Chapter Thirteen: Borrowing Li Taibai’s Celestial Measuring Rod for a Moment

“Best of three, today’s meeting at Chujiang Tower. The first round’s theme is ‘tower’; compose a poem within the time it takes for a stick of incense to burn.”

The Director Kong of the Imperial Academy stroked his beard, feigning contemplation for a moment before speaking.

Dou Tuo fidgeted with a jade ruyi scepter, pretending to be deep in thought as he began composing his poem.

Gu Dao waved his sleeve and spoke:

“Wine? Does the grand Chujiang Tower lack wine? How can one compose poetry without wine?”

The one in charge of the elegant chambers was a captivating lady named Yu Zhu.

Upon hearing this, she smiled gracefully—no way would she damage the establishment’s reputation in such a setting.

With a flick of her cloud-like sleeves, a group of brightly clad maidens entered, bearing exquisite porcelain wine vessels as if flowing like fragrant clouds.

“Chujiang Tower may not claim to gather all the world’s finest wines, but it certainly boasts the best in the capital. Which kind does Young Master Gu prefer?” The alluring lady’s voice was gentle, yet tinged with coquettish pride.

“How would I know what’s good without tasting? Bring one cup of each first.” Gu Dao waved his sleeve with bold confidence.

“Haha, you’re like a frog at the bottom of a well—your first time at such an upscale place, no doubt. Don’t you fear getting drunk if you drink one cup of each?” Dou Tuo couldn’t help but mock. Laughter followed from those around, even the beguiling Yu Zhu covered her mouth with a fan, her eyes sparkling with light teasing.

“Fine, I’m a frog in a well. Brother Toad, hurry and compose your poem; don’t keep me from my drinking.” Gu Dao smiled with disdain and beckoned the maidens to pour the wine.

One cup after another went down smoothly; his handsome face flushed slightly, his demeanor both elegant and debonair.

Jealousy flashed briefly in Dou Tuo’s eyes. Especially looking at Gu Dao’s strong and handsome face, his anger burned fiercely, yet he had to maintain the pretense of composing poetry.

After half a stick of incense burned:

“My poem is complete. Bring the brush and ink!” Dou Tuo shouted loudly.

Though a bully, Dou Tuo was no ignoramus. With vigorous strokes, he penned a poem full of life and vigor.

Lin Dong naturally recited it loudly:

“A towering building stands majestic, its grandeur reflecting the sun’s edge.

Carved beams conceal dragons and phoenixes; painted rafters envelop clouds and mist.

Flying eaves pierce the sky’s expanse; jade halls connect with the moon’s glow.

A hundred feet high, it braves the wind; a spirit of grandeur passed through ages.

Crimson railings cross the emerald waters; verdant tiles cover the blue heavens.

The jade tower houses secret treasures; the fairy terrace gathers divine beings.

Climbing high, one’s gaze stretches wide; myriad scenes enter the eyes.

Majestic and imposing need no question—the towering building stands proudly.”

As the recitation ended, cheers arose. Within half a stick of incense, he had composed a sixteen-line, eight-couplet poem.

Its ornate diction, splendid and grand, was truly worthy of praise.

Dou Tuo stood, waving to all directions, his toad-like face full of smug delight, lips nearly stretching to the back of his head.

At that moment, he seemed to have stepped over Gu Dao and to be renowned throughout the capital.

Gu Dao had already drunk eighteen cups. Hearing Dou Tuo’s poem, he shook his head with a sneer of disdain.

With each cup, he closed his eyes to savor, as if forgetting the task of composing poetry.

In the highest chamber of the North Tower of Chujiang Tower,

King Chu leisurely reclined on a couch, a wine cup nearby, chatting casually with Princess Li Qianyun.

---

Dou Tuo’s poem, just completed, was sent directly to King Chu.

The king glanced at it casually, then set it aside.

“Uncle, does Dou’s poem not meet your expectations?” Li Qianyun asked.

“How many days did he take to write it?” the king teased.

“Ah, your sharp eyes never miss a thing. Indeed, it took him two days to finally produce it,” Li Qianyun smiled.

“You always fuss over that Gu boy, but it will only hurt the bond between husband and wife in the end.”

King Chu had seen through everything long ago.

“Uncle, why say that? I don’t like him at all. Why do you all insist on forcing water down a bull’s throat?”

Li Qianyun frowned, her tone both coy and innocent.

“Alright, uncle will say no more; he doesn’t want to be disliked. What’s the purpose of arranging today’s event?”

King Chu smiled knowingly, letting his niece’s father worry about her affairs while he watched the spectacle.

“He’s done nothing for over ten years, then suddenly makes a splash—there must be some trick. Today, I want to expose his true face as a fraud.”

Li Qianyun clenched her fist, her voice passionate.

“Hmm, then you want your father to see through him, and the whole world too, to ease your way out of the broken engagement.”

King Chu voiced what Li Qianyun had left unsaid.

“Uncle, you understand my intentions. You won’t blame me for using your influence, right?” Li Qianyun cooed like a kitten seeking favor.

King Chu laughed heartily: “Of course not. What’s mine is yours.”

“By the way, Dou has finished writing; has Gu composed anything yet?”

King Chu turned to ask a servant.

“Not yet. Young Master Gu has been drinking all along. When Master Dou finished, Gu had already downed eighteen cups,” the servant replied.

“Eighteen cups?” The king was surprised, then chuckled silently. “Not sure about his poem, but he’s certainly a heavy drinker.”

“Hmph, I think he can’t write at all and is just using drunkenness as a cover. A useless drunkard indeed.”

Li Qianyun scoffed.

---

Inside the third-floor chamber of the East Tower:

“Gu Dao, time’s nearly up. You don’t intend to escape composing by getting drunk, do you? If you keep drinking, you might as well admit you’re the fraud you’re accused of.”

Dou Tuo tapped the table with his jade ruyi, his voice cold.

Others joined in with boos and whispers, speculating.

“Who knows if those poems were even his? Such disappointment today—could it be all plagiarized?” one sneered loudly.

“Judging by his character, the rumors seem true. His poems were copied from elsewhere,” another agreed.

Dong Kuo slammed the table, eyes blazing with anger:

“Enough! Writing can be sudden inspiration or slow meditation. Don’t defile a man’s integrity so recklessly!”

“Dong Fuzhong, the pure remain pure and the foul remain foul. Don’t be so unruly; sit down,” said the gaunt, green-eyed Director Kong.

Such blatant favoritism enraged Dong Kuo, but respect for the scholarly way forbade him from retaliation.

He gritted his teeth and sat down, feeling stifled.

Gu Dao ignored their chatter, glanced at the incense, and continued savoring the wine cup by cup.

The wines of this era were smooth and each had its own subtle flavor, lifting his spirits, making him disdain their petty malice.

As the incense neared its end, Dou Tuo exchanged a glance with Director Kong, who then spoke:

“Gu Xiuzhi, if you can compose, do so. If not, admit defeat honestly. But your wanton behavior to deceive is a disgrace to the Imperial Academy.”

No sooner had Director Kong finished than Li Yang awkwardly shifted his seat, distancing himself from Gu Dao.

The crowd’s jeers grew louder, some even spreading rumors that Gu Dao’s past poems were plagiarized.

“Young master is drunk. Though the wine is gifted, don’t ruin your health. Better to stop drinking.”

The elegant chamber attendant Yu Zhu gently advised, having already decided Gu Dao was using wine to hide and was greedy for more.

“Enough noise! Can’t even enjoy a drink in peace!” Gu Dao snorted coldly, tossing his cup aside.

---

Rising to the desk, he took up the brush. Riding the high of a third of the wine, he penned the first line in one breath: “A towering building a hundred feet high.”

Dong Kuo read aloud.

“Haha, Gu Dao, using ‘a hundred feet’ just like me—copying so brazenly without shame.”

Dou Tuo sneered loudly. His poem had just used “a hundred feet,” and Gu Dao repeated it, indeed a blatant overlap.

Director Kong feigned a shake of his head, sighing.

The crowd burst into laughter, mocking Gu Dao’s shamelessness, confirming the earlier poem was plagiarized.

“Such a crude copy, no artistry—it’s unbearable to watch.”

“Heh, his level is worse than common folk. Even the wonton seller outside my door writes better.”

Dong Kuo was a bit embarrassed.

“Xiuzhi, maybe sober up first.”

“No need. His feet are mere earthly feet; mine measure the heavens,” Gu Dao said boldly.

With that, he wrote the second line with heavy ink: “One can pluck stars from the sky.”

Dong Kuo read it with effort.

Suddenly the room fell silent; all the previous scorn faded.

Though the words remained straightforward, the grandeur of surveying heaven and earth struck powerfully.

To grasp stars as easily as reaching into a pocket—only an immortal could do so.

Gu Dao held the brush with grace, writing the final two lines freely:

“Dare not speak aloud, lest I startle those in heaven.”

Dong Kuo shouted the last line, his voice carrying to all three floors.

Silence reigned; everyone’s hearts were captured by the poem’s majestic momentum.

Poetry could be so direct, yet its spirit so compelling.

It struck the soul like a forceful gust.

Lofty and high, standing shoulder to shoulder with celestial beings, surveying the world with commanding spirit pointing to the vast heavens.

Compared to this, Dou Tuo’s lengthy poem was mere rubble—seemingly structured but hollow upon closer scrutiny.

Gu Dao’s poem, plain and unadorned, yet reading it was like witnessing a divine dragon soaring through the nine heavens, commanding thunder and wind—far beyond mortal reach.

As Gu Dao said, Dou Tuo’s “hundred feet” were earthly measures, while his were celestial.

The magnificent spirit of the immortal poet Li Bai was not something ordinary men could aspire to.

The literati present naturally discerned the quality. Even Director Kong, who colluded with Dou Tuo, dared not claim Dou had won.

Otherwise, they would be ridiculed tomorrow and lose standing in scholarly circles.

“More wine...” Gu Dao tossed down his brush lazily, reaching out.

Yu Zhu, who had mocked him before, now personally presented a jade cup filled with wine, her skirt fluttering, waist swaying like willows in the wind, captivating all hearts.

“You’ve already drunk twenty-eight cups. I dare not dampen your spirits, but must remind you to take care of yourself.”

The lady spoke with utmost softness and charm, in stark contrast to her earlier scorn.

“The wine hasn’t yet intoxicated me; my spirit’s not spent. Don’t be noisy,” Gu Dao drained the cup and strode toward Dou Tuo.

Yu Zhu followed closely, pouring wine from the pot.

“Dou Tuo, no need for others to judge. Tell me yourself—who won this round?”

Dou Tuo’s face darkened instantly. With such a masterpiece before him, he knew he had lost.

Yet he could not admit defeat so easily. He glanced at the green-eyed Director Kong.

The old scholar cleared his throat:

“Gu Xiuzhi, your poem’s concept soars and its spirit is vast, but it has only four lines, two couplets, and took longer to compose.”

“Dou Yuancheng’s words are refined and his momentum not shabby. Besides, he wrote sixteen lines, eight couplets, in half the time you took.”

“In that case, let’s say you have a slight advantage, and call it a draw.”

Director Kong reluctantly delivered the verdict.