Li Mubai gazed toward the bulletin wall where students were gathering in ever-growing numbers. Even the academy's scholars had come at the news, slapping their thighs in excitement and praising the poem's artless mastery and plain-spoken truth.
Li Mubai's ears twitched, catching fragments of conversation carried by the mountain wind:
"First there was 'Who in the world doesn't know you?'—now a study exhortation poem. Is the art of poetry in Great Feng's Confucian world about to rise again?"
"In two hundred years, fine poems have been scarce. Now with these two, our generations of scholars can finally face our successors with dignity."
"Compared to 'Who in the world doesn't know you?', this study poem will spread even wider. It'll be used again and again to admonish scholars."
"Why is there no signature? Which master wrote it?"
No signature... this poem will spread far and wide... A thought struck Li Mubai. He glanced at his two friends, who were talking quietly, then discreetly withdrew.
Zhang Shen suddenly noticed Li Mubai was gone. "Where's Chunjing?"
"Just a moment ago he was here..." Chen Tai looked around and pointed toward the low wall. "Over there."
Zhang Shen looked and saw Li Mubai dismissing the students, brush in hand, writing something on the giant scroll.
Zhang Shen and Chen Tai focused their eyes, their pupils suddenly deepening, able to see fine details a hundred paces away.
They saw clearly: beside the title "Urging to Study," Li Mubai was writing a line of small characters:
"At the end of Gengzi and the beginning of Chou, my teacher Mubai urged me to strive. Deeply moved, I composed this poem."
Meaning: At the end of Gengzi and the beginning of Chou, my teacher Li Mubai exhorted me to work hard, I was deeply inspired, so I wrote this poem.
He could freeload credit like this too? The two Masters' minds exploded.
"Shameless old thief! Put down that brush at once!"
...
Behind the academy stood an elegant pavilion, built against the mountain. To the east bordered the Six-Tier Cascade; to the west, an evergreen bamboo grove.
Bamboo was a rarity in the north—hard to grow, hard to propagate. The sight of bamboo shoots springing up overnight after spring rain was something only seen in the south.
The academy's scholars had transplanted bamboo from the south and cultivated it painstakingly over fifty years to produce this lush grove.
Scholars had a special affection for bamboo, admiring its integrity, often using it as a metaphor for people—for themselves. (Emphasis on admiration.)
One day, the Dean of White Deer Academy came to see it and thought: My, what a dense grove! Bamboo fears no cold, maintains its character through all four seasons—doesn't that describe me?
Everyone else out. From now on, I'll live here.
Thus the pavilion became the Dean's retreat.
In the simple, elegant tea room, an old man in hemp robes sat drinking tea with a woman in fine silks. A column of armored guards stood watch outside.
The old man's graying hair hung loose, lending him an air of disheveled freedom. The creases between his brows and the lines at the corners of his eyes were deep, but when he smiled, the crow's feet surpassed them both.
From his appearance alone, it was hard to imagine this down-on-his-luck Confucian was the Dean of White Deer Academy—the contemporary head of the Confucian path.
The woman sitting across from him was past twenty but wore her hair in a simplespiral bun, pinned with a radiant golden step-shake—a clear indication she was unmarried.
She wore a moon-white gown of exquisite craftsmanship, its train trailing across the floor.
Her features were refined and ethereal, like a lotus blooming unstained. Those clear eyes seemed like a mirror of ice—translucent yet unmistakably cold and noble. Her figure, fully developed, curved in alluring lines.
"Half a year apart, and the Dean's silver threads have multiplied," the Princess Royal said, her voice cool and clear.
"They're all threads of worry," the Dean replied, smiling over his tea.
"Today coming up the mountain, I heard a student reciting a poem: 'Don't worry about having no friends on the road ahead—who in the world doesn't know you?'" The Princess Royal's gaze shifted, like ice cracking. "Such a fine work—I was delighted to hear it. Which master composed it?"
Dean Zhao Shou laughed and shook his head.
"Why do you laugh at me, Dean?"
"I'm not laughing at you, Princess. I'm laughing that White Deer Academy is brimming with talent, yet none can match a poem written on a whim. No—the entire Confucian world of Great Feng has grown intellectually numb and rigid, lacking spirit. And poetry above all requires spirit."
"...Your words intrigue me, Dean." The Princess Royal's expression was serene, her graceful fingers lifting a teacup. Her manner of drinking was noble and elegant.
Zhao Shou sighed: "The one who composed it was not a scholar, but a petty constable from Changle County."
The Princess Royal showed faint surprise.
This princess of Great Feng was no ordinary woman. A daughter of the scholarly elite mastering the four arts—zither, Go, calligraphy, and painting—was considered talented.
But this princess had studied Go with Wei Yuan, military strategy with Zhang Shen, and governance with Chen Tai. She had memorized the Sage's classics, and her essays and policy proposals were no less than those of students at the Imperial Academy.
Erudite and learned, with a vast store of knowledge.
At eighteen, the Emperor specifically permitted her to participate in the Hanlin Academy's compilation work. Two years ago, the Princess Royal attempted to rewrite the previous dynasty's official histories, provoking protests from the court, and the matter was dropped.
"Dean, have you truly considered refusing office?" the Princess Royal asked, her gaze earnest, her tone serious. "Confucians value human life above all, and their lifespan is not long. Dean, don't waste your years any further."
Few knew that the position of Qingzhou Regional Commissioner had originally been offered to Zhao Shou.
He had declined and recommended the Purple Sun Master instead.
"If wasting my years can open a path of study for future generations, I'm happy to do it," Zhao Shou sighed. "But after more than a decade of contemplation in the bamboo grove, pouring out my heart and soul, I still cannot cross the chasm laid down by theSecond Sage Cheng."
"Dean, your obsession runs too deep—there's no need for this," the Princess Royal said, calmly pouring herself more tea. "Father invites you to serve because he intends to restore White Deer Academy's standing. If you truly care about the academy's students, you shouldn't have refused."
Zhao Shou smiled wryly: "Is it that you can no longer control Wei Yuan? Or that the princes' art of slaying dragons has grown sharper?"
"For the people of Great Feng, for all living beings under heaven," the Princess Royal said, each word heartfelt.
The smile on Zhao Shou's face turned increasingly sardonic.
The Princess Royal's cool tone shifted: "Since the Mountain-Sea Campaign, Great Feng's strength has weakened year by year. Natural disasters strike incessantly. The ranks of petty officials swell, and their depredations grow ever worse."
"Those in the court know only partisan strife. Talkers who sit on their hands are countless; those who act for the nation are few. Dean, this empire needs a mender."
She didn't wait for Zhao Shou to respond: "Three years ago, the northern barbarians tore up their treaty, repeatedly raiding the border and plundering the people."
"The southern tribes destroyed relay roads, ambushed military towns, and attempted to recover lost territory."
"The western kingdoms watched coldly. The Buddhists used this as leverage, seeking to spread their faith into the heartlands."
Her voice rose, no longer cool: "Dean, as a scholar, should you not fulfill your ambition and restore the nation's glory?"
Zhao Shou studied the Princess Royal for a long moment. Then his gaze drifted from her refined, noble face to the deep green bamboo outside the window. He shook his head and sighed:
"Not unwilling—the timing is not right. Princess, please return."
Disappointment flickered in the Princess Royal's eyes. She was about to take her leave when urgent footsteps sounded outside. An academy scholar burst in, crying:
"Dean, something terrible has happened! Li Mubai, Zhang Shen, and Chen Tai are fighting!"