Chapter Fifty: Conversation

(Continuing to eagerly ask for Sanjiang votes—those who have them, hurry and cast them!)
The evening drew near, and the sun was setting in the west, dyeing half the sky with red clouds, solemn and majestic.
“As dusk falls, the mood grows mellow, I ascend the heights amidst the rustling breeze; the sunset is infinitely beautiful, but it is close to dusk…”
Wu Wencai’s recitation rang out in such an environment, perfectly complementing the current scene. As everyone listened, an inexplicable emotion stirred within their hearts—
What a fine poem!
Especially the final line: though simple and plain, as if spoken offhand, it expressed a philosophy of life, resonating deeply with all present.
The scholars from Minghua Academy were even more astonished, exchanging glances, unable to believe that Chen Jianchen could write such a classic five-character quatrain.
Unconsciously, they kept mulling over these four lines, finding them increasingly profound. The gentle sigh and sadness seemed more like the sentiment of one who had weathered many trials, not something a seventeen-year-old scholar could produce.
Yet the truth was before them, and they had no choice but to believe it.
Thus, they could only explain it as “a masterpiece found by chance.”
“What a wonderful poem!”
Nie Xiaoqian was the first to applaud, and soon a wave of cheers followed.
Such enthusiastic reaction left Wu Wencai awkward and unable to advance or retreat, inwardly furious: he had never expected that, in trying to trip up Chen Jianchen, he would instead make him famous.
In the Tian Tong Dynasty, the literary spirit flourished. Essays and classics were one aspect, but poetry and song were another; often, a good poem could quickly spread across the land, becoming widely known. Some poets, not adept at classical studies, would labor over their verses and present them to the powerful, hoping for recognition. Those without connections might recite their works aloud on boats or at opportune moments, hoping a discerning patron would hear and recommend them.
Now that Chen Jianchen had composed this quatrain, it would soon be the talk of the town. For the moment, he became a “celebrity,” surrounded by female students of Qingxue Academy, urging him to write more poems.
Wang Fu, observing this, wished he could replace Chen Jianchen, but he knew his own limits. On second thought: Liu Xian was a close friend, talented and promising—perhaps he could ride Liu Xian’s coattails to success…
Thus, the spring outing of the two academies concluded amidst the lively atmosphere. Everyone descended the mountain in sedan chairs and carriages, returning to Jiangzhou.
Yet Chen Jianchen chose to walk. As he left, he glanced back and saw the old Huang tidying up the chairs and tables. A thought flashed through his mind, but he did not linger, descending the mountain.
By now, the summit of Brushstand Mountain was deserted.
The sun gradually sank, and the sky grew darker.
Inside the tea shop, Old Huang suddenly stood upright, no longer the slightly hunched figure he presented to others. He walked with his hands behind his back to the pillar, intent on reading the poem Chen Jianchen had left.
Buzz!
Suddenly, a strange phenomenon occurred. On the inscription, the last character, “Title,” burst forth with a brilliant light.

The radiance split into two threads, needle-sharp, shooting straight into Old Huang’s eyes.
“Huh!”
Old Huang exclaimed, his eyelids dropping swiftly to shield his eyes.
Zzzt!
The twin beams struck his seemingly shriveled eyelids, clanging as if hitting iron, instantly dispersing without a trace.
“Righteous energy?”
Old Huang’s eyes snapped open, his pupils shining with fierce light—no longer the image of a weary old man. His expression was grim, almost predatory.
“Could he be the scholar whom the Stone Mountain Spirit mentioned, the one who has condensed righteous energy?”
He muttered to himself, his face quickly returning to normal. After a long contemplation, he slowly returned to the tea shop and sat at a table.
On the table was a teapot, steam curling. Before him sat a teacup, and curiously, another teacup sat opposite him, though that seat was empty.
It seemed he was waiting for a guest.
The sun finally disappeared, night swept in, scattering sparse stars and a crescent moon.
“You’ve arrived.”
Old Huang suddenly spoke.
“I have.”
A reply came from across the table, though no figure could be seen.
Whoosh!
The teapot on the table suddenly moved of its own accord, as if an invisible hand held it. It poured tea into Old Huang’s cup, then turned and poured tea into the other cup.
“I’m leaving soon…”
Old Huang took up his cup and sipped gently.
“Are you serious?”
The voice from nowhere floated ethereally, seemingly devoid of emotion.
“Yes, today I met the scholar you spoke of. He inscribed a poem on the pillar, and within one character was righteous energy.”

“But you weren’t harmed.”
“Just barely escaped.”
A silence fell. After a while, the voice softly asked, “Where will you go?”
Old Huang’s gaze drifted. “I heard there’s a deserted temple in Zhejiang, quite large. I can take my true form there to settle.”
“So that’s it… Alas, it seems we’ll seldom drink tea together again.”
Old Huang replied, “You are the mountain spirit; you cannot leave your post. But once I master the Dharma body, I can visit you freely.”
“Heh, the Dharma body—easier said than done, but difficult indeed. Though you’ve cultivated for nearly a thousand years, it is still difficult.”
Old Huang harrumphed, “There will always come a day when it is achieved.”
“I hope that day comes soon.”
Old Huang changed the subject: “Your Underworld Bureau suffered a heavy loss—are you truly not going to pursue that scholar? That’s unlike Magistrate Wang’s style.”
“What can we do? If trouble arises, he won’t fare well either. Besides, Guanghan, that Taoist with the ox nose, has intervened. His cultivation is unfathomable, and he’s a senior of Laoshan; his reputation cannot be slighted.”
A flash of shrewdness in Old Huang’s eyes: “So the scholar has connections with Guanghan?”
“I don’t know. It’s said Guanghan wanted to take him as a disciple, but for some reason didn’t. Regardless, the good relationship is there, so the magistrate cannot act the villain.”
Old Huang smiled wryly, “Well, since I am leaving, I have no interest in meddling.”
The voice suddenly said, “Actually, your departure is wise. Today, I saw a swordsman from Mount Shu drifting along the Jian River. If you stay here, he’ll find you sooner or later.”
“A Mount Shu swordsman? Even they are appearing? These times are truly becoming chaotic.”
“Whether chaos or prosperity, it’s all the same for us… Oh, what’s the name of the temple you’re heading to in Zhejiang? If I have the chance someday, I might pay a visit.”
“Lanruo Temple…”
c@.