Chapter Sixteen: The Little Fox Spirit

Shen Shi was well aware that they were trying to make things difficult for him—but that depended on who he was. Born in the new era, raised under the red banner, who hasn’t memorized a few poems? Let’s see how I deal with you!

Putting the Qian brothers in their place was something the original Shen Shi had always wanted to do but never managed. The problem was, the Qian brothers were mediocre in their studies, but the former Shen Shi was even worse.

“Waiter, help me grind some ink,” he called out.

As the saying goes, pay back your enemies; if there are none, vent your frustrations. Shen Shi had no qualms about taking his grievances out on these two brothers.

No, wait a moment—there seemed to be a problem. He didn’t know how to write with a brush.

Forget it. If it came to that, he simply wouldn’t write.

“Bring wine,” he said, and, to avoid writing, he lifted a jug straight to his lips. He didn’t dare take much, given his low tolerance, but the gesture was enough.

As the saying goes, Li Bai could compose a hundred poems after a few cups of wine—but did he really drink a whole jug before putting brush to paper? Of course not. And Shen Shi was no Li Bai, nor did he intend to actually compose a new poem, but rather to “copy” a famous one. If he wanted to astonish everyone, he couldn’t improvise, not even with the literary talent he now possessed. Since ancient times, many have been gifted, but only a handful of works have stood the test of time. If he wanted to thoroughly shame his rivals, he would have to recite masterpieces from later generations, leaving them with nothing to compare.

Curse it all! It wasn’t easy to carry poetry around in his mind.

With the wine jug in his left hand, ignoring the cup, he raised the brush in his right, dipped it in thick ink, and, instead of writing, began to recite: “Cai Sangzi—glug (the sound of drinking)—who rewrites the sorrowful tunes of the Music Bureau? The wind is bleak, the rain is bleak, another night passes as the lamp wick withers.”

Wait—if he held the wine in his left hand, couldn’t he write with his right? But there was no need; in brothels, someone always helped record the poems.

So, Shen Shi simply continued to recite: “What is it that lingers in my heart? Sober, I am bored; drunk, I am bored; even in dreams, I never reach the willow garden.”

The crowd’s murmurs faded; even Instructor Wang’s face showed a trace of shame. He had failed to guide his students properly.

He was not unaware of the bullying among his pupils. But the Shen family was a family of warriors—he neither could nor wished to intervene. Now, it seemed, the tables had turned.

Had they not pushed him too far, how else would someone pen such a sorrowful verse? Speak of the wind and rain—who else could feel it so keenly?

A new lyric emerged, and the hall fell silent. The fact was, at this time, the master of boldness, Su Shi, was still a child, and the queen of grace, Li Qingzhao, had yet to be born. To hear such a lyric now was as if witnessing the birth of a new school.

Everyone present was a scholar; though perhaps unqualified to proclaim the founding of a genre, they knew quality when they heard it.

More importantly, no one had ever written in this gentle, graceful style before.

And if it hadn’t been written, it certainly couldn’t have been bought.

Of course, it wasn’t something purchased. The moment the poem was uttered, it drew the essence of heaven and earth, flowing through Shen Shi’s lips and nose into his very soul.

This was true enlightenment. “Enlightenment” was two words—the “enlighten” was not merely the opening of wisdom, but the channeling of one’s spirit to the world itself, to gather its vital energy. This was the true “opening,” the connection of heaven, earth, and man.

Worldly wisdom was but a minor side effect.

With such innate talent arising, the value of the poem was self-evident.

Instructor Wang muttered to himself—if one listened closely, one might catch his words: “Excellent calligraphy, excellent poetry! This journey was not in vain. Ah, perhaps it should not have been made at all.”

His mind was in turmoil.

Such a poem, such a hand—never before seen. It could not have been bought. Whoever could write such lines would never sell them. After all, this was the Song Dynasty—a single poem could bring fame throughout the realm.

Had he been wrong? Could a warrior’s son excel in letters?

For a moment, Instructor Wang was speechless. He had allowed his students to bully a classmate simply because he thought Shen Shi, the son of a warrior, could not amount to anything.

But now, after hearing this poem, even he could not believe his own prejudices.

He had made himself a narrow-minded, jealous pedant.

The instructor was full of regret. In his heart, he thought: The sage was right—dead ashes can indeed catch fire again. Han Anguo, Imperial Censor, was from Cheng’an County, Liang State... He served Prince Xiao of Liang as a senior official. When the seven states of Wu and Chu rebelled, Prince Xiao sent Han Anguo and Zhang Yu as generals... Han Anguo held his ground so well that the Wu armies could not break through the Liang defenses. After defeating Wu and Chu, Han Anguo and Zhang Yu’s fame spread far and wide... Later, Han Anguo was convicted of a crime, imprisoned, and insulted by a jailer named Tian Jia. Han Anguo said, “Can dead ashes not catch fire again?” Tian Jia replied, “If you burn again, I’ll put you out.” Not long after, when the post of Prefect of Liang fell vacant, the imperial court appointed Han Anguo. Rising from prisoner to a high official, Tian Jia fled his post in fear.

“One should never go too far,” he reflected.

If Instructor Wang had made his judgment based on knowledge and experience, then outside the window, a little white fox slowly lifted its head, startled by a divine art.

The opening of Shen Shi’s wisdom was achieved by the spiritual force of literary talent stimulating his brain, but this effect was not limited to humans.

In fact, the art of enlightenment was originally used on demons and spirits.

Yet, unlike with humans, such magical arts were always kept secret and rarely known.

The little white fox had never expected to encounter a scholar who could wield this divine power, and immediately tried to memorize every word Shen Shi uttered. A look of rapture even appeared on her tiny face.

That was the mark of true understanding. But if everyone in the world understood, there would be no disputes.

Just then, Qian Shengwen clapped his hands and laughed. “Ha! This isn’t a poem—it’s a lyric! He made a mistake!”

He couldn’t judge the quality of poetry, but he could tell the difference between a poem and a lyric.

Thinking he’d found Shen Shi’s error, he laughed triumphantly, as if he had just outdone him. “A warrior is just a brute—what do you know of poetry and song? Now your mistake is clear! You can’t even tell a poem from a lyric. Yet you always try to join scholars’ gatherings? How embarrassing! Ha ha!”

He roared with laughter, but Shen Shi laughed even louder. Standing tall, wine jug in hand, he drank and sang, “I stride out with laughter towards the sky—are men like us mere weeds beneath your feet?”

As Shen Shi walked out, the little fox outside grew anxious. She had hoped to borrow Shen Shi’s enlightenment to shed her fox form—how could he just leave?

She fixed her gaze on Qian Shengwen, her small eyes full of resentment.

Clearly, he had earned the little fox’s grudge.

As for this oblivious second son of the Qian family, still smug in his ignorance, one could only wish him luck—he would surely need it.

Shen Shi, meanwhile, strode out the door, making straight for the gathering spiritual energy. Yes, his eyes had been opened once again, and now he could see the aura outside...