Chapter 12: The Two Fools Who Dug Their Own Grave

The Qian brothers, Qian Shengju and Qian Shengwen, were unmistakably aiming for the imperial examinations. Seeing them jogged Shen Shi’s memory. Lately, the two had been riding high on the winds of fortune—not only had they passed the preliminary exams for scholars, but they had also managed to curry favor with Liu Chunyuan, the son of Censor Liu.

Hearing the obvious mockery in their words, Shen Shi felt a surge of irritation. He thought, “I haven’t come here to make trouble for you, yet the moment you arrive, you’re intent on picking a fight. Some people are just like that.”

There was no shortage of such characters.

Originally, Shen Shi had only intended to join the excitement, catch a glimpse of these so-called ancient “idols,” and then leave. That did not mean, however, that he would tolerate being openly provoked. He was no saint; once his soldier’s stubbornness flared up, he had no intention of swallowing such insults.

Fixing his gaze on the other, Shen Shi said, “Oh? Is there a rule for this—who is allowed at the poetry gathering and who isn’t? I must admit, I’m unaware of such customs.”

He still found it odd that a brothel would be called a poetry society.

Qian Shengwen laughed and replied, “Heh, of course, there’s no rule. But everyone at the academy knows of Brother Shen’s literary talents. We’re all quite eager to see what masterpiece you might present.”

“As if you have some masterpiece yourself,” Shen Shi retorted. “Why don’t you share one, so we can all enjoy it?”

“Er—you… you…”

Shen Shi’s tone was infuriating, as if he were a dignitary requesting a private performance.

But he was not finished yet. Smiling broadly, he continued, “Seems you’re all talk and no substance—a braggart with nothing to show.”

This was a vicious blow; Qian Shengwen was left trembling with rage. To respond would be to admit he was “selling himself”; to remain silent would confirm he was all bluster.

Seeing his brother outmaneuvered, the other man with the square, coffin-like face stood up. This was Qian Shengju, elder brother to Qian Shengwen—always inseparable, the two of them.

“So, you’re here as well? This is a gathering for scholars. I hope you have some real talent, or you’ll be running home in tears,” Qian Shengju sneered, as though only now noticing Shen Shi’s presence.

Shen Shi glanced from side to side, then pointed at his own face in mock astonishment. “Are you speaking to me? A gathering of scholars? Isn’t it true that only those above the level of licentiate are called scholars? Are you both scholars, then?”

He was clearly doing this on purpose.

Qian Shengju was so angry he trembled. Passing the preliminary exam was a cause for celebration—who wouldn’t flatter them now, call them scholars? Was there anything wrong with that?

Yet Shen Shi deliberately fixated on the technicality. In truth, a “tongsheng” merely meant one was literate and had passed an initial exam—it did not make one a scholar. How could he not be furious?

His anger blinded him to how Shen Shi had become so adept at verbal sparring. In the past, Shen Shi was an honest man—he would have gone to prison over a mouthful of beef, let alone win a war of words. But people grow; suffering brings wisdom. After prison, he had learned a great deal. As for seeing through Shen Shi’s transmigrated soul, that was not a skill the Qian brothers possessed.

“Don’t get cocky. Before long, you’ll have nothing to be smug about,” Qian Shengju spat, his face flushed crimson, unable to vent his anger.

By then, the courtesans had all taken the stage—the poetry gathering had officially begun. The brothers could no longer continue their quarrel, nor did they stand a chance of winning it.

“Well done!” Shen Shi and his friends found seats; there was wine, food, and tea. Poetry was no substitute for a meal, indeed. Kong Xueli gave him a thumbs-up. “I’ve always found those two insufferable. They’re always badmouthing you—half your reputation as a wastrel comes from their mouths.”

Such was the custom in the Song. The Shen family was not only a house of military men, but a declining one at that. Naturally, it became a stepping stone for others to make a name for themselves—by trampling on them.

“Wastrel,” “scoundrel”—these labels fit military men perfectly, after all. They were not in a position to resist. Throughout the Song, how many generals fell at the hands of scholars? Even famous commanders like Invincible Yang and Di Qing were powerless against civil officials.

Political correctness was not just a concern of later generations—the ancients adhered to it even more strictly.

While they spoke, the poetry gathering commenced.

As the event was held at a property belonging to Jinfu Monastery, the invited judge was a local instructor from the county academy. After all, the literati of the Northern Song often maintained close ties with Buddhist temples. Every renowned scholar had some connection to the clergy.

This was because monks themselves held a portion of the power over public opinion. Even a poetry gathering in a brothel was a tool for fame in ancient times.

The instructor understood this well. He cleared his throat and delivered the usual remarks about the flourishing local literary scene, gilding his own reputation.

Wasn’t this, too, part of his official record?

“Compose poems and recite verses. We’ve written much about flowers—today, let us not write of flowers. Let us write of snow. Take snow as your theme, and you have one hour.”

The old instructor clearly understood the mindset of these young men—he dared say that more than a few were in the habit of buying poems with silver. Just recently, some mere preliminary scholars had sought poems from the prefect; he himself had only rated them as average. Later, when he discovered the true author was the prefect, his heart had pounded with terror for days. So, at the last moment, he suddenly changed the subject.

A large hourglass was placed prominently beside the stage, already counting down.

With the topic announced, none of the scholars had any appetite left; all frowned in deep thought, searching their minds for worthy lines.

The Qian brothers’ faces turned ashen—they were clearly among those who bought their poems.

Shen Shi was thoroughly amused, drinking and eating with gusto.

Seeing this, Kong Xueli grew anxious. “Jieyu, how can you still eat?”

Shen Shi chuckled. “Why not eat? They want to become honored guests—I have no such ambitions.”

To plagiarize poetry for a courtesan? Hardly worth the effort. Besides, Shen Shi only knew a handful of poems, and he had no intention of using them here.

Kong Xueli did not know this; seeing Shen Shi uninterested, he said no more and focused on his own composition.

Before long, attendants from the brothel placed the four treasures of the study before each participant. The brush was fine rabbit hair, the ink top-grade pine soot, the inkstone a superior She stone, though not quite as exquisite as Duan stone. The paper was also the finest Xuan from Jiajing.

These items alone cost a fortune. Shen Shi recalled that in his past life, an old superior had once sought a good inkstone for calligraphy, but the best Duan stones were so costly as to be collector’s treasures. Even a She stone, praised by literary giants like Cai Xiang and Su Shi of the Song, was often too expensive to afford.

For a time, silence reigned, broken only by the sound of ink being ground on the inkstone. Countless brushes touched the fine Xuan paper, some swiftly, some slowly, some with weight, others with lightness.

The scent of aloeswood drifted through the hall, imbuing the air with a refreshing fragrance.

If only one could take these fine items back to the twenty-first century, there would be no need for a mortgage to buy a house or a car.

Alas, Shen Shi could not return. The house he had just made a down payment on would likely end up a windfall for the bank. The thought made him drink two more cups of wine.