By the time he came back to his senses, he had already crumpled the paper in his hand to pieces.
He looked up. From where he stood to the middle of the crowd, there were seven steps in all.
Over those seven steps, on the theme of "This Night," he composed a poem he truly wanted to write.
He turned and found no brush or ink, so he gave a couple of drunken laughs and recited it aloud. His bright, drunken eyes and bright verses were as sharp as the sword's edge over there.
Its title was "Jia Sheng," and it went:
"In the Proclamation Chamber, seeking worthies, he summoned an exiled minister; Jia Sheng's gifts and brilliance had no equal.
Alas, at midnight he drew his mat closer in vain-not asking of the people, but of ghosts and gods."
"Would you believe it? Poems on history... I write them better than he does."
Chapter 536: Not a Trace Remained
Sometimes poetry seemed weak; sometimes a sword seemed thin.
Unlike the affairs of the Taiping Transport Gang, what happened at the Phantom Tower would not spread through the city's hundred wards for people to relish in conversation. But within a few short days, the entire upper stratum of the Divine Capital would learn everything that had happened tonight.
And a poem like this could not be hidden.
That held true even if everyone here today was a dignitary sheltered by "Heaven's Will." It would seep through the cracks of every conversation, impossible to block or cut off. Perhaps the only thing was that, when people asked where the poem came from, few would be able to explain the occasion on which it had been written-but that no longer mattered.
For its meaning was far too clear and sharp, especially