Hearing Wu Xuan's question, Old Master Tang silently groaned. He knew exactly what his grandson was worth, down to the last bit. Just as he was racking his brains for some way to salvage the situation, Tang Yan's voice rang out.
"Miss Wu Xuan speaks the truth. Today I must tell Miss Lin everything in my heart. No matter what Miss Lin thinks of me in the end, I will not argue another word. Someone, bring brush and ink!"
Old Master Tang nearly choked on his own fury. Did this brat think he was some literary star reborn? The boy had never so much as touched a book, and now he wanted to compose a fine poem? Then the old man caught himself. No, the little wretch had read widely after all, hadn't he? Those spring-palace albums stuffed under his bed, for one.
Don't tell me this brat means to spit out some lewd, vulgar verse, the old man thought, and felt his blood pressure climb another notch.
Soon a servant carried over the Four Treasures of the Study, spreading a broad sheet of snow-white paper across the table.
"Young Master Tang, may we begin?" Qin Changdao let out a cold laugh, contempt flickering through his eyes.
Qin Changdao's strength within the City Lord's Manor was nothing remarkable, only the second grade of Black Rank. But his cultivation in the literary path far outstripped his martial skill. A good many of the manor's documents had passed through his brush or his review.
As a guest retainer of the City Lord's Manor, he kept his ear to every matter in Yun City, large and small, and the eldest young master of the Tang Family in particular was famous for his idle ignorance. A man like Qin Changdao, proud to the marrow, held little fondness for such pampered wastrels.
He was waiting, in fact, for Tang Yan to scrawl out a row of hideous characters and a worse poem, so he could sit back and watch the Tang Family make fools of themselves.
"Miss Lin, I told you before. I have labored over this poem for three years, revising it five thousand two hundred and nine times. Today's writing will be the five thousand two hundred and tenth. And that number, too, speaks my heart." Tang Yan paid Qin Changdao no mind, and offered this instead.
The others turned the figure over in their minds, and understanding dawned on every face. Five thousand two hundred and ten, didn't that sound just like "I love you"?
Every member of the Tang Family secretly raised a thumb to their young master. When it came to shamelessness, if the young master claimed second place, who would dare claim first?
Lin Dongxue, who had been thoroughly displeased with Tang Yan a moment ago, felt the anger and scorn in her eyes ease by a few degrees.
This sweet talk of Tang Yan's, which in his past life would have been corny enough to crumble, was fresh and heart-fluttering in this world.
She even quietly made up her mind: so long as whatever this fellow wrote was the least bit presentable, she would let the whole affair drop.
"Young Master Tang, please." From start to finish, Wu Xuan had not caught the slightest flicker of stage fright in him. His confidence and ease lent her a faint curiosity about the poem to come.
Tang Yan wasted no more words. He rolled back his sleeve, dipped the brush, and brought it down upon the flawless white paper.
Everyone craned their necks to see whether his strokes would look like a dog's scrabbling or a cat's clawing.
"Happy Meeting."
Three characters for the title, settling in the center at the very top of the page.
There was no deliberate pause, no trace of hesitation. The three characters flowed out in a single breath, the strokes firm as iron and silver yet light and graceful as drifting silk.
Tang Yan's frame was already straight and tall, his features strikingly handsome. In a long robe trimmed with gold, brush in hand, his gaze fixed and intent, with those three characters of true Master's bearing taking shape beneath his hand, he suddenly cut the figure of an elegant, refined young noble.
Cultured. Graceful. Genuinely striking.
Old Master Tang's eyes went wider than a bull's, and Uncle Mo's jaw nearly dropped to his collar. The two old men had watched Tang Yan from the day he was born. When had the brat learned a hand like this?
As for Qin Changdao, his own eyes nearly rolled from their sockets. Such fine calligraphy, from this wastrel?
Lin Dongxue and Wu Xuan traded a glance, each finding her own astonishment mirrored in the other.
"Fine work!" Wu Xuan praised without reserve, and even Qin Changdao gave an approving nod at her words.
"Wordless, alone I climb the western tower; the moon hangs like a hook. The lonely wutong, the deep courtyard, locked within clear autumn..."
The upper stanza poured down like drifting cloud and running water, without a single pause, without a moment's hesitation, as though he truly had practiced it ten thousand times and the brush moved of its own fluent, natural will.
A woman's heart runs fine and tender. As those desolate lines took shape, Lin Dongxue's heart gave a sudden tremor.
Qin Changdao's brows knit too, and his eyes held wonder, awe, and plain disbelief.
Old Master Tang and Uncle Mo had long lost track of where they stood. Were they dreaming? Old Master Tang gave Uncle Mo a vicious pinch, and only when he saw Uncle Mo bare his teeth in pain did he accept that this was no dream.
Uncle Mo's face crumpled, wronged beyond words within. He was an old man with one foot already in the grave. Who pinched people like a misbehaving child? And with that much force?
"Cut, it will not sever; smoothed, it tangles still. This is the sorrow of parting, a flavor all its own upon the heart."
When Tang Yan finished the lower stanza, Lin Dongxue's heart drummed like a startled fawn.
The way the two women looked at him shifted, too, from their first disgust and curiosity into something now moved and soothed.
The poem ended, and the whole hall fell silent.
Even Qin Changdao, who had come ready to pick faults, said nothing now, reading the verse over and over within his heart. He was a man of fifty-seven, and yet these lines still wrung his old heart with a tender, breaking sorrow.
Tang Yan did not break the quiet.
At long last Wu Xuan let out a deep sigh. "I truly never imagined Young Master Tang to be a man of such deep feeling. At first I doubted you, and suspected what you said earlier was so much idle nonsense. But after this poem today, I see that Young Master Tang has poured his heart into it. Sister Dongxue, I think this matter should rest here. What say you?"
Lin Dongxue had already resolved to forgive him so long as his writing was barely passable. And what Tang Yan had set down was not merely passable. It had shaken every one of them to the core.
Each word and line, spare and condensed, held an ocean of feeling within. Cut, it will not sever; smoothed, it tangles still. This is the sorrow of parting, a flavor all its own upon the heart. When she reached that line, the maiden's heart had already lost all its composure.
The deep longing, the silent love woven through the verse, were laid bare to the fullest. Yet read aloud, it stayed gentle and restrained, never loud, never showy, and still it drew the listener in until they could not pull free.
She was the City Lord's daughter, after all. In the space of a breath, Lin Dongxue gathered herself once more. The shyness at the corner of her eyes vanished as quickly as it had come. She gave Tang Yan one long look and said in a crisp voice, "This once, I shall take you at your word. My City Lord's Manor will pursue the matter no further. But should there be a next time, whatever the reason, my City Lord's Manor will show no mercy. Come!"
With that, Lin Dongxue turned to go. Just as she reached the threshold of the great hall, she paused to give an order. "Guest Retainer Qin, this matter cannot simply end with nothing to show for it. Bring back that piece of evidence on the table."
Then, without lingering, she hurried out without a backward glance.
Qin Changdao, too, found himself loath to part with the poem. Hearing her command, he wasted no breath, rolled up the paper, and followed after her.
"Young Master Tang has truly opened this humble girl's eyes today. Your name in Yun City may not be a fair one, but in my view, Young Master Tang has real talent in the way of poetry. Should you devote yourself to letters, you will surely make something of yourself one day. The road ahead is long. If fate wills it, we shall speak again. I take my leave." Leaving these words behind, Wu Xuan departed with graceful step.
The Tang Family members who remained finally came back to themselves. Old Master Tang and Uncle Mo stared at Tang Yan, their gazes the kind one might fix upon a blushing young maiden.
Feeling the questioning eyes of the two old men, Tang Yan groaned inwardly. It seemed he had overplayed the act.
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