Chapter Eighteen: Three Verses of "Endless Longing"—The Defeated Scholar

In the quiet pavilion of Cuiyun Garden, a young gentleman clad in a light robe embroidered with crane patterns waited patiently. His features were like a carefully painted portrait—delicate and refined. Dressed in pristine white, he radiated a gentle, jade-like grace.

This gentleman was none other than Li Qiushui, one of Luoyang’s Four Great Talents, revered as the Poetry Sovereign.

Since the chance encounter last year with Princess Youwei, he had been utterly captivated, her image etched into his heart. Not only was the princess breathtakingly beautiful, but she was also the legitimate daughter of the Crown Prince’s mother, enjoying great favor within the palace.

Though marrying a princess might not always be the wisest path for a scholar—history showed many princesses favored keeping lovers—Li Qiushui considered the unique bond between Youwei and the Crown Prince a compelling reason to pursue her hand. Born of humble origins, he knew the road to greatness through fame alone was fraught with hardship.

Hearing that Princess Youwei had recently hosted a literary gathering at Cuiyun Garden, he had come at once. Upon seeing the theme, he suspected the princess intended to select her favored suitor through this event.

Many talented scholars had participated, but Li Qiushui was unconcerned. As the Poetry Sovereign, his poetic prowess was unmatched—even Yuan Bin paled in comparison.

However, after submitting what he believed to be an excellent poem, he waited in vain for the outcome, as if the event had simply dissolved into silence.

Hence, he came to Cuiyun Garden to inquire about the results.

“Master Li,” a maid named Qingping approached with light steps, casting a pitying glance his way. “Her Highness said the gathering has concluded, and the top honor belongs to another.”

Li Qiushui was stunned. Concluded? Another took the crown? Not me? Could it be that Yuan Bin fellow?

He could not help but ask, “Whose poem claimed the top prize?”

Qingping handed him a sheet of fine rice paper.

He took it and glanced over the verses. His expression, once confident, froze into one of shock, disbelief, and profound defeat.

The paper bore one poem and two ci verses—all titled “Long Yearning.”

What shocked him most was that each surpassed his own composition.

Could it be that Yunyang County had produced three talents who outshone him in poetry?

He, the grand Poetry Sovereign, couldn’t even crack the top three?

He stood speechless for a long while, then looked up at the maid. “Why are there three ‘Long Yearning’ pieces?”

“Because they were all composed by the same person.”

Li Qiushui was dumbfounded; his fingers loosened, and the paper drifted gently to the ground. “One person? Impossible! Who is it?”

“It is Jiang Han, son of Jiang Zhensheng, the head of the secret Xiang Academy in Yunyang County.”

Li Qiushui felt as if struck by lightning, standing motionless for a long time.

The name Jiang Han was unfamiliar to him.

If it had been Yuan Bin, he could have accepted it; but to be defeated by an unknown young talent?

After a long while, he left the pavilion in a daze and stepped outside.

Outside, many scholars were gathered—either successful candidates or well-known talents of Luoyang. Like Li Qiushui, they had waited long after the gathering, desperate to learn the results.

The event was hosted by the princess, yet the winner was not announced? Were they being toyed with?

Thus, they came with Li Qiushui, waiting at the entrance for news.

“Brother Li, how did it go? Are you the winner of this gathering?” A fellow scholar who knew Li Qiushui hurried over, confident that he had prevailed, though Li’s disheartened expression suggested otherwise.

If not Li Qiushui, was the winner Yuan Bin?

Li Qiushui lifted his head and slowly scanned the crowd. “I lost.”

“What? Master Li lost? Could someone’s poetry really surpass his?”

“The winner is another? Could it be Master Yuan Bin? He is a disciple of the great Confucian scholar and renowned for his romantic verses—only he could possibly defeat Master Li.”

“Impossible! Master Li, please clarify—whose poetry won?”

The scholars pressed closer.

Li Qiushui said, “That person composed three ‘Long Yearning’ pieces, which took the top three spots.”

The scholars were stunned, utterly amazed.

“What? Three pieces occupying the top three? Who is it?”

“Master Li, please tell us! This uncertainty is unbearable—we cannot accept such a vague defeat.”

“Yes! What poems won?”

Li Qiushui ignored them and continued, “The first ‘Long Yearning’ begins: ‘The autumn cicadas cry by the golden well’s edge, faint frost chills the bamboo mat...’”

The scholars shuddered, frozen in place.

Li Qiushui pressed on, walking forward as the crowd fixed their gaze on his retreating figure.

“The second ‘Long Yearning’: ‘Long yearning, long yearning. If you ask how deep the yearning is, it is only when we meet again. Long yearning, long yearning. To whom shall I reveal my yearning? The shallow-hearted never know.’”

The gathered scholars gasped, the air growing heavy with silence.

“The third ‘Long Yearning’: ‘The wind sighs softly. The rain falls gently. Wind and rain stir the maple leaves. By the shore of the Xiao and Xiang rivers...’”

Li Qiushui lifted his head: “Clouds stretch far away. Waters flow distant. The clouds and waters stretch to the ends of the sky. Yearning fills my autumn heart.”

Not a sound stirred; one could hear a pin drop.

For a long moment, no one spoke.

All present were learned men, skilled in appreciating poetry. Hearing these three pieces, they were uniformly struck dumb.

The impact was overwhelming.

Though all shared the same title, these were no ordinary love poems—they stirred a thrill that sent chills down the spine.

After some time, one scholar sighed deeply, utterly defeated. “I lost, and rightly so! These three poems far surpass anything I have composed!”

Others gradually came back to themselves.

“No wonder Master Li was so despondent. I would be the same.”

“These three poems are simply extraordinary. Let alone matching them, I doubt any of us can even approach their greatness.”

“Wait—who wrote these three poems?”

An eager scholar hurried after Li Qiushui. “Master Li, who is the author? Could it be Master Yuan Bin?”

The others all glanced toward Li’s figure, assuming it must be Yuan Bin.

Li Qiushui paused, a bitter smile touching his lips. “It is not Yuan Bin. His name is... Jiang Han.”

With that, he strode away, leaving the crowd silent and exchanging bewildered glances.

“Jiang Han? Who is he?”

“An unknown youth claimed the top prize? How can this be?”

“Check! Find out who this person is!”

They could accept defeat to Li Qiushui or Yuan Bin, but Jiang Han—who was this obscure newcomer appearing from nowhere?