem.

Now, he only wanted to retreat and vent his anger elsewhere.

But Han Fu was not about to let him go so easily.

“The seventh round is not done—why admit defeat?” Han Fu called after him, a smile in his eyes.

If he meant to take revenge on the Qin family, he might as well do it thoroughly. After today, the Zhou family would shield him; as long as he acted with care, there was no real danger.

Qin Weiren paused, turning to stare at Han Fu, his gaze deep.

Han Fu met his eyes without fear, smiling. “We’ve each composed six pieces—victory is undecided. Why leave the stage, Brother Qin?”

Rage at its peak became icy calm.

Qin Weiren’s gaze dropped, and he laughed coldly. When he looked back, the chill had receded, but his eyes were fathomless. “Very well, I await your work.”

Han Fu paid his change of mood no mind, cupping his hands with a smile. “Then allow me to embarrass myself once more.”

Up in the stands, as Qin Ping heard “embarrass myself,” his mouth twitched with irritation.

He had grown to loathe those words—so much for “embarrass yourself,” when every time you put on a dazzling display!

Truly, a man of no integrity!

The seventh theme was the character “self.” Han Fu pondered a moment, preparing to borrow a poem from a modern writer of his previous world.

The seventh piece.

The crowd, for once, ceased their shock and analysis, all eyes trained on Han Fu, hoping for yet another masterpiece.

This day would be spoken of for generations.

It would shake Dingxing, the court, even the whole Xu Dynasty and perhaps neighboring lands.

If he could now produce another poem to rival the last, it would be the crowning glory.

“Self-Mockery.” Han Fu slowly announced the title, then recited:

“I was but a man from the back hills,
By chance became a guest in the front hall.
With wine I danced, with half a book I posed,
And spoke, from the well, of how vast the sky.
My ambition so grand, I jest at fame,
Weighing fortune and fate in an ocean’s scale.
But when my purse runs dry,
I rage and blame the heavens for their error.”

This poem was from Dou Dou’s “The Distant Savior,” written for the protagonist and later adapted for television in “The Way of Heaven,” starring Ding Zhiwen.

Han Fu had loved the show in his past life, and had memorized the poem.

Its meaning was plain: I am a country bumpkin, ignorant of the world, who by chance found myself among the elite. I show off with my half-baked learning, spouting nonsense. My aspirations are so high I don’t care for fame, I weigh fortune and disaster with a sea-sized scale—but when my pockets are empty, I lay all blame on fate, laughing all the while.

The language was simple and direct, easily grasped by all.

But because they understood, their feelings became conflicted—ashamed, and with a desire to give Han Fu a good beating.

He had already bested everyone here, unanimously hailed as a Poet Immortal or Sage descended among men, and yet he was so modest?

If he was a “half-baked scholar,” what were they?

What did that make them?

This was no self-mockery—it was a killing stroke to the heart.

Yet, upon reflection, it truly was modesty, and none could fault him.

It stung, as if ants were crawling and biting at their hearts.

Liu Shilin stared in a daze, then broke into helpless laughter.

“For such words to come from his mouth—though somewhat cavalier and merciless to others—this is true sincerity, not affected humility.”

He found himself ever more admiring of Han Fu.