Chapter Four: Feverish Thoughts, When Will the Bright Moon Shine?

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What impact would it have if an obscure, overlooked nobody were to perform an astonishing feat? Outside the Zhou residence, at the dueling stage, the reaction to Han Fu’s first recitation of “Bamboo and Stone” was nothing short of extraordinary.

The crowd, which had been quietly exchanging whispers as they waited for entertainment, was at first stunned, disbelief flickering in their eyes. Then, cries of astonishment, admiration, and envy filled the air, and Han Fu, who had never been deemed worthy of anyone’s attention, now found himself the subject of shock and respect.

Zhou Xinyi’s expression froze, Qin Ping’s smile stiffened in an instant, while Qin Weiren stared in utter disbelief, his brows knitting together.

“What a poem, what a poem…” Liu Shilin could not praise it enough, and now looked at Han Fu with a newfound sense of kinship and appreciation.

Those with literary talent began to analyze “Bamboo and Stone,” breaking it down and pointing out its subtle brilliance.

Yet, before they could finish savoring the first two lines, Han Fu launched into a second poem, “Plum Blossoms.”

“In the corner of the wall, a few branches of plum…” Han Fu recited slowly.

The crowd was left bewildered…

Another poem already?

Did he not even need to think?

Could it truly be this effortless?

Did he not intend to give anyone… even a moment to catch their breath?

No sooner had he finished the second poem than Han Fu immediately began a third, leaving no time for the audience to linger in the aftertaste.

“Silver exchanged for green pines, you planted first, so I will not. Fortunately, there is the west wind to rely upon, sending its good sound deep in the night.”

As he recited Bai Juyi’s “Pine Tree,” Han Fu watched the crowd’s expressions intently.

Even if this third poem was less dazzling than the previous two, it still bore the mark of Bai Juyi’s hand—how could it not be remarkable?

Three classic poems, each a treasure of Chinese civilization, had already sent the spectators into a feverish frenzy.

Han Fu’s lips curved in a faint smile, and after casting a glance at the theme “Love,” he paused briefly, then continued:

“The mournful cicadas wail in the chill, facing the evening at the long pavilion, as the sudden rain just ceases. In the capital, a farewell feast is joyless, and the orchid boat is urged to depart where my longing lingers. Hand in hand we gaze, eyes brimming with tears, yet no words can emerge past the choking sorrow. I think of the journey ahead, a thousand miles of misty waves, dusk thickening over the wide Chu sky.

Since ancient times, parting has always wounded the sentimental, and how much more so in the lonely chill of autumn. When I sober tonight, where will I be? By the willow banks, in the dawn breeze, under the waning moon. Through the coming years, all beautiful times and scenes will surely be empty. Even if a thousand feelings remain, with whom shall I share them?”

Of all the forms of affection, none is more representative than the love between man and woman.

And when it comes to verse on such themes, none surpasses the “King of Freeriding,” Liu Yong. This “To the Tune of Rain on the Bells: The Mournful Cicadas Wail” is among his masterpieces—how could it be anything less?

Of course, this was a ci, not a shi. The Xu Dynasty had already seen the emergence of ci, though shi remained dominant, and nothing could yet rival it. Still, the greatness of this ci was not in doubt.

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Composition of ci was not against the rules.

Among the six pieces Qin Weiren had prepared, one was a ci. Han Fu had observed from below the stage for a long time; he had not rashly… plagiarized.

Having finished the ci, Han Fu caught sight, from the corner of his eye, of someone whose eyes bulged, face flushed, and who was shivering with excitement.

Such was the thrill of witnessing four superb poems and ci emerge in succession—who could remain unmoved? Especially in this ancient dynasty, so starved of entertainment, where lovers of poetry and song were countless. To hear such immortal verses today—how could one possibly keep composure?

But this was only four—Han Fu had no intention to stop, nor would he slow down to let them react, even though this lessened the dramatic effect.

But he did not seek ostentation, only the laurel crown and the hand of Baili Mingsu.

The best way to show off, as in novels, would be to recite a poem and then pause for several minutes, letting the onlookers bask in shock and awe… But this was no novel, and Han Fu had no intention of doing so.

There was no need.

Whether he maximized his display or not did not matter; only the result did.

Therefore, as soon as “To the Tune of Rain on the Bells: The Mournful Cicadas Wail” was finished, Han Fu, without hesitation, recited his entry for the theme “Wine.”

“Do not mock the rustic’s cloudy wine; in a year of bounty, guests are kept well with chicken and pork. Mountains upon mountains, waters upon waters—seemingly no way through, yet willows shade, flowers brighten, and another village appears. Flutes and drums draw near with spring festival, while simple clothes preserve the ancient style. From now on, if I may roam leisurely by moonlight, leaning on my staff, I will come knocking at your gate at night.”

After five poems, the spectators were already numb, standing dazed, eyes unfocused.

Qin Ping could no longer sit still; he leapt to his feet, trembling, clearly infuriated.

He felt rather humiliated—just moments before, he had been waiting to see Han Fu make a fool of himself, speaking magnanimously, and now… his face was dark as water.

Zhou Xinyi was flustered as well. At this rate, as long as Han Fu’s last two poems were even average, Qin Weiren’s seventh poem would not even need to be read—he could surrender at once…

“Brother Qin, what should we do?” Zhou Xinyi whispered urgently.

“How should I know…” Qin Ping slumped back into his seat, brows furrowed, utterly at a loss.

There was no way to cheat, not with so many watching. Besides… surely there were many in the shadows waiting to see the Qin and Zhou families embarrassed.

If he dared try any trickery, those people would surely leap to Han Fu’s aid.

Not for his sake, but simply to strike at the Qin and Zhou families and ruin the marriage alliance.

Thinking this, Qin Ping grew all the more frustrated, muttering through gritted teeth, “You brat, how dare you ruin the great affairs of my Qin family?”

Seeing Qin Ping like this, Zhou Xinyi fell silent, sighing inwardly.

He could see that Qin Ping, though angry, was powerless.

On the stage, Qin Weiren could no longer keep composure, at last only managing a bitter, self-deprecating smile.

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Five poems in succession, at least four of them masterpieces—how could anyone compete?

Even if he recited the seventh poem he had prepared in advance, it would be no match.

No, not even that—suppose he could, in a flash of inspiration, improvise a classic poem to replace his seventh… Qin Weiren let go of the notion.

He knew his own level; such an idea was hopelessly naïve. The odds were worse than hoping Han Fu might suddenly drop dead while reciting his sixth poem.

Involuntarily, he found himself taking Han Fu far more seriously—the young man whose engagement to his third sister had been broken off by his own family.

He had not been home that day. Today was his first meeting with Han Fu, and he had never imagined such a scene.

Was this retribution…? Qin Weiren’s mind wandered.

“A talent bestowed by Heaven—my path is not lonely…” In the crowd, Liu Shilin’s face was flushed with excitement, his gaze on Han Fu tinged with profound emotion.

It was as though… he had found a kindred spirit at last.

He did not believe these poems had been prepared in advance, for only the Qin family could have done so.

Which meant that Han Fu had created them on the spot—five in a row, without pause.

This…

“With such poetic talent, it defies the heavens. Compared to him, I am but a grain of millet trying to shine against the full moon…” Liu Shilin was loath to admit it, but had no choice but to face reality.

At that moment, the most celebrated poet of Dingxing—no, perhaps the greatest in all the Xu Dynasty—suddenly felt himself small and insignificant.

He sighed in melancholy, murmuring, “Now, I truly dare not call myself second. The gap is simply too great…”

Yet, as he spoke, excitement welled up again.

Now, this was interesting—now life was worth living, was it not?

Liu Shilin made up his mind to befriend Han Fu.

Onstage and off, faces wore every manner of expression. Han Fu saw it all, but paid it little heed.

Their reactions were only natural.

So, for his sixth poem, he let the words flow forth.

And this sixth was the ace up his sleeve.

“When will the bright moon appear…”