Chapter Forty-One: Fame Echoes Across the World

“The endless waves wash away all the heroes of ages past… To the west of the old ramparts, people say, is the Red Cliffs of General Zhou from the Three Kingdoms…”

As Little Dragonfly recited the opening stanzas, every face in the room was etched with astonishment. Even the old man playing chess stroked his beard, utterly enraptured.

“When jagged rocks pierce the sky and raging waves crash upon the shore, they roll up a thousand heaps of snow. The land is picturesque—how many heroes have emerged in such a time…”

The moment these words were spoken, the young men gathered around simultaneously clapped and cheered. Though the waiter understood little of poetry, even he felt his blood surge, swept up by the grandeur of the lines.

Passersby on the street below paused, tilting their heads to listen. These verses were certain to be recorded in history as classics.

Most poets require careful brewing of emotion, an appropriate setting, and a particular state of mind before composing. Yet for Li Pingyang, verses as bold as these tumbled forth without pause, as if he were born with them—truly a rare genius of the ages!

The two men who’d accused Li Pingyang of plagiarism were now blue in the face, their mouths hanging agape. They had never heard these lines before, and certainly could never have written them themselves!

Zhang Dewang, who had composed countless poems in his life—though all mediocre—found none worth matching against these. His hands trembled so much that, in an attempt to steady himself with a sip of water, his bowl slipped and shattered on the floor.

“Lost in spirit in the ancient homeland—one with a tender heart must laugh at me, so soon grown gray. Life is but a dream; let us pour a libation to the river moon!”

With these final lines, Little Dragonfly closed the paper with delight, beaming at her young master. He had brought her such honor today; now no one would dare claim he plagiarized.

All those present cast scornful glances at the old poet and his young companion. This elder, with his years and status as a respected poet, ought to have set a noble example for the younger generation and earned the world’s respect. Who would have thought he’d resort to such slander and distortion of the truth?

By now, Li Pingyang was thoroughly drunk, barely able to stand. Staggering, he took a bowl of wine and approached Zhang Dewang, pointing at him and laughing.

Then, his face suddenly cold, he said, “Since you claim I plagiarize, I’ll gift you a few more. Listen well!”

With that, he drained his bowl, shattered it at Zhang Dewang’s feet, startling him, and turned to the crowd, asking who among them could write.

Four stepped forward, and he beckoned them all to take up brush and ink, ready to record whatever verses he uttered.

Delighted to be of use, the four eagerly agreed to act as his scribes. The old man at the chessboard stroked his beard, smiling quietly as he watched.

Li Pingyang shook his wine jar—empty. He burped, slung an arm over the waiter’s shoulder, and without a pause, began to recite:

“By lamplight, drunk, I draw my sword; in dreams, the bugle calls of the distant camp. Eight hundred miles away, the roasted meat is divided among the ranks; fifty strings echo the sounds beyond the border…”

“Let this old man recall the wildness of youth—holding a yellow dog in the left hand, a falcon in the right…”

“Beyond the bamboo, a few peach blossoms; in the warming spring river, ducks are first to know…”

“Spring winds again turn the southern shores green; when will the bright moon shine upon my return…”

One poem after another, with no preparation or contemplation, flowing from his lips and stunning all who listened.

Within the space of a single incense stick, Li Pingyang had recited over a dozen poems, each worth savoring—every one a masterpiece!

Even the old scholar, who prided himself on vast learning, was left aghast. For Li Pingyang, composing poetry seemed as effortless as eating a meal.

Among the gathering downstairs, some began to wonder: could all these poems truly be this young master’s own? None of them had ever heard these verses before. Yet, more than suspicion, shock and envy filled their hearts.

The old chess player was so delighted he gifted his wine jar to Li Pingyang, who grinned, broke the seal with a burst of inner energy, gripped the jar in one hand, and took several hearty gulps.

“A few plum branches in the corner of the wall bloom alone in the cold…”

“Fine rain and slanting wind bring dawn’s chill; thin smoke and sparse willows grace the sunny shore…”

“Often I recall the twilight by the stream pavilion, so drunk I lost my way home…”

Three pounds of wine were gone in no time, yet Li Pingyang’s verses seemed endless. The four young scribes’ hands grew sore, struggling to keep up with his torrent of lines.

In the eyes of all present, this drunken, grandly singing youth had become their idol—a celestial being, a sage of poetry. The heights he reached were unattainable for a lifetime.

“I am like a fish in your lotus pond…”

As he approached Zhang Dewang, Li Pingyang stopped composing poetry. Tipsy, he slung an arm around the old man’s shoulders, cheeks flushed, and began to sing a sweet melody of moonlight on the lotus pond.

Humiliated by Li Pingyang’s poetry—or rather, ground into the dirt—the old man now suffered the added sting of this gentle song. Unable to endure further, Zhang Dewang felt a heavy pressure in his chest and spat a mouthful of blood before being helped away in disgrace by his younger companion.

Li Pingyang simply smiled—and finally collapsed in a drunken heap.

The old chess player was quick to catch him, steadying him against his own shoulder. Li Pingyang, reeking of wine, suddenly felt his stomach churn and, without warning, vomited all over his host.

Having caused such a mess, he nonetheless slept peacefully, eyes half-closed and a sweet smile on his lips. The old man could only shake his head in helpless amusement, not the least bit angry.

In the crowd, Su Liuwu was fuming. Not only had Li Goudan not been toppled, he’d become even more renowned thanks to Su’s own schemes! In his frustration, he kicked his servant, Old Li, hard.

It was all Old Li’s wretched idea. Having learned that Li Goudan was dining here, he’d paid a poet to slander Li Pingyang for plagiarism, hoping to ruin his reputation.

But today proved that this rascal was as tenacious as a cockroach—impossible to defeat.

Alas for Zhang Dewang: to have sullied his virtue in old age, trading away what little reputation he’d earned over a lifetime of poetry for a paltry sum.

…

Afterwards—

According to Little Dragonfly, in fear of waking him, the old chess player had his carriage take Li Pingyang safely home to the Li residence.

Moreover, all expenses for her and Li Pingyang at Flower-filled Pavilion were covered by the old gentleman.

After this night, Li Pingyang became famous throughout the land for his drunken poetic duel at Flower-filled Pavilion.

Soon, even Zhou Li in the distant capital heard of the event and, leveraging his connections, joined forces with the Seventh Division of the Secret Penalty Bureau to begin printing and distributing a collection.

All the poems recited by Magistrate Li Pingyang at Flower-filled Pavilion were compiled and published in a single volume.

In less than half a day, several thousand copies had already been sold, shattering the sales records previously held by the most popular novels and storybooks.

Yet Li Pingyang was unaware that a new crisis was on the horizon. With Su Liuwu plotting against him, and having lost both his land and his supply of tofu, how would he weather this new storm?