Chapter 18: No One Answered

Only three scenes!

Just a few hundred characters!

Yet they captured the entire sweep of a lifetime—from childhood first meeting to adult reunion, then middle-age farewell—with vivid clarity.

Lu Beigu’s penmanship is simply breathtaking!

Those five characters on the paper—“Ten Years of Heavenly River Water”—were twisted beneath Ji Yun’s thumb, like the doomed promise crushed by fate in the story.

“The boy who once gave the tune now brews wine from blood as the city falls.”

Zhou Mingyuan lost his composure entirely.

He had read only the orthodox texts since childhood—how could he have ever encountered prose like this, written in the vulgar tongue of the marketplace to depict national blood and tears?

On the day the city fell, those who had once sat in judgment over others’ fates fled like headless flies, unsure where to turn.

Those who had always been despised and judged from below, however, displayed courage utterly unmatched by their suffering.

And the line describing the enemy troops outside the city—“Beneath their helmets, noble and base are indistinguishable”—pushed this irony to its extreme.

Yet within this crude, earthen-pot-like tale lay a sharpness that sent a chill down his spine. The lone-eyed soldier’s gesture of piercing wine with his blade seemed to demand: In all your flowery prose, have you ever written a single line for the common folk?

A bead of sweat fell from Zhou Mingyuan’s forehead and splashed onto the floor tiles.

At that moment, the literary banquet fell silent, then a single cry of praise rang out.

“Brilliant—‘One cup of turbid wine, home ten thousand li away!’”

The elder in brocade robes slammed his wine cup down on the table, spilling its fine liquor across half his sleeve.

“This line was originally Fan Zhongyan’s verse from his border defense days—yet spoken by a soldier who licks blood from his blade, it outshines the effete scholars’ moon-and-breeze verses a hundredfold!”

Someone suddenly began clapping rhythmically and singing: “Autumn comes to the frontier, the scenery strange—”

Half the guests joined in, and soon the mournful melody of “Fisherman’s Pride” shook the swallows into flight outside the windows.

When the song ended,

Ji Yun swallowed hard, took a deep breath to steady himself, then turned to the final page.

I clung to life and narrowly survived.

I crossed the river with others, yet the golden cavalry still chased us relentlessly; each day I lived in terror, like a fish slipped from the net.

Amid the sea of purple robes and official sashes, who cared for a lowly clerk like me?

Yet barely had the enemy retreated when I was given a new post—my superior heard I knew brewing and appointed me to oversee the newly established wine yard.

In Lin’an, not two years passed before even snowflakes took on the scent of powder and rouge.

‘Once, I did not love wine.’

‘Now?’

The destitute scholar across from me picked up his brush and asked—he was usually silent, yet oddly fond of probing into others’ pasts.

I replied: ‘Now I cannot sleep without drinking.’

My skiff drifted with the current; drunk, I leaned on the rail, about to vomit, when suddenly I saw the Milky Way in the water—and the moon of Zhenghe Fifth Year.

I seemed to hear the cracking of ice on the Bian River, the tinkling of bronze ladles.

No one answered.”

The subtle echoes of recurring details, and the skillful shift in perspective between the protagonist and the preface’s author, made the atmosphere of “Heavenly River Water” resonate endlessly.

By the end, when the drunken protagonist again saw the silver river in the water and the same moon as in Zhenghe Fifth Year, as if hearing the cracking ice of the Bian River and the tinkling ladles, the sense of fate reached its peak.

And the protagonist’s accidental new post, along with the line—“In Lin’an, not two years passed before even snowflakes took on the scent of powder and rouge”—which echoed the spirit of ‘The courtesans know not the grief of a fallen nation’—transformed Du Fu’s five words, “The nation broken, mountains and rivers remain,” into a dull, decades-long ache within this tale, while other stories still merely laid out facts plainly.

The final line—“No one answered”—pierced through it all!

“No one answered.”

Zhou Mingyuan whispered it to himself, pale-faced.

He had thought this merely a showy, ordinary tale—how could he have imagined such heart-stopping national tragedy hidden behind the words?

Moreover, though framed around wine, the protagonist clearly mirrored and mocked these drunken, idle aristocrats!

Those who cling to life live; those who rush to death die—but the living may not truly live, and the dead may not truly die.

This kind of work can only be described in four words.

“Heart-shattering!”

The incense in the reception hall hung thick and still; the blue smoke from the Bo Shan brazier seemed frozen.

Lu Beigu set down his empty cup, its warmth still lingering in his hand.

He looked around and saw the guests’ varied expressions—some covered their faces and wept, some stared blankly, others, like Zhou Mingyuan, turned ashen.

“This piece,” the Squire’s throat moved, then he said at last, “deserves the top prize.”

Before he finished speaking, the elder in brocade robes rose shakily; his fish-shaped belt swayed gently with the motion, glinting in the sunlight.

“I have spent thirty years proofreading texts in the Imperial Library—I have never seen such a marvel.”

The elder pointed to the paper on the table: “These three characters—‘Heavenly River Water’—seem at first to write of wine, but upon reflection, they use wine as metaphor for fate. The cracking ice of the Bian River is wine; the blood on the blade is wine; the lament of national rise and fall, coupled with the personal agony of the characters, adds threefold the piercing pain of Du Gongbu’s ‘The nation broken, mountains and rivers remain!’”

Ji’s father clapped and sighed: “My son’s ‘Tale of the Wine Demon’ was merely a display of talent and temper. This piece is like aged liquor—clean and crisp on the tongue, then a surge that strikes straight to the crown of the head.”

He turned to Lu Beigu: “Lu Young Master, would you allow Ji Family Publishing to print this? As agreed, fifty guan.”

A collective gasp filled the hall.

Seeing Lu Beigu’s indifferent expression, before Ji’s father could react, Ji Yun interrupted: “Such a marvel must be printed to awaken the world—it would be a tragedy to let it vanish. We Ji family do not offer money to insult you; we beg you, sir, to permit this.”

Ji Yun bowed deeply to the ground.

Seeing this, Lu Beigu’s expression softened slightly.

It was not that he was deliberately cold—he had been fully immersed in his own story, still unable to fully return, and that was why the sorrow lingered.

Now that his tale had jolted these people from their indulgence—even if only momentarily—it meant his “shout” had achieved something.

If this chance could spread the piece through printing, reach more people, and influence more hearts, it would be perfect.

So Lu Beigu nodded slightly and said: “But this piece is not yet finished. ‘Life on the River Left’ is planned as twelve chapters; what I wrote today is only the preface and first chapter.”

“No problem!”

Ji’s father hurriedly said: “We’ll settle payment for the subsequent chapters upon completion. If the rest match this quality, Ji Family Publishing will launch a dedicated series for you.”

This sent the guests into further uproar.

A dedicated series meant the author’s works would be published separately—a distinction reserved only for the greatest masters of the age.

Seeing the shift, Squire Zhou quickly interjected: “Lu Young Master has won first prize; as agreed, this She inkstone is your prize.”

Beside him, Zhou Mingyuan immediately stepped forward, carefully carrying the inkstone.

But Lu Beigu’s gaze remained fixed on the leftover wine on the table.

The cup of “Phoenix Melody Wine” caught the light streaming through the window lattice—the amber liquid held flecks of gold, unnoticed, the afternoon sun now sinking westward.

Then, Lu Beigu did not take the inkstone. He picked up the wine cup.

“Fan Wenzheng once said—A gentleman would rather speak and die than remain silent and live.”

“Today, my spirit surged, and this piece was born. This cup honors ‘Heavenly River Water’—and all of you.”

With that, Lu Beigu lifted the cup and drank it down in one swallow.

(End of Chapter)