Chapter 15: Are There Any Other Masterpieces?

Squire Zhou clapped three times, and maidservants entered in sequence, placing cups and utensils on each table.

“No fixed format—poetry, lyrics, songs, novels, essays—all are welcome. The elders here will judge; the best will receive a top-grade She inkstone.”

Lu Beigu noticed the inkstone placed on the main table, its stone a dark blue-black, with natural ice-crack patterns forming in the inkwell.

Given the Zhou family’s wealth, if this object was placed here as the prize for the literary banquet, it must be quite valuable.

After all, the Zhou family had monopolized the winemaking industry around Anle Creek.

——No doubt this was also why the theme had been set to “wine.”

In later times, the Chishui River would become the most important production base for Jiangxiang baijiu in the country, home to many famed brands such as Langjiu.

The reason winemaking flourished here was due to its unique geographical conditions: a valley with high temperatures, no frost, and humid microclimate, combined with crystal-clear water and exceptionally high-quality glutinous sorghum—nowhere else in the world was better suited for brewing Jiangxiang baijiu.

In today’s Song Dynasty, the precursor to Langjiu—the “Fengqu Fajiu,” brewed from premium Daqu at Erlangtan—was already a celebrated fine wine, and the very wine placed before them was this one.

After everyone raised their cups, Lu Beigu took a careful sip of the “Fengqu Fajiu.”

The wine was rich and smooth on the palate; first a sweetness touched the tongue, then a faint warmth spread, as if a warm stream slid down the throat into the dantian.

Upon savoring further, the aftertaste lingered long, bearing a striking resemblance in spirit to the Qinghua Lang he had once tasted.

He couldn’t help but sigh inwardly—such exquisite flavor explained why this wine had become famous in Shu and even been exported as far as Kaifeng.

“How is the taste?” asked Lu Guangyu from the adjacent table.

“Truly an excellent wine!”

“My family lives at Erlangtan. If you have time these days, come find me—we can study together or take a stroll, and I’ll take you to tour the Tianbao Cave where we store our wine.”

“Very well, then I’ll count on your hospitality, Brother Lu.”

At this moment, Squire Zhou’s speech drew to a close.

“Please enjoy yourselves freely. Today’s literary banquet has no time limit—only seek the finest compositions.”

Among the guests, some buried themselves in eating, others pondered deeply, and several, after drinking a few cups of fine wine, were seized by poetic inspiration and began writing furiously.

Lu Guangyu leaned over and whispered, “Brother Lu, have you prepared a draft?”

“No draft, but I am truly hungry.”

Lu Beigu said sincerely, “As for what to write, I do have some ideas—but first, let’s see what others have produced. If there are pearls before me, there’s no need to steal the spotlight.”

He understood clearly: the Zhou family’s purpose in hosting this literary gathering was simply to promote Zhou Mingyuan.

They had provided food, drink, and books—he had already taken all the benefits offered. Let them show off if they wished.

Yet as Lu Beigu savored his meal, the banquet took an unexpected turn.

Some scholars who had already finished their works handed them to their servants to read aloud, while the inner-circle guests offered their critiques.

Zhou Mingyuan had prepared a poem titled “Fengqu Fajiu.”

“Fengqu condenses cloud-liquor, jade tablet’s secret passed down.”

“Firepots burn crimson marrow, golden waves ripple purple smoke.”

“One sip opens true realms, a second pour pierces the azure sky.”

“Aroma reaches the Jade Pool feast, immortal guests drunk, forgetting years.”

The poem was no masterpiece, but it was clearly Zhou Mingyuan’s own earnest work.

Overall, it read quite well, and given Zhou Mingyuan’s status, the guests immediately burst into applause.

Yet Ji Yun, who had just laid down his brush, let out an untimely scoff.

“What does young Master Ji mean?” Zhou Mingyuan grew annoyed.

“Nothing in particular.”

Ji Yun’s words carried double meaning—whether he meant the poem was meaningless, or that he himself meant nothing else, was left to interpretation.

Then Ji Yun brushed dust from the paper in his hand.

It was a piece he had suddenly conceived, inspired by childhood tales of rural marvels combined with recent readings of supernatural fiction.

The servant took it and began reading aloud, revealing its contents to all.

It was a supernatural tale themed around wine.

“Tale of the Wine Demon”

“In southern Shu lies a sweet spring①, where a hermit excels in brewing. He stores his wine in jars beneath dark cliffs, opening them each year at Cold Dew; the aroma pierces the forest, drawing flocks of birds.”

“One day, a man in brown robes knocked at the door, his eyes blazing like fire, his fingernails covered in moss. He smiled: ‘I hear you have nectar from the Jade Pool; I wish to trade precious treasures for it.’ From his sleeve he produced ten black jade tablets②, which, under moonlight, turned into ordinary stones. The hermit said nothing, grinding his koji. The guest, angered, departed.”

“That night, thunder and rain raged. The man in brown robes returned. The hermit suddenly clapped his hands and laughed: ‘I’ve been waiting for your lordship to taste my new brew!’ He pointed to the jars beneath the cliff—their sealing seals still wet with cinnabar.”

“The guest, overwhelmed by the wine’s scent, drank three dou without thought. Instantly, the liquid gushed from his seven orifices, congealing like amber, fused indistinguishably with the moss beneath his feet—revealing his true form: a wood spirit born from an ancient pine knot.”

“The next morning, the wood spirit was gone; only the gnarled roots soaked in wine remained, their strange fragrance lingering for years. A woodcutter claimed that deep in the ravine, thunderous snores could sometimes be heard—likely the pine resin, re-solidifying upon contact with the spring, reuniting the spirit’s soul.”

Though the prose was unadorned and the plot simple, its eerie twist and subtle alignment with the theme of wine gave it the flavor of Tang-era tales like the Youyang Zazu.

Added to this, it was composed on the spot—not painstakingly prepared—making Ji Yun’s talent all the more impressive.

Several inner-circle guests offered their critiques.

Though not orthodox, this tale is delightfully unusual—reminiscent of the Tang dynasty chuanqi tradition.

An elder glanced over and chuckled: “Interesting! The winemaker was clever—he trapped the spirit seeking his wine using the very jars. There’s a touch of ‘using the enemy’s method against him.’”

“When you think about it, it’s a bit terrifying,” someone muttered. After all, why was the wine so fragrant? Perhaps he’d trapped countless spirits inside those jars.

“This literary banquet is meant to exchange ideas—why be so rigid? As a story, this fits the theme perfectly. Why not temporarily rank it first?”

Squire Zhou paused, unwilling to offend these esteemed guests, and reluctantly nodded in agreement.

But as he glanced at his furious son, a flicker of resentment rose within him.

He had spent heavily to host this gathering precisely to elevate his son’s reputation—now, he had unwittingly made the son of another wealthy merchant the hero. Who wouldn’t be bitter?

But whom could he blame? His son had prepared for so long, yet still been outshone by a last-minute performance.

For Squire Zhou, the matter was no longer about promoting his son’s fame—even the money spent no longer mattered. He needed to raise the prize even higher, hoping someone in the room would rise to outdo Ji Yun and soothe his wounded pride.

“Since everyone’s literary talent is so high today, the best composition may choose any three books from our library to take home.”

The Song Dynasty revered literature and had long enjoyed peace; thus, ancient texts commanded prices not lower than antiques of the same era, often even higher.

The Zhou family’s Shuyu Library certainly had no Wei-Jin-era texts, but it held many from the early Tang—if one were intent on profit, selecting three early Tang manuscripts and reselling them could easily yield dozens of strings of cash.

Squire Zhou scanned the hall and called out loudly.

“Are there any other masterpieces?”

——————

① Liquan is west of Meishan County in Sichuan, with two sources originating where Panlong Mountain meets Songjiang, later flowing into the Yangtze.

② Xuangui, also written “Xuangui,” is a black jade artifact, pointed at the top and flat at the bottom, used in ancient times to reward those who achieved extraordinary merit.

(End of chapter)