Chapter Forty-Two: The True Meaning of Seven Words—Clouds Longing for Robes!

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“Unshaken Jade Lotus, Knocking Liwa.”

Many scholars gazed at these seven characters, long forgetting to appreciate the calligraphy itself, wholly engrossed in debating their meaning—yet none could fathom it.

Some mused in silence, others furrowed their brows, some debated aloud, and a few analyzed with utmost seriousness.

“The jade-green lotus is delicate and prone to breaking; should one try to shake it, surely the stem would be destroyed. Han Fu must be using the lotus as a metaphor for himself—a fragile lotus. Today’s events are as if someone tried to shake him, and he rose in resistance…”

“Brother, your interpretation seems rather far-fetched.”

“I am merely speculating; it hardly counts as an explanation. Pardon my presumption.”

“But what does ‘Knocking Liwa’ mean?”

Watching the crowd earnestly dissect a phrase from a past life’s internet slang, Han Fu could not help but chuckle and shake his head in amusement.

Especially that scholar with his wild imagination—Han Fu found himself secretly impressed.

After a long wait with no satisfactory answer, Qian Yu and a few others shook their heads in resignation.

Sun Anmin smiled and said, “Young friend Han Fu, forgive our ignorance, but we truly cannot discern its meaning. Would you be willing to enlighten us?”

At his words, the buzz of discussion faded, and most eyes turned toward Han Fu.

Han Fu smiled gently. “The great scholar truly wishes to know?”

“Hmm…” Sun Anmin hesitated.

Though he was ignorant of the seven characters’ meaning, he suspected it could not be something pleasant—perhaps even an insult. If Han Fu spoke plainly, the scene might well become awkward. Yet his curiosity was a torment, stirring restlessly within.

While he hesitated, Xu Shi smiled and said, “We would be grateful for your instruction.”

“If the great scholar asks, I dare not refuse.” Han Fu bowed slightly, then turned toward Zhao Ziqian, stepping forward slowly.

Blood still seeped from Zhao Ziqian’s wound—though more slowly now, it still moistened his fingers as it oozed out. Frustration and regret churned within him, impossible to quiet. His plot for today had fallen apart; he was utterly ruined, his reputation in shreds, with no hope of redemption. From this day forth, within and without Dingxing, there would be no place for him—no foothold left.

Such consequences filled him with terror.

His face ashen, Zhao Ziqian saw Han Fu approach and his eyes filled with hatred, his expression dark as water.

Han Fu ignored him, saying with a smile, “May the literary giant offer his opinion—how is my calligraphy?”

To kill the body is easy, but to wound the heart is true victory; the more indifferent Han Fu appeared, the greater Zhao Ziqian’s humiliation.

“Hmph,” Zhao Ziqian snorted coldly, refusing to reply.

He was cunning and vain, but as a literary master, his foundation was deep.

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At a glance, Zhao Ziqian knew Han Fu’s calligraphy was extraordinary and envied him deeply. Yet with their relationship in ruins, not a word of praise would pass his lips.

Han Fu was unfazed, pressing on, “Does the literary giant know the meaning of those seven characters?”

Zhao Ziqian did not answer or meet Han Fu’s gaze.

With a faint smile, Han Fu said, “This piece was written especially for you, Great Master Zhao. If no one understands its meaning, that would be a shame. ‘Unshaken Jade Lotus, Knocking Liwa’…”

He paused, his eyes sharp, and then enunciated clearly, “Shameless, utterly shameless, scoundrel to the core.”

The silence was absolute and astonishing.

Every scholar froze; Xu Shi’s eyes widened, Qian Yu’s hand paused mid-stroke on his beard, and neither Wen Qingjuan nor Sun Anmin fared any better.

The seven characters they’d so fervently debated turned out to be crude and filthy language?

How awkward! They were all men of letters, not coarse ruffians.

“You… you… Madman, how dare you insult me!” Zhao Ziqian pointed at Han Fu, his voice trembling with rage.

“Scoundrel? Between you and me, who is truly the scoundrel?” Han Fu’s eyes lowered, his tone mild and slow. “You’ve been beaten—what’s a little insult on top?”

“You… you…” Zhao Ziqian was lost for words.

Han Fu chuckled and no longer spared a glance at the humiliated, furious Zhao Ziqian. Turning, he faced the crowd.

All the scholars averted their gaze, as if none of them had just been discussing the meaning of “Unshaken Jade Lotus, Knocking Liwa.”

“Heh… heh…” Sun Anmin gave a dry laugh to cover his embarrassment.

Han Fu walked a few steps away, letting his gaze pass the crowd, and looked toward Baili Mingsu.

Their eyes met—speechless, yet more eloquent than words.

She wore white, bright as snow, her hair ornaments swaying gently. Her clear eyes and delicate brows shone with grace.

For some reason, Han Fu found Baili Mingsu even more enchanting today, though she had always been striking.

Perhaps it was because she had stepped forward to vindicate him through her stratagem.

Though Han Fu had already devised his own plan for vindication, Baili Mingsu’s actions were more than necessary.

He gazed at her for a long time, making Baili Mingsu uncomfortable.

“Husband, why do you look at me so?” Her lips parted in puzzlement.

Han Fu smiled softly and replied, “Clouds evoke your robes, flowers recall your beauty.”

Baili Mingsu was momentarily stunned, while the onlookers stared in astonishment.

“What did he say?”

“Clouds evoke your robes, flowers recall your beauty.”

“Ah… Such a first line is unsurpassed.”

“To see robes in the clouds, beauty in the flowers… This single line would astonish the world.”

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All eyes were now fixed on Han Fu, anticipation shining in their gazes.

“The spring breeze caresses the threshold, and the dew glistens in its radiance.”

Baili Mingsu smiled faintly, a beauty to topple kingdoms.

“If not upon the summit of Jade Mountain, then surely beneath the moon at the Jasper Terrace.” Han Fu finished reciting, his smile lingering as he watched Baili Mingsu.

Baili Mingsu responded with a formal curtsey, saying, “Thank you, husband, for the gift of your poem.”

The harmony between the two drew envious sighs from all the young women present.

The assembled scholars were stunned, unable to extricate themselves from the poem’s enchantment.

“Clouds evoke your robes, flowers recall your beauty; the spring breeze caresses the threshold, and the dew glistens in its radiance. If not upon the summit of Jade Mountain, then surely beneath the moon at the Jasper Terrace. What a poem… such a masterpiece! In all my life, I doubt I could compose even half a line.”

“With such a poem, what need is there for Dingxing’s three beauties? Baili Mingsu alone outshines them all; the rest should yield before her.”

“To craft lines of this caliber so effortlessly—what unimaginable talent!”

“If all the world’s talent were measured in ten parts, has Han Fu not claimed eight?”

“We can only gaze from afar. Alas, he is but a son-in-law by marriage…”

The scholars’ reactions were intense, their awe indescribable.

Wen Qingjuan sighed, “Such poetic talent is truly defiant of the heavens.”

Xu Shi was deeply moved. “Only an immortal poet could descend to the mortal world and achieve this.”

Sun Anmin smiled wryly. “I am not even a third as capable. I am ashamed.”

Qian Yu declared, “Not only do we see none among the ancients who match this, I fear there will be none among those to come.”

Liu Shilin lamented bitterly to the friends beside him, “Such poetic talent, such poetic talent… Why would he choose to marry into a family? My heart aches.”

Among the young women, Wu Wanjun’s eyes were full of envy. “Sister Mingsu is so fortunate. If only this poem had been written for me…”

Lin Bingqing, somewhat dazed, smiled and replied, “If it were given to you, Dingxing’s three beauties would pale by three parts.”

Gu Huazhao sighed softly, “From now on, what need is there for Dingxing’s three beauties? I fear only Sister Mingsu remains.”

Wang Luohe gazed at Baili Mingsu’s back, openly envious.

Such a peerless poem, likening a beauty to a celestial goddess—who would not long for it?

Ignoring the crowd’s astonished responses, Han Fu looked at Baili Mingsu and said, “It is time to go home.”

“Yes,” Baili Mingsu nodded, then went to stand before Qian Yu. “Great scholar, may I trouble you to return my draft?”

“You little girl, what a memory you have,” Qian Yu grumbled, reluctantly handing back the manuscript.

“Thank you, great scholar.” Baili Mingsu accepted it, carefully folding it and treasuring it away.