Chapter Eight: A Poem for the Ages

In the courtyard, a gathering of scholars were enthusiastically discussing Song Mu’s newly penned poem, “Moss.” Meanwhile, Pan Wenhao, Qi Dazuo, and the others who had joined the crowd wore expressions of shock and gloom. They hadn’t expected this fellow to actually produce a poem.

Song Mu, having just absorbed an immense surge of literary vitality, felt a surge of joy. In his mind, the weighty “Compendium of Ancient and Modern Poetry” slowly opened a new page; lines of text appeared upon the page following the Song Family’s ancient annotations. Song Mu sensed that, should he wish, this poem could immediately become his to wield.

The lines that emerged were precisely those he had just written. At the end of the poem, however, a small note appeared: “Supplementary Battle Poem, Talent Four Dou.”

A supplementary battle poem? Talent, four dou? Song Mu was taken aback. This was clearly a poem of object meditation—how could it be categorized as a battle poem? Was there even such a genre in antiquity?

The measure of four dou of talent Song Mu could understand; it was a method for assessing the literary brilliance of a piece. Eight dou marked the pinnacle, its works destined to be passed down through the ages; in rare cases, genius reached nine dou, shaking the world itself.

Song Mu felt a strange unease and recalled what the previous Song Mu had learned: both the county school and the Song family’s ancient texts spoke of how, since the founding of the Literary Dynasty, literary force had been used in combat. Scholars needed to cultivate literary energy, which stemmed from reading and studying the works of the ages, as well as from composing their own writings and poems. The initial exam for scholars merely tested their aptitude for absorbing the world’s literary essence. Only scholars brimming with literary energy could, during the imperial examinations, set pen to paper and gather literary force, thus embarking on the path of the literati.

After gathering this energy, one learned to wield it; great scholars had forged poems and prose into weapons. Thus, many poetic schools and traditions emerged, enabling scholars to command armies with their words or to vanquish foes.

But to truly achieve any of this, one needed the title of Xiucai. This status allowed the scholar to step into the halls of learning, gather literary force, and command poetry.

Yet here he was, a mere scholar-in-training, and he felt he could already employ this poem? Song Mu found it uncanny, but drew a clear conclusion: such poems would surely be of use to him. After all, no one would ever complain about gaining an ace up their sleeve.

Song Mu’s surprise lasted only a moment before he regained his composure. Glancing around, he saw Master Xun appreciating his poem. Upon catching Song Mu’s gaze, the master extended the poem to him.

“Very good,” Master Xun praised.

The surrounding scholars all marveled. They understood Master Xun’s character well; for a student to earn even a simple commendation from him was tantamount to full approval. That Song Mu’s object poem could win such endorsement was astonishing.

Pan Wenhao and Qi Dazuo were both dumbfounded. Qi Dazuo muttered, “Did this solitary seedling really find enlightenment after visiting Yanggang?”

Pan Wenhao, however, snorted and said under his breath, “It was just luck. For today’s examination, he had to produce one or two poems he’d been saving.”

After all, as a scion of the Song family, even if mediocre, he was bound to have a few decent pieces. Qi Dazuo nodded in agreement, and Pan Wenhao narrowed his eyes at Song Mu.

“To compose a poem with four dou of talent is already the limit for a scholar-in-training. I don’t believe he can come up with another one of similar caliber,” he thought.

As Pan Wenhao was pondering this, Li Mo’er once again stood before Song Mu and asked, “Young Master Song, could you compose a second poem?”

Her eyes narrowed with anticipation as she looked at Song Mu, who, still intrigued by the ancient tome in his mind, nodded in agreement.

Li Mo’er, clutching her little gourd, hesitated for a moment before speaking, “Then I ask you, Young Master Song, to compose a poem about Young Master Kong—however you wish.”

She gestured toward Kong Zong, who stared at her in shock before looking at Song Mu, then at Li Mo’er with a wry smile. “Miss Mo’er, what sort of topic is this?”

But Li Mo’er was clearly entertained. “Do you accept, Young Master Song?”

Song Mu, equally astonished, looked from Li Mo’er to Kong Zong, feeling as if he were being toyed with. Composing a poem on an object or a scene was one thing—but to write about Kong Zong, with no concrete theme, left Song Mu momentarily at a loss.

Even Master Xun frowned at the difficulty of the task, though the others were thoroughly intrigued. Several Xiucai teachers attempted a couplet or two, but found their ideas lacking and shook their heads in disappointment. Their eyes then turned to Song Mu.

Such is human nature: when something is difficult for oneself, it becomes all the more interesting to see others attempt it—regardless of whether they fail or succeed, for the embarrassment would not be their own.

“Young Master Song, would you like me to change the topic?” Li Mo’er smiled sweetly.

Kong Zong, hearing this, tried to encourage Song Mu. “Brother Song, believe in yourself—just write freely, don’t hold back.”

“Yes, go ahead, Song Mu, we’d like to see as well,” chimed in the others, their interest piqued.

Song Mu sighed, relying on the fragments of memory that lingered in his mind. He prepared ink, deep in thought, muttering under his breath with furrowed brow, appearing thoroughly stumped.

Kong Zong watched nervously, convinced Li Mo’er’s challenge was excessive. He recalled his father’s words about her love of testing others with poetry, but today’s topic seemed unnecessarily difficult. He resolved to step in and help Song Mu save face, but just then, Song Mu’s hand paused over the inkstone. Looking up, he glanced at Li Mo’er, then slowly turned north and bowed with utmost respect.

“Saint Li, Saint Du, I have been presumptuous today.”

At this, the crowd stirred. To see Song Mu salute the venerated saints Li and Du—immortalized in poetry—was no small matter.

Finishing his bow, Song Mu turned, picked up his brush, dipped it in ink, and began to write. Bold Yan-style characters appeared on the white paper, line after line of seven-character verse. A scholar leaned in to read aloud:

“Li and Du’s poems are recited by all,
By now they seem no longer new.
In every age, talents rise and fall,
Each leads the times for a hundred years or two.”

The words fell, and the crowd’s eyes widened. A hush fell upon the scene, so silent one could hear a pin drop.

Pan Wenhao, his brows drawn together, suddenly shouted, “Outrageous! How dare you insult the saints Li and Du!”

He was exhilarated, believing he had finally found Song Mu’s weak point. For in the Literary Dynasty, the best way to wield literary force in battle was with poetic verses—and for a poem’s attack to be truly potent, it must brim with talent.

Li Bai’s poetry was romantic yet chivalrous, every line sharp as a blade; his “The Swordsman’s Journey” had once cut down countless great demons. Du Fu’s verse, profound and stirring, was infused with patriotism, beloved by all scholars.

For decades, humanity had battled demons, and for centuries since, scholars across the land had wielded the poetry of Li and Du as weapons. Each use of their verse strengthened the literary line of their houses, so that today, the Li and Du schools reigned supreme, the very heart of the world’s literary tradition.

Every aspiring scholar studied their works; countless poets regarded the Li and Du schools as the ultimate aspiration. They represented the pinnacle of poetry, the backbone of an era.

And now, a mere scholar-in-training dared to claim their work was “no longer new”? The crowd was stunned.

“Song Mu, how dare you slander Li and Du—” Pan Wenhao and Qi Dazuo seized on the opportunity to reproach him, but before their harsh words could leave their lips, they abruptly fell silent.

For they suddenly saw a vast surge of literary energy rising from the white paper! The very air trembled as waves of pure white emanated from the poem on the desk, swirling with brilliant colors.

“Eight dou of talent!” someone cried.

“A timeless masterpiece!” another exclaimed. “It’s that line: ‘In every age, talents rise and fall, each leads the times for a hundred years or two!’”

A scholar raised his hand in awe. “I feel the literary force within me surging—this talent is flowing into my body!”

All the other scholars gasped in astonishment, their faces transformed. Master Xun, grave and solemn, strode forward and fixed Song Mu with a keen gaze, just as Song Mu finished writing the poem’s title:

“Presented on July Fifth to Brother Kong Zong and the Fellow Scholars of Shiyang County School”

As the title landed, the literary energy from the paper grew even fiercer. The radiant literary force turned to colored ribbons that first streamed into Kong Zong, then fanned out to sweep through nearly everyone present.

In that moment, the intensity of the literary energy changed the look in every eye.