Chapter Five: Truly Untrustworthy! "Self-Mockery"

“When will the bright moon appear? With a cup of wine in hand, I ask the clear sky. I do not know, in the celestial palaces above, what year it is this night. I long to ride the wind and return there, yet I fear the jade towers and crystal chambers—such heights would be too cold to endure. I rise to dance with my shadow, and it hardly seems like life on earth.”

“The moon turns around red mansions, sinking low behind carved windows, shining on the sleepless. There should be no resentment—why does the moon always grow full when people are apart? People have sorrow and joy, separation and reunion; the moon has its dimness and brightness, waxing and waning. Such things are hard to perfect since ancient times. I only wish for long life, so we may share the beauty of the moon a thousand miles apart.”

Han Fu recited the poem slowly. When the last line faded, he closed his eyes to savor its lingering taste.

In his previous life, this poem had appeared so often that it stirred countless memories; fragments not belonging to this world tumbled chaotically through his mind.

The once-quiet crowd was now in an uproar.

It was as if a calm lake—no, with the five preceding poems already casting their brilliance, the surface was already rippling rather than calm—had suddenly been struck by a massive stone, sending waves surging to the heavens.

“This poem goes beyond what it means to be passed down through the ages.”

“What lies beyond the immortal classics?”

“Is there even such a thing? If we must distinguish, this poem is a classic among classics.”

“With this poem, who would dare write of the moon again? Who would dare compose for the Mid-Autumn Festival?”

“This journey was not in vain—not in vain…”

“One cannot judge a book by its cover; the ancients did not deceive me…”

“Only the Poet Immortal or the Sage of Lyrics descending to the mortal realm could craft such a masterpiece.”

With each new line, the crowd’s perception of Han Fu transformed again and again.

If the first poem had stunned them, the second left them incredulous, the third and fourth left them numb, the fifth seemed inevitable—then the sixth inspired reverence.

Reverence—that was the right word.

From the very beginning, when none paid him heed, even mocking Han Fu, now all had turned to awe.

What is reverence? It is the admiration and respect shown to one so lofty and strong that one knows they cannot be surpassed.

From this day forth, who among those present would dare look down on the humble, belittle the poor scholar?

Should they forget, surely today’s events would flash before their eyes.

Liu Shilin, overcome with excitement, leapt to his feet. Looking at Han Fu, who was savoring the moment with eyes closed, he clapped repeatedly, thinking to himself with delight, “This elder brother—I have chosen him!”

Unlike the officials, Zhou Xinyi and Qin Ping had thoughts of their own.

Zhou Xinyi stared dazedly at Han Fu, then lapsed into contemplation. Sometimes his furrowed brow relaxed, revealing the complexity of his feelings.

Such great talent—marrying him to my niece might not be so bad… Once the idea surfaced, it could not be suppressed. It startled him so much that he shook his head, driving it from his mind with a long sigh.

A pity—he was too late. Now that chaos was brewing, even with the Zhou family’s support, it would be hard for Han Fu to rise.

If only the Xu Dynasty could enjoy a hundred years of peace…

Unconsciously, he turned his gaze to Qin Ping, only to be taken aback.

Was that regret and remorse on Qin Ping’s face?

How could that be…? But after careful thought, he understood.

Today’s contest was decided—Han Fu had claimed the crown and would surely marry Bai Li Mingsu.

For the Qin family, the loss was more than an exceptionally clever daughter-in-law and an alliance with the Zhou family; it was also—a son-in-law whose poetic talent could inspire a legion of scholars and officials.

Given the genius Han Fu displayed today, he would surely stand tall among the literati. With just a little effort, he could command a following with a mere word.

In this light, the Qin family had lost both the bride and the army, had they not?

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but hesitated.

He truly did not know how to comfort Qin Ping, and in the end, he gave up.

Qin Weiren was lost in thought for a long time, as though immersed in the world of the sixth poem. His expression shifted from dejection to a carefree smile. He cupped his hands and said, “Brother Han, both my heart and mind submit to your talent—I concede.”

He now addressed Han Fu as “Brother,” a mark of respect. It was clear this was a man who could accept defeat.

Of course, the main reason was likely that Bai Li Mingsu was not his true love.

He had plotted for three months for this day, all for the greater benefit of his family.

Now that he had lost, he could let go.

Han Fu, hearing this, emerged from his reverie and looked at Qin Weiren in surprise. “The seventh poem has yet to be written—why concede now?”

Did he really need a seventh? Even a mediocre verse would suffice… Qin Weiren was a little frustrated, yet also filled with expectation. “Very well then, Brother Han. Please grace us once more.”

“Then allow me to make a humble offering,” Han Fu replied with a laugh and a cupped fist, his opinion of Qin Weiren improving slightly.

Up on the viewing platform, Qin Ping’s mouth twitched at Han Fu’s words “a humble offering,” his heart a jumble of emotions.

He had come to thoroughly dislike those three words. Promising humility, yet showcasing such dazzling talent?

Truly—untrustworthy!

The seventh theme: the single character “self.” Han Fu contemplated for a moment, preparing to borrow a poem from a modern writer of his previous life.

The seventh poem.

The audience, having recovered from their shock and analysis, now watched Han Fu with rapt attention, hoping he would create yet another classic among classics.

Today’s event would become a celebrated tale.

It was enough to send tremors through Dingxing, through the court, even across the Xu Dynasty and into neighboring lands.

If he could produce one more poem of such caliber, it would be the crowning touch.

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

“I was but a man from the back hills, by chance a guest in the front hall.
Drunkenly, I danced among half-read books in the library,
Spoke of the vastness of heaven while sitting at the bottom of a well.
My ambitions mock fame and fortune; I weigh blessings and misfortunes with the ocean for scales.
But when it comes to the emptiness of my purse,
I can only shake my fist at heaven and earth and blame them for being wrong.”

This poem was from the novel “The Savior at a Distance” by the writer Dou Dou, written by the protagonist in the story (the true author, of course, was Dou Dou). It was later adapted for television as “The Way of Heaven,” starring Ding Zhiwen.

Han Fu had been fond of that show in his past life, and so had memorized the poem.

Its meaning was clear enough: I am just a country bumpkin, unfamiliar with the world, who has wandered into the halls of the elite by chance, flaunting my mediocre knowledge and talking big from my narrow perspective. My ambitions are so grand I mock fame and fortune; I measure fate with an ocean’s scale. But when my pockets are empty—well, that’s not my fault, ha ha…it’s the fault of heaven itself.

The language was plain and easy to grasp, and the onlookers instantly understood its intent.

Yet precisely because they understood, their expressions grew complicated—they felt embarrassed, even a little incensed.

He had outshone everyone here, been unanimously hailed as the reincarnation of the Poet Immortal or Sage of Lyrics, and yet he was so modest?

Calling himself a mediocrity—then what did that make them?

What did that make us?

Was this self-mockery or a killing blow to the heart…

But looking closer, it really was an expression of humility—no one could find fault. It was simply agonizing, like ants crawling and biting at their hearts.

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

“No wonder I chose this elder brother—he is truly in a class of his own.”

Little did Han Fu know that by borrowing just a few poems, he had gained his first admirer in this unfamiliar Xu Dynasty.

And that admirer was none other than Liu Shilin, the greatest poetic talent in all the Xu Dynasty.