Chapter Four: Sixth Poem, When Will the Bright Moon Shine?

What happens when an obscure, even ridiculed, minor figure performs a deed that shakes the world?

Outside the Zhou estate, at the contest platform.

The effect was perfectly manifested when Han Fu composed his first poem, "Bamboo and Stone."

A sudden thunderclap on flat ground, wild waves rising from a tranquil sea.

The crowd, initially quiet, murmuring as they waited for entertainment, was first stunned, then wholly incredulous.

Exclamations and praises filled the air.

Naturally, there were voices of doubt as well.

Han Fu, a nobody in anyone's eyes, whose death had been all but decreed, now commanded their attention.

It seemed things were not as simple as they appeared, especially seeing Han Fu so calm and unafraid.

Those who had mocked Han Fu and been rebuffed now looked even more sullen.

If Han Fu kept dazzling them, their malicious thoughts would have to be restrained—but where would their anger go?

Qin Ping’s smile froze instantly, his face clouded.

Qin Weiren was astonished, his brows knitting.

Zhou Xinyi’s expression stiffened, then he calmly stroked his beard.

“Excellent poem, excellent poem…” Liu Shilin was full of praise, and looking at Han Fu, felt a kinship and regret at not having met sooner.

A lover of poetry also admires those skilled in it.

The learned among them savored "Bamboo and Stone," analyzing and dissecting its brilliance.

The more they did so, the worse some faces became, yet they had nowhere to vent.

But before they could finish appreciating the first two lines, the second poem, "Plum Blossom," followed swiftly.

"A few plum branches by the wall..." Han Fu recited slowly.

The crowd was bewildered...

Already a second poem?

Without pausing to think?

So smooth?

Not even giving people time to catch their breath?

As soon as the second poem ended, Han Fu immediately recited the third, leaving them no time to savor.

"Exchanging silver for a pine tree, since you planted it first, I will not. Luckily, the west wind is easy to rely on, and in the deep of night, it secretly sends its good sound."

While reciting the borrowed verses from Bai Juyi’s "Pine Tree," Han Fu observed the crowd’s reactions.

Though this "Pine Tree" lacked the brilliance of the previous two, it was penned by Bai Juyi, its quality beyond question.

Three consecutive classic poems from the civilization of Huaxia had already sent the crowd into a frenzy.

Of course, some were all the more disgusted.

Han Fu’s lips curled into a slight smile, and he turned to the topic of "Love," pondering briefly before continuing:

"The mournful cicada in the cold, facing the long pavilion at dusk, the sudden rain just ceased. Drinking in the capital’s tent, spirits low, lingering affection, the orchid boat urged to depart. Hand in hand, tearful eyes gazing, speechless, choked with emotion. Thinking of departure, a thousand miles of misty waves, the dusk haze deep, the expanse of Chu’s sky."

"Since ancient times, partings have wounded the sentimental; how can one bear the desolation of autumn? Tonight, when the wine’s effects wear off, where will I be? On the willow bank, in the dawn breeze, beneath the waning moon. In the years to come, fine times and beautiful scenes will be empty. Even with a thousand kinds of feelings, who can I share them with?"

There are many kinds of love, but the most representative is the love between man and woman.

And when it comes to poetry about such love, the king of borrowing, Liu Yong, ranks first.

This "Rain Bells – The Mournful Cicada" is one of Liu Yong’s signature works, how could it be lacking?

Of course, this is a lyric poem, not a regular poem.

The Xu Dynasty already had the beginnings of lyrics, though poetry remained dominant, and lyric poems could not compare. Yet this did not diminish the classic nature of this lyric.

Composing a lyric was not against the rules.

Of the six pieces Qin Weiren composed, one was a lyric.

Han Fu had observed from below for a long time, and did not rashly—borrow—a lyric.

When his recitation ended, Han Fu noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that some people’s eyes were bulging, faces flushed, and their bodies trembling rhythmically.

Such excitement—witnessing four great poems and lyrics in succession, piercing the soul—who could not be thrilled?

Han Fu even saw that some who had mocked him earlier had partly forgotten grudges, immersed in the poetic atmosphere.

In this ancient dynasty, lacking entertainment, lovers of poetry and lyrics were everywhere.

To hear such masterpieces today—how could one remain reserved?

It was only four poems so far... Han Fu had no intention of stopping, nor would he allow them time to react, though this affected his chance to impress.

But what he sought was not merely to impress but to win the crown and marry Baili Mingsu.

The best way to impress would be, as in novels, for the protagonist to recite a poem and then pause several minutes, letting the onlookers marvel and worship.

But this was not a novel, and Han Fu did not intend to do so.

In short, it was unnecessary.

Extreme impressiveness mattered little; achieving his goal was what counted.

Thus, as soon as "Rain Bells – The Mournful Cicada" was finished, Han Fu immediately recited a poem for the topic "Wine."

"Do not laugh at the farmer’s rough wine; in a good year, guests are welcomed with ample chicken and pork. Mountains and rivers seem to block the way, but willow shade and flower brightness reveal another village. Pipes and drums follow the spring festival, attire simple yet ancient in style. If permitted, I will leisurely ride by moonlight and knock at doors late at night with my staff."

Five poems in, the crowd was numb, standing dazed, their eyes unfocused.

Qin Ping could no longer sit still, standing and trembling, obviously infuriated.

His face stung; earlier he had waited for Han Fu’s embarrassment, even making generous remarks.

He had even prepared his excuses for Han Fu’s demise after today, but now he faced such humiliation.

Suddenly, he caught sight of Zhou Xinyi beside him, wearing a faint smile, utterly unhurried.

Qin Ping’s brows tightened, and he snorted, "Five poems already, Brother Zhou, are you not anxious?"

Seeing Han Fu's momentum, Zhou Xinyi had already considered the crucial gains and losses.

If Han Fu won, that might be even better than marrying into the Qin family.

Such extraordinary poetic talent—where could one find its equal, ancient or modern?

If he became his niece’s husband, the benefits would be many.

Thus, even as Qin Weiren’s defeat looked inevitable, Zhou Xinyi was not anxious, even feeling delighted.

Hearing Qin Ping’s questioning, he realized he had been too absorbed, ignoring others’ feelings.

He restrained his smile and feigned worry, sighing, "What’s the use of being anxious? Or not being anxious?"

"Heh..." Qin Ping smirked, reminding, "Brother Zhou, don’t forget—today’s contest is the marriage arrangement between our two families. With Han Fu interfering, shouldn’t you consider how to respond?"

Both were officials, and Qin Ping could easily see through Zhou Xinyi’s thoughts.

Not only him—even Qin Ping himself regretted the decision to break off the engagement three days ago.

But things had come to this point; apart from regret, there was nothing he could do.

Zhou Xinyi sighed deeply, saying, "How to respond? The Zhou family’s contest is known to all. With so many eyes watching, if he wins, can we refuse?"

He paused, then added, "To lose trust before the public is to destroy one’s foundation."

Qin Ping was speechless, as if something were stuck in his throat.

How could he cheat? With so many people watching.

Countless others were waiting to see the Qin and Zhou families’ embarrassment.

If he dared to cheat, those people would probably step in to help Han Fu.

Not for anything else, but simply to undermine the Qin and Zhou families and ruin the marriage alliance.

Besides, if Han Fu won, the Zhou family would be the least inclined to cheat.

Thinking of this, Qin Ping grew resentful, gritting his teeth. "That brat, how dare he ruin the Qin family’s plans."

Seeing Qin Ping like this, Zhou Xinyi fell silent, secretly anticipating Han Fu’s next masterpiece.

He could tell that, though Qin Ping was furious, he was powerless, and even the fleeting regret was obvious.

On the platform, Qin Weiren was no longer composed, his fists clenched in his sleeves, his eyes cold as ice.

At this moment, he sensed that Han Fu might ruin his prospects.

"Damned insect," he wished he could devour Han Fu alive, his teeth grinding, but he was helpless.

All he could hope for now was Han Fu’s sudden demise, or that he would stop at five poems.

"Divine talent, I am not alone..." In the crowd, Liu Shilin’s face was flushed, neck thick, his gaze at Han Fu tinged with emotion.

As if... he were witnessing a lifelong confidant.

His friends beside him were excited, but not as fervent as he.

He did not believe these poems were prepared in advance, as only the Qin family could have done so.

That meant Han Fu was improvising, five poems in a row, without pause.

This...

"Such poetic talent is truly extraordinary. Compared to him, I am but a grain of rice shining against the moon..." Liu Shilin did not wish to admit it, but could not deny reality.

At that moment, the first poet of the Xu Dynasty—no, perhaps the foremost in poetry—Liu Shilin, suddenly felt himself so small.

He sighed, murmuring, "Now, I really dare not claim second place; the gap is too great..."

With that, he became excited again.

This is what makes life interesting, what keeps it from being dull, is it not?

Liu Shilin decided to become Han Fu’s close friend.

On and off the platform, expressions varied, Han Fu noticed but cared little.

Their reactions were all understandable.

Thus, the sixth poem flowed effortlessly from his lips.

And this sixth poem was his ultimate trump card.

"When will the bright moon appear..."