Chapter 47 Who Else

Jia Ping'an had learned quite a bit of relevant knowledge while serving by the side of his senior leader in his past life. Since the boss was a traditional man deeply interested in classical literature, Jia Ping'an, acting as his chief secretary, naturally had to cater to his preferences.

As soon as this poem was recited, he could tell that it did not concern the matters of Ningguta, but rather depicted the New Year scenery in Changdu.

It portrayed the scenes of New Year firecrackers echoing from all directions and lanterns illuminating everywhere, expressing Tong Weixing's sentiments about bidding farewell to the old year and welcoming the new, as well as the passage of time. Especially the line looking back on the rough and bumpy journey, it conveyed his various reflections on the past.

As for the last two couplets—lanterns hanging in the mortal world, and the Big Dipper traversing the night sky—they symbolized the prosperity of the human world and the relentless flow of time, collectively creating an atmosphere that was both celebratory and slightly melancholy.

Though it might not be classified as an absolute masterpiece, it could certainly be considered a fine piece of verse overall.

It was a work of high quality.

However, if Tong Weixing truly believed he could outshine him with this piece alone, he was greatly underestimating him—or rather, underestimating the poets and literary figures of China's thousands of years of history.

"Ha, ha, ha." Hearing Guo Tongfang's praise, Tong Weixing wore a reserved smile. In his heart, he acknowledged and was satisfied with this poem. Receiving such praise was well-deserved. Having finished his recitation, his gaze fell upon Jia Ping'an beside him, clearly eager to see how the young man would respond.

Or perhaps, he might simply admit defeat, which Tong Weixing could also understand.

Composing poetry required not only inspiration but also a certain degree of life experience; otherwise, one could never produce peerless verses.

Therefore, at this moment, Tong Weixing looked at Jia Ping'an with a thoroughly playful attitude. He was even prepared to offer high praise no matter what kind of poem the opponent came up with, just so as not to let him lose too much face.

For someone of Tong Weixing's personality, being willing to deliberately show leniency was already a very rare thing.

At this instant, not only was Tong Weixing looking at Jia Ping'an, but Guo Tongfang, along with the sixty chefs and entertainers seated around the tables enjoying the New Year's Eve dinner, also began to focus their gazes on Jia Ping'an.

Bai Ruolan sat at a table not far from the main table, looking at her young master with a hint of worry in her eyes.

From her angle, she could just see the youth's profile—his sharply defined facial contours gave him an even more uniquely handsome aura.

After just a single glance, Bai Ruolan felt her face flushing slightly. Yet, what concerned her far more right now was whether Jia Ping'an would be able to compose a poem in response.

The person opposite him was a former top scholar of the Xuan Kingdom, and composing poetry was his absolute forte. Compared to such a person, even those acclaimed as men of talent would likely pale in comparison.

For some reason, Bai Ruolan suddenly began to feel a sense of heartache for Jia Ping'an. Although she was still a slave whose deed of sale was in another's hands, at this moment, she couldn't help but worry for him of her own accord.

Such is a woman fallen deeply in love: her eyes hold only the man of her heart, leaving no room for anything else.

In contrast, Jia Ping'an, the focal point of all this attention, remained unhurried and calm, with steady eyes and an even breath.

Under the watchful gazes of Tong Weixing and the others, his lips, of moderate thickness, parted slightly, and he began to speak.

Amidst the sounds of firecrackers, a year has passed away;
The spring breeze sends warmth, entering the cups of spiced wine.
Thousands of households glow beneath the rising sun,
New peach-wood charms are ever exchanged for the old.

A poem by Wang Anshi, "New Year's Day," was recited from Jia Ping'an's lips.

He made a slight modification to the lyrics because people at this time drank a specific kind of spiced wine known as Futou wine, so he replaced the traditional Tusuo wine. Strangely enough, when recited this way, it still fit the rhythm harmoniously.

Moreover, Jia Ping'an's poem also began with the sound of firecrackers, but its meaning and artistic conception were entirely different. If a comparison had to be made, the two poems were simply not in the same league at all.

As soon as this poem was uttered, it shocked everyone present. Tong Weixing himself was so startled that he rose abruptly from his chair.

He had originally thought that Jia Ping'an could not compose poetry, and even if he did, it would be nothing more than clumsy graffiti not worth mentioning.

Never had he imagined that as soon as the young man opened his mouth, the poem he recited would leave him trailing leagues behind.

He himself was a top scholar, the pinnacle among literary men.

Even among scholars, he was among the most exceptional existences.

Yet now, he was thoroughly and bluntly outperformed in poetry composition by a youth who would not turn sixteen for another two hours. This feeling...

This feeling left Tong Weixing entirely at a loss for words.

At this moment, even if he wanted to offer some critique, he didn't even know where to begin. The other's poetry was superior to his own; what could he possibly find to say?

Tong Weixing's face turned somewhat pale. Call it startled, call it terrified—in short, he was at his wits' end, completely unsure of what to say, and simply stood there in a daze.

His reaction was entirely taken in by Guo Tongfang.

Guo was equally astonished by this poem.

True, he himself could not compose poetry, but he could appreciate the quality of a piece. Seeing that the previously unknown Jia Ping'an could actually outshine Tong Weixing in poetic skill, his mind also failed to process the turn of events for a moment.

However, compared to Tong Weixing, Guo Tongfang clearly regained his wits much faster. Following that, a thought struck him, and he suddenly laughed heartily, saying, "Splendid! This poem is indeed a masterpiece. It's just a pity that such a wonderful verse comes as a lone piece. I wonder if our talented Brother Jia can compose another?"

Guo Tongfang spoke with apparent courtesy, but Jia Ping'an caught the hidden implication behind his words.

The man harbored doubts about him, suspecting that he had prepared this in advance, and therefore wanted him to compose another poem on the spot.

Indeed, many poems were prepared beforehand, and some wealthy individuals would even spend large sums to purchase poetry just to put up a front.

Jia Ping'an clearly did not lack money now; if he was willing to spend silver, who could say he couldn't buy a good poem?

Perhaps his poem had been purchased all along?

It was precisely with this thought in mind that Guo Tongfang had spoken up. If Jia Ping'an failed to produce another poem right then and there, it would prove this suspicion, and Tong Weixing would no longer have anything to feel depressed about.

The other had bought his poem with money, unlike you, who composed it through your own genuine skill—there was no comparison. Strictly speaking, you were still the more formidable one in poetry.

Guo Tongfang's move was also an indirect way of speaking up for his old friend. Of course, it likewise carried the intent to test Jia Ping'an, to see whether he possessed true talent and learning or if everything was merely the result of sheer financial power.

As soon as these words fell, Tong Weixing instantly regained his interest and rallied his spirit.

Master Tong had naturally heard of the practice of buying poetry with money, and had even encountered it before. Pondering Jia Ping'an's financial resources, everything suddenly seemed to make sense.

To be wealthy was truly wonderful—even such exquisite poetry could be bought.

Just as this thought crossed his mind, Tong Weixing shuddered involuntarily from head to toe. "No, how could anyone ever sell such exquisite poetry?"

If it were ordinary poetry, some scholars might consider ghostwriting for others out of livelihood concerns. But when it involved works of exceptional brilliance, they would absolutely never do such a thing. For a literary figure establishing himself in the world, what did he strive for above all else? Reputation came first.

Not that there were no people indifferent to fame and wealth who devoted themselves entirely to scholarship; but if such people truly existed, they would be even less likely to sell the fine poetry in their possession. Consequently, this meant that such brilliant poetry could not simply be bought.

Reflecting upon this, the look in Tong Weixing's eyes toward Jia Ping'an shifted. Before he could utter another word, however, Jia Ping'an spoke up once again.

You don't believe me, do you? Very well, then I shall compose poetry until you are fully convinced.

You want poems about the New Year? He—has them!

A distant, winding road through the Three Gorges,
A lonely, perilous life a myriad miles from home.
A night of tangled mountains and lingering snow,
A solitary candle lighting a traveler in a foreign land.
Gradually growing farther from my own flesh and blood,
Growing strangely closer to my servants.
How can I bear this drifting and wandering,
When tomorrow the new year begins afresh?

The preceding piece was Meng Haoran's "New Year's Eve." Now let us have another of his works, "Thoughts on New Year's Eve."

The fifth-watch drum and clepsydra urge the night away,
The four seasons shift and return in endless circles.
The dying flame has just faded from the lamp behind the curtains,
The fragrance in the censer has all turned to ash.
Gradually I watch spring press against the hibiscus pillow,
Suddenly I feel the chill melt from the bamboo-leaf wine cup.
In every household keeping vigil, none should be asleep;
How could dreams of yearning fail to find their way to me?

Still not enough? Then let us add one more: "Keeping Vigil on New Year's Eve in Qinzhou" by Zhang Shuo of the Tang Dynasty.

The old year ends tonight,
The new year dawns tomorrow.
With mindful heart I follow the Dipper's handle,
And gaze toward the northeast as spring returns.

Three poems in succession! Different in mood yet identical in meaning, all related to the arrival of spring and tightly bound to the theme of keeping vigil over the passing year. When every single one of them rolled off Jia Ping'an's tongue, the entire grand hall fell into an utter stillness.

At this moment, whether they understood poetry or not, everyone could feel Jia Ping'an's overwhelming brilliance.

Rhyming flawlessly, phrasing naturally, and composing masterpieces off the top of his head—on the strength of this alone, he was capable of shaking everyone present.

Those who understood poetry went without saying; by this point, they were utterly dumbfounded. Their mouths hung wide open, completely at a loss for words—just like Master Tong, Guo Tongfang, and Bai Ruolan.

All three had studied literature to some extent, differing only in their degree of mastery. Precisely because of this, their appreciative faculties were fully intact, allowing them all the more to grasp the terrifying reality of Jia Ping'an composing poetry effortlessly on demand.

While others required a long time to prepare a single poem, and some slower minds might need months or even years—after all, poetry writing relied on inspiration rather than mere scholarly proficiency—anyone could struggle.

Without genuine emotional resonance and a sudden flash of divine inspiration, nothing could be written.

This was the true reason why, though the world was full of scholars, truly great poems were so rare.

Yet when all these rules were applied to Jia Ping'an alone, every single conventional law was shattered.

All the requirements for preparation, brewing thoughts, inspiration, and emotional resonance—every single one of them vanished into thin air. How old was the youth, yet he could casually toss off four exquisite poems, any single one of which could make a person famous in the annals of classical poetry today, simply by opening his mouth? One had to ask—who else could possibly rival this?

The grand hall was so quiet that the dropping of a needle could be heard. After who knows how long, Xiao Bai seemed unaccustomed to such an atmosphere, shifted slightly, and let out a soft cry, which finally pulled everyone's thoughts back to reality.