Zhou Wenyuan continued.
"Today there are five judges: Zhou Wenyuan of the Hanlin Academy, Xie Huai'an of the Imperial Academy, Feng Shouzheng of the Ministry of Rites, Xu Wenli of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices, and our venerable senior, the great scholar Han Heting. The five of us will judge together, and everyone will listen."
Han Heting coughed twice and raised a hand to quiet the crowd.
Feng Shouzheng opened the register of ceremonial proceedings.
"The poetry gathering will have three rounds. In the first, you may choose your own subject. In the second, everyone will write on the same subject. In the third, you will compose on a subject given on the spot. Any outstanding works may be included in the Hanlin Academy's poetry collection."
The Hanlin Academy's poetry collection.
At those words, several scholars in the waiting area caught their breath.
Ye Qingyun stared at the center of the poetry stage, unable to contain the fire in his eyes.
Shuhe stood at the edge of the waiting area, rubbing his hands together until his palms turned red.
Gu Moran caught sight of him and tapped the armrest twice with his fingertips, saying nothing.
On the second floor of the teahouse, Boss Zhao's man set his teacup back on the table, never taking his eyes off Xu Wenli's servant.
Since the gathering began, the servant had turned his head to look toward the eastern stairway three times.
The third time, a person in gray showed half a face at the stairway entrance, then withdrew.
Boss Zhao's man picked up his teacup but did not drink, keeping it clenched in his hand.
Onstage, the first Hanlin Academy student stepped forward.
Neatly dressed and observing every courtesy, he unfolded his manuscript. He had written about spring willows.
His lines were steady, his meter was steady, and his allusions were steady.
So steady that no fault could be found-and nothing could be remembered.
When he finished reciting, Zhou Wenyuan nodded, Feng Shouzheng called it elegant, and Han Heting gave a single hum. Polite applause sounded from below the stage.
Gu Moran took a sip of tea.
"That certainly warmed up the crowd."
Uncle Fu stood behind him and lowered his voice.
"What does Your Highness think?"
"Soup without salt."
Uncle Fu held back and said nothing.
The second to take the stage was a young master in brocade robes. He had written about ascending a height: his opening line was bold, his second packed in four allusions, his third praised the grandeur of the capital, and his closing line expressed his wish to add his brushstrokes to the flourishing age.
The applause was livelier than for the first. After all, his father served in the Ministry of Rites, and he had plenty of friends.
Xu Wenli spoke first.
"The young man has ambition."
Feng Shouzheng nodded.
"The meter is correct, and the language is splendid."
Han Heting lifted his eyelids.
"Too many allusions, too little spirit."
The young master's expression flickered, but he still had to bow and thank him for the critique.
Ye Qingyun stood in the waiting area. After hearing the two poems, his back unconsciously straightened a little more.
This was a poetry gathering in the capital?
Rules were rules, but their bones were too soft.
He adjusted his cuffs and said nothing.
Half a shichen later, Shuhe came over.
"Young master, there's no one left. It's your turn."
Ye Qingyun nodded.
He stepped onto the poetry stage, his blue-gray long robe set against the white drapes. Murmurs rose from the audience.
"So that's Ye Qingyun of Jizhou?"
"He really is a commoner."
"I heard he has an old betrothal agreement with the chancellor's household?"
"The other party is here today too."
At those words, the air around the women's seats grew taut for a moment.
Shen Ling'er turned to look at Su Yao.
Su Yao steadied the hand holding her teacup, but its lid struck the rim with a crisp clink.
Gu Moran heard it.
Instead of looking at the stage, he first glanced toward Su Yao.
Su Yao's expression did not change.
Onstage, Zhou Wenyuan spoke with a smile.
"Young Master Ye, your three quatrains from Jizhou are famous throughout the capital. Have you brought any new works today?"
Ye Qingyun cupped his hands toward the five judges.
"Yes. Three."
"Oh? What are their subjects?"
Ye Qingyun took the first manuscript from his sleeve. As he unfolded the paper, the morning breeze swept across the stage, carrying the fragrance of ink down to the crowd.
His gaze swept from the judges to the audience, finally settling on Gu Moran for two breaths.
"The title is 'Entering the Capital.'"
Zhou Wenyuan's eyes lit up.
Gu Moran's hand remained still around his teacup.
Ye Qingyun began, enunciating each word with perfect steadiness.
"Ten years I ground one sword; today I test its edge."
The murmurs below the stage softened.
It was not that they were awestruck. Many had simply closed their mouths after hearing the first line and were waiting for the next.
The second line came.
"From humble doors I bring no wealth, only a pouch of ink."
In the women's seats, Su Yao's fingers tightened around the rim of her teacup.
She was not looking at the stage, but she was listening.
The third line came.
"A thousand masts and sails fill the capital; they hasten to ask where I belong."
The fourth line fell.
"In white I climb to lofty heights; the clear breeze alone can measure me."
The entire gathering fell silent.
Han Heting slowly lifted his eyelids, Xu Wenli set down his teacup, and Xie Huai'an tapped the table lightly with a finger.
Gu Moran leaned back in his chair and surveyed the faces around him.
Let him burn.
The higher he burned, the more there would be to see afterward.
The audience remained hushed for two breaths. Then applause began among the Hanlin Academy students, followed by clapping from some of the civil officials.
Han Heting set down his teacup.
"Those words, 'entering the capital'-you've written them with backbone."
Zhou Wenyuan immediately followed.
"Young Master Ye has come from afar, and his very first poem shows such grandeur. The fame of Jizhou's three quatrains is well deserved."
Xu Wenli glanced at Zhou Wenyuan, then nodded in agreement.
"'From humble doors I bring no wealth, only a pouch of ink'-that line is good."
Ye Qingyun stood onstage, in no hurry to thank the audience. He merely cupped his hands toward the five judges.
"You praise me too highly, honored sirs."
At the edge of the waiting area, Shuhe clutched the bundle, his face flushed red.
"Young master won! Young master is going to be famous!"
Gu Moran glanced at him and raised his teacup to his lips. The tea had gone cold, and its bitterness settled at the back of his tongue.
The system panel lit up at the edge of his vision.
[Ye Qingyun's luck value has risen by two percent.] [Node resonance activated.]
Gu Moran set down his teacup.
In the women's seats, Shen Ling'er put her melon seeds back on the dish and turned to look at Xie Wanqing.
"Sister Wanqing, this man has some skill."
Xie Wanqing rested her hand on the gathering's roster, pressing a shallow mark into the paper.
"He does."
Shen Ling'er glanced at her sleeve.
"Afraid?"
Xie Wanqing did not answer immediately. The pad of her finger found the raised impression of the private seal on the poetry manuscript inside her sleeve.
"No."
Su Yao set the tea lid back on the rim with a light clink.
"He wrote about his own path. It can move people."
Shen Ling'er looked at her.
"Sister Su, are you praising him?"
Su Yao's gaze rested on the poetry stage, her tone carefully even.
"Being able to write poetry and having good character are two different things."
Shen Ling'er rolled those words around on her tongue, then smiled.
"Sister Su, you're carrying that bowl of water quite steadily."
Su Yao glanced at her.
"I drank your sweet soup."
Shen Ling'er immediately sat up straight.
"Then I'll bring you more tomorrow."
"Less sugar."
"I'll remember."
As soon as she finished speaking, Ye Qingyun took out his second manuscript onstage.
"The second is a seven-character regulated verse, titled 'Unbending.'"
Someone in the audience repeated it under their breath.
"Unbending."
"That title sounds unyielding."
"After 'Entering the Capital,' he writes 'Unbending.' The path connects."
Hearing these murmurs, Gu Moran tapped the ribs of his fan lightly against his palm.
Ye Qingyun was no fool.
The first poem established the man, the second his backbone, and the third would most likely establish his name.
Onstage, Ye Qingyun began.
"In a broken house with sparse windows, I listen to the evening rain; a lone lamp and crumbling walls illuminate my rise and fall."
The murmurs from the audience faded.
The second line came.
"I sell my books for three cups of wine; simmering ink at leisure, I keep one true thought hidden."
The expressions of several scholars from humble families changed at the edge of the waiting area.
This was not hardship invented from atop a lofty platform.
This was someone who had tasted bitterness, pressing it into his words.
The third line fell.
"The world has always scorned poor scholars; vermilion gates shut tight against an old acquaintance."
As Ye Qingyun recited the line, his gaze searched toward the women's seats.
Su Yao's hand stopped in midair, holding her teacup.
Gu Moran looked over at that moment too.
He was not looking at Ye Qingyun, but at Su Yao.
Su Yao's hand remained where it was, neither lowering nor rising. The surface of the tea in her cup was still.
Biyu stood behind her, clutching the corner of her robe, her face pale.
Gu Moran withdrew his gaze and returned it to the stage.
Ye Qingyun's gaze followed Su Yao's direction and met Gu Moran's face as he turned it back.
Gu Moran picked up the cold tea and took a sip.
Onstage, Ye Qingyun continued with the fourth line.