Chapter Thirty-Eight: Condemned by All, Mingsu Stands by Her Husband!

After two pots of clear wine, Han Fu was already slightly intoxicated.

All around him, a chorus of literati jabbered and jeered, cold sarcasm mingling with heated ridicule. Though not everyone joined in, more than half did. Han Fu was like a man surrounded by flies, a constant buzzing in his ears.

Among the scholars and esteemed gentlemen, Zhao Ziqian stood aloof, his gaze full of disdain, as though waiting for Han Fu to defend himself. Yet Han Fu felt no urgency to prove anything; his mind was set on another plan.

He composed himself with calm leisure, turned around suddenly, and said with a smile, “This is fine wine. If you won’t drink, I shall.”

Behind him, two men sat at a low table; they too had spoken about the alleged plagiarism, and both chose to believe Zhao Ziqian. First, Zhao Ziqian had long been famous and his argument was convincing. Second, Han Fu was virtually unknown, both in reputation and in person. Suddenly appearing and producing seven poems, each a classic, was simply too hard to believe.

In this moment of crisis, with a thousand accusations pointed at him, Han Fu focused only on his wine. His attitude left the two men momentarily stunned, then their expressions soured, meeting his gaze with frosty disdain.

“Your eyebrows are aflame, yet you still wish to drink. Are you giving up the argument, letting things fall apart?”

“A fraud’s glory never lasts. After a few days of fame, his true colors will show. If you love the wine so much, take it—soon you may never taste such fine liquor again.”

The two exchanged looks of contempt, but Han Fu remained unconcerned.

He reached for the wine pot behind him, smiled, and said, “Thank you.”

They responded only with a cold snort.

Han Fu turned back, unwilling to pour another cup. He raised the wine pot high, its spout downward, and drank deeply.

“Just a little longer. The stronger the wine, the fiercer my hand will be…”

Wine poured into his mouth as Han Fu drank with eyes closed, letting the liquid overflow and run down his jaw, soaking his collar.

Words of reproach and scorn still rang in his ears.

“To dare steal the poems of a great scholar—what audacity!”

“The day His Majesty ordered him to marry into the family, he agreed readily. Now it’s clear: a man with no learning, eager only for riches.”

“At this point, he only drinks. It seems Zhao Ziqian was right: he has no means, and hopes drunkenness will let him muddle through.”

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“Sigh… Bai Li Ming Su is renowned for her wisdom and beauty, one of Dingxing’s three famed women. To be wed to such a man is truly sorrowful.”

“Ha… The scholar only lost seven poems. If he truly has talent, let him compose a few more to prove himself.”

“What’s the point? Look at those seven calligraphies—some are already old, likely written by the scholar years ago. That’s solid proof.”

“Before the Duke of Pei’s contest, no one had heard of Han Fu. If he had talent, even outside Dingxing, his fame would have spread. How could he have only seven poems?”

“The title of ‘scholar’ bears immense weight. Zhao Ziqian would never risk his reputation for empty gain.”

“He’s nothing but a son-in-law.”

“To steal poetry and fame, he’s the shame of all scholars.”

“What kind of scholar is he? Just a thief.”

Those who criticized Han Fu did so with utter contempt.

Among the silent literati, expressions varied—some thoughtful, some detached, some mere bystanders, some deeply pained.

“Sigh… Sister Ming Su, your marriage is set, but your husband is so petty. Even I feel uneasy,” Wang Luohe said with faux concern, secretly delighted, her gestures coquettish and provocative.

Lin Bingqing and two others watched Bai Li Ming Su’s expression anxiously, fearing she might lose composure.

Lu Zhiyu stood quietly to the side, observing, lost in her own thoughts.

Bai Li Ming Su’s face was calm, betraying nothing of her thoughts.

She studied Han Fu for a moment, seeing him still absorbed in his wine, uncertain of his intentions.

Yet it was clear Han Fu was composed, as if waiting for something.

Bai Li Ming Su, however, had no wish to wait. The behavior of the gathered scholars had grown tiresome. Whether she acted now or later, it would be the same.

With this in mind, Bai Li Ming Su stepped forward lightly and recited:

“Last night, the rain was sparse and the wind sudden.
Heavy sleep cannot dispel the lingering wine.
I ask the one who rolls up the curtain,
She says the crabapple is as before.
Do you know? Do you know?
The green is lush, the red is fading.”

As Bai Li Ming Su entered, she recited “Like a Dream,” line by line. The room grew silent, eyes turned in astonishment.

Zhao Ziqian grew wary, thoughts racing.

Han Fu was surprised, unable to hold back a smile and shake his head, then continued drinking, quietly admiring his wife’s skill.

Bai Li Ming Su spoke: “This poem is also said to be Zhao Ziqian’s work? When Han Fu married into the Zhou family, he carried the manuscript of this poem. Zhao Ziqian, think carefully—did you lose a poem, the one recorded here?”

“What fine poetry…”

“A classic for the ages, an immortal work.”

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“The language is fresh, the imagery lasting. The transitions are clever, lively and natural—a truly fine poem.”

“The phrase ‘the green is lush, the red is fading’—such exquisite writing.”

“Though short, this poem is rich with meaning, subtle and profound. It uses scenery to express emotion, crafted with precision and grace, light and innovative…”

“Do you know? Do you know? The green is lush, the red is fading… vivid as if before our eyes.”

Before Zhao Ziqian could respond, the literati were already exclaiming in awe, their praise unending.

Some were so absorbed in the poem’s realm that their expressions became serene, lost in enjoyment.

Even Wen Qingjuan and Qian Yu nodded repeatedly, faces alight with wonder as they savored the poem.

Zhao Ziqian was momentarily dazed, uncertain of Bai Li Ming Su’s intention.

He speculated: Bai Li Ming Su’s question implied the poem was Han Fu’s, written in his own hand. If so, why did she not defend Han Fu, but instead ask if Zhao Ziqian had this poem? Perhaps they were not on good terms, and she trusted Zhao Ziqian more.

With this, Zhao Ziqian feigned sudden realization and smiled, “Ah, yes, this poem is mine. But it was written by a servant at home, so it was never mounted, and I don’t know where it ended up. If he has it, it must have been lost.”

He left the handwriting ambiguous, claiming it was written by a servant.

“Is this the one?” Bai Li Ming Su produced the manuscript of “Like a Dream,” folded but not yet opened.

The poem’s gentle charm made it a favorite of hers, so she always carried it.

Zhao Ziqian looked closely, seeing the ink bleed through the back of the paper. He suspected nothing and nodded, “Yes, that’s the one. I remember it well.”

Han Fu laughed quietly at this.

Bai Li Ming Su nodded thoughtfully and said, “So it is. Yet I wonder, which servant in your household wrote this poem? Their calligraphic skill stands alone, worthy of admiration.”

“Hm?”

Zhao Ziqian was taken aback, puzzled and wary.

Bai Li Ming Su slowly unfolded the manuscript, displaying the writing. “The script is unique. Scholar Zhao, please summon the servant who wrote this so Ming Su may admire them.”

The distance was neither near nor far; Zhao Ziqian couldn’t see the handwriting clearly and was about to step forward when the great scholar Sun Anmin stood up first.

“Girl, let me see that at once.”

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