7. Copy! I'll copy you to death! Hurry up and tell me, is Dad's article long or not?

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"The young master of my household said he welcomes all talented scholars regardless of their background, but those who try to pass off as something they are not will be absolutely rejected. Since you claim to be gifted, let me test you—each of you shall compose a poem beginning with one character from my name."

"I'll take 'Peach'," Old Zhang chuckled, glancing at Xia Lin. "What about you?"

"You've taken 'Peach,' so I'll choose 'Spring.'"

"Excellent, excellent! Since you chose 'Spring,' you shall go first. Come on, call out 'Spring,' call out 'Spring!'"

Their call-and-response, though free of vulgar language, left the name 'Spring Peach' blushing deeply, causing the onlookers’ impressions of the two to plummet. Despite their handsome appearances, they seemed quite dissolute—probably not men of good character.

At this moment, Xia Lin stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, pacing slowly. "Spring, huh? Spring..."

"If you can't answer, I absolutely won’t let either of you in," Spring Peach warned.

Xia Lin chuckled softly. "If being able to answer means you let people in, then you must have already let many in, haven't you?"

"Yeah, so what?"

Spring Peach answered earnestly, while Old Zhang was blushing furiously beside her. Seeing this, Spring Peach’s cheeks flushed even more, and she pointed at Xia Lin. "You—why do you speak so indecently?"

"Huh? Sister, you must be mistaken. Which word of mine is indecent? If such innocent words can be construed as improper, then I can only say that the wind is still and the water is calm because your spring heart has been stirred," Xia Lin waved his fan and shook his head. "Very good, very good—what maiden in the world does not harbor feelings of spring?"

"You—!"

Spring Peach was merely a maid serving in the young master’s residence, tasked with romantic embellishments, hardly comparable to Xia Lin and Old Zhang, who had scraped and clawed their way through the market streets.

What do the common folk love most? Isn’t it the sight of fair thighs and bare backsides? For years, they’d been sifting through the lives of paupers and laborers; there was no room for pretentious elegance or false refinement.

"Enough, Sister Spring Peach, listen to me. When the flowers fade and the red petals fall, the green apricots are small. When the swallows fly, the village by the green waters surrounds. On the branches, the willow fluff is blown away little by little. Where in the world is there not fragrant grass? Inside the wall, the swing sways; outside the wall, the path lies. Outside the wall, passersby; inside the wall, a beauty laughs. The laughter gradually fades and the voice slowly grows quiet. The affectionate are tormented by the indifferent."

As he spoke, he pointed casually to a small apricot on a branch, as if effortlessly composing the lines. But to Spring Peach’s ears, these were no ordinary words. This was no less than the work of Su Dongpo, a great master succeeding Li Bai and rivaling Xin Qiji. From the mouth of a young man, this little poem was not lamenting fate but rather expressing the bittersweet yearning of a youthful heart in unrequited love, stirring deep emotions.

Spring Peach mulled over the verses, and when she looked at Xia Lin again, her gaze had become inexplicably dreamy. She couldn’t understand this vulgar rogue—how could such seemingly offhand words be so graceful, fresh, and elegant?

Just as she was lost in thought, Xia Lin leaned toward Old Zhang and whispered, "Where the peach blossoms bloom shallow and deep, like a skillfully applied makeup. The spring wind breaks the heart, blowing down the white clothes."

Old Zhang’s poetic skills were quite poor—indeed, abysmal. His expertise was painting, so for this cheating game, the shameless literary player Xia Lin was the designated expert.

"Did you just write that?"

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"I damn well just copied it. Why so many words?"

Old Zhang cleared his throat to snap Spring Peach out of her reverie, then stepped forward with a smile. "Little Peach, I shall also offer a humble contribution, not as good as my brother’s, but fitting the theme. Listen: ‘Where the peach blossoms bloom shallow and deep, like a skillfully applied makeup. The spring wind breaks the heart, blowing down the white clothes.’"

Spring Peach was slightly startled again. Although this was inferior to the previous poem, it was still leagues better than the crude couplets she’d heard earlier that morning—like “Frogs croak in the early spring pond, apricot blossoms on the tree burn like fire.”

"Spring Peach, sister, may we enter now?"

Xia Lin’s loud call brought Spring Peach back to reality. Seeing the teasing expression on his face, she rolled her eyes and turned away in a huff. "Fine, come in."

With that, she led the two so-called “talented scholars” into the banquet hall and seated them at a table before returning to report to the young master.

The young master greeted her with a smile. "Well? How did it go?"

"They do have talent, but they’re really shameless," Spring Peach admitted, still a bit angry at being teased. She recounted the entire incident.

"The line ‘Willow fluff blows little again on the branches; where in the world is there not fragrant grass...’ Ah, marvelous! What a naturally inspired masterpiece! Truly wonderful!" The young master was unconcerned about Spring Peach’s discomfort—a maid was just a maid. If he liked her, giving her away was no big matter. But these two’s poetry was truly extraordinary—he grew more impressed with each consideration. Were it not for his status, he would have gone down to discuss poetry with them then and there. But the poetry gathering was to last all day and night until the dawn crow of roosters—there would be plenty of time.

Meanwhile, Xia Lin and Old Zhang had taken their seats. Aside from them, four others sat at the table. Though it was a meal, these others seemed hesitant to touch their food, lest they appear uncultured.

But Xia Lin and Old Zhang were different. Frustrated by hunger and having seen the untouched feast before them, they unabashedly indulged. Each grabbed a large chicken leg, skewered meatballs on their chopsticks, took bites, then downed swigs of sweet wine from small flasks, completely indifferent to others’ gazes.

"Hey, hey, hey... gentlemen, if the young master saw your manners, he wouldn’t be pleased," one of the cultured scholars warned, eyes tinged with impatience and disdain.

Old Zhang had no time to respond, but Xia Lin swallowed a mouthful, wiped his mouth, and said, "It’s a banquet—how can you call it a banquet without eating? The better we eat, the happier the host. If all you do is nibble and leave hungry, what’s the difference from insulting them?"

Though the meaning of “five hundred kilocalories” escaped them, it was probably some local dialect, but the gist was clear. His words made sense, and having hardly eaten all morning, the table soon descended into a frenzy of devouring, drawing frequent glances from nearby tables.

After about half an hour, both were full and leaned back with stuffed bellies. Xia Lin patted Old Zhang’s stomach. "You eat like a starving ghost reborn. You probably never had good food in your past life."

"You’re the one who never ate well. Back when I drank with the gentlemen at the Pavilion of Prince Teng, you were probably gnawing bark in some corner. If I hadn’t been kind, you’d have starved to death long ago."

"Heh, who’d believe someone who can eat half a bucket of slops say that?"

"And who knows whose guts got the other half."

The two bantered as usual. Suddenly, a voice called out ahead: "Gentlemen of talent! Today, the Crown Prince of Qin hosts a banquet for you all, hoping to gather friends through literature. The young master said that back in Luoyang, while chatting with his classmates, he once heard a half-verse of a poem. Now he brings it forth to see if any of you talented scholars can complete it. If the young master is satisfied, generous rewards await."

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At the mention of generous rewards, Xia Lin craned his neck and caught sight of the youth sitting beside the speaker. The more he looked, the more familiar he seemed. After a moment’s thought, he slapped his thigh. "Isn’t that the inspecting censor?"

The young master still appeared as radiant as a bright star, clad in splendid brocade robes with a silk long gown. His smile was serene; his face pale and clean-shaven. Holding a jade bone fan embroidered with silk, wearing a purple-gold hair crown, he exuded supreme noble elegance.

"Old Zhang, old Zhang, an old acquaintance!" Xia Lin nudged Old Zhang, who looked up and recognized the young master as the very person who had come to check on his injuries that day. He whispered, "Weren’t they supposed to be cracking down on aristocratic families over in Luoyang? How come they’re here in the south?"

"Who knows? Maybe he’s traveling the country to compile a list and will handle it all at once later."

"Could be."

At that moment, the speaker continued, "The young master’s friend said he only heard half the verse: ‘The spring river’s tide is level with the sea, the bright moon over the sea rises with the tide.’ Does anyone know how to continue this line?"

As soon as it was spoken, Old Zhang looked at Xia Lin. "Wasn’t that the line you wrote on the wall?"

"Who else would it be?" Xia Lin wiped his nose. "I was teaching you the slender gold script back then."

"Right, right," Old Zhang nodded eagerly. "The slender gold script, that’s it."

This was no mere couplet; it was the opening line of the long poem "Spring River, Flower Moon Night." Xia Lin had taught Old Zhang the slender gold script during a break, writing the two lines on the mansion’s outer wall. Perhaps someone admired it so much they presented it to the young master as a treasure.

Unexpectedly, the young master took it seriously.

Then, a flood of patchwork continuations appeared. Many people wrote their own verses on slips of paper and handed them to the young master, but he shook his head repeatedly, his eyes betraying his disappointment.

"You go!" someone urged.

"Wait a moment." Xia Lin pulled out his phone under the table and quickly searched: "Spring River Flower Moon Night..."

After searching, he tilted his head toward Old Zhang. "Your handwriting is good. I’ll read it aloud and you write it down."

"You’re a rascal; practicing calligraphy is like sentencing you to death. Weren’t you going to teach me the slender gold script? Show me."

Xia Lin smiled awkwardly. "Short pieces are fine, but writing the whole long poem—my characters don’t line up... they tilt and don’t match the lines."

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