While Wu Zhiyuan was transcribing the poetry, Young Master Zhu Huai'an, who had long since been unable to hold himself back, also wanted to show off his skills by reciting a poem.
Everyone's eyes converged on him. Zhu Huai'an opened his folding fan and fanned himself slowly, letting out a soft sigh.
"A person lives only a few dozen years. Once they die, who will remember them? But if they can write a fine masterpiece, it can be passed down through the ages and leave their name behind for all eternity..." The corners of Zhu Huai'an's mouth slowly curved upward. He swept his gaze around and said, "Today, I too shall recite a poem. I hope to leave behind a splendid stroke amid the long river of years!"
At those words, even the talented scholars who had always been prejudiced against Young Master Zhu felt a trace of anticipation.
Could it be that the fool from King Changting's household had finally come to his senses?
Before anyone could think further, a poem about falling rain came from Zhu Huai'an's lips:
"One drop, one drop, another drop,
Two drops, three drops, four and five drops;
Six drops, seven drops, eight and nine drops..."
After shaking his head and swaying his body through the recitation, Zhu Huai'an suddenly snapped his folding fan shut, narrowed his eyes into a smile, and added the final line—"They fall into a puddle and disappear."
The Literary Gathering fell silent in an instant.
Everyone knew perfectly well what grade and quality this poem possessed, but not a single person dared to laugh aloud. Even fewer dared to say that Young Master Zhu's poem was poorly written.
There was no other reason than this: when Emperor Longping was young, he had loved composing poetry. Counting the poems he