Chapter 25: Du Chengfeng Becomes the Dark Horse of the Chang’an Poetry Gathering

When the host finished speaking, the poetry gathering officially began.

Fortunately, there weren’t many contestants; Du Chengfeng glanced around and estimated there were fewer than two hundred. Most of the scholars seemed to have prepared drafts for the first round, as the topic was free-form and less demanding. Everyone usually had some idle scribblings, and after sifting through them, they had something ready. They hurriedly wrote on rice paper and handed their works to the judges, then stood aside to await the results. Some, more composed, were in no rush—like the Four Talents of Chang’an, who smiled calmly throughout.

These few appeared confident and at ease, waiting until most had submitted before strolling onto the platform unhurriedly, swiftly writing and handing their poems to the judges. The judges had heard of the Four Talents, and had read some of their poetry and essays, most of which were indeed exquisite. It was clear these four were ambitious, yet also steady and poised, possessing a touch of the grandeur characteristic of great masters, which made the judges anticipate their work.

Yu Shinan and Ouyang Xun held the highest status among the judges. They first picked up one of the Four Talents’ verse and read:

“Thinking of the Beauty, the day draws near, nowhere to seek her fragrant shadow. Silent fine rain, yet it penetrates the heart. Most of all, when night is deep and quiet, a lone lamp by a cold window wounds the soul, everywhere is desolate. Fearing sorrow, I dare not recall the past; yet whether smiling or frowning, every morning and evening, I cannot forget.” Signed: Luo Mingchuan.

Yu Shinan recited it once, showing genuine appreciation.

“What is it, Lord Yu? Are you taken with this one?” Ouyang Xun interjected.

Yu Shinan laughed heartily, stroking his beard. “This verse, in my view, is vivid and lively. The writing is delicate, the emotions moving, though it dwells much on lovesickness.”

Ouyang Xun smiled, “Young people—who doesn’t have someone in mind? To face one’s feelings openly is a mark of true character. Let’s look at the others too.”

“Indeed!”

Du Chengfeng was the last to step onto the stage. He might admit he lagged behind the Four Talents in most areas, but in poetry, he could only scoff. He had never taken this poetry gathering seriously; after his advanced serum enhancement, his memory was formidable. From childhood, he had studied no fewer than a thousand poems—borrowing any would yield a masterpiece.

Compared to Du Chengfeng’s calm demeanor, the scholars who submitted before him appeared anxious and constrained.

Du Chengfeng wrote an untitled poem, one of Li Shangyin’s famous works from the late Tang Dynasty:

“Meeting is hard, parting is harder; the east wind is weak, all flowers fall. Spring silkworms spin till death, their silk ends; wax candles turn to ashes, tears dry only then. Mornings in the mirror, I fear my cloudlike hair’s change; nights of singing, I sense the moonlight’s chill. The road to Mount Peng is not far, may the bluebird diligently seek you.”

The first four lines of this poem are the most widely known—the depth of feeling and sorrow are unmatched; the latter four are embellishments. Du Chengfeng borrowed this to breeze through the first round, and it was as good as settled.

As expected, the Prefect and ten judges maintained calm expressions while reviewing the earlier submissions, only showing a hint of interest with the Four Talents’ entries.

Suddenly, upon seeing Du Chengfeng’s untitled poem, the judges’ eyes lit up in unison. The Prefect couldn’t help but recite it aloud, clearly a man with his own stories.

The scholars below, hearing the Prefect’s impassioned recitation, all stiffened. They thought, “This is only the first round, yet a masterpiece like this appears—how are we supposed to compete later?”

The Four Talents’ faces grew grave, as if facing a formidable foe; they knew they could never compose such poetry, no matter how hard they tried. The pressure was immense.

Ouyang Xun stared at Du Chengfeng’s poem, nearly dazed. He wasn’t analyzing the poem’s meaning; he was fixated on Du Chengfeng’s name and the Slim Gold calligraphy.

Chu Suiliang, the youngest among the judges, had come with a mind to learn. He watched the expressions of Ouyang Xun and Yu Shinan, knowing they were truly esteemed figures.

“Lord Ouyang, what masterpiece has so stunned you?” Chu Suiliang asked politely.

But upon seeing the signature and calligraphy, he too lost composure.

“Is this the same Du Chengfeng who inscribed the words at Wangjiang Pavilion?” Chu Suiliang asked delightedly.

“I am certain. The signature matches, the calligraphy is identical to that inscription at Wangjiang Pavilion—no mistake,” Ouyang Xun replied, barely able to contain his excitement.

Ouyang Xun and Chu Suiliang, both fanatical about calligraphy, felt an urge to drag Du Chengfeng over for a deep discussion.

“Ouyang, Suiliang, don’t get carried away—we’re still in the competition. For fairness, we must keep things proper for the other scholars. After the contest, we can invite Du Chengfeng for a private meeting,” Yu Shinan advised, though he too longed to meet the extraordinary youth.

“You are right, Yu. I was too rash,” Ouyang Xun said, somewhat embarrassed.

The untitled poem moved all the women and young ladies in the audience deeply; their eyes turned soft and affectionate as they gazed at Du Chengfeng.

Du Chengfeng was unconcerned, handing in his poem and standing aside confidently, eyes half-closed, awaiting the judges’ decision.

Unsurprisingly, Du Chengfeng’s untitled poem took first place into the second round, while the Four Talents also advanced. Du Chengfeng mused, “The Four Talents are indeed genuine scholars.”

In the second round, the Prefect and judges conferred quietly and announced the topic: Spring. This subject is easy to write, but hard to perfect.

At the sight of the word “Spring,” Du Chengfeng immediately thought of Li Bai’s “Song of Pure Peace”:

“Clouds imagine robes, flowers imagine faces; spring breeze brushes the threshold, dew shines thickly. If not seen atop Jade Mountain, then surely met under moonlit Jade Terrace.”

This poem was composed by Li Bai for Yang Guifei at the Emperor’s request, subtly likening her to a celestial maiden. It is a masterpiece, describing Yang Guifei’s beauty to perfection.

This time, Du Chengfeng did not feign difficulty; he was the first to finish and handed it to the Prefect.

The Prefect, after reading it, was amazed and repeatedly exclaimed, “Excellent! Excellent!”

The judges eagerly took it and could not help but applaud. After reading Du Chengfeng’s “Song of Pure Peace,” they felt all other entries paled in comparison, lacking any brilliance—even the Four Talents’ submissions failed to excite.

Following the Prefect’s lead, the host immediately posted Du Chengfeng’s “Song of Pure Peace.” The scholars below sighed once more—each poem Du Chengfeng submitted was more exquisite than the last, as if his brush blossomed with magic, every word a gem.

They conceded defeat wholeheartedly. Though the Four Talents advanced to the third round, they hung their heads, discouraged—the gap was simply too vast.

The noble ladies and maidens, captivated by the two poems, nearly saw Du Chengfeng as a flower himself. Despite his strong nerves, he could not help but blush slightly.

The third round’s topic was patriotism. This time, the Prefect wanted to test the ideals of the scholars, since the ultimate purpose of study is to serve the country.

The Four Talents had no ambition left; they searched their minds, forced themselves to compose something, and handed it in perfunctorily. The judges could only shake their heads in regret, sighing deeply—they knew the Four Talents had been discouraged by Du Chengfeng’s poetry, losing their drive.

The Prefect and host pinned all their hopes on Du Chengfeng. Feeling their eager gaze, Du Chengfeng hesitated, pondered for a while, and finally decided to write out Yue Fei’s “Song of the River,” with appropriate adjustments, lest it be out of place.

After all, at this time, there had been no humiliation of Jingkang, nor the famous line about thirty years’ achievements turning to dust. Du Chengfeng was only sixteen; such words would not fit.

The Prefect, brimming with anticipation, snatched it up, and upon reading, could not help but feel his blood surge, slapping the table in admiration.

This poem fully expressed the heroic spirit of Yue Fei, the champion against the Jin invaders; its lines exuded grandeur, patriotism, and a fervent longing to serve the nation.

The Tang Dynasty still faced many internal and external threats, and Du Chengfeng’s “Song of the River” ignited a new wave of ambition among loyal men.

The Prefect and judges were left in awe, unable to believe such martial, stirring poetry could come from a sixteen-year-old youth. What spirit and breadth of vision must he possess!

In the end, the judges and Prefect unanimously awarded Du Chengfeng’s “Song of the River” the top prize, with second and third places falling to the Four Talents, as expected. Du Chengfeng became the greatest dark horse of the Chang’an Poetry Gathering.