Over five hundred students of the Imperial Academy and failed examinees knelt on the ground in a dense, dark mass.
No one dared to raise their head, nor did anyone dare to make a sound.
Sweat trickled down Zhao Xuan's forehead, flowing into his eyes, stinging sharply, but he didn't even have the courage to raise a hand to wipe it away.
On the steps, the Grand Chancellor of the Imperial Academy, Kong Zongyun, and the leading figure of the Jiangnan literary circles, Gu Zongming—two old men whose combined age approached a hundred and fifty years—were maintaining a deep bow, a half-teacher's salute, reaching all the way to the ground.
The hems of their Confucian robes hung over the hot stone slabs, gathering a bit of dust.
Xu Qinghuan stood her ground, the hem of her moon-white long gown gently lifted by the hot wind blowing from Shichahai. She accepted this salute without even blinking an eye.
She knew exactly what was going on.
The history of this Great Qian Dynasty had undergone a massive change during the Tang Dynasty, and took a sharp turn after the Tang.
As clearly stated in the original novel, in this parallel universe, the brilliant men of letters and the timeless masterpieces of the Tang, Song, Ming, and Qing dynasties had all been wiped clean by the Heavenly Dao.
Here, only the ornate and flowery poetic style inherited from the Six Dynasties remained, pages filled with nothing but piled-up rhetoric.
Her confidence to throw a hundred thousand taels of silver to produce the "Song of Ascending Youzhou Tower" stemmed from this very fact.
Xu Qinghuan's gaze passed over Kong Zongyun's head and landed on Gu Zongming's old, washed-out Confucian robe, its cuffs still bearing patches.
Gu Zongming.
The spiritual leader of the poor scholars from Jiangnan.
Xu Qinghuan's mind quickly flipped through the records of the original novel. This leading figure wasn't so glorious in his early years; he failed the examinations three times and was penniless.
At his most miserable, he lived in a ruined temple outside Jinling City, enduring three harsh winters without even charcoal for a fire. He survived by gathering rotten wood from the temple to make fires and eating spoiled coarse grain, stubbornly pushing through until he succeeded.
Carved into this man's bones were the aloofness and pride of a humble background. The cabinet veterans led by Xu Jie could control the court by relying on the heritage of aristocratic families. But Gu Zongming was the backbone of poor scholars all over the world.
Only by winning over Gu Zongming could the Xu family truly establish a firm foothold within the civil official faction.
Xu Qinghuan took half a step forward.
"You two venerable gentlemen are doing Qinghuan too much honor." Her voice was cool and clear, without the slightest hint of being overwhelmed by the unexpected favor.
Only then did Kong Zongyun and Gu Zongming straighten up. Kong Zongyun's cloudy old eyes flickered with a sharp light, still savoring the lingering resonance of those twenty-two words from earlier.
Xu Qinghuan didn't look at him, but walked straight toward Gu Zongming.
"Elder Gu." Xu Qinghuan stopped three feet in front of Gu Zongming, her gaze falling on his hands, which were covered in calluses and frostbite scars. "When Qinghuan was in Jiangning, I often heard Lord Xie mention your past."
"Failing the exams three times, studying hard in a ruined temple, having no charcoal in winter, and filling your stomach with coarse chaff."
Gu Zongming's body stiffened slightly. Such old, sour tales of poverty, being shaken out in public by a teenage girl, would have angered anyone else long ago.
But looking into Xu Qinghuan's bottomless eyes, he couldn't muster a trace of anger.
"My early years of hardship have made me a laughingstock to the Princess," Gu Zongming smiled bitterly, his voice raspy.
"The hardship was real, but it never broke your spine." Xu Qinghuan turned and walked toward the red sandalwood desk.
She stretched out two fingers, gently lifted the Xuan paper bearing the "Song of Ascending Youzhou Tower" from the desk, and handed it to the young servant in green standing beside her.
Then, she pulled out a fresh sheet of Chengxintang paper from the paper box on the desk and spread it out flat.
"Elder Gu has lived half his life in poverty, yet he has nurtured the hardest backbone among the poor scholars of the Great Qian."
"Today, Qinghuan has an article that I wish to present to Elder Gu."
Below the steps, Zhao Xuan, kneeling at the very front, suddenly raised his head upon hearing this.
Present an article?
A poem of twenty-two words had already pierced the heavens.
She was going to write more?
Xu Qinghuan ignored the commotion below the stage. She turned her head and glanced at Xu Zijin, who was standing beside her.
"Grind the ink."
Xu Zijin didn't waste words. He took a step forward, rolled up the washed-out blue cloth cuffs to expose his wrists.
Picking up the bronze water dropper from the desk, he dripped three drops of clear water into the Duan inkstone. Pinching a piece of Hui ink between his fingers, he began to grind it in the inkstone, neither too heavily nor too lightly, neither too fast nor too slow.
The friction between the ink stick and the inkstone produced a faint rustling sound. The rich scent of ink slowly spread through the stifling hot waterside pavilion.
Xu Qinghuan spat out two words in her mind.
Exchange.
[Ding! Target article 'An Epigraph for My Humble Room' detected. System library activated.]
[Exchange successful. Deducting one hundred thousand taels of silver.]
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. She had to make this deal.
The ink was ready, and Xu Zijin stopped his hand, stepping back half a pace.
Xu Qinghuan raised her right hand and took down a wolf-hair brush from the brush rest. The tip of the brush was saturated with thick ink. She gently licked it against the edge of the inkstone, scraping off the excess ink.
With her wrist suspended, she set the brush to paper.
On the far right—An Epigraph for My Humble Room.
Kong Zongyun, originally standing two steps away, couldn't help but lean forward when he saw these three words. He narrowed his eyes, staring at the mediocre handwriting.
"A mountain need not be high; it is famous if there is an immortal residing."
Kong Zongyun subconsciously read aloud, his aged voice echoing in the waterside pavilion.
"A body of water need not be deep; it is spiritual if there is a dragon."
Kong Zongyun's voice rose half a pitch.
Xu Qinghuan turned her brush, and the ink traces connected on the paper.
"This is a humble room, but my virtue makes it fragrant."
A loud boom echoed in Gu Zongming's mind.
He suddenly took a step forward, looking at those characters.
This is a humble room, but my virtue makes it fragrant.
These words smashed into his heart, which had been dead for years.
Xu Qinghuan ignored the loss of composure of the two old men, the tip of her brush making a faint friction sound on the Xuan paper.
"The moss grows green up the steps; the grass color enters the screen green."
Kong Zongyun read along, his voice carrying a trace of trembling.
"We talk and laugh with great scholars; there are no unlearned people among our guests."
Gu Zongming's breathing was completely erratic. He stretched out his withered right hand, his fingers trembling uncontrollably, slowly reaching toward the edge of the Xuan paper.
His fingertips touched the rough surface of the paper, but he dared not go further, for fear of smudging the wet ink.
Memories from forty years ago instantly surged up, overwhelming him.
The plum rain season in Jiangnan, the crumbling, ruined thatched cottage in the alleyway.
Half the thatch on the roof had been blown off by the wind. When it rained heavily outside, it rained lightly inside.
A broken porcelain bowl caught the leaks at the head of the bed, dripping all night long.
Several fellow students, equally penniless, gathered around a clay fire pan missing a leg.
Yet the pan held only a handful of cold ash that couldn't be heated.
They held coarse flatbread mixed with sand in their hands, washing it down with sour well water.
But it was in that leaking thatched cottage where even the door couldn't be closed tightly that they pointed out the state of affairs and wrote impassioned texts.
They debated the principles of governing the country and cursed the corrupt officials in the court.
At that time, they were so poor they only had their bones left, yet they felt that the entire Great Qian world was contained within their chests.
"We talk and laugh with great scholars; there are no unlearned people among our guests."
Gu Zongming's eyes turned red.
Cloudy tears swirled in his eye sockets.
On the desk, Xu Qinghuan's brush moved faster and faster.
"We can play the unadorned zither and read the Golden Sutra. There is no chaotic music to disturb the ears, no official documents to weary the body."
"Chaotic music disturbing the ears, official documents wearying the body."
Xu Qinghuan's wrist hovered for a moment before she set the brush down again.
"Zhuge's cottage in Nanyang, Ziyun's pavilion in West Shu."
The final sentence.
Xu Qinghuan pressed her wrist down, the tip of the brush drawing a sharp, final stroke on the paper.
"Confucius said: 'What is humble about it?'"
Smack.
Xu Qinghuan flipped her wrist, heavily tossing the ink-stained wolf-hair brush back into the Duan inkstone. A few drops of ink splattered onto the red sandalwood table.
The waterside pavilion fell completely silent.
Even the chirping of the cicadas outside seemed to have stopped.
Zhao Xuan knelt below the steps, drained of all his strength, slumped on the bluestone slabs.
He had studied the writings of sages his entire life, yet he had never seen such profound and proud words.
This short piece of merely eighty-one characters captured the lofty purity and moral integrity of a poor scholar, writing it deep into the very marrow of their bones.
Gu Zongming stood before the desk, intoxicated as he stared at the phrase "What is there to call plain?".
An old tear dropped onto the red sandalwood table, shattering.
Suddenly, his knees bent.
Thud.
The leading figure of the Jiangnan literary circles in the Great Qian Dynasty, the spiritual leader of all poor scholars in the world, knelt straight down before that red sandalwood desk.
Resting his hands on the ground, he kowtowed heavily towards the still-wet rice paper.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
The sound of his forehead striking the bluestone slab echoed through the silent pavilion.
"Elder Gu!" A few students turned pale with fright and reached out to help him up.
Gu Zongming threw off his students' hands. He raised his head, his forehead stained with dust, tears streaming down his aged face, and his gray beard trembling violently.
"It has captured... it has perfectly captured my entire life!"
Gu Zongming's voice carried a catharsis that had been suppressed for forty years.
"I have read books my whole life, and taught for my whole life, yet I could never write a line like 'This is a humble dwelling, yet my virtue makes it fragrant'! Your Highness, every word of your essay is a gem, every sentence piercing straight to the heart!"
"I... have been truly humbled and taught a lesson!"
He did not stand up.
With trembling hands, Gu Zongming reached into his inner robes. After fumbling for a long time, he took out a darkened green jade personal seal.
The edges of this seal were already worn smooth. It was something he had carved bit by bit himself forty years ago in a ruined temple, using a discarded scrap he had picked up. For fifty years, this seal had followed him from the ruined temple to the Imperial Academy, from a destitute scholar to a literary titan.
This was his root; this was his very life.
Gu Zongming did not use the cinnabar inkpad on the desk. He bit his left index finger until it bled, and smeared his fresh blood onto the bottom of the green jade seal.
Then, holding the seal with both hands, he solemnly pressed it beneath the last line of the Inscription on a Humble Dwelling.
The bright red imprint and the deep black ink complemented each other perfectly.
"I, Gu Zongming, on behalf of all the poor scholars in the world, thank Your Highness for bestowing this text upon us!" Holding the rice paper with both hands, Gu Zongming raised it high above his head, looking up at Xu Qinghuan.
