Volume One: Flames on the Frontier Chapter Eighty-One: Exceptional Genius

His half-learned Slender Gold script was written with considerable skill—iron strokes and silver hooks, distinct from the variant Yan style he had just displayed. The crowd, upon seeing it, murmured in surprise once again.

Someone, curious, asked, “Master He, if I may venture an opinion, this style appears different from the previous one. Did you also learn it from a hermit in the mountains?”

He Yu feigned an enigmatic air and replied, “Thank you for your inquiry. This script was not learned from any hermit—it came to me in a dream. Because its strokes resemble iron paintings and silver hooks, I named it the Slender Gold script.”

“Slender Gold script!”

“Slender Gold script!”

Indeed, it is marvelous...

Everyone gathered around to admire the Slender Gold script. Some, intent on learning, secretly compared strokes and studied its form in their hearts, quietly praising, “This talent is truly unparalleled. Even in dreams he invents such a distinctive style.”

Cui Liang, himself a renowned calligrapher, observed that although He Yu’s two scripts were unprecedented and striking, upon close inspection, the brushwork revealed a certain frailty and thinness, clearly lacking in power. Not only could it not compare with Cui Mo’s skill, even the average calligraphers in the family were not inferior. Yet the wonder lay in the sheer impact of He Yu’s styles—so bold and fresh that one felt instantly invigorated. Calligraphy could be written like this! As the saying goes, a single novelty can mask a hundred flaws. To possess one outstanding quality in the art of calligraphy is no easy feat.

Cui Hao, however, was most taken with the poem “Tune: Defending the Wind,” and admired, “Master He, this poem is free-spirited and expansive. Surely it is a masterpiece of yours, and I am truly fond of it. Might I boldly request it as a gift, so that I may study it closely?”

If before Cui Hao merely respected He Yu, now he verged on worship. Though they differed by only five years in age and could interact as equals, he now called himself “young nephew,” clearly willing to humble himself.

In those days, men of letters admired such carefree and reclusive airs. Su Dongpo’s poem had struck a resonant chord.

He Yu, face unflushed and heart untroubled, boasted, “It’s nothing special—merely a playful piece of mine. If you like it, take it.” He then inscribed it in Slender Gold script and presented it to Cui Hao on the spot. Heaven knows he was not boasting. As a modern man, he had countless masterpieces of later generations stored in his mind—at least a hundred. With such abundance, he could indeed call “Tune: Defending the Wind” a casual work.

Others, clever and quick-witted, saw Cui Hao succeed in obtaining the poem and felt an itch in their hearts. They too requested to collect He Yu’s earlier “Departure Sorrow.” In those days, if a calligrapher’s work was collected by a renowned figure or institution, its value and fame would soar. The same logic applied here. If the Cui family of Qinghe wished to collect He Yu’s calligraphy, it would only be days before his literary and calligraphic reputation spread far and wide—precisely what He Yu dreamed of. He agreed immediately, inscribed a signature in Yan style, and gifted it to the seeker.

Cui Liang had originally intended to collect the Yan-script “Departure Sorrow” as well, but someone else claimed it first. He joked, “When Zuosi’s ‘Rhapsody of Three Capitals’ was completed, paper in Luoyang became precious. Master He’s fine compositions today are no less dazzling. I too wish to request a piece in the future and hope you will oblige.”

He Yu smiled lightly and drew out a couplet from his sleeve—the very gift he had intended for Cui Liang, only interrupted earlier by Cui Mo, causing him to momentarily forget. Now that Cui Liang had requested a piece, the couplet was ready at hand.

He raised the scroll high above his head and presented it to Cui Liang. With the acumen of a modern man, He Yu knew precisely whom to respect and whom to treat with disdain. With people like Cui Mo, he was ruthless—offending them was of no consequence. But with a figure like Cui Liang, he was exceedingly courteous, leaving no room for criticism.

He Yu, having overwhelmed Cui Mo with talent and left him humiliated, was gracious and courteous before Cui Liang. The contrast made clear who held greater fame and prestige. This distinction helped He Yu build connections while also elevating Cui Liang’s standing.

Cui Liang was greatly pleased, returned the courtesy, and said, “Master He, your talent is extraordinary, equally gifted in both letters and martial arts. Even if Chen Wang were alive or Zhuge Liang reborn, they could not surpass you.” He swept his gaze toward Cui Mo, sharp as a blade, making the latter feel intensely uncomfortable.

Earlier, Cui Mo had slandered Cui Hao, claiming he was deceived by petty people and consorted with ignorant, boastful youths, thus tarnishing the Cui family’s reputation. But now, He Yu’s talent was unmatched, proving Cui Mo’s words baseless.

Cui Liang unrolled the couplet, written in Slender Gold script, and read aloud, “I am drunk and wish to sleep; you may go. If one day you desire, come with your zither.”

He laughed heartily, “What a splendid line—‘I am drunk and wish to sleep; you may go. If one day you desire, come with your zither.’ Master He, you are a marvelous man, truly marvelous! It suits me perfectly, suits me perfectly. Gentlemen, come and see!”

The crowd gathered round, praising He Yu’s calligraphy and admiring the refined taste of the couplet.

Sweet words delighted He Yu, making him feel almost giddy. As he basked in his triumph, he caught sight of Cui Mo standing forlornly at the side—rarely respected within the clan, now defeated in literary contest, isolated and friendless. It was not surprising; few wished to associate with failure.

True to his uncompromising nature, determined to settle scores promptly, He Yu suddenly restrained his smile, fixed Cui Mo with a stern gaze, and demanded, “Sir Zi Mo, what more have you to say?”

He Yu’s words pulled everyone back to the contest. Seeing him press his advantage, insisting Cui Mo gouge out his own eyes in public, anxiety rose among the crowd, and the atmosphere grew tense. All eyes turned to Cui Liang, their intent obvious—they hoped he would intervene. However misguided, Cui Mo was a close member of the main branch of the Qinghe Cui clan. If he lost a literary duel at his own family’s banquet and was forced to blind himself, the clan’s reputation and pride would be utterly ruined.

Some thought to themselves, “He Yu’s talent is unquestionable, but his nature is rather obstinate. Having triumphed so completely, he should show magnanimity and spare Cui Mo; it would make him appear all the more scholarly and generous, and his good reputation would spread instantly. Alas, why is he so lacking in tact? If only I had his talent—my approach would make me famous within half a year!”

Then again, they reasoned, “He Yu’s talent is so remarkable, yet he was previously unknown. Surely he does not understand how to cultivate his reputation—what a pity.”

It was the very topic best left untouched. Cui Mo stood awkwardly, unable either to sit or leave. He had hoped that He Yu, having won so thoroughly, would spare him out of respect for Cui Liang, but that seemed impossible. In truth, forgiving Cui Mo would be a favor to the Qinghe Cui clan, and would benefit He Yu in countless ways, earning him a reputation for magnanimity.

Should the Cui clan owe He Yu a favor, such a powerful family would find ways to repay him, and He Yu would gain a reputation for scholarly generosity. Conversely, if he relentlessly forced Cui Mo to blind himself in public, word would spread, and people would say, “He Yu’s talent is supreme, but his heart is not broad.”

At that time, the gate-and-family system prevailed in China, and the southern Eastern Jin dynasty selected officials based on the “Nine-Rank System.” Fame and reputation were paramount. He Yu, still in his youth, held limitless prospects; from the perspective of preserving his reputation, he should spare Cui Mo.

This was common sense then, but He Yu, a modern man, knew it well yet refused to let Cui Mo off so easily. If matters were smoothed over, Cui Mo would learn little from the ordeal. He Yu decided to press him further, to teach him that there is always a higher mountain and a more talented person. The Qinghe Cui clan may walk with pride before others, but not before He Yu.

Cui Mo, seeing He Yu relentless, turned pale as death. Sweat beaded at his temples, his shoulders trembled, and his lips quivered, unable to find words.

“Enough… enough… let it be…”

Cui Mo gritted his teeth, bent down, and picked up a short sword, preparing to stab it into his own eyes.

“Stop, brother! Don’t!” Cui Liang cried out in horror. The crowd shouted in unison to prevent him.

Cui Mo, hearing their voices, paused, his arm shaking violently, unable to bring himself to strike.

Cui Liang, Cui Hao, and other clan members hurried forward, clasped their fists, and pleaded, “Cui Mo has acted improperly and offended the master. Though it was agreed in advance, his offense is unforgivable. Yet for the sake of the Qinghe Cui clan’s century-old reputation, we beg you to show mercy, spare him this time. Our clan will discipline him according to family law.”

He Yu seemed cold-hearted, but was fully aware that harming Cui Mo would bring trouble with the Cui clan and damage his own reputation. Thus, as soon as Cui Mo bent to pick up the sword, He Yu was prepared; had Cui Mo truly attempted to blind himself, He Yu would have intervened instantly. With his skill, disarming Cui Mo would not be difficult.

Seeing the crowd plead together, He Yu felt he had gained sufficient face and had no reason to continue the act. He feigned generosity, hurriedly returned their courtesy, and said, “Clan master, young lord, elders, you flatter me! Please rise, please rise, quickly, quickly! My contest with Mr. Zi Mo—composing poems and testing calligraphy—was a whim, not born of deep hatred. As for the talk of blinding him in public, it was but a jest, casually spoken, never meant in earnest.”

“Moreover, let us set aside poetry for now. If you examine our calligraphy, Mr. Zi Mo’s brushwork is clearly stronger than mine. He is indeed a distinguished disciple of the Qinghe Cui clan.”

He Yu’s words, half true and half false, were suddenly most humble, even claiming Cui Mo’s brushwork surpassed his own. What could he mean by this? The crowd, accustomed to the prevailing trend favoring expressive and beautiful calligraphy, had been so startled by He Yu’s visually striking, unconventional styles that their judgment was clouded. In truth, most of them lacked the insight to accurately assess the merits of He Yu’s calligraphy, which drew inspiration from later masters Yan Zhenqing and Emperor Huizong—true giants of the art, though He Yu had not had the chance to study them deeply. Cui Liang, however, vaguely sensed that He Yu’s words were not entirely self-effacing and might well be true.