His voice was not loud, but the power of a Great Scholar carried it for miles, allowing everyone aboard the pleasure boat to hear him.
The music stopped.
Between the two boats, only the sound of flowing water remained.
Then a clear, melodious voice rang out.
"The night is too still to pen a quatrain; I fear startling the stars into the cold river!"
Ji Anchang suddenly froze, a flicker of panic he could not conceal flashing through his eyes.
Who on the river called himself the Poetry Sage? Let us see his brocade-woven verse.
The night is too still to pen a quatrain; I fear startling the stars into the cold river!
Ji Anchang had been asking who dared recklessly claim the title of Poetry Sage on this river. If they had the ability, they should produce truly fine poetry or prose for everyone to see.
The first line of the reply seemed exceedingly modest, saying that the night was too quiet to compose poetry. But the second line soared in grandeur. The speaker was not afraid of Ji Anchang, but afraid that his poetry would be so fine it would startle the stars in the heavens. Should they fall into the water, they would shatter the tranquility of the moment.
Ji Anchang felt as though he had slammed headlong into a mountain, with the strange impression that he was being bullied.
Ji Anchang had no answer. He had merely tossed out a provocation to vent his frustration, never expecting an immediate reply, let alone verses whose grandeur shot into the heavens the instant the other man opened his mouth. This was absolutely beyond an ordinary person. Forget himself-even Li Wenying, or the celebrated masters of poetry throughout history, might not have been able to respond so quickly and