Zhong Hui had been busy governing a country lately, very busy indeed.
Well, although the country he was governing was someone else's, not Great Wei, he was just as busy.
When Zhong Hui arrived at Taiji Hall, Cao Mao was writing a poem, brush in hand.
Zhong Hui did not dare disturb him and merely stood to one side, watching.
"How could one gaze up to such a lofty mountain? Here I can only bow to your pure fragrance!"
Cao Mao swiftly finished writing, then turned to Zhong Hui with a smile.
"Shiji, what do you think of this poem?"
At the opening line, "I love Zhong Shiji," Zhong Hui was already too excited to speak. He hurriedly picked up the poem and recited it again and again.
In mere moments, Zhong Hui felt his whole body relax, all the exhaustion of the past days vanishing without a trace.
His legs no longer hurt, and his back no longer ached.
Cao Mao's poetry was nothing short of lifesaving medicine!
Overwhelmed by the favor bestowed upon him, Zhong Hui kept reciting.
Cao Mao chuckled. Motivating Zhong Hui was quite easy: he only needed to give him a poem now and then. This was already the forty-somethingth poem Cao Mao had given him.
"Thank you, Your Majesty! Thank you, Your Majesty!"
Zhong Hui bowed to Cao Mao in thanks before accepting the poem.
"Your Majesty's literary talent truly has no equal in the world!"
Zhong Hui gave Cao Mao's poetic talent the highest praise. In truth, even setting aside the earlier Jian'an fellows, the fellows of the Bamboo Grove today were all exceptionally gifted poets. With a prodigy like Cao Zhi in particular, Cao Mao's literary talent did not amount to much beside theirs.
Still, as far as Zhong Hui was concerned,