Chapter Six: Impossible, Absolutely Impossible!

"Miss... oh dear..."

Pin'er clutched four sheets of paper in one hand and lifted her skirt with the other, half-running through the rear courtyard.

But the pebble-paved path was far from even; a single misstep sent her stumbling forward three or four paces before she finally regained her balance.

"That was close..." She patted her slightly heaving chest in relief, then took extra care with her footing.

"Watch where you're going." Baili Mingsu was waiting by the pavilion. As Pin'er approached, she couldn't help but chide her gently, her gaze soon turning to the papers in Pin'er's hand. "These are all his work?"

His—the pronoun could refer to no one but Han Fu.

"Yes." Pin'er handed over the sheets, worry clouding her features. "Miss, it seems Young Master Qin has lost."

As Baili Mingsu’s personal maid, Pin'er was privy to all her mistress's schemes. Now, with Han Fu's sudden appearance upsetting her carefully laid plans, Pin'er was anxious on her behalf.

Yet Baili Mingsu had already guessed the outcome the moment she saw Pin'er hurrying with the four papers.

The first two poems were masterpieces for the ages.

And for these four to have made it this far, even the weakest must be of good quality.

Comparing these six poems to Qin Weiren’s, Han Fu already held a decisive advantage. Even if his seventh poem was merely passable, victory was all but assured.

Still, curiosity gnawed at her. She took the papers and moved to the stone table, sitting to examine each in turn.

"Silver exchanged for a blue pine tree... In the deep of night, a lovely sound is quietly sent..."

The third poem was composed with discipline; its theme was clear, making it an admirable piece. Baili Mingsu glanced at it, then set it aside and took up Han Fu's fourth poem.

She could not help but recite softly: "The chilling cicadas cry mournfully as dusk falls at the long pavilion, the sudden rain has just ceased... Since ancient times, the tender-hearted are most hurt by partings... But to whom can one speak of such sorrow..."

As she read, Baili Mingsu slipped into a daze. The poem’s sentiment or its vivid imagery had touched her. A small ripple stirred her usually calm heart, though it soon subsided.

She mentally judged the poem: a classic for the ages.

Another masterpiece—was this man a demon? Four poems, three timeless, one exceptional. Baili Mingsu’s lips curled with bitterness; she knew that Qin Weiren, despite preparing three months ahead, had not just lost—he had been utterly routed.

And it was not only Qin Weiren who had lost—she herself had been bested.

The Zhou family, the Qin family, all those party to this scheme had lost.

The greatest loser was surely the Qin family—they had lost an excellent son-in-law and could not forge an alliance with the Zhou family.

Baili Mingsu realized this as well.

But...

No amount of cunning could have predicted the emergence of a poet of Han Fu’s caliber.

She did not blame herself; one could never anticipate the arrival of a figure with the talent of a poetic immortal.

Perhaps it was fate, or perhaps her brother’s divinations had truly come to pass?

At this thought, a vague resentment rose in her heart. What madness possessed her to ask her brother to divine the outcome?

Shaking off her daze, Baili Mingsu drew a deep breath to steady herself, then turned to the next poem.

"Mock not the cloudy wine of a farmer’s home... After the willows darken, another village appears... Leaning on my staff, I knock on the door late at night..."

"Another village after the willows darken..."

She murmured this line again and again, her bright eyes sparkling with intelligence. "Is he speaking to me? But what is there of hope here? What can a heart brimming with poetry actually decide..."

Heaven knows, Han Fu had simply copied the poem—there was no hidden meaning.

With a rueful smile, she realized she was overthinking. She and Han Fu had never met; how could he be sending her messages through poetry?

Still, this poem—superlative!

The sixth poem.

Clearing her mind, Baili Mingsu focused on the final sheet.

"When will the bright moon appear? I raise my cup to ask the sky... May we all live long, sharing the moonlight a thousand miles apart..."

Silence.

When she finished reading, the pavilion beside the lake fell utterly still. Only the golden autumn wind, brushing through flowers and leaves, whispered gently, unable to dispel the hush that settled here.

"Miss..." Pin'er, unable to contain her concern, broke the silence.

"It's nothing..." Baili Mingsu forced a bright smile, though her heart was far from calm.

Why she was so unsettled—whether it was because fate had outmaneuvered her, because she was about to marry Han Fu, a man unknown yesterday but famous today, or because of her brother’s ominous divination—she could not say.

She gathered Han Fu’s six poems and walked toward a path leading to the other side of the garden.

In a secluded courtyard at the back of the Zhou residence.

Inside the main room, Baili Mingda, slightly plump and fair-faced, was engrossed in an ancient book of divinations.

Today, his younger sister Baili Mingsu was hosting a poetry contest to choose a husband—a process riddled with intrigue, a mere pretense orchestrated by the Zhou and Qin families after long collusion.

Mingsu, sacrificing her own happiness for the Zhou family, filled him with guilt. All he could do was study his divination texts with redoubled effort, hoping to improve himself.

Sister, rest assured, your brother will always protect you... This was Baili Mingda’s unwavering conviction.

As for any possible surprises at today’s contest, he was unconcerned.

He had already cast a divination before the contest began.

The omen was exceedingly auspicious: all would go smoothly!

Although he had never been right before, this time, nothing could possibly go wrong.

After all, he had made great progress in his skills just the day before—a giant leap. He was brimming with confidence.

Thinking of this, he smiled contentedly.

"Creaaak..."

The door opened, and Baili Mingsu walked in, Pin'er following behind.

"Brother, didn’t you say today’s contest would go smoothly?" Baili Mingsu set a stack of papers before him, sighing softly.

"Of course," Baili Mingda replied with pride, glancing at the ink-stained sheets. "These must be what Qin Weiren prepared in advance..."

He suddenly cut himself off, realizing something was wrong in his sister’s tone. He looked at her calm face, blinked, and asked, "Something’s happened?"

"Just as you predicted, brother—something’s happened."

"Impossible, absolutely impossible..." Baili Mingda was indignant. "My divination clearly showed—"

He recalled his previous failures and faltered. "But my skills have improved—how could this happen?"

Baili Mingsu ignored his protests. "His name is Han Fu. He was once betrothed to Qin Zhaoning, but the mighty Qin family, scornful of his humble origins, broke the engagement. Today, on the stage, even with only six of the seven poems complete, Qin Weiren has been thoroughly defeated."

"So the Qin family has hoisted a rock only to drop it on their own foot..." Baili Mingda’s expression was odd, then turned doubtful.

Seeing his sister’s grave face, he suddenly said, "You’re tricking me."

Baili Mingsu was taken aback.

"The Qin family’s plight is too much—things can’t be this coincidental. Heaven’s retribution doesn’t come so swiftly. You must be teasing me," Baili Mingda insisted, running out of the room as he spoke. "You’ve gone too far, making fun of your own brother!"

In truth, he was unsettled and wanted to get away from her—and to see for himself if it was true.

Baili Mingsu stared at the empty doorway, watching her brother’s retreating figure.

"What about us, Miss?" Pin'er asked.

"We’ll go too," Baili Mingsu replied somberly, leaving the room at a measured pace, following her brother’s path.

Baili Mingda jogged toward the front courtyard, his plump form panting for breath. There he saw the tightly closed front gate and a ladder propped against the wall.

Changing direction, he hurried to the ladder, scrambled up, and peered over the courtyard wall. The contest platform was in plain view.

In the time it took to draw a breath, his gaze locked onto Han Fu.

At that moment, Han Fu was reciting his seventh poem, "Self-Mockery."

Han Fu’s face came into view. Baili Mingda stared for a moment—then his eyes flew wide, his voice unconsciously trembling in disbelief: "How could it be... Impossible, I must be mistaken."

He looked again for several breaths, his expression growing ever more grave. Even his body shook with the pounding of his heart.

As though confronted by some unspeakable horror, he was utterly unable to control himself.

"Impossible, impossible, impossible..."

He fell into a trance, repeating the phrase over and over.