After hearing this, he chuckled. "A poem in ten steps? There's no need for that!"
He walked straight to the desk, lifted his robes, and sat down with his legs spread. He firmly set the inkstone on the paper to hold it in place, considered for a moment, then raised his wrist and sent his brush flying.
Seeing his calm, confident manner, Li Hongcheng could not help stepping forward and leaning closer to watch.
At first glance, the handwriting was a chaotic scrawl, like a young child's. At second glance, it looked worse than it had at first.
A trace of contempt instinctively flickered in his eyes. But once Fan Xian finished the first line and he deciphered the writing, his gaze froze.
He murmured involuntarily, "The wind blows fierce, the sky stretches high... apes cry in sorrow..."
That single line, a mere seven characters, seemed to part the clouds and reveal the moon, opening up a vast poetic landscape.
Li Hongcheng pressed his lips together. The others' expressions also changed when they heard it.
Some of the scholars had looked down on him for calling himself a country fellow and reciting those strange fragments of verse. Their mockery instantly vanished. Several could no longer contain their curiosity and hurried over to crowd around him.
"The islet clear... the sand white, birds wheel home."
Standing behind Fan Xian, Fan Ruoruo softly read the second line, her gentle, clear voice rippling through the hall.
More scholars exchanged glances, abandoned all concern for decorum, and flocked over.
"Boundless falling leaves rustle down,"
"The endless Yangtze rolls on and on."
As Fan Xian committed another two lines to paper, no one in the hall except Zhou Cheng could remain seated.
The scholars at the poetry gathering crowded around Fan Xian in layer upon layer. For a time, their united recitation was the only sound in the hall.
Wonder filled Li Hongcheng's face, while Guo Baokun stood frozen, his expression blank, as though every ounce of vitality had been drained from him.
Even with only four lines revealed, "Climbing High" by Du Fu, the Sage of Poetry, possessed a grandeur that ordinary fine poems could never approach.
Hearing this astonishing poem, Sang Wen had also long since become too restless to remain seated.
She rose, moved close to Zhou Cheng, and bent to whisper admiringly in his ear. "Young Master Fan has remarkable poetic talent! With this poem, the contest is already decided."
Zhou Cheng nodded calmly. "It is an exquisite poem, certainly a masterpiece worthy of being celebrated throughout the ages."
The pearl ornament in Sang Wen's hair swayed as she lowered her voice. "Ever since yesterday in the street, Compiler Guo seems to have been deliberately targeting Young Master Fan. Most of the scholars here... seem to dislike him too."
Zhou Cheng's lips curved slightly as he likewise lowered his voice. "The Crown Prince is behind Guo Baokun. In truth, it's the Crown Prince who wants to put Fan Xian in his place. This poetry gathering is also his doing, intended to suppress Fan Xian. Only... someone else has seized the opportunity to enter the game."
While they spoke quietly, another two lines were recited from within the crowd.
"A thousand miles from home, grieving autumn, ever a guest,"
"A lifetime plagued by illness, I climb the terrace alone."
These lines not only painted a profound picture of a vast, desolate world and its withering life, but also etched the loneliness of a wandering fate and deeply sorrowful emotions between the words. It was as though an invisible brush had carved out the bleakness and weight of human life against the boundless backdrop of space and time.
Though Sang Wen was not skilled at composing poetry, she was an accomplished judge of it.
She could not help praising him again before asking Zhou Cheng, "With such exceptional talent, does Your Highness not wish to recruit him? Why not seize this opportunity?"
Yet Zhou Cheng chuckled and shook his head. "Fan Xian's talents are indeed extraordinary. But his poetic talent... is actually rather ordinary."
Sang Wen was puzzled. "Your Highness, you just called this poem a peerless masterpiece. Why are you now saying Young Master Fan's poetic talent is ordinary?"
By then, Fan Xian had nearly finished writing the seventh line.
The scholars were still reading it aloud, character by character. "Hardship... bitter grief..."
Sang Wen watched Zhou Cheng casually pick a cherry from the fruit platter and put it in his mouth, murmuring indistinctly, "Hardship and bitter grief thicken the frost upon my temples..."
She paused in surprise. From the crowd around Fan Xian came the same recitation. "Hardship and bitter grief thicken the frost upon my temples-"
Her eyes widened as she looked toward Fan Xian, hidden behind the dense crowd.
From where they sat, they could barely glimpse Fan Xian himself, let alone the poem on his desk.
Just as Sang Wen began to wonder whether she had misheard,
Zhou Cheng spat out the cherry pit and continued, "Worn down, I have lately set aside my cup of cloudy wine."
His voice was focused and reached her ears clearly.
Sang Wen was absolutely certain she had heard him correctly this time.
She abruptly turned toward Fan Xian, only to find the scholars still craning their necks, waiting for him to write.
"Worn... lately..."
As Fan Xian finished his final stroke, the scholars' voices rose in a thunderous chorus of astonishment and admiration. "Worn down... I have lately set aside... my cup of cloudy wine!"
The moment the complete seven-character regulated verse was revealed, silence fell over the hall.
Everyone was immersed in its bleak, profound atmosphere, filled with sorrow and melancholy, as though intoxicated by fine wine. For a long while, they could not come to their senses.
Soon, someone was the first to recover.
"Wonderful! Wonderful!"
"Peerless!"
"This poem is peerless!"
Cries of praise instantly rose one after another, swelling into a chorus.
Watching the crowd erupt in admiration, Sang Wen turned dazedly toward Zhou Cheng.
Everyone else was lost in the lingering resonance of "Climbing High," and no one noticed her strange reaction.
Sang Wen had always been perceptive. How could she fail to understand what this meant?
She was just about to speak when Zhou Cheng raised his index finger in a gesture for silence.
She immediately understood. Suppressing her shock and uncertainty, she sat down sideways, leaned close to his ear, and whispered, "Y-Your Highness knows this poem too? And Fan Xian knows it... could this poem be something he...?"
Zhou Cheng used his true energy to focus his voice into a thread. "It is enough that you know. Do not spread it."
"But..." Sang Wen hesitated.
Fan Xian had passed off another person's poem as his own. Such conduct was despicable. Watching everyone surround him and compete to praise him only made her feel more indignant on the original poet's behalf.
She did not understand why Zhou Cheng refused to expose the truth and reveal that fellow for what he was.
Still, she had always supported everything Zhou Cheng did.
Since he had not volunteered an explanation, she would not press him.
She nodded obediently to Zhou Cheng.
When she looked back at Fan Xian, all admiration had vanished from her eyes, leaving only faint disdain.
Surrounded by the crowd, Fan Xian stood and stretched, loosened his waist and wrists, then walked over to the bloodless Guo Baokun. "Young Master Guo, your turn!"
Guo Baokun was at a complete loss, his face ashen. He wanted to say something, but could not get a single word out.
Having spoken, Fan Xian did not spare him another glance.
Du Fu's "Climbing High" was widely regarded as the finest seven-character regulated poem of all time. So long as his plagiarism was not exposed, he believed there was no chance he could lose.
Of course, if someone really could identify its source, he might instead become even more excited.
Once Fan Xian finished writing his poem, carrier pigeons took flight one after another, bearing secret messages.
Emperor Qing, who had been watching events here all along, received a complete transcription almost immediately.
Fan Xian still wanted to preserve a little dignity as someone who had transmigrated. Becoming a plagiarist had been a reluctant necessity, and once he finished copying the poem, he truly did not wish to keep enduring everyone's flattery.
Claiming a stomachache, he turned and headed toward the rear courtyard.
Once he escaped the scholars' gaze, he simply strolled brazenly around to the side hall to look over the many talented young women there.
Apart from testing Zhou Cheng, what he most looked forward to at this poetry gathering was another encounter with "Drumstick Girl."
Unfortunately, even after searching the entire side hall, he found no trace of her.
Disappointed, Fan Xian emerged from the privy and wandered along the path, his thoughts far away. Suddenly, a chill ran down his spine, and a flash of sword light thrust toward him!
Acting on instinct, Fan Xian twisted aside to dodge, then exchanged a palm strike with his attacker.
Just as he prepared to attack again, the Second Prince, Li Chengze, dressed in blue and barefoot, strolled slowly out of a nearby waterside pavilion.
"Fan Xian?"
"You know me?"
"The Crown Prince regards you as an enemy. Naturally, I had to remember your name."
"And you are?"
"Guess!"
"The Second Prince?"
"...An excellent guess."
"A simple deduction. You have such a skilled guard, and the first person you mention is the Crown Prince. There are only a handful of people like that in the capital. The Third Prince is still in Silver Peace Hall. I can think of no one you could be but the Second Prince."
"You truly are clever, Young Master Fan."
While Li Chengze, who had waited a long time, approached Fan Xian in an attempt to win him over, Zhou Cheng had finished enjoying the spectacle at the poetry gathering. Seeing that none of the scholars had any interest in composing poetry anymore, and were all discussing and praising "Climbing High," he gradually grew bored.
Perhaps his threat to recommend someone for palace service carried too much weight. He merely tapped the desk with a bent finger, and the hall instantly fell silent.
Li Hongcheng brought Fan Xian's poem over and placed it on Zhou Cheng's desk.
Zhou Cheng glanced at it.
Well, this handwriting is far worse than mine.
"Third Brother, this poem is wonderful! It truly is a peerless masterpiece, enough to invigorate Qing's literary world!"
Zhou Cheng glanced at him. "Though I am not skilled at composing poetry, I can still judge it. Fan Xian's poem has profound imagery and rigorous meter. It is indeed beyond reproach and without equal."
With that, he ignored Li Hongcheng, who sheepishly rubbed his nose, and turned to the others.
"Does anyone else wish to compose a poem for the contest?"
Amid the silence, he looked toward Guo Baokun again.
"Since Compiler Guo challenged Fan Xian to a poetry contest, and Fan Xian's poem is now here, will Compiler Guo... still be writing his?"
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