Chapter Forty-One: The Pavilion of Peace

Old Wang was in exceptionally high spirits today. Coming from generations of hunters, he never lived in town but made his home in a thatched hut deep in the southeastern forests beyond Yongle Town, convenient for his frequent hunting trips.

This morning, however, a wealthy young gentleman had arrived at his door. Without a word, the visitor tossed a cloth bag onto the table, declaring his intention to purchase the hut. When Old Wang opened the bag, his eyes were nearly blinded by the dazzling white silver ingots within—more than he had ever seen in his life.

Though the hut had been passed down through his family, by now it was little more than a dilapidated shack. If not for its proximity to the hunting grounds, he’d have moved elsewhere long ago. Now, with this windfall, his remaining years would be spent in comfort, free from the hardships of hunting. Without hesitation, he agreed to the sale, his manner exuberant. He left behind most of the furnishings, gathered only his valuables, pocketed the silver, and departed with a spring in his step.

...

The Kingdom of Zhao valued literature and learning, with civil service examinations held throughout its lands; Yongle Town was no exception. Surrounded on three sides by mountains and blessed with stunning scenery, the town, though remote, had long attracted scholars and poets seeking inspiration. Over time, it became a haven for impoverished literati to compose verse and exchange ideas.

The Taiping Pavilion was a refined establishment in town, open exclusively to such scholarly guests. Its owner was once a down-and-out scholar himself, who failed the imperial exams time and again. Fate smiled on him in middle age: he finally passed as a provincial graduate and caught the eye of a high-ranking minister’s daughter. Thus, he soared from humble origins to high office. Upon returning home in glory, he funded the construction of Taiping Pavilion as a gathering place for poets and literati to savor tea and compose poetry.

At this moment, several scholars lounged or stood in a long pavilion facing the street, sipping tea and exchanging verses. One, dressed in the blue robes of a Confucian scholar, was reciting with great animation:

“In morning, lying among the mountains, I watch blue smoke rise.
At dusk, returning through bamboo groves, I glimpse the setting sun.
Bluebirds come and go, ambitions wasted by delay—
When shall I soar straight into the highest heavens?”

“Ha! Brother Kong, what an excellent poem!” cried the others, clapping and laughing. One added, “The examinations are corrupt, and the examiners blind. Though we may live unconstrained among these mountains and rivers, our hearts still harbor lofty ambitions. Who knows when one of us will, as your poem says, rise in a single bound and soar into the heavens?”

Scholar Kong fixed his gaze upon the speaker and replied with a smile, “Brother Sun, you possess great talent. Though hidden now in these wilds, you are bound to enter officialdom sooner or later. When that day comes, do not forget us.”

“Ha! I wouldn’t dare!”

Another then spoke: “Brother Kong’s poem is fine indeed, but I feel there is a minor flaw.”

“Oh? I’d be glad to hear your thoughts.”

The man continued, “‘At dusk, returning through bamboo groves, I glimpse the setting sun.’ That word ‘glimpse’—in my humble opinion, it lacks elegance and does not befit our status. Would it not be better to use ‘savor’ instead? ‘At dusk, returning through bamboo groves, I savor the setting sun.’ What does Brother Kong think?”

“Ha! Brother Zhou, your wit is as quick as ever. Truly, you are a rare talent of the Zhao Kingdom. I am in awe,” Kong replied.

Beneath his courteous veneer, Scholar Zhou was secretly pleased, but maintained his humility. “Not at all. My knowledge is shallow; I only added a tail to a fine dragon, gilded the lily. Brother Kong is the true literary giant of Zhao!”

The group’s mood was buoyant, their mutual praise making them feel as though they were unrivaled immortals of poetry. But just then, an untimely voice drifted in from outside the pavilion:

“Along the ancient road, in the long pavilion, pigs and dogs cry out together.
Pigs speak of great talent, dogs call themselves poetry immortals.”

The scholars turned toward the street, where a tall, fine horse clip-clopped into view. Atop it sat a young gentleman in white, remarkably handsome, with an air of distinction. He idly waved a folding fan, the very picture of an elegant nobleman amid a coarse world.

Leading the horse was a page in gray, a splendid sword with floral engravings in his left hand, the bridle in his right, guiding the way.

Suppressing their rising anger, one of the scholars sneered, “Since you speak so loftily, sir, you must have profound insights. Why not join us in the pavilion and share your knowledge?”

The young man in white replied with a smile, “Since you so sincerely invite me, it would be rude to refuse. Though my views may not be lofty, I can certainly offer a few pointers.” He dismounted and strolled into the pavilion, his page tying up the horse and hurrying after him.

As the two entered, the scholars scrutinized them. The page was unremarkable, but the young gentleman, despite his handsome features, was conspicuously pale, his voice clear and melodious, lacking any trace of masculine vigor.

A middle-aged scholar gave a forced laugh, “You, sir, are truly a rare character. Why bother with poetry and prose? Would it not be better to focus on marrying a magistrate’s daughter and become a live-in son-in-law?” His words were a veiled insult, mocking the effeminate appearance of their guest. The others, catching the joke, burst into hearty laughter.

The young man in white said nothing, but his page glanced at the middle-aged scholar, noting his protruding brow and sunken eyes. With a smirk, the page declared, “This gentleman’s features are truly unique; I am deeply impressed. Allow me to dedicate a poem to you.”

“Oh?” the man asked, surprised. “You know poetry, little servant? Let’s hear it, then.”

The page swayed his head and intoned:

“Before crossing the hall, three or five steps,
The brow arrives at the painted chamber first;
Each time you try to rub away your tears,
Two deep streams remain, overflowing with brine!”

This clever verse mocked the man’s jutting brow and hollow eyes with biting accuracy.

“You—!” The middle-aged scholar was speechless with rage, pointing but unable to get a word out.

The young man in white seated himself, clasped his hands in a polite gesture to all, and said, “I had thought that, though your talents may be modest, you were at least men of learning. Who would have guessed you’d stoop to judging by appearances, so petty and shortsighted? Truly disappointing—most disappointing indeed...” He shook his head, the very image of one exasperated by his peers’ failings.

The scholars’ faces darkened. One retorted, “Sir, your tongue is sharp, but how deep is your knowledge? Since we’ve all gathered here in good company, why not hold a poetry contest to test our true abilities?”

The young man in white gently waved his fan, smiling, “I don’t mean to boast, but with your level of learning, you’re not worthy to challenge me. Still, since I’m here, I shan’t spoil your pleasure. Let my page contend with you first.”

“Your page?” a scholar exclaimed angrily. “Do you look down on us?”

The young man shot him a sidelong glance, “What’s this? Could it be you’re afraid of a mere page?”

Stung, the scholars shouted in unison:

“We’ll compete! Are we afraid of him?”
“Exactly! Let’s teach him a lesson.”
“He knows not the measure of the world. We’ll deal with the page first, then defeat the master, so he’ll admit his loss!”

Kong, the scholar, raised a hand for calm and cleared his throat, “Let Brother Sun take the first round.”

“Then I’ll go first,” Sun agreed. “Listen well, boy—the first round’s theme is ‘mountain.’”

The page nodded, “Very well!” He extended his right hand, making a polite “please” gesture. “Then, Brother Sun, show us your work!”

Normally, “to show one’s humble work” is a self-deprecating phrase, but the page used it for his opponent. Sun’s eyes flashed with anger—he was determined to teach the upstart a lesson.

Hands behind his back, Sun paced the pavilion, composing his lines. At last, he recited:

“South Mountain’s blue peaks surpass the mortal realm,
There, white clouds are swept and elixirs refined!”

“Marvelous!” the surrounding scholars applauded, one even expounding, “The South Mountain of Yongle rises to the clouds, a place untouched by men. Only immortals could dwell atop, sweeping clouds to refine their pills. Splendid!”

The group was certain of victory, and some mocked, “This page has never seen such a contest; he probably knows only a few big characters. To have him match these lines, he’ll need ten years to think, ha ha!”

“No need for ten years—ten breaths will suffice,” the page replied, hands clasped behind his back, eyes rolling skyward. He recited:

“On lofty hills, the butterflies are heaven’s flowers,
Reflected in bright moonlight, the Sword Immortal dances alone!”

At these words, the hall fell silent. The page’s couplet not only matched the previous lines in theme and artistry, but even surpassed them. It must be known that composing the opening lines is already a feat, especially for the one setting the theme; for the page to respond so swiftly and seamlessly was nothing short of extraordinary—were they not adversaries, applause would surely have burst forth.

Yet curiously, as the page finished, the young man in white blushed faintly, his large eyes wandering unconsciously to the view outside the pavilion.

As the scholars exchanged uncertain glances, Zhou, the scholar, snorted and declaimed:

“When the fox gains power, it runs wild;
A page’s madness is but a jest!”

The others rallied, laughing, “Brother Zhou never fails us! Ha ha! Such a ridiculous page!”

But the page merely smiled and replied:

“Poverty breeds sourness, intent unexpressed;
Scholars deceive themselves with empty praise!”

The meaning was clear—he mocked the scholars for their empty ambitions and mutual flattery, lacking any true talent or accomplishment.

Zhou’s face darkened. “You insolent servant, barking nonsense!” He rolled up his sleeves, ready to strike.

But the page, undaunted, raised his ornate sword. At the sight, Zhou’s bravado vanished, and he quickly shrank back. After all, he was a scholar, feeble of limb, and seeing a “weapon” in the page’s hand, he instantly retreated.

One after another, the scholars took their turns, but none could best the page in verse or in insult. Fighting was out of the question. Their teeth ground in frustration, powerless to prevail.

Suddenly, a voice called from outside, “Scholar Feng has arrived!”

The scholars’ eyes lit up as if salvation had come, and a path was quickly cleared. A man in wide sleeves and flowing robes strode in—a square-jawed, thick-browed figure, dignified and commanding.

No sooner had he entered than a scholar hurried forward, “Scholar Feng, at last you’ve come! These people’s sharp tongues and wild words have disgraced our gathering. Please, sir, uphold our dignity!”

“Oh?” Feng ignored the plea, his gaze narrowing as he studied the young man in white. After a moment, he said, “With such talent, how could you visit Taiping Pavilion without notifying me? An oversight, to be sure—I beg your pardon.”

The young man in white waved a hand, “We were simply wandering, joining the gathering on a whim. Since we’ve disturbed your refined company, we take our leave.”

Scholar Feng tried to detain them, “Why not come to the inner courtyard, sample my finest Yunwu tea, and allow me to play host?”

At this, the page replied, “Many thanks, Scholar Feng, but my young master has pressing matters and cannot linger. We beg your understanding.”

“I see...” Scholar Feng nodded, making no further attempt to stop them. Standing with his hands clasped behind his back, he watched the white-clad figure’s departing form, eyes narrowed in thought.

The young man in white and his page, of course, were none other than Tang Diexian—now disguised as a man—and Liang Yan. Curiously, Tang Diexian was not wearing the usual Pixiu pendant around her neck, and her cultivation was completely exposed.

Had any true practitioner of the Dao been present, they would instantly have recognized her as a cultivator at the fifth level of Qi Refinement!