Chapter Forty: A Drunken Duel of Poetry

“Sir, do you have other matters to attend to?”
The old man, observing the current state of the game and sensing that he was about to lose to this young fellow, tried to find a way to send him off. But Li Pingyang, oblivious to the hint, replied that he was free for the entire day!

The old man nearly choked in frustration and asked, “Then... may I take back a few stones? I...”

“No taking back moves! A loss is a loss—there’s nothing to fret about. If you won’t admit it, I’ll just concede myself.”

At these words, the old man’s face darkened instantly. In his heart, he vowed that if he ever played another game with this rascal, he’d be a fool.

With no way out, the old man forced himself to continue, but soon Li Pingyang tightened his siege, leaving the old man cornered by the white stones with nowhere to go. Left with no choice, the old man admitted defeat.

Packing up the board, the old man glanced at the sky, which looked like rain was coming, and got up to leave. Seeing this, Little Dragonfly stretched lazily, thinking at last she could go home.

Just then, an old man and a young man ascended the stairs and headed straight for Li Pingyang. They compared him to a portrait, confirmed his identity, and immediately—

Pointed at Li Pingyang’s nose and cursed, “So you’re the genius of Lanzhou? Bah! Have you no shame, passing off my teacher’s poem as your own and claiming you wrote it? Disgraceful!”

The young man’s tirade left Li Pingyang utterly bewildered, bombarded by a barrage of accusations—not to mention the young man’s breath, which reeked indescribably.

The old man, who was about to leave, overheard the commotion and realized that his chess companion was the very same renowned Lanzhou scholar. It was unexpected, yet made a strange kind of sense. If it was him, it was entirely possible!

When he heard the accusation, Li Pingyang felt a pang of guilt. Indeed, he had copied a poem, and not just any poem, but one by Su Shi himself. He just hadn’t expected to be caught out so quickly.

But soon after, he sensed something was amiss. The accuser was a youth older than Su Shi himself, and claimed that the poet was his teacher. Since Li Pingyang had transmigrated to this world, the Su family’s scion was still just a boy. How could he have disciples?

Intrigued, Li Pingyang decided to see what game these two were playing and who had sent them to slander him.

“Sir, the poem you accuse him of plagiarizing—was it the one that took the top prize at the Poetry Gathering, ‘Prelude to Water Melody’?”

“Who are you? Mind your own business! If you don’t shut up, watch out or I’ll—”

Before the threat could be finished, a black-clad figure, who had been drinking atop the Flower Pavilion’s roof, leapt down and appeared before them in the blink of an eye, seizing the young man by the throat.

Had the old man not called out to spare him, the youth’s neck would have been snapped and his words left unsaid, buried along with him.

Seeing the masked man, Li Pingyang instantly recognized him as the one who had, with a single palm on the street, saved a life by calming a startled horse. The man’s face was half-covered by a black cloth, revealing only his eyes—cold, murderous eyes that sent chills down one’s spine with a single glance.

“Stand down,” instructed the old man. The black-clad figure obeyed, releasing the youth and leaping out the window in a flash.

Little Dragonfly, smitten, gazed after the man with starry eyes. She hurried to the window, but he was already gone.

“If you trust me, tell me the whole story. If it’s true, I promise you I’ll help you catch the culprit and see justice done for you and your teacher. Will you accept?”

The young man, wary but seeing an opportunity, decided to use the old man to get rid of his target. After a glance toward the restaurant across the street, where his instigator nodded in approval, he produced a sheet of paper from his sleeve, claiming it was his teacher’s own handwriting.

The old man examined the sheet carefully. The bold, flowing calligraphy displayed the words of “Prelude to Water Melody”—identical to the poem from the poetry gathering. At the bottom was a seal, bearing the surname Zhang.

He explained further: the elderly man beside him was his master, Zhang Dewang. The poem, he said, was composed by his teacher during a gathering at home, drinking with friends—not by Li Pingyang.

Hearing this, Li Pingyang merely smiled, returned to his table, poured himself a bowl of wine, and downed it in one go.

“Yes, I copied it,” Li Pingyang declared, slamming the bowl onto the table with a loud clang, startling the pair, who thought he was about to hurl it at them.

Little Dragonfly gasped in disbelief, wondering if she had heard wrong.

With his admission, the two accusers grew even more emboldened. The elder puffed up with pride, as if he were truly capable of penning immortal verses.

Seeing his posturing, Li Pingyang had half a mind to splash wine in his face to sober him up. He poured himself another bowl, shaking his head with a wry smile.

“Honestly, you could accuse me of copying anyone! Or name any poet you like—at least they actually wrote poetry. And who is this Zhang Dewang anyway? He’s not even fit to carry the shoes of the Poetry Immortal Su Shi!”

“You—!” The old man staggered back, nearly coughing up blood, and the young man hurriedly supported him to a seat.

“And since you claim, in all seriousness, that your master wrote this poem, let him come and compete with me in verse. If he can compose anything of the same caliber, I’ll admit I copied him!”

With that, Li Pingyang called for the waiter, tossed him some silver, and ordered him to fetch brush, ink, and paper.

For the sake of his reputation, Zhang Dewang had no choice but to accept, though he requested that Li Pingyang go first, needing some time to prepare.

Soon, the materials were ready. Little Dragonfly watched her young master anxiously, worried he might not be able to produce a worthy poem.

Li Pingyang seized the wine jar, filled his bowl to the brim, and downed it in one gulp. With a bold swipe across his mouth, he demanded the brush.

Little Dragonfly hurriedly handed him the brush and paper.

Li Pingyang spread the sheets across the joined tables and bent over them. The brush danced across the paper, his calligraphy wild and unrestrained, brimming with solitary pride.

In no time, he completed the first half of the poem. Halfway through, he took up the wine jar, drank deeply, and finished the rest.

Once done, he handed the poem to Little Dragonfly, asking her to read it aloud. He himself slumped into a chair, his cheeks flushed, and continued to drink.

The old man who had played chess with him stroked his beard in anticipation. The poem Li Pingyang had composed at the previous poetry gathering still lingered in his memory, and he often recited it to himself.

A few diners from downstairs, upon hearing that the famed Lanzhou scholar was composing a poem upstairs, hurried up to watch the spectacle. They were all fans of Li Dog-egg’s poetry.

The atmosphere became lively and electric.

“Great rivers flow eastward, sweeping away all the ages...”

Under everyone’s gaze, Little Dragonfly lifted the paper and began to read aloud with heroic vigor. From the very first line, the room erupted with excitement!