9. The First Glimpse of Brilliance

Throughout history, depicting landscapes has always been both the easiest and the hardest task in writing. Simply put, the ceiling is high while the floor is low; even a few days of schooling can produce crude and awkward descriptions, but to reach the pinnacle of literary artistry requires extraordinary talent.

Among all forms, architectural description is the most challenging. Countless works describe scenery, yet those focusing on buildings are fewer than one in ten. It’s not that no one attempts it, but few gain renown.

So when the young man, still untested and unpolished, stepped forward to compose a rhapsody on the Pavilion of Prince Teng, all eyes in the hall stretched with anticipation. Some awaited novelty, others mere entertainment. None knew what had been handed to the young prince moments ago, nor the credentials of this boy’s entrance. Had they known, the “Spring River, Flower Moon, Butterfly’s Love” and the “Stars Divided into Wings and Carriage” would have been destined to blaze a trail of fame across Yangzhou.

Xia Lin now assumed the posture of a gifted scholar and pointed at Chun Tao. “Young Prince, might I entrust Sister Chun Tao with copying the poem? I see her delicate hands, surely her calligraphy is exquisite. Then allow my comrades to perform some music and song.”

“You have a keen eye,” the young prince smiled. “Chun Tao indeed writes beautifully. Prepare ink and brush; copy the rhapsody for this talented gentleman.”

Chun Tao glanced at Xia Lin, smiling gently as she bowed gracefully. “I shall attend to it immediately.”

Xia Lin took a nearby jug of wine, downing it in hearty gulps. Then he motioned with a finger. “Old Zhang, come play the flute!”

Old Zhang knew this was Xia Lin’s way of giving him a moment in the spotlight. He rose promptly, drew his bamboo flute, and began playing. The clear, melodious notes delighted all. Even the well-traveled young prince smiled involuntarily.

Seeing Chun Tao ready, Xia Lin adopted a drunken demeanor, kicking a stool aside, leaning against her writing desk. Raising his head, hands spread upon the table, his breath thick with wine, he began to declaim with clarity and confidence: “Yu Zhang, an ancient prefecture, Hongdu, a new city…”

The opening line was unremarkable, yet his performance brimmed with youthful arrogance and brilliance, intoxicating the audience, compelling them to listen on.

“Stars divided into Wings and Carriage, the land connects Heng and Lu. Embracing three rivers and girded by five lakes, commanding the barbarians of Jing and leading the Ou and Yue. Blessed by nature’s treasures, dragon light shines upon the Ox and Dipper; outstanding men and auspicious lands, where Xu Ru descends to Chen Fan’s couch…”

The ornate parallel prose stunned the crowd into applause. The young prince’s eyes widened in amazement, then brightened with repeated nods.

If the beginning was excellent, the ensuing lines were even more so, elegantly balanced and rich in allusions. Though Xia Lin had altered some passages, the overall effect remained flawless.

When he reached the immortal phrase, “The setting sun and lone wild goose fly together; autumn waters share the same color as the vast sky,” the young prince rose, moving behind to strike a drum and lead the singing, his enthusiasm infectious. Even Chun Tao, copying intently, lifted her gaze to admire the boy’s spirited back, marveling at such prodigious talent. Having arrived so recently, he had already produced three masterpieces, each surpassing what many spent lifetimes striving to achieve.

With the recital concluded, Xia Lin belched drunkenly, rose unsteadily, and staggered to the table, attempting to lift his cup. His body, untrained to endure alcohol, wavered from dizziness.

Quick-eyed, the young prince pointed at him anxiously. “Chun Tao, hold him—do not let this treasure fall.”

Chun Tao, skilled not only in calligraphy but also as the prince’s attendant, lightly flipped and sprang to Xia Lin’s side, cradling the tipsy youth in her arms.

At this moment, the crowd’s attention shifted from the drunken Xia Lin to the place where Chun Tao copied the poem, gathering close, some pressing near the young prince without concern for etiquette. The prince himself no longer minded, eyes scanning the paper, excitement mounting.

“A wondrous piece! Even the Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River pales beside it,” he exclaimed sincerely. “Though I dare not claim none shall surpass it, this work is surely unprecedented.”

The assembled scholars’ reactions were mixed—some rejoiced at witnessing such genius, others despaired. Ever since antiquity, literary talents have been rivals, each reluctant to acknowledge another’s superiority. Now, contemplating this “Pavilion of Prince Teng” rhapsody, they questioned if, even after a cup of strong wine, they could compose so divine a chapter. The answer was invariably no, prompting a tangled web of frustration, envy, and resentment.

Suddenly, Xia Lin muttered in his sleep, “Forgive me... I’ve memorized the whole text...”

Chun Tao strained to hear but received no reply. Xia Lin’s jaw clenched tightly; his eyes darted rapidly before he finally succumbed to sleep.

“Chun Tao, take him upstairs to the guest chambers for rest. Stay with him,” the young prince instructed, lifting his gaze briefly. “Do not let him choke or vomit himself unconscious.”

Chun Tao swiftly led Xia Lin away, with Old Zhang trailing behind. Those left began scrutinizing Xia Lin’s poetry—from “Butterfly’s Love” to “Spring River Flower Moon Night” and now “Pavilion of Prince Teng”—three pieces, three distinct styles and genres, each of topmost caliber.

These works overwhelmed the audience. Three masterpieces piled together crushed the era’s literary standards. The assembled talents sighed deeply, despairing.

Yet the young prince nodded in approval. Wasn’t this exactly the type of person he sought? Though he appeared a frivolous, pleasure-seeking noble, he was no ordinary youth. Not only a royal kin and imperial inspector, he was the current sovereign’s own son.

The story behind why the heir of the Qin Prince was the emperor’s son was complicated, tracing back over twenty years. The current emperor was the ninth son of the late sovereign, the Qin Prince the second. Since the eldest prince died young, the Qin Prince naturally became heir apparent, but he had no offspring. Being half-brothers through the same mother, the emperor adopted a child to the Qin Prince’s household.

That adopted child was the young prince himself. Later, during the war with Southern Chen, the Qin Prince was captured, and the Wei kingdom exchanged fourteen cities for the prince’s release. Enraged, the late sovereign stripped the Qin Prince of his position as heir, passing it to the ninth prince, who eventually ascended the throne.

Thus, the young prince was in truth the emperor’s biological son and eldest, yet no crown prince had been appointed. His status was clear to all. Otherwise, how could the Qin Prince’s heir travel beyond his fiefdom to recruit talent?

Xia Lin’s earlier speculation had been only half correct. The young prince’s journey was indeed an inspection mission, but more importantly, it was to select promising youth to replenish the royal talent pool. The court was unstable; Chancellor Gao Lin erected a factional monument, using examination scandals to purge opponents. Though seemingly purifying the court, this move actually empowered aristocratic monopolies over the imperial exams.

The royal family was wise. Their foundation lay with the military, but years of campaigns—northward against Goguryeo, eastward against Southern Chen, southward against Baiyue—had thinned their ranks, leaving civil officials in control. Should the civil faction complete a siege on royal authority, the monarchy would become their puppet.

Hence, the young prince roamed the nation under the guise of an imperial inspector. Though young, who could be more reliable than one’s own son?

Of course, at only twenty-two, the young prince was still learning the ropes. Selecting talent was no easy task, nor could he directly meddle in local governance. So he issued a call for heroes in each place he visited. While poetic skill alone did not guarantee good governance, it indicated extensive reading, talent, and quick wit—qualities more effective for selection than street fortune-telling.

Without doubt, Xia Lin was the first talent he had discovered in Yangzhou, and clearly a commoner. His mannerisms and attire proclaimed his innocence.

Such purity was invaluable amid the intensifying struggle.

“Well then, stop crowding me,” the young prince smiled, eyes twinkling. “I will have these three poems copied, framed, and hung here for all to appreciate.”

Yet to this day, no one knew Xia Lin’s name. Only the young prince knew him as Xia Lin, courtesy name Daosheng.

This small detail revealed the prince’s cunning. Such a talent must first pass through his hands; if suitable, he would be promoted quietly—too great a fame might be inconvenient. If not, the prince was still generous enough to grant him great wealth and status.

When news spread that Xia Lin’s three poems ranked first, second, and third, and the poems themselves were displayed outside the pleasure house, Yangzhou’s literati flocked to see for themselves the work the young Qin Prince had chosen.

They were stunned for the entire year. None could believe these three contrasting styles—from delicate grace to bold vigor—were by the same hand.

Among the crowd, a fair young maiden lifted her head, reading with interest and softly murmuring, “The setting sun and lone wild goose fly together; autumn waters share the same color as the vast sky—how beautifully written… No doubt my brother and father will have this made into an archway to hang on the Pavilion of Prince Teng. It’s truly magnificent.”

“Miss Jun… aren’t you going to find the young prince?”

“Why should I? He passed through Hongzhou without visiting me. Let him be. I’ll explore first—heard Yangzhou has many places to enjoy flowers and wine. Let’s go see.”