Chapter Nine: The Six Young Lords of the Poetry Society, Insult Han Fu!

Elegant Courtyard, renowned alongside the Pure Pavilion, is far from a mere tavern. Within, the ladies possess varied charms and unique talents. Before an audience, they sing and dance with grace; in private, they ensure their patrons’ satisfaction regardless of fortune’s whims. Together with the Imperial Music Bureau, these three establishments are lauded as the gold-draining pits of Dingxing. Those who frequent such places are either wealthy, noble, or men of considerable literary reputation.

Though it was just after midday—a time when daylight still reigned—the Elegant Courtyard was already well-occupied. Some guests came for the company of the ladies, others were literati seeking wine and merriment; to put it plainly, it was a gathering of pleasure-seekers, with a few respectable exceptions. Daytime indulgence, however, came at a price—higher than that of the night. After a night’s exertions, the ladies, still bleary-eyed, catered to their patrons; it was only fair they charge a little extra.

At this moment, in a private suite on the second floor, Liu Shilin sat drinking with five fellow scholars. The six were not classmates, but their bond surpassed such ties, for they were all members of the Poetry Society.

What was the Poetry Society? It was an unarmed fellowship of poetry lovers, dedicated to the shared pursuit of poetic knowledge. Founded in Linjiang and flourishing in Dingxing, it had, in just three years, spread to most corners of the Xu Dynasty. Its members were scattered far and wide, connected yet independently thriving, all under the leadership of one president—who was said to be arriving soon in Dingxing from Linjiang, to hand over the role to a talented local.

Once hailed as the foremost poet of the Xu Dynasty, Liu Shilin was the undisputed leader among Dingxing’s poets, and had been nominated as the next president of the society. He once believed this was his destiny, but now, he no longer thought so. The arrival of Han Fu had changed his mind.

It was not simply a matter of acknowledging Han Fu as his superior—he wished to welcome him into the society and nominate him as the next president. The seven poems Han Fu had composed that day were enough to astonish the world; Liu Shilin recognized his own inferiority, knowing he could never measure up.

He had just shared these thoughts with his companions, who, as poetry lovers, were in full agreement. Even if Han Fu was to become a live-in son-in-law in three days, they did not care. The Poetry Society valued talent, not status. Of course, there was a second criterion—one that gave several of them pause.

Tong Le said, “Han Fu’s poetic talent is unparalleled; his entry into our society would be a blessing. But to lead us, he must also be a man of virtue.”

Zhao Zongsheng replied, “With such genius, how could his character be lacking?”

“Not necessarily…” Sun Kaixing shook his head. “In the previous dynasty, Wang Li was no less a poet, though not as gifted as Han Fu, yet far beyond any of us. Still, he abandoned his wife and children and framed loyal officials—a true villain.”

“We cannot judge a man’s character by his talent,” Li Shenhe agreed.

Wu Ziyong, who had remained silent, nodded in agreement. Though mute, his ears were keen, and his calligraphy unmatched in the society—thus, he was also a member of the Calligraphy Society. Truly, he had a foot in three worlds, for he was also part of the Restoration Society.

As each voiced their view, Liu Shilin considered their words and, after a moment’s thought, said, “Character must be observed. Let us wait until after Han Fu’s marriage, and then I shall approach him.”

“Why you, and not me?” someone interjected.

“I could do it as well.”

“I’m free these days, I could—”

“Ababa…” Wu Ziyong chimed in.

A lively debate broke out, each eager to be the first to befriend Han Fu.

Just then, perhaps emboldened by drink, voices from the next room drifted over, loud and unmistakable.

“So what if Han Fu is a genius? He’s still just a live-in son-in-law.”

“Being a son-in-law—let’s be blunt—is lower than a dog…”

“Pity Bai Li Mingsu, such a marvel, marrying a mere commoner.”

“A commoner is a commoner, no matter how many poems he writes.”

“In my eyes, he’s no different from an ant.”

“What good is a poet, anyway? Hahahaha…”

The men next door were discussing Han Fu, and their words were laced with envy, attacking both his humble origins and his poetry. The faces of Liu Shilin and his companions darkened. These insults targeted not only Han Fu, but all lovers of poetry.

Insulting Han Fu or poetry alone would have sufficed to offend them, but both together was intolerable—a genuine all-out assault.

Zhao Zongsheng, face grim, said, “That’s Cao Dezhen, son of the Vice-Minister of Rites, Cao Shen.”

His own father was an official in Dingxing, so he knew the man well. Cao Dezhen was a notorious reprobate, idle and unruly, harassing respectable women as a matter of course, shielded by his father’s rank.

“This is intolerable. Let’s go set him straight,” Tong Le declared, rising in anger.

“Ababa…” Wu Ziyong, as ever, would not be left behind.

“Wait,” Liu Shilin interjected, causing the others to sit back down.

Puzzled, Sun Kaixing asked, “Why stop us? Can you swallow this insult?”

“I cannot,” Liu Shilin sighed, “but what good would it do? He’s already drunk; confronting him would only end in a shouting match, or worse, and ultimately achieve nothing. We are scholars, not brawlers. Let us pretend we heard nothing.”

The others exchanged glances, reluctant but convinced.

Still, their hearts burned with indignation.

Liu Shilin raised his gaze, voice calm, and said, “Wild dogs barking—would you reason with them?”

At this, the five men were taken aback, then looked ashamed.

Of course—Cao Dezhen was no better than a wild dog; how could reason prevail?

Tong Le clasped his hands in salute. “Liu, your poetic talent is unmatched, but your self-control and virtue are even more admirable. I am humbled.”

The others followed suit.

“Ababa…”

Liu Shilin smiled wryly. “Once Han Fu arrives, do not call me unmatched; I am unworthy of the praise.”

“Alas, though we’ve let it go, the mood is ruined. Farewell, until we meet again.”

“I should head home as well.”

“I can’t afford the bill, so I’ll take my leave.”

“Ababa…”

Clearly, their enjoyment was spoiled, and one by one, they departed.

In the end, only Liu Shilin remained. After sitting a while longer, he paid the bill and left the Elegant Courtyard alone.

But he did not go home. Instead, he headed to the East Market, where he picked a shop at random and bought a burlap sack and a sturdy stick. After paying, he wrapped the stick in the sack and, upon leaving, ran into Tong Le.

They exchanged a glance. Tong Le eyed the bundle in Liu Shilin’s arms and grinned, “I’ll go buy a stick too.”

Liu Shilin nodded calmly, showing no embarrassment. “Alright.”

As Tong Le entered, Sun Kaixing arrived. He glanced at Liu Shilin, then at Tong Le’s retreating figure. “Didn’t get one for me? I’ll buy my own.”

“Get one for me as well,” came Li Shenhe’s voice from behind.

The two went in together, leaving Liu Shilin waiting outside.

As the three emerged, Zhao Zongsheng waved from five paces away.

Without a word, he entered the shop.

A moment later, the five of them left the East Market together, ready to part ways, when a familiar call echoed from behind.

“Ababa… Ababa…”

Wu Ziyong hurried after them, stick in hand.

Seeing this, Liu Shilin smiled. “Let’s not go home. To the Pure Pavilion—let us continue our revelry.”

“Splendid idea.”