Chrysanthemum Banquet.
When Song Yu and Song Shihuan arrived, the invited scholars and beauties were already gathered in small groups, admiring the blooming chrysanthemums.
Rong Sheng was among them.
Only Rong Lan seemed distracted, her gaze fixed on the garden's entrance.
The moment she spotted Song Yu's figure, her eyes lit up. "The Prince of Qin has arrived."
Her stage had been set for quite some time, waiting only for the protagonist to appear.
"No need to stare at me," Song Yu said carelessly as he sprawled onto a chair, his demeanor utterly nonchalant. "Everyone, enjoy the flowers."
The thought of Song Yu soon making a fool of himself in front of so many people widened Rong Lan's smile.
"My brother and I have long heard of your literary talents," she said. "Today, we’d be honored if you could compose poetry and couplets. Paired with fine wine, wouldn’t that be delightful?"
At such banquets, poetry was always the main event.
The moment Rong Lan finished speaking, the crowd buzzed with excitement.
"Today, this Lingxiao Sword shall be the grand prize," Rong Lan announced, taking the blade from a maid behind her. "The Lingxiao Sword is a treasured heirloom of Great Yue. It has not been unsheathed for years—only a destined one can draw it from its scabbard."
Even though most present were scholars, they had all heard of the sword’s legendary reputation.
Eagerness flickered in their eyes.
Winning Great Yue’s Lingxiao Sword would bring immense prestige to their families.
Chrysanthemums symbolized resilience, and the scholars’ verses captured their noble spirit vividly.
When the mood reached its peak, Rong Lan raised her cup toward Song Yu. "Would His Highness the Prince of Qin grace us with a poem?"
Instantly, the garden fell so silent that the rustling of chrysanthemums in the wind could be heard.
The Prince of Qin...
Wasn’t he known to be... utterly inept at poetry?
The guests exchanged uneasy glances. Though the Lingxiao Sword was tempting, the dignity of Great Qi mattered far more.
A scholar bravely spoke up, "His Highness rarely participates in such poetic exchanges. Perhaps I could offer another verse instead?"
"Yes, I too have just thought of a fine poem," another chimed in.
The crowd murmured, trying to help Song Yu save face. But Rong Lan had no intention of letting him off so easily. Her eyes locked onto him. "Surely the Prince of Qin isn’t... incapable of composing poetry?"
"Poetry? I excel at poetry," Song Yu declared.
His words stunned the crowd into silence.
"However..." Song Yu paused dramatically. "My inspiration hasn’t struck yet. Continue without me—I need time to refine my thoughts."
Rong Lan smirked. "Very well. We shall await Your Highness’s masterpiece."
Half an hour later, Song Shihuan slipped away from the garden unnoticed.
Spotting this, Rong Lan’s lips curled in disdain. Just as she’d guessed—Song Yu was illiterate, forced to seek help elsewhere.
Exactly as planned!
Soon, she would expose his deceit and humiliate him before everyone!
Meanwhile, Song Shihuan, once inside her carriage, relaxed. "Sanxi, let’s visit the Shen residence for a while."
Shen Residence.
"Your Highness, didn’t I just compose two poems for His Highness the Prince?" Shen Mingwen asked, puzzled. "He memorized them before leaving."
Song Shihuan picked up a brush, swiftly wrote a line on paper, then rolled it up.
"That Great Yue princess is insufferable. Father and I plan to repay her in kind."
Tucking the note into her sleeve, she changed the subject. "How has Father been progressing with his policy essays?"
Shen Mingwen stifled a laugh at her serious tone and handed her a thick stack of papers.
Song Shihuan flipped through them, her smile widening.
Good—remarkable progress.
"At this rate, Father might just scrape onto the scholar’s list, don’t you think?"
Shen Mingwen chuckled. So even the young mistress worried her father would fail the basic exams.
After lingering at the Shen residence for a full hour, Song Shihuan returned to the garden, deliberately passing a note to Song Yu under Rong Lan’s watchful gaze.
Song Yu shielded the note with his sleeve as he read it—then struggled to keep a straight face.
To Rong Lan, his expression confirmed he couldn’t even understand a pre-written poem.
Seizing the moment, she called out, "Our guests have shared many verses. Has the Prince of Qin found his inspiration?"
Song Yu scoffed, downed his wine, then fixed his gaze on the chrysanthemums atop the branches:
"Golden armor adorns the boughs, my wrath withers all blooms."
The two lines seemed to echo through the garden.
A stunned silence followed.
Such poetry... from the Prince of Qin?
Had his reputation as an idle fool been a ruse all along?
Even Rong Lan faltered before sneering. "Such bold passion... hardly seems like the Prince’s handiwork."
"I suspect plagiarism!"
Her accusation sent a ripple of unease through the crowd. Was the Prince truly learned, or was this a sham?
For Great Qi’s honor—
"Princess, the Prince is the late Empress’s son. Her mastery of poetry is renowned throughout Great Qi. Naturally, he shares her gift."
"His Highness is a literary genius—even his cockfighting chants rhyme!"
"When rallying Great Qi’s troops, the Prince roared, 'Long live our warriors!' Such a man crafting this poem is no surprise."
The guests scrambled to defend him.
Meanwhile, Song Shihuan stood frozen. Unless she misremembered, neither of Shen Mingwen’s poems contained these lines...
Had her father improvised this?
Song Yu spread his hands, basking in the "praise" with theatrical relish.
Rong Lan’s face flushed with fury.
"I saw Princess Fuan sneak out earlier and hand the Prince a note upon returning," she accused, pointing. "The poem must’ve been written there!"
"What note?" Song Yu feigned ignorance.
"I saw you tuck it into your sleeve!" Rong Lan stepped forward. "Dare you show it to everyone?"
As Song Yu moved, a slip of paper fluttered to the ground.
Rong Lan lunged, snatched it up, and eagerly unfolded it—
Then froze.
"Well? Why not read it aloud?" Song Yu’s voice turned icy. "Slandering a prince before witnesses is a prison-worthy offense."
Rong Sheng, noticing his sister’s shock, hurried over.
One glance at the note, and even his usual composure cracked. They’d been played for fools!
The note read:
Father, shall we have stewed chicken tonight?
