Chapter 33: Reputation First Shown

Zhi Shao waited in the small courtyard in Xicheng until nightfall, but Jia Cong still didn’t return; she began to grow anxious.

She endured another lonely night until midnight, still no sign of Jia Cong; Zhi Shao was truly frightened.

She huddled in a corner of the room, wrapped in an unsettling darkness, clutching her knees as she wept.

For years, Zhi Shao had accompanied Jia Cong every night; now that he was gone, she couldn’t sleep at all.

Until the east turned pale, and then until the sun rose high overhead, the harsh daylight pierced the yellowed window paper, flooding the room with brightness.

Jia Cong still didn’t appear; Zhi Shao’s tears seemed dried up, her body frozen like a clay statue, as if even her shadow in the sunlight had stiffened.

She suddenly jerked, as if waking from a daze: “Third Master must have forgotten I’m here—he must have returned to the mansion himself.”

“I’ll go back to the mansion to find him, back to the mansion to find him…”

She rushed out of the courtyard, muttering to herself; the bright outside light made her dizzy—she hadn’t taken a drop of water in a full day and night.

But her heart burned like a fire; she felt no weakness in her body, charging straight toward Juede Fang against the snowstorm that had not ceased since nightfall.

Lin Daiyu had also been paying attention; she heard that the literary gathering was attended by the great scholars and eminent literati of Shenjing, who would surely compose poems and lyrics there.

But Jia Mu didn’t care; she didn’t understand literary gatherings at all, only thought her grandson always stirred up trouble, and the thought alone made her frown.

Yet until dusk fell, none of them had seen Jia Cong return.

…

She imagined Jia Cong would bring back something, so she could see what these outside scholars could actually write in their poems.

After all, it was that bastard’s doing—nothing but misfortune since the day he was born.

As far as he knew, none of the colleagues in the Ministry of Works had been invited to the literary gathering.

Jia She and Lady Xing sneered inwardly, stung with shame and anger; they’d heard that the second son of the Western Courtyard had even prepared a carriage and a servant for Jia Cong.

Baoyu scoffed at Jia Cong’s attendance at such a gathering—it was just a bunch of traitorous officials flattering each other.

Jia Cong looked like a refined young man; to go to such nonsense was to disgrace himself, and Baoyu felt genuinely sorry for him.

Young ladies confined to their embroidery chambers and gardens were always curious and yearning for the world beyond.

What’s the point? He’s not even his own son—why put on a show for whom?

Now he goes to some damn literary gathering? Better he died out there.

He was waiting for Jia Cong to return so he could hear about the gathering’s anecdotes and poems, to have something respectable to discuss with his colleagues later.

If not for that, how would they have been demoted to the Eastern Courtyard all those years ago?

Many in Rongguo Mansion had heard that Jia Cong had attended the Nanxi Literary Gathering yesterday.

Although the senior officials of the Ministry of Works were all jinshi graduates, the Ministry was the most tedious and busiest of the Six Ministries.

Those two in the Second Branch loved playing the bodhisattva, earning good reputations while subtly putting down our side—their schemes run too deep.

Jia Zheng cared most among the Jia elders about Jia Cong attending the Nanxi Literary Gathering; though he himself had never had the chance, now one of his kin had, and he was secretly pleased.

And daily dealings with construction projects and trivial matters had long worn away any literary grace or brilliance; few colleagues ever stood out in literary pursuits, so he had always been utterly disconnected from the Nanxi Literary Gathering.

Among the sisters, Tan Chun and Ying Chun were the most concerned, both waiting for Jia Cong to return and recount the events of the Nanxi Literary Gathering.

Jia Zheng knew Prince Jiaoshun had always favored Jia Cong; perhaps he had been invited to spend the night at the villa and would return tomorrow.

Guo Zhi and the two servants hadn’t returned to report either—useless fools.

Tan Chun waited until the lamps were lit, then sent Shishu to the Grain Storehouse; Shishu returned saying Third Master hadn’t returned, and Zhi Shao was gone too—the courtyard was pitch black.

Third Master hadn’t returned, and even the maid Zhi Shao was missing; Tan Chun felt a bad premonition, but didn’t know whom to tell.

The old lady had never liked Jia Cong—she certainly wouldn’t care.

The First Master’s side was too distant to approach, and Tan Chun knew well how he’d always treated Jia Cong.

She could go to her own father, but she knew Jia Zheng cared more about Jia Cong’s attendance at the Nanxi Literary Gathering than she did—he’d surely been watching.

Soon Ying Chun came to Tan Chun’s room to ask; as the outside darkened, both sisters felt heavy-hearted; Shishu ran again, and returned saying no one was there.

She added that the First Master’s side was brightly lit, drinking merrily with several concubines—clearly he didn’t care at all that his younger son hadn’t returned.

Jia Cong spent the night away; everyone in the mansion had different thoughts.

The candles burned out, the east turned pale; Tan Chun, Ying Chun, and others with worries on their minds woke early, keenly attentive to outside movements.

Jia Zheng went to the Ministry of Works early, but his mind was preoccupied.

He had barely sat down when Zhao Li, also a Deputy Minister, came over with a smile: “Cunzhou, I never expected the Jia family to produce such an outstanding youth—why didn’t you ever mention him?”

Jia Zheng looked puzzled: “Brother Zhao, what do you mean?”

Zhao Li chuckled: “You didn’t know? My elder brother is the Director of the Imperial Academy; he attended the Nanxi Literary Gathering yesterday and said a young lad composed a plum-blossom lyric that stunned everyone—his calligraphy was also extraordinary.”

Only later did they learn it was your elder brother’s son, Jia Cong—nobility’s blessings truly run deep, or how could such a prodigy emerge?”

Zhao Li then pulled out a sheet of paper, on which was copied Jia Cong’s poem “Bu Suan Zi: Ode to Plum.”

“Cunzhou, look at this plum poem—he crafted it with exquisite intent and noble bearing; truly an excellent lyric. Even Master Jing’an praised it publicly, saying it will be recited for a hundred generations.”

Jia Zheng was stunned by this sudden good fortune; after a long pause, he asked: “Master Jing’an? You mean the former Minister of Rites?”

Zhao Li smiled: “Is there another Master Jing’an in the world besides that literary sage?”

Jia Zheng glanced at the poem, too overwhelmed to judge its merits; his heart burst with joy—Jia Cong had gone to the Nanxi Literary Gathering and earned such renown! He’d always believed in him—he truly had discernment.

Jia Cong’s plum poem had been praised by Master Jing’an as a masterpiece to be passed down—something he’d never dared dream of.

Just days ago, Jia Cong’s calligraphy had already brought great honor.

Now he’d revealed astonishing poetic talent too—how could someone so young achieve such mastery in both poetry and writing?

What a stroke of heavenly fortune—our Jia family has such a literary prodigy! Ha! Let anyone now dare call the Jia clan crude military nobility.

Other colleagues who’d heard the news gathered around to offer congratulations.

The literati who attended the gathering had returned to the city early, so the anecdotes from the event had already spread.

These high-ranking officials, all within Shenjing’s official circles, were among the first to learn the news.

But one thing they didn’t know: nearly everyone at the gathering had silently avoided mentioning that someone had been murdered there.

First, to spare Prince Jiaoshun’s face.

Second, Zhou Junxing of the Judicial Office had already intervened in Wu Jinrong’s murder, telling Prince Jiaoshun that Wu was likely killed by remnants of the Hidden Sect—words many had heard.

This matter involved not only Zhou the Tyrant, infamous for framing others, but also the Hidden Sect, deemed a grave threat to the throne—who didn’t know how dangerous this was?

Anyone who didn’t want to die young kept silent, fearing words would bring disaster; they wished they’d never encountered the incident, so they all played ostriches, pretending ignorance.

So the situation was strange: a high-ranking Hanlin Academy scholar had been murdered, yet half a day and night later, those uninvolved in Shenjing still knew nothing.

Instead, Jia Cong’s outstanding performance at the gathering became the talk of the town, spreading rapidly.

Jia Zheng had served in the Ministry of Works for years; today was the most honorable day of his memory. As he basked in the glow, a servant came to say Secretary Li wanted to speak with him.

Looking at his colleagues’ envious glances, Jia Zheng felt as if he were floating on clouds.

(End of Chapter)