A single masterpiece eclipses all others.

Spring River, Flower, Moon, Night—this masterpiece has been hailed as a singular work surpassing the entire Tang dynasty’s poetry. Whether it truly outshines all Tang poetry is debatable, for since ancient times, literature has never had an undisputed first. Some believe this title belongs to “Spring River, Flower, Moon, Night,” while others might champion “Dreaming of Heavenly Mountains.”

Yet one fact is indisputable: the very fact that it competes on this level renders the question of being number one somewhat irrelevant.

After finishing one poem, Old Zhang, tasked with copying the text, was left dazed and lost in thought. Before his eyes unfolded a vast, magnificent painting. He longed to put pen to paper but dared not touch it, caught between a haze of murmured admiration and nervous hesitation, fearful that any careless stroke might mar the poem’s delicate essence.

When the final character was inscribed, Old Zhang, ever casual in demeanor, was drenched in sweat. He looked up at Xia Lin in astonishment, then took up the paper again to read it thoroughly, glancing once more at Xia Lin before opening his mouth—only to find himself utterly speechless.

Xia Lin, observing Old Zhang’s exquisite calligraphy, was equally amazed. Old Zhang was a master of the four arts—zither, chess, calligraphy, and painting. After learning a half-hearted slender gold script style from Xia Lin, he had elevated it to perfection, crafting a font that suited his meticulous nature. The resulting characters combined elegance with sharpness, exuding both the acerbic wit and keen insight of a scholar.

This piece was a harmonious blend: the poem formed the skeletal structure, the calligraphy embodied its spirit, each illuminating and playing off the other. The imagery of the poem seemed to penetrate the paper itself, the characters and verses mutually enhancing one another’s power by thirty percent each.

Such a synergy was rare—Old Zhang knew it would be difficult to replicate this effect again. This work was unique, a true masterpiece worthy of the saying: “A work of art is born naturally, a stroke of genius caught by chance.”

“I can’t bear to part with it,” Old Zhang’s hand trembled slightly as he looked back at Xia Lin. “Daosheng, I have no choice… this must be preserved as a family heirloom.”

“Preserve it for damn all families. With our sorry state, whether we have a family in the future is the real question,” Xia Lin gritted his teeth in a low voice. “Our only path is to climb step by step, as high as we can. In this world, scavenging scraps won’t make you a man of distinction. Old Zhang, remember this: before you reach that position, put away your reckless scholar’s pride!”

Old Zhang lowered his head without replying, while Xia Lin leaned back with a sigh. “The last three years we’ve lived—you know the hardship, the humiliation you’ve endured, the insults I’ve suffered. Think hard about it.”

No one would have guessed that this delicate-looking Daosheng harbored such burning hatred within; Old Zhang was startled. Yet when he looked again, the fierce expression had vanished, replaced by a smile. Xia Lin raised his chin and cheerfully called down to Chun Tao, who was collecting documents below.

“Chun Tao, over here.”

Hearing this, Chun Tao immediately approached, smiling brightly at the two frivolous youths. Yet as a maid from a prominent family, she carried herself with grace in her own domain. Upon seeing Xia Lin again, she placed her hands on her slender waist and teased, “Boy, why do you call me Sister Chun Tao?”

“Sister Chun Tao, please deliver this to the heir.”

“Very well. But Sister Chun Tao wants to inspect it first.”

Hearing this, Xia Lin chuckled, “It’s too early for an inspection.”

Chun Tao, having learned her lesson, quickly caught on and, though she didn’t blush as deeply this time, gave him a playful glare and a dramatic eye-roll.

“You’re no gentleman; at your age, you run your mouth shamelessly.” She poked him on the forehead. “You little rascal.”

Their laughter amused several nearby onlookers. Not wanting to linger, Chun Tao took the poem and hurried back to the heir.

Meanwhile, the Crown Prince of Qin was already weary-eyed from sifting through worthless imitations. His mind buzzed, his face still solemn, but inwardly he cursed the pretentious southern literati who had wasted his money, wondering what kind of rubbish they had all brought.

At that moment, a young man in a blue silk robe stood and smiled politely, bowing to the young prince. “Young Prince, I’m but an unworthy one. I just had a sudden inspiration and composed a piece. I hope Your Highness will kindly critique it.”

The young prince’s demeanor shifted instantly. “Read it aloud.”

“Your Highness, I am Xiong Neng, courtesy name Wentao, from Yuzhang. My family…”

The prince slammed the jade cup onto the table, startling Xiong Wentao into stammering, “My family… my family…”

Laughter erupted around the hall, even Xia Lin found it amusing. He whispered to Old Zhang, “See? Before you’re someone, no one cares your name. No matter how extraordinary, you’re no different from any stray dog on the street.”

Despite his displeasure at Xiong’s verbosity, the prince was not arbitrary and allowed him to read his poem.

“The spring river tide is level with the sea, the bright moon rises with the tide. Rippling waves reflect the stars; night boats glide beneath Yangzhou’s covered bridges. Green willows drift in the spring breeze; flower shadows sway, faint fragrance lingers. Mountains and waters naturally form a painting; with wine and poetry, sleepiness comes.”

Xiong Wentao’s face flushed as he finished. The prince sneered slightly—neither praising nor condemning—it was barely a poem, not nonsense, but merely mediocre talent.

At that moment, Chun Tao, seizing the opportunity, approached the prince to hand over Xia Lin’s paper. The prince, already bored, lazily opened it and glanced over. That single glance straightened his posture. The over two hundred characters on the page captivated him—not just the content, but the elegant calligraphy shone like moonlight itself. The poem deeply embodied the essence of spring, river, flower, moon, and night, blending scenery and emotion seamlessly.

Reading the exquisite lines, he couldn’t help but applaud. Unlike the tedious poems before, this one beckoned a second reading, each time revealing new charm.

“Well, well, well! Who composed this piece?”

The prince’s voice rang out, and Xia Lin immediately stood. “Your Highness, it is I.”

“Good! Step forward and speak.”

They had arrived late, so their seats were at the back. The prince’s summons brought Xia Lin to the front. The prince was still bent over the poem, absorbed, almost intoxicated.

“Did you compose this poem yourself?”

After a moment, the prince looked up at Xia Lin with curiosity. He had expected a world-weary scholar, but instead saw a fair, youthful lad. It was a little surreal. Everyone here was around sixteen or seventeen, and few at that age possessed such skill. The prince’s doubt was understandable.

“Your Highness, yes, I wrote it myself. But my handwriting is poor, so I had a brother assist in penning the calligraphy.”

Xia Lin’s expression was sincere and calm as he admitted the truth. The prince scrutinized him, then suddenly smiled broadly.

“In that case, I’ll give you a test to see if you truly wrote it or merely copied.”

Xia Lin smiled and bowed deeply. “As you wish.”

But the prince struggled to think of a challenge. Though fond of poetry, he was hopeless at composing it himself. Stretching his neck, he turned to Chun Tao. “Chun Tao, what should we ask him to write?”

Chun Tao glanced at Xia Lin, her heart fluttering with mischief—finally, a chance to tease this brat. She leaned close to the prince and whispered, “Young Prince, the Crown Prince of Teng recently invited you to the newly completed Tengwang Pavilion and requested a fine article. Since you’ve met this young man today, why not… have him try?”

“Excellent!” The prince slapped his thigh. “Perfect solution.”

Clearing his throat, he asked, “Where is this talented gentleman from?”

“Your Highness, from Luoyang.”

“Luoyang? Not a southern talent. No matter—our Great Wei spans north and south. Tell me, have you visited Hongdu Prefecture?”

Xia Lin quickly shook his head—he had never been there. After all, when he traveled to his homeland, it was over a millennium later, with high-speed trains; things were not the same now. No need to boast.

“Um… and you, Xiong Wentao?”

Xiong Wentao stood promptly. “Your Highness, Xiong Wentao.”

“Do you know about Tengwang Pavilion?”

“Of course. Renovations began in the twelfth year of Hongbao reign; it was just reopened last month.”

The prince nodded. “Explain the pavilion to this Luoyang talent and have him compose an article about it.”

Xia Lin gasped inwardly. “An article about Tengwang Pavilion?”

“Exactly. Any objections?”

At that moment, Xia Lin reviewed all his hardships, barely restraining a smile. His lips twitched fiercely—who could rival the “Preface to Tengwang Pavilion” in the world? Even the words needed little alteration to be accepted. Copying poems was Xia Lin’s specialty.

He listened attentively to Xiong’s description, nodded, cleared his throat, and said, “Young Prince, I shall begin at once.”

The prince was momentarily stunned. “No need to prepare?”

“None at all.”