Chapter 26: The Scholar

When everyone had taken their seats, a maid came to guide Jia Cong to his place—his table was the large writing desk outside the stone pavilion.

He was the recorder of this literary gathering, tasked with transcribing all poems and essays produced, and this desk had been specially assigned to him.

At that moment, clouds churned overhead, the winter sun dimmed, and soon a light rain began to fall.

Zhang Yuxing chuckled from his seat: “Rain descending on Yuanxiao Day is an auspicious sign of the Water Official lifting misfortune. Your Highness has chosen an excellent day for this gathering—today will surely yield splendid literary works.”

Prince Jia Shun laughed heartily: “Then I accept your Master’s auspicious words.”

He turned to Liu Yanxiu and asked: “Master Liu, why not respond to this scene? Make rain the theme—whether poem, lyric, or rhapsody—to open today’s gathering.”

Liu Yanxiu said: “Excellent. As Your Highness commands.”

Prince Jia Shun wrote the theme, struck the jade chime on the table, and a female official stepped forward to receive it. After the guest-serving maids inspected it, the theme was passed down along the clear stream.

Thus began the Nanxi Literary Gathering of the Jiazhao Tenth Year.

All present were men of deep learning, each eager to use this gathering to elevate their own reputation; before arriving, they had all prepared their finest compositions in mind.

Liu Yanxiu, Prince Jia Shun, and Zhang Yuxing were all renowned literary figures of the age, their vision and taste exceptional; they scrutinized and critiqued the submitted poems, occasionally breaking into clear, resonant laughter.

Finally, the three trays were brought to Jia Cong’s desk, where he would collate and transcribe them all; after the gathering, these manuscripts would be compiled into volumes and circulated among the scholar-officials of Shenjing and throughout Da Zhou.

So there was no need to worry that these men would bring unqualified relatives to fill the ranks.

Wu Jinrong glanced at Jia Cong, who was absorbed in writing, and a flicker of contempt passed through his eyes.

If they could not find a truly talented person among their own circle, they would rather forfeit the recommendation slot than risk tarnishing their own reputation with a careless nomination.

Wu Jinrong had brought his cousin Qiu Xuanfu, who, though not a jinshi, was a juren with considerable talent and some reputation among the scholar circles of Shenjing.

Coincidentally, Jia Cong had been raised since childhood in the Eastern Courtyard, and very few outside the main household knew him—but Qiu Xuanfu was one of the rare few who did, and there was a reason for it.

These Hanlin Academy jinshi held their heads high; whether those they recommended possessed real talent reflected their own discernment and dignity.

Qiu Xuanfu’s elders were kin to the elders of Jia Huang from the outer branch; the two families had long maintained contact, and through this, Qiu Xuanfu came to know a girl living next door to Jia Huang.

He had satisfied his craving for calligraphy: in just one month, his body’s muscle memory had formed, and the lingering stiffness he once felt toward this body had vanished entirely.

The Hanlin Academy jinshi invited here were all the elite among scholars; to prevent any overlooked talent, each jinshi was allowed to recommend one person to attend the gathering.

Female officials naturally took the poems and delivered them to Prince Jia Shun and the other two.

The clear stream was ingeniously constructed: though the stone pavilion sat slightly higher, the poems floating in the water could flow upstream and drift smoothly into the pavilion.

In little more than the time it took to drink a cup of tea, someone placed a poem into a wooden box and set it adrift in the green stream.

Calligraphy practice need not be stingy: each day, after studying the Four Books, he rose at dawn to write ten sheets of xuan paper, and before bed another five, each character infused with full attention and careful contemplation.

Now he held his wrist steady, breathed calmly, and wrote with lightning speed, producing a stack of transcribed poems every few moments; his calligraphy, once ancient and elegant, now revealed a touch of seasoned mastery.

Since many of the submitted poems were fine works, each person placed their reviewed manuscripts into one of three sandalwood trays—one marked with plum blossoms, one with peonies, one with chrysanthemums—to distinguish them.

But Prince Jia Shun’s impromptu theme posed no real challenge; they merely needed to spend more time pondering and composing.

Originally, Jia Cong had been poor, and writing five sheets of coarse xuan paper a day was already a luxury; later, Tan Chun and Prince Jia Shun both sent him abundant brushes and ink, and he had earned some silver of his own.

The girl was of similar age to Qiu Xuanfu, beautiful in appearance, graceful and captivating, and Qiu Xuanfu fell for her at first sight.

The girl also favored Qiu Xuanfu, the scholar with official status; though they had not yet crossed the line, they had already exchanged vows of love.

But fate is unpredictable: Jia Huang, who adored currying favor with the noble families of Ning and Rong, used such connections to squeeze out petty gains for daily living.

He knew Jia She was obsessed with women, and that his neighbor had such a stunning beauty—how could he not scheme to exploit it?

So he found an opportunity to bring Jia She to meet the neighbor girl; Jia She, upon seeing such beauty, could not help but be stirred.

With Jia Huang acting as matchmaker, Jia She spent a thousand taels of silver to take the girl as a concubine.

The girl came from a modest family; since childhood she had lived in straitened means, with little exposure to the world’s cruelties.

Now that she had the chance to enter the prestige of a duke’s mansion, how could she refuse? She had long since cast aside her poor scholar-lover.

Qiu Xuanfu had always prided himself as a literary talent, arrogant and high-minded; now both his dignity and his love had been trampled into dogshit, and he nearly went mad.

From then on, he hated Jia She with a bone-deep fury; though he was overreaching, he constantly dreamed of revenge against this First-Rank General who had stolen his love, to vent his inner bitterness.

He naturally kept close watch on everything surrounding Jia She, and it did not take long before he uncovered Jia Cong—a glaring flaw, a stain he could exploit.

Today he had resolved: at this gathering of Shenjing’s literary elite, he would seize the chance to expose Jia Cong’s shameful origins.

Once that rumor was set loose, the entire city of Shenjing would be buzzing by tomorrow—humiliating Jia She, venting his own bitterness.

Though he found it odd that someone so young had been invited to serve as recorder for this gathering.

But seeing Jia Cong’s close ties with Liu Bi, he assumed it was because Jia Cong’s calligraphy was excellent—Liu Bi must have begged his grandfather, and Prince Jia Shun had simply obliged to honor Liu Yanxiu’s favor.

As for whether antagonizing Jia Cong might offend Liu Yanxiu, he did not care—a retired, decaying scholar who had lived in seclusion for ten years.

How many officials today even remembered him? He would never need Liu Yanxiu’s help in his lifetime; if he offended him, so be it.

Wu Jinrong glanced at Qiu Xuanfu beside him, saw him staring fixedly at Jia Cong with hatred in his eyes, and frowned.

His cousin had talent, but his vision was narrow; he obsessed over these sordid affairs, and for a woman who had changed her heart—was it worth it?

Wu Jinrong was skilled at scheming; knowing Liu Bi was the eldest grandson of the literary patriarch Liu Yanxiu, he had deliberately cultivated their friendship, and originally their relationship had been tolerable.

Today, seeing Liu Bi’s cold demeanor, he guessed it was because he had aligned himself with Zhou Junxing—his new allegiance had disgusted the other.

These scholarly families prized reputation above all; his friendship with Liu Bi was now severed.

When he had chosen to save himself by allying with Zhou Junxing, a notorious tyrant, he had known he could never again be part of the pure stream.

If so, then seeing Liu Bi’s friend humiliated pleased him; if trouble arose, he could always claim his cousin had acted on his own, and he had known nothing.

Liu Yanxiu and the others could not hold him accountable, and whether his cousin suffered consequences from this—he did not care.

He was only a cousin.

By now, two cups of tea had passed since Prince Jia Shun had issued the theme.

Those attending the gathering were skilled in different areas: some excelled in classical scholarship, others in exegesis and prose—not all were adept at poetry.

But since they had come to the gathering, they must at least respond to the occasion; even if they could not produce a brilliant verse, composing one was still manageable.

Wu Jinrong noticed everyone had finished their poems; he and Qiu Xuanfu had long since written theirs and sent them floating down the clear stream.

Qiu Xuanfu beside him drained his cup, cheeks flushed, gazing at Jia Cong as he wrote furiously—his gaze grew increasingly sharp and contemptuous.

Wu Jinrong smiled inwardly, waiting for the show to begin.

(End of Chapter)