Chapter Thirty-Six: The Literary Giant Strikes, Drinking Alone in Contentment!

The fragrance of fine wine wafted through the air, mingling with the aroma of fresh fruits and delicacies. Yet, before the great scholars arrived, no one dared to taste the wine or sample the dishes.

Han Fu had originally thought that the Lotus Garden Literary Gathering would be a formal affair, strict in its observance of decorum—scholars lecturing while others listened in silence. Only upon his arrival did he realize that the literati of the Xu Dynasty were far from rigid; rather, they were remarkably at ease. Here, the pursuit of knowledge and the enjoyment of good food and drink unfolded side by side, blending into a distinctive and harmonious event.

A cool scented breeze swept through the gathering. Many scholars conversed in hushed tones, some sat quietly, all waiting patiently without a trace of impatience.

Suddenly, the murmurs faded.

Sensing something, Han Fu turned his head.

Four elders approached together, laughing and chatting as they walked. Each bore thick white brows and snow-like hair, their expressions kind and scholarly.

The assembled literati rose in succession; Han Fu did the same.

The four elders stopped before two empty low tables at the front, gazing with gentle smiles at the gathered scholars.

All present bowed and said in unison, “Greetings to the three great scholars and Elder Wen.”

It was clearly prearranged, for their voices were harmonious, not chaotic. Owing to his outsider status, Han Fu had been left uninformed and could only offer a shallow bow, his lips moving without sound.

The elders accepted their greetings with equanimity. One of them, beaming broadly, declared, “I have long heard that Dingxing of Xu is blessed with outstanding talent. To meet so many promising young scholars today is an old man’s great fortune indeed.”

This man, with white hair and a childlike face, was brimming with vigor—he was Qian Yu, the renowned scholar of Yuanzhou.

Praised thus, the assembled scholars straightened subtly with pride, though none dared display it too openly, lest they appear lacking in composure before the great men.

To Qian Yu’s left sat Xu Shi, the eminent scholar of Xingzhou, and Sun Anmin, of Ganzhou. Both surveyed the crowd with smiling eyes.

On Qian Yu’s right was Wen Qingjuan, the elder of the Wen clan and the host of the gathering. He naturally responded with humility.

Wen Qingjuan replied with a laugh, “Brother Qian flatters us. To hear you elucidate the classics is truly our great blessing.”

Qian Yu waved his hand, chuckling, “My so-called reputation as a great scholar is merely the world’s indulgence. Let us chat at leisure—teaching would be too grand a word.”

“I have long heard of your humility, Master Qian. Meeting you today proves it true,” Sun Anmin added with a smile.

“Not at all, not at all...”

The four exchanged polite words, then took their seats. Only then did the other scholars follow suit.

Wen Qingjuan summoned an attendant, whispered a few words, and the man nodded, then stood upright and announced in a clear voice, “Though today is a literary gathering, there is no need for constraint. The dishes are fragrant, the wine mellow—let us not waste them. Should anyone have scholarly questions, feel free to ask; the three great scholars will be happy to offer their insights.”

This gathering was different from others: instead of lectures, the scholars would pose questions, and the three masters would respond.

Such a format was indeed novel.

Han Fu had come merely to enjoy the spectacle; he had no questions to ask.

Soon, others would pose their queries and the great scholars would answer. All he needed to do was observe, so as to gauge the caliber of Xu’s literati.

Seeing that Wen Qingjuan was already laughing and drinking with the three elders, Han Fu picked up his chopsticks and poured himself a drink.

He occupied two seats alone, quite at ease.

Though Han Fu was unconcerned, the others were anything but. To sit before not just one, but three eminent scholars, with the freedom to ask questions—such an opportunity was rare indeed, sought by many in vain.

What to ask, so as not to betray one’s lack of learning?

Many bowed their heads in thought, whispering to one another, paying no heed to the food and wine.

Only Chen Nanxing, seated in a corner, seemed as relaxed as Han Fu, eating and drinking without a care.

“To eat and drink so freely before the great scholars—truly disgraceful. All the better; the more unruly you act, the more it benefits me,” Zhao Ziqian thought, watching Han Fu’s back with a secret smile.

Suddenly, he saw Han Fu uncross his legs and stretch them under the table. Zhao Ziqian’s eyes gleamed.

“The moment has come.”

With no one else ready to ask a question, and seeing Han Fu sitting so inelegantly, Zhao Ziqian rose quickly.

“Student Zhao Ziqian greets the three great scholars and Elder Wen.”

His action drew many eyes.

Wen Qingjuan smiled, “Literary master Zhao Ziqian, what would you like to ask?”

Zhao Ziqian raised his head proudly but replied with feigned humility, “In front of such esteemed scholars, I dare not call myself a literary master.”

Xu Shi praised, “If you are so called, your learning must be profound. I hope your question is not too difficult. Should it stump us, we would lose much face.”

His lighthearted words drew laughter from the scholars.

Han Fu couldn’t help but smile as he shifted his weight from right to left—his legs had gone numb from sitting cross-legged so long, and even stretching them out only offered slight relief; his backside was still sore.

Zhao Ziqian shook his head. “Before I ask my scholarly question, there is another matter I must address.”

“Oh?”

Curiosity piqued, Xu Shi asked, “What is it?”

Zhao Ziqian cast a sidelong glance at Han Fu, still eating and drinking, and smirked inwardly. Then he bowed and declared, “I beg your discernment. I love poetry, and when not engaged in study, I often compose verses for amusement, writing them on paper to hang upon my wall. Some time ago, my house was robbed. Fortunately, only money was lost, so I thought little of it.”

“However, a few days ago, someone used my poems under a false name, and with them won a contest at the Zhou family’s literary tournament, becoming their son-in-law.”

His words caused a stir; the whole room was in uproar.

Han Fu, about to pour himself more wine, paused in surprise and glanced at Zhao Ziqian.

Interesting...

A soft laugh escaped Han Fu; he found the situation amusing indeed.

He must have been set up—but who else besides the Qin family could be behind it?

Let Zhao Ziqian speak; Han Fu ignored the startled glances and continued to pour himself wine, content to watch the performance unfold.

Zhao Ziqian went on, “Though I care not for empty fame or profit, I cannot abide a charlatan using my poetry to seek renown for his own gain. Therefore, I seize this opportunity to expose his shameful deceit.”

The revelation sent another wave of whispers rippling through the assembly. The scholars exchanged glances, murmuring among themselves.

Wen Qingjuan and the three elders looked at each other, their expressions unreadable.

Experienced and erudite, the four were not inclined to believe Zhao Ziqian’s claims without question.

Qian Yu asked, “The verses, ‘Clinging steadfast to the green mountain, its roots planted in shattered rock; battered a thousand times, yet still it stands strong, unmoved by winds from every direction…’—are these the seven poems you speak of?”

“Indeed,” Zhao Ziqian replied.

Xu Shi sighed, “Even before I arrived in Dingxing, I had heard of these seven poems. They were astonishing—such talent is truly rare. You claim all seven are your work, stolen by another. Do you have proof?”

“I do,” Zhao Ziqian replied. He bent down, picked up seven scrolls by his feet, and brought them before the elders. Unrolling each one, he said, “I have brought all seven; some were written long ago and are somewhat aged.”

The four elders examined them for a moment, but gave no verdict.

Wen Qingjuan regarded Zhao Ziqian intently. “Why choose to expose this matter today, rather than earlier?”

Zhao Ziqian had prepared for this. “I have been secluded at home, devoted to my studies, and received no visitors, so I was unaware. Had I not received an invitation to this gathering, I would still be in the dark.”

With the Wen family’s power, Zhao Ziqian was cautious, fearful of a misstep. He would never have dared speak out unless he was confident of his case.

Wen Qingjuan asked, “The person you refer to must be Han Fu, who is present, is he not?”

“He is,” Zhao Ziqian replied, looking straight at Han Fu.

The others followed his gaze, all eyes settling on Han Fu.

In that moment, Han Fu’s unseemly posture was on full display.

Yet, beneath the scrutiny of the crowd, Han Fu remained composed.

He lifted his wine cup, drained it, and, meeting the curious stares, said with a smile, “You may continue your discussion—let me eat and drink my fill first.”

“Oh? Since you claim to be a great literary master, why not show everyone the poems, so all may judge for themselves?”

With that, he poured another drink, savoring it with an air of perfect ease, as if the whole affair had nothing to do with him.