Chapter 16: Chapter Sixteen: Wenyuan Academy

Taihe Hall.

“Ancient teachings affirm: reverence wind and rain, act with righteousness and Dao; may it be said, the people of Great Zhou flourish, with harmonious weather and timely rains…”

Emperor Ji Feng of Zhou stood before his desk, copying the phrase “wind and rain proceed smoothly.”

The characters on the rice paper pierced through to the back, strokes bold and expansive, ink threads shifting in weight with natural grace—every line revealed the mastery of a calligraphic sage.

A eunuch slipped silently to the side of the Chief Eunuch and whispered a few words.

The Chief Eunuch nodded repeatedly, dismissed the messenger, and waited until Ji Feng finished copying before bowing and approaching softly: “Your Majesty, Lady Li Yu, daughter of the Grand Scholar Li Mao, has brought Lu Fang and awaits outside as commanded.”

“Let them in.”

Ji Feng picked up the paper, blew on it gently, his eyes brimming with amusement—he had just learned of Lu Fang’s journey.

He had slain a fifth-rank Bai Jiaoying demon in a dream, marked with the “Dream King” sigil.

He had also composed the elegant prose “Dream of the Red Chamber,” catching the eye of his master Xu Han Yi, who took him as a disciple.

For Great Zhou, this was a double blessing; hence Ji Feng, overcome with joy, had copied the phrase “wind and rain proceed smoothly.”

Li Yu and Lu Fang waited outside the hall; upon hearing the summons, they stepped into the hall, backlit by the fading twilight.

“Your Majesty!”

“Your Majesty!”

Lu Fang bowed deeply, eyes lowered to his toes.

He had listened carefully when the Ministry of Rites taught him the etiquette—Great Zhou required no kneeling; unnecessary formalities were to be omitted.

“Rise.”

Ji Feng stroked his beard and turned to Li Yu.

“In the blink of an eye, your beloved daughter has grown so tall—and has become a pillar of Great Zhou. You escorted him with great merit. Is there any reward you desire?”

Li Yu bowed. “It was my duty. I dare not seek reward.”

Ji Feng paced with his hands behind his back, pausing thoughtfully.

“You rendered great service; service must be rewarded. I grant you ten jars of ‘Bodhi Fruit Wine’ from the Western Buddhist Kingdom.”

Rewards were rarely wine—but Li Yu’s two “Ru Meng Ling” poems were composed after drinking, and she was famed in the capital for her love of liquor; this gift was perfect.

“Thank Your Majesty for the gift!”

Li Yu’s lips could not help but curve upward.

The Western Buddhist Kingdom’s “Bodhi Fruit Wine” carried a slight chance of inducing a mystical state, greatly aiding breakthroughs in cultivation.

Ji Feng turned to Lu Fang and smiled. “To earn Master Xu’s favor and become his disciple—you truly are exceptional.”

“The ‘Manifestation’-level demon-slaying ci you wrote in the rain, summoning the literary spirit ‘Nie Xiaoqian’ from ‘Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio,’ and ‘Dream of the Red Chamber’—I have read them all. Your literary talent is outstanding…”

“Merely the idle musings of a student,” Lu Fang replied, glancing fleetingly at the Emperor as he spoke.

Historical records said Emperor Ji Feng was fifty, yet his appearance and bearing suggested a man in his prime—his smile carried dignity without harshness.

“Idle musings? Hahahaha…” Ji Feng chuckled.

“You, a ninth-rank Confucian scholar, entered a dream and slew a demon prodigy. I declare—among all the youth of Great Zhou, only you could have done it.”

“You are a fine uncarved jade. With proper shaping, your talent will not be wasted.”

“I have ordered you to enroll at Wenyuan Academy. Do you object?”

Ji Feng had originally planned to grant Lu Fang a noble title after enrolling him at Wenyuan, but such lavish favor might inflate a young man’s pride and dull his thirst for learning.

After all, being taken as a disciple by the Semi-Sage Xu Han Yi was already extraordinary fortune.

If he truly harbored grand ambitions, official rank and noble titles could wait.

“Thank Your Majesty’s grace. I have no objection.”

Lu Fang bowed in gratitude.

“Hmm. Go now,” Ji Feng waved, and as the two left the hall, he murmured to himself:

“Could the prophesied one truly be him?”

Prophecies had proven true before—and had also failed.

Better to believe than to dismiss.

The Demon King Wan Shu was a famed seer. Though not of the Demon Sovereign realm, he belonged to an ancient tree species, far outliving other demons, and possessed the greatest foresight among them.

Otherwise, his final prophecy would not have been so revered by the demon clans—so much so that they were willing to tear open relations with Great Zhou to assassinate the prophesied one.

…

Tian Feng 29th year, ninth month, thirteenth day.

Chen hour.

The rising sun.

A “modestly luxurious” carriage departed from Lü Family Manor on Wansheng Street, heading west toward Wenchang Street.

“Never thought I’d have to go back to school…”

Inside the carriage, Lu Fang wore a pale moon-white Confucian robe. After gazing briefly at passersby through the curtain, he sat upright and tightened the white silk-edged waist sash, uneasy.

The Emperor had personally ordered him to enter Wenyuan Academy—he dared not delay.

After only one night, he decided to report to the academy immediately, to avoid gossip.

As the carriage ventured deeper into Wenchang Street, it met several opulent carriages returning from the palace gates—these belonged to high officials who had just finished morning court.

At the center of Wenchang Street stood Wenyuan Academy, housing a temple built by the Emperor for Confucius, the Sage of Confucianism.

Each morning, for one hour, sacred recitations issued from the “Confucius Temple,” echoing far and wide.

Confucian scholars who studied and wrote while listening to the “Sacred Chant” achieved double the results.

A faint, intermittent murmur of recitation echoed in Lu Fang’s ears.

He felt his spirit sharpen—he had heard of the Sacred Chant, but never imagined it could also calm the mind.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!”

The coachman pulled the reins and called respectfully: “Young Master, Wenyuan Academy has arrived.”

Lu Fang lifted the curtain and stepped down, gazing at the elegant gate arch ahead. Above it hung a plaque bearing the swirling characters “Wenyuan Academy.”

He dismissed the coachman and walked forward.

The instant he passed under the arch, the environment shifted abruptly.

The ancient, majestic academy buildings vanished. Before him stretched a long, ascending stone path, flanked by towering trees that blotted out the sky; small beasts watched him with curious, unafraid eyes.

On the left, Lu Fang saw a three-meter-tall stone stele carved with the characters “Jiezi Mountain.”

He stepped back several paces—the serene mountain path disappeared.

He looked up and found himself standing beneath the arch, the main gate of Wenyuan Academy a hundred meters ahead.

When he crossed the arch again, he returned to the stone steps of “Jiezi Mountain”—only the upward path remained; no academy in sight.

“You’ve never been to the academy before.”

A young Confucian scholar appeared on the steps. His tone was a question, yet his certainty was absolute.

“How did you know?”

Lu Fang turned to study him—the scholar appeared barely twenty, with a refined, upright face, dressed in a plain gray Confucian robe.

To enter Wenyuan Academy, his attire was unusually plain.

Yet the scholar did not seem ashamed—he smiled brightly. “When I first came here, I looked just like you. This is Jiezi Mountain. Wenyuan Academy sits atop it.”

“A talisman array conceals the mountain. From outside, only a corner of the academy is visible. Once you pass the arch, you appear here.”

“Records say the mountain was transported through the air by Sage Jiang, though details are lacking.”

“No wonder it’s called Jiezi Mountain,” Lu Fang chuckled, nodding. This was a world of mystery—such wonders were only natural.

After exchanging names, Lu Fang learned the scholar’s name was Chen Ji, who had entered Wenyuan Academy just last month.

Chen Ji gestured forward. “Shall we climb together?”

“I was thinking the same,” Lu Fang replied, stepping forward briskly.

“Lu Brother, have you read today’s Great Zhou Literary Gazette?”

Chen Ji asked casually.

“Great Zhou Literary Gazette?” Lu Fang replied automatically, his mind racing—Jiezi Mountain required climbing each stone step; if you skipped more than two, your righteous qi would drain.

Chen Ji blinked.

“You just arrived in the capital? This year, Chancellor Wen launched the Great Zhou Literary Gazette—it publishes state policies, war news, and odd tales daily.”

“Oh,” Lu Fang’s face remained calm, but his heart thundered—Great Zhou had newspapers?

“A few days ago, the Gazette featured a great literary master who shares your name and surname—the one who wrote the demon-slaying ci,” Chen Ji grinned.

“Demon-slaying ci?”

Lu Fang was stunned—wasn’t that his own work?

No wonder the scholarly aura had surged—he guessed “Nie Xiaoqian” from “Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio” had also been published in the Gazette, seen by most of the capital.

As Lu Fang considered revealing his identity, Chen Ji recited the demon-slaying ci with fiery enthusiasm, then asked: “Lu Brother, what do you think of this ci?”

“It’s alright.”

Lu Fang replied modestly.

But Chen Ji’s face darkened at “alright.”

“What does that mean? Such an excellent demon-slaying ci, and you say it’s ‘alright’? Today’s Gazette also published his elegant prose ‘Dream of the Red Chamber’—I suppose you’d call that ‘alright’ too?”