[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":-1},["ShallowReactive",2],{"origin-my-life-as-a-rising-force-in-the-red-chamber":3,"chapter-my-life-as-a-rising-force-in-the-red-chamber-my-life-as-a-rising-force-in-the-red-chamber-chapter-27":6},{"origin":4,"title":5},"chinese","My Life as a Rising Force in the Red Chamber",{"chapter":7,"nextChapterSlug":19,"prevChapterSlug":20,"totalChapters":21,"novelImage":22},{"id":8,"novel_id":9,"title":10,"slug":11,"index":12,"content":13,"wordcount":14,"created_at":15,"updated_at":15,"volume":16,"translator":17,"content_hash":18},2310825,4515,"Chapter 27: Mother, the Flower Queen","my-life-as-a-rising-force-in-the-red-chamber-chapter-27",27,"\u003Cp>In the stone pavilion, Prince Jia Shun and the other three men finished reading the final batch of poems, and Liu Yanxiu smiled: “Our Great Zhou’s literary culture remains unbroken; today, some fine poetry has emerged.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As the three were about to select the best among them for public evaluation, a clear voice suddenly rose from beside the stream outside the pavilion:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Today’s Nanxi Literary Gathering unites the finest minds of our divine capital’s scholarly circles. Grateful for the Prince’s elegant theme, all present have contributed original verses—each a masterpiece of poetry and wine—that shall surely become a celebrated tale of our divine capital.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Some among those seated recognized Qiu Xuanfu and nodded in agreement; others offered modest replies.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>It was merely flattery to set the mood—everyone naturally lends a hand to lift the sedan.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>No one expected Qiu Xuanfu to suddenly shift tone: “Yet I notice the young scribe here has not composed a single poem. Since the young sir holds the post of scribe for this gathering, his talent must be considerable.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Today’s Nanxi Literary Gathering gathers the elite of the scholarly world—all others have offered poetry. If the young sir does not compose even one verse, it would dampen the spirit. Ha ha.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Jia Cong rose and bowed, his voice steady: “I am young, have studied only a few years, and my learning is shallow. I dare not speak of poetry before such esteemed scholars.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Young sir, you are too modest. If I am not mistaken, you are Jia Cong, son of the First-Rank General of Rongguo Mansion, are you not?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Jia Cong was startled. He had been raised since childhood within the Eastern Courtyard, and few outside the mansion knew him—even several collateral branches living on Ningrong Street might not recognize him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Do you know me, sir?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Qiu Xuanfu could no longer suppress the cold sneer on his face: “Your mother, young sir, once dominated the divine capital’s literary circles, known as the Flower Queen of Talent—skilled in qin and poetry, her talent was remarkable.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Prince Jia Shun followed his gaze and felt a faint stir within—he saw Jia Cong standing calmly, without the expected rage.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>All present at the Nanxi Literary Gathering were seasoned scholars; even in disputes of temperament, they stopped short of excess—men of status, unwilling to lose face.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Young Master Jia, raised under family discipline, must surely excel in poetry. Why pretend modesty?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At the foremost literary gathering of the divine capital, to publicly label another’s mother a Flower Queen—this was an unforgivable humiliation, tantamount to demanding blood!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Behind Liu Yanxiu, Liu Bi was flushed with rage, desperate to rush forward and beat Qiu Xuanfu senseless for Jia Cong—no son could endure such insult to his mother without vengeance.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The moment the words were spoken, it was like thunder splitting the earth—many faces turned pale.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Prince Jia Shun, Liu Yanxiu, Zhang Yuzhen—all men of worldly wisdom—had already sensed the hidden malice behind the question.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Yet Jia Cong replied calmly: “My mother died giving birth to me. I am unworthy, never having received her teachings.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Prince Jia Shun glanced puzzledly at Liu Yanxiu, who was staring intently at Jia Cong below.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Even the Prince, usually so refined, now felt genuine anger and rose to speak—but Liu Yanxiu stopped him.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>To have one’s mother’s lowly status exposed so publicly—yet Jia Cong’s few words turned the mockery to admiration. No one laughed now; all saw in this boy a heart open, reverent, and profoundly filial—rare indeed.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Qiu Xuanfu’s eyes held mockery: “I have relatives in the Fifth Branch of the Jia family, so I know.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But the man who had spoken had already sounded aggressively confrontational.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Prince Jia Shun’s face had darkened with fury—Jia Cong had been personally invited by his own hand to serve as scribe. To humiliate him thus was to tear at the Prince’s own face.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He turned southward, bowing slightly, his expression tinged with nostalgia: “Had my mother still lived, even if I were utterly illiterate, I would gladly serve at her knees.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The young woman in male attire standing beside Zhang Yuzhen also grew cold, her grip tightening on her long sword.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Her thoughts turned to her parents and kin from another world—she had vanished without cause; how must they have suffered, their hearts shattered? Her face grew dim with sorrow.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Since ancient times, literature has no number one—scholars look down on one another. Past Nanxi Literary Gatherings had seen disputes over literary reputation, but always harmless diversions.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Zhou Changyan, Wang Dong, and others who knew Jia Cong all frowned with anger at this provocation.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Jia Cong’s expression darkened slightly—he saw now that Qiu Xuanfu harbored ill intent.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As his quiet words faded, the pavilion fell utterly silent. Glances exchanged among them carried admiration, shock, pity, scrutiny—each emotion distinct.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His earlier expression of grief moved those present deeply.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Qiu Xuanfu had felt a fleeting satisfaction—but now it was slowly swallowed. His face turned pale.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Prince Jia Shun gazed kindly at the young man in the pale moon-white robe below, his eyes filled with appreciation.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Liu Yanxiu stared at the slender, upright youth before him, his astonishment beyond words.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He was but a boy of tender years, facing public humiliation and slander against his mother’s low status—and yet he responded with calm dignity, neither arrogant nor submissive. Such wisdom and composure was rare even among adults.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He offered no defense of his lowly mother—no son disowns his mother’s ugliness; he accepted it openly, cherished her memory, and mourned only that he had never received her instruction, voicing instead his sorrow at losing her so young.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Without a trace of effort, effortlessly, he turned the venom of the attack into nothing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>If this boy were not naturally pure and filial, then his depth of cunning and adaptability was terrifying.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Qiu Xuanfu had aimed to humiliate him by attacking his mother’s low birth—but now it was as if he had struck a pile of cotton, and his own image had crumbled.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wu Jinrong, seated nearby, was stunned. Such a cruel, humiliating attack had ended this way? This boy was astonishing.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He suddenly realized with dread: Qiu Xuanfu had painted himself into a corner before Jia Cong—and Wu Jinrong himself had cared little.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But Qiu Xuanfu was his own protégé, his cousin. This incident could not be hidden.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Prince Jia Shun, Liu Yanxiu, and others would surely assume he had known of this beforehand and allowed Qiu Xuanfu to provoke it.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He had already tainted his reputation by siding with Zhou Jun, and was despised by the scholarly circles. Even so, he did not wish to become the enemy of all, rendering himself utterly isolated.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His only course now was to help Qiu Xuanfu, this fool, clean up the mess—so he himself might escape blame.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Xuanfu, you are too reckless. Asking Young Master Jia to compose poetry is one thing—but why drag in his family affairs?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wu Jinrong pretended to rebuke Qiu Xuanfu, then turned to Prince Jia Shun and the others in the pavilion:\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“My cousin has drunk too much and spoken rashly. I apologize on his behalf to the Prince, Master Jing’an, and Master Zhang Tianshi. Please forgive him.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The three men in the pavilion were seasoned in worldly affairs; Liu Yanxiu, especially, was a master of human nature. They saw through Wu Jinrong’s act at once.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He merely said calmly: “We scholars value literary learning as our foundation—but our vision and breadth of heart matter more. We must know: heroes need not ask origins; gentlemen do not judge by birth.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The words sounded gentle, yet were sharply severe—they condemned Qiu Xuanfu for exposing private family shame without cause, for his vile conduct, for lacking even the basic vision and heart of a scholar.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Qiu Xuanfu’s face turned deathly pale, drenched in sweat.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Liu Yanxiu, the foremost literary master of the age, was held in the highest esteem by Great Zhou’s scholars—his words carried the weight of law.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>With this single judgment, Qiu Xuanfu would bear this stain for life—his own malice had brought it upon himself.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wu Jinrong’s face stiffened at the words, yet his heart refused to yield.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Qiu Xuanfu had lost face—but he was Wu Jinrong’s own protégé, his cousin. Tomorrow, this incident would spread through the entire divine capital.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>If Qiu Xuanfu became infamous, Wu Jinrong would be dragged into ridicule. He must salvage some dignity—otherwise, Zhou Jun would look down on him, and he would never find footing in the Tui Shi Yuan.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He smiled at Jia Cong: “I am Wu Jinrong. Though my younger brother spoke rashly, his request for you to compose poetry came from no ill intent.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Today’s Nanxi Literary Gathering unites all present in poetic exchange. Young Master Jia, born of a distinguished family, must surely possess talent.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“To have joined this gathering yet left no masterpiece behind—would that not be a regret? Would you not compose a verse, to complete this gathering’s glory?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Jia Cong heard his elegant, courteous words—but each one pressed him to compose. He found it absurd: there were people who used poetry to corner others?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“If so, I dare to compose one. I am young and shallow—playing the fool before masters of letters. Please do not laugh.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He bowed respectfully to all around. Though the youngest among them, he did so with unselfconscious grace—and won many hearts.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wu Jinrong glanced at the thick stack of poetry manuscripts on the desk: “Young Master Jia, you just copied dozens of poems praising the rain—surely your thoughts were disturbed. To write anew now may be difficult.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Let us issue a new theme. What do you think, Young Master Jia?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At this, all present exchanged glances: they had all composed poems praising the rain—why was Jia Cong now exempt?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Liu Yanxiu and the others had seen every kind of scene. They knew at once: Wu Jinrong feared Jia Cong would hastily scribble a poem to pass.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Jia Cong had just copied dozens of rain poems—he had absorbed their essence. To patch together a verse from them was no challenge.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wu Jinrong had blocked that shortcut. Though outwardly polite, unlike Qiu Xuanfu’s brutality, he still sought to make Jia Cong struggle—to reclaim some face for his side.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>The Nanxi Literary Gathering was, after all, a literary contest.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wu Jinrong’s maneuver was shrewd, but not malicious—it fell within the bounds of poetic exchange. Liu Yanxiu and the others could find no fault.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But could Jia Cong, so young, handle it?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Though his calligraphy was outstanding, no one had ever heard him compose poetry.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At his age, with limited learning and experience—what masterpiece could he possibly produce?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>As long as he wrote one poem, they would soften their tone and let the matter pass.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This was the shared thought of Liu Yanxiu, Prince Jia Shun, Zhang Tianshi, and others.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wu Jinrong hoped Jia Cong would refuse—then he would win without a fight, gaining face before all and covering Qiu Xuanfu’s disgrace.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But Jia Cong replied calmly: “Then please, Brother Wu, set the theme.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>To Wu Jinrong, Jia Cong was still a child. His calligraphy was exceptional—perhaps he had a rare gift in that art. Such talents existed, though rarely.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>But poetry was far harder than calligraphy. Poetry demanded spirit and soul—not only talent, but years of diligent study and accumulation. Only the union of both yielded true mastery.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>At his age, how many years had Jia Cong studied? Even if he were a calligraphy prodigy—could he also be a poetry prodigy?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wu Jinrong spoke with confidence: “This morning, snow and wind raged across the heavens. Now, rain falls upon us here, and beside this winding stream, plum groves bloom in all colors.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>“Let the theme be wind, snow, rain, and plum. Poem or ci—either is acceptable. After you compose one, I shall compose one in response. What do you think, Young Master Jia?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Jia Cong suddenly recalled the vast snowy plains and thawing rivers he had seen upon arriving—and the great poem of a figure from his past life.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>His gaze swept over the plum grove, stretching to the cliff at its far end, where ice hung in long daggers, and a wild plum tree clung stubbornly to a crack in the rock.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>A spark of insight flashed in his mind: “Then I shall follow your theme. Fortuitously—I already have one. Let me write it.”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wu Jinrong’s eyes widened in shock: “You already have one?”\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>He had barely finished setting the theme—Jia Cong hadn’t even taken two breaths—and already had a poem?\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>This was poetry—not digging turnips in a field!\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>Wu Jinrong suddenly felt a dread of impending disaster—as if he were no better than Qiu Xuanfu.\u003C\u002Fp>\n\u003Cp>(End of Chapter)\u003C\u002Fp>",2115,"2026-06-20T12:19:54.434Z",1,"Qwen3-Next 80B","25ffb06fa4c976c7ab23f6ed5063bc5f3fa5a06036b9abb07cae268c746a13b5","my-life-as-a-rising-force-in-the-red-chamber-chapter-28","my-life-as-a-rising-force-in-the-red-chamber-chapter-26",920,"https:\u002F\u002Fnovelzhen.com\u002Fimages\u002Fcovers\u002Fmy-life-as-a-rising-force-in-the-red-chamber-cover.jpg"]