Chapter Forty: The Son-in-Law’s Fury—A Swift Interrogation!

Autumn hung high in the sky, a warm breeze drifting gently.

The literary gathering at the Lotus Garden was unusually quiet, all eyes converging upon a single figure.

Zhao Ziqian’s mind was in turmoil, vexed with regret. His act of seizing credit for poetry today was nothing short of brazen theft; not a single misstep could be afforded. With his reputation as a literary master, supported by doctored verses and a handful of scholars to lend weight, even if Han Fu composed several remarkable poems on the spot, suspicion of plagiarism would cling to him, unable to clear his name.

When the time came, no one could say for certain to whom the seven poems truly belonged. Not even the esteemed scholars present could pass judgment.

Given time, Zhao Ziqian could leverage his status, with the Qin family fanning the flames, and within a few years, the world would recognize only Zhao Ziqian, casting Han Fu aside in contempt.

Yet Han Fu’s exceptional calligraphy had drawn the attention of the scholars, and Zhao’s earlier attempt to falsely claim the manuscript had left him trapped with no escape.

If he could not explain himself flawlessly, today would surely end in ruin and disgrace.

All of this stemmed from greed.

Had Zhao Ziqian clung only to the seven poems and not falsely claimed “Like a Dream,” he would never have fallen into such peril.

In a flash, countless thoughts whirled through Zhao Ziqian’s mind, cold sweat beading on his brow.

“This matter was indeed my rashness, but…” Zhao Ziqian began to defend himself, only to be interrupted by a wine jug flying toward him.

Smash—

Han Fu wielded the jug with force; it shattered instantly, fragments scattering as Zhao Ziqian fell backward, head thrown back.

The entire audience was stunned. Scholars rose to their feet, faces aghast.

Wen Qingjuan and the three great scholars were equally astonished, all staring at Han Fu in disbelief.

Caught off guard, Bai Li Mingsu had not anticipated this; she could not fathom Han Fu’s motives.

“You dare attack, striking a contemporary literary master!”

“Such disgrace, a stain upon the literary world!”

“Unable to prove yourself, you resort to violence in shame—no doubt a thief of poetry!”

“Han Fu, your audacity knows no bounds…”

A chorus of rebukes and furious shouts erupted, echoing without pause.

Among the many scholars present, Han Fu recognized four types. Some conspired with Zhao Ziqian, working hand in glove. Some were mere spectators, echoing the crowd. Others, out of jealousy, fanned the flames. And a few were rational, silent observers from start to finish.

Zhao Ziqian’s blunder had made some realize the matter was not so simple.

Thus, most who now condemned Han Fu belonged to Zhao Ziqian’s faction.

Han Fu exhaled, feeling a surge of satisfaction, then turned to face his accusers, meeting their eyes one by one.

With a calm, faint smile, he spoke slowly, “When an emperor is enraged, a thousand miles turn to scorched earth. When a son-in-law is enraged, blood splatters within five paces. Who wishes to taste my wrath?”

At the same time, he bent and reached out, grabbing the wine jug from Sun Anmin’s desk, smiling at the crowd.

Han Fu’s tone was gentle, as if in casual conversation, yet his gaze was deep as an abyss, chilling the soul.

Those who had been shouting fell silent, unable to meet his eyes, their bravado fading.

“You dare strike me…” Zhao Ziqian clutched his forehead, rising in fury, wild-eyed.

Blood dripped through his fingers, staining his face and collar, all dignity lost.

“Why did I strike you?” Han Fu laughed softly, “You stole my poetry, sullied my name—who else should I strike?”

“Nonsense!” Zhao Ziqian roared through his pain, “The poems are mine. Today I merely expose your guilt. If you disagree, defend yourself. Resorting to violence is the act of a villain!”

Han Fu replied with a sneer, “If you claim the poems are not mine, does that make it so?”

“I speak with evidence. And you?” Zhao Ziqian’s rage had consumed him, reason slipping away.

To be struck today was a humiliation, sure to become the talk of the town.

Han Fu lowered his gaze, saying, “I claim your reputation as a literary master is but a façade, and I too have evidence.”

Zhao Ziqian laughed coldly, “Ridiculous—show your evidence for all to see.”

Han Fu shook his head, smiling, “No need to present anything. I’ll simply ask you a few simple questions. If you answer them all correctly, I’ll admit my fault.”

Zhao Ziqian scoffed, “If your questions are unfair, even the scholars won’t know how to answer—am I to dig my own grave?”

Han Fu replied, “The questions are simple enough that a five-year-old could answer them fluently.”

Zhao Ziqian snorted, “Today I’ll show you what it means to be a literary master.”

Han Fu nodded serenely, “Then I beg your instruction. First question: One chicken plus one chicken—how many chickens?”

The entire hall froze.

So simple?

Zhao Ziqian was momentarily baffled.

Han Fu smiled, “What’s wrong? As a literary master, must you ponder such a question for so long?”

“I’m simply surprised you’d ask such a childish question,” Zhao Ziqian replied coldly.

Han Fu chuckled, “As I said, even a child could answer swiftly. Please, don’t think too long. One chicken plus one chicken—how many?”

Zhao Ziqian answered without hesitation, “Two.”

Han Fu continued, “Two ducks plus two ducks—how many ducks?”

Zhao Ziqian replied, “Four.”

“What year is it tonight?”

“The thirteenth year of Xiaokang.”

“What month?”

“The ninth month of Sangluo.”

“What day?”

“The sixteenth.”

As Zhao Ziqian fell into the rhythm, Han Fu’s pace quickened, leaving no time for reflection.

“What river flows beneath Ding Bridge?”

“The Luo River.”

“To whom does the Lotus Garden belong?”

“The Wen family, an illustrious clan.”

“How did the literary master arrive today?”

“By carriage.”

“What is another name for ‘Da Ya’ in the Book of Songs?”

“Ya Jing.”

“Do you know the method for aging calligraphy and paintings?”

“I do.”

“Are the seven poems genuine or fake?”

“Fake.”

Han Fu ceased his questioning, smiling as he gazed at Zhao Ziqian.

Zhao Ziqian frowned, “Why did you stop?”

Han Fu bowed in respect, “Your erudition is admirable, literary master. I am in awe.”

Zhao Ziqian, feeling the pain in his forehead lessen, allowed himself a proud smile—only to suddenly freeze, sensing something amiss.

He looked around, only to find everyone regarding him with strange expressions.

In a flash, Zhao Ziqian realized—pointing furiously at Han Fu, “You… You… You dared set a trap for me!”

Panic engulfed him. Han Fu’s rapid questioning had left him no time to think, causing him to blurt out the truth—too late for regret.

What awaited him now was utter ruin.

The assembled scholars were stunned, whispering amongst themselves.

Wen Qingjuan and the three great scholars exchanged glances, their opinion of Han Fu rising sharply.

Such quick wit was astonishing.

Bai Li Mingsu smiled at Han Fu, finally understanding his intent.

Though the method had seemed simple, it was not so easily executed.

He had struck with the jug to enrage Zhao, then used words to lure him into losing his composure.

The questions were easy, requiring no thought. Asked swiftly, they left no room for hesitation.

The trap lay within the questions themselves.

Each answer required only a few words, offering no opportunity to catch oneself.

Had Han Fu hesitated even slightly, the plan would have failed.

Han Fu smiled, “What do you mean, literary master? I do not quite understand. But you have already proven yourself—my respect is sincere. To be honest, the manuscript was indeed written by me, humble though my handwriting may be. Yet it has drawn the admiration of great scholars, which leaves me uneasy. To express my admiration, I am willing to write a piece for you, as a gift.”