Volume One: The Hidden Dragon in the Abyss Chapter 72: Refusal

The fabric was of the finest quality; the old hunter could still discern that much. Yet the characters upon it were utterly unfamiliar to him. His curiosity only deepened regarding those two—figures as if from a tale of immortals, truly, neither carried any money. And that young woman, she had buried the wild goose he’d caught, interred it by the banks of the Fen River, leaving him quite bewildered.

They were simply not people from the same world; at most, he and his peers might daydream about what the emperor’s golden shovel looked like. He doubted he’d ever cross paths with them again.

“Let’s go. Life and death, sickness and old age, flowers blossoming and withering—all are fate.” After everything was settled, Wang Chuan comforted her. “This world is the survival of the fittest; in time, there will be beings stronger than mankind. To receive mercy is a happiness in itself. Reality is cruel…” The pair’s figures grew smaller and smaller until they vanished.

That afternoon, the old hunter took the pelts he’d gathered to sell in the city. A companion noticed the edge of a brocade cloth poking from his arms and reminded him; only then did he realize he still carried it. The academy was not far off; after parting from the couple, he decided to try his luck there.

“Young man…”

The sun was warm and steady, a gentle breeze stirred the air. The student who was called out looked around and replied, “Are you looking for me, sir? What can I do for you?”

Scholars from Wei were refined and courteous. Yet facing these paragons, the old hunter felt somewhat intimidated. Still, he summoned his courage. “Young man, could you please tell me what is written here? I’ve heard it might fetch a price.”

He carefully produced the cloth.

Why would someone write upon such a thing? The scholar glanced at it, unconvinced. If it were the work of a master calligrapher, surely they would use paper, not cloth. Such people wouldn’t lack for proper material.

In these times, not just anyone could scrawl something and hope to sell it.

With a dismissive air, he unrolled it casually.

But in the next moment, his expression froze, his face stiffening as if struck. “This…” The scholar’s hands trembled uncontrollably. “This poem is extraordinary—I’ve never seen its like. It must be new; not the work of any predecessor. Who wrote this?” His last question was directed at the old hunter, gripping his shoulder tightly.

“I… I don’t know. That person said his poem was worth a fortune.” Seeing the scholar’s agitation, the hunter grew anxious. “I knew something was odd.”

“A fortune—more than a fortune!” the scholar exclaimed, then strode rapidly toward the academy. The old hunter called after him, but his cries went unheard.

“Lost, lost…” The old hunter waited outside, still holding onto a shred of hope.

“Master! Master!”

The scholar burst in, startling a middle-aged man who was annotating a manuscript; his pen faltered midstroke. With exasperation, he looked at his student. “Noisy! Always so noisy…”

“Master, please look at this…” The student unfurled the cloth before him.

“What is this?” The middle-aged man, unflappable as if the collapse of Mount Tai would not disturb him, glanced over. Gradually, his eyes widened, sharp light gleaming within. His expression was more animated and intense than ever before.

“Did you write this?” The man fixed his gaze on the student.

“No, I could never compose such a masterpiece,” the scholar sighed.

“Oh, how could there be such talent in Qingzhou without my knowing?” The middle-aged man marveled, unable to put it down. Others soon gathered, their exclamations and gasps filling the room.

“Who wrote it, then?” asked the master.

The rest were equally curious; students crowded closer, craning their necks to see what was happening.

“It was an old man; he said someone gave it to him.” Excited, the student rushed back outside.

A throng followed in his wake.

“So the poem was used to purchase something? I see.” The master savored the phrase, walking out with measured steps, unperturbed by the commotion. “If only I could meet the author.”

He was filled with deep admiration.

Soon, a crowd of students gathered outside and surrounded the old hunter, quickly learning the story. The sequence of events was clear—the young man, stirred by emotion, had composed this immortal poem.

“Talent is not like pregnancy—it does not slowly reveal itself over time,” the master instructed. “This person’s casual brushwork should make you all ashamed; it is the fruit of long cultivation. So study diligently, do not be lazy or cunning.”

Before the students could feel humbled, the old hunter interrupted. “Can it be sold for money, then? Otherwise, I'll take it home to wipe the table—there’s still another side unused.”

“You would use it to wipe a table?” The master’s voice stretched into a shrill cry.

“Sir, please don’t burn the lute or cook the crane—I’ll buy it for a hundred taels!”

“I’ll pay two hundred!”

“Four hundred!”

“A thousand!”

The students drove up the price so quickly the old hunter nearly fainted. Was this cloth truly so valuable? He deeply regretted not caring for it properly; it must have been stained with sweat while he carried it.

And that young man—he had spoken the truth. Who was he, really?

Even with little learning, the hunter knew some paintings and calligraphy were worth a fortune, but for that young man’s casual work to have such effect…

In the end, the master decided the academy would preserve the original as its most prized treasure, passing it down through generations. The academy paid a hundred taels.

The old hunter was overwhelmed.

“So, where is the Goose Mound?” the master asked.

“What Goose Mound?” the hunter was confused—was that the young man’s name?

“By the Fen River—where did the man bury the wild goose?” asked the master.

The hunter quickly agreed to lead them; he was on his way home anyway.

“Have I not taken you all out for excursions or field studies for ages?” The master felt nostalgic. Today, the poem had stirred his heart, worthy of being called a masterpiece for the ages. Perhaps he would never see those jade-like figures again—what a pity.

The students discussed among themselves, lively with excitement. Eventually, a disciple requested the master to explain the poem, and the others listened attentively.

“This person’s talent is unparalleled—such poetry is rare in a hundred years. But remember, in this world, the literary star still shines; composing poetry is akin to divine inspiration!” The master sighed. “To create such verse is truly godlike.”

This man had once been a scholar of the Hanlin Academy, a grand academic of the court; even he was sincerely awed.

“Are you speaking of Wang Chuan? But everyone knows the Prince of Jin and the Jin army are being chased across Wei by us,” a student protested.

“Yes, and the old man said it was a newlywed couple,” another added. “But the Prince of Jin has not yet married.”

To be unmarried at that age was somewhat unusual.

The students speculated and debated who could have written such poetry. After a while, they listened earnestly as the master analyzed the work.

“This lyric is a new creation—the depth of its penmanship is admirable. Perhaps none of us will produce such a fine work in our lifetime. Yet some, with a single piece, can overshadow all the talents of the world.” In the same era, under the same sky, such people exist, making others both joyful and melancholic.

Perhaps they would never compose a masterpiece to be passed down, but others would, dazzling and precious for generations.

Leaving future generations with a rich cultural legacy.

There would be envy, bitterness, and unwillingness—why must that person not be oneself?

“The upper stanza, after the preface outlines the story, seeks the reason for the geese’s tragic love: The first seven lines are observations, casting the gaze over vast time and space to highlight their enduring companionship, sharing hardships, mutual dependence, and profound affection; the next four lines are empathetic, simulating the dead goose’s voice, revealing the cause of its sacrifice. The lower stanza expresses mourning: the first three lines portray the desolation of the Goose Mound’s surroundings; then it recounts summoning the spirit and the goose’s suffering; finally, it asserts that dying for love will be remembered for eternity; the last four lines explain the mound’s purpose.” The master lectured earnestly. “Reading this work, we are transported, as if witnessing it firsthand.”

“This lyric is enough to echo through the ages—its opening is abrupt, thunderous, shattering the silence; like molten lava surging forth.” The master praised. “The life and death, the deep emotion of the wild geese, profoundly moved the author; his shock, sympathy, and emotion transformed into powerful questions—he asks himself, the world, and the heavens: what truly is love?”

“When love reaches its peak, life may be given for it; death may be reversed for it. If life cannot die, and death cannot live, it is not true love.”

“What is love, that it compels one to vow life and death?”

“The opening question strikes suddenly, commanding attention, like a poised horse and drawn bow, preparing the ground for the geese’s tragic love and elevating its inner significance.”

“The next lines depict the moving scene of the geese’s lives. In autumn, they migrate south to overwinter, and return north in spring, always together. Their paired flight symbolizes the ideal love of husbands and wives. The poem begins with space and time, using high artistic abstraction to portray their mutual reliance, preparing for the later tragedy.”

“The following lines describe the geese’s long companionship, both joyful reunion and sorrowful parting, creating a deep, abiding affection in ordinary life. Over time, the couple’s hearts are united, passionately devoted, and unwavering. The poet’s sorrow and empathy are evident, prompting thoughts of other lovers in the world. Perhaps the poet himself shares such feelings, understanding true love.”

“Then comes a detailed portrayal of the goose’s inner struggle before its sacrifice. After the net shatters their dual dreams, the author believes the lone goose must wrestle with the conflict between life and death, love and survival. Yet this hesitation does not diminish its sincerity; rather, it proves that dying for love is a rational decision after deep thought, revealing the real reason: with its beloved gone, lost and solitary, what meaning remains in living? So, the goose makes its painful decision… These lines, through contrast, reveal the geese’s psychological journey and the depth of their sacrifice.”