TBR CH129

Qingyu Lake, also known as Shiyu Lake, had a legend.

It was said that once, an angler caught an enormous blue carp in these waters—its blue scales shimmered with light, radiant and dazzling. Unexpectedly, the carp spoke human language and pleaded with him to set it free.

But the angler only wanted to sell the fish for a good price and paid no heed to its begging. Carrying the fish with him to the market, he suddenly felt his hand grow heavy, and the passersby began whispering. Looking down, he discovered that the fish had vanished, leaving only a vaguely fish-shaped stone in his hand—not worth anything at all.

Whether the story was true or not was anyone’s guess, but by the shore of Qingyu Lake, there really was a fish-shaped stone.

Chu Huaicun stepped down from the carriage and glanced casually toward the lake. At the junction where the lake and sky met, a stroke of blue ink seemed to lightly brush the horizon. A stream curled from Qingyu Lake like a coiled chain, circling around before merging again with the vast waters.

By the water’s edge, several scholars in long robes had already taken their seats on mats. Wine vessels and slips of bamboo with poetic themes were prepared before them.

Everyone knew Qin Sangzhi had risen swiftly in status. To be invited by him to such a literary gathering was proof of connections in the capital—how could one then fear not making the rankings? Thus, many of the examinees present bore faint expressions of self-satisfaction. When they saw Chu Huaicun, they merely returned a perfunctory greeting, imitating Qin Sangzhi’s manner with arrogance rather than respect.

Qin Sangzhi, however, wore a faint smile from the host’s seat. Like Chu Huaicun, he wore white today. But while white on Chu Huaicun was sharp and cold, on Qin Sangzhi, it gave off the impression of a noble gentleman—refined and righteous.

By Qin Sangzhi’s side sat someone Chu Huaicun did not expect—the Seventh Prince, who had mysteriously gotten entangled in the struggle for the throne.

Up till now, there had been no indication that Qin Sangzhi was close to any prince, so this was surprising.

Without betraying any emotion, Chu Huaicun took his seat. His very presence naturally drew attention—countless eyes looked his way with envy, admiration, or resentment, but he ignored them all. He simply brushed his sleeve as if dusting off some lint.

The Seventh Prince sat on Qin Sangzhi’s right. The seat to his left was left empty for Chu Huaicun.

As Chu Huaicun walked past, his eyes met the prince’s for a brief moment. The boy, still quite young, gave him a timid nod—but from his expression, Chu Huaicun saw only the dull, practiced performance of someone playing a role.

This child is deeply calculating—he should not be underestimated.

Qin Sangzhi, meanwhile, turned his head slightly once Chu Huaicun was seated, maintaining a careful distance, and said:
“You’ve come, Huaicun. You know how difficult it was for me to host this poetry gathering all by myself. There were voices of opposition too. They said you… but never mind. I don’t mind being troubled. After all, you’ve always been good to me. I couldn’t possibly not leave you a place.”

His words sounded noble and magnanimous. If it were the Chu Huaicun of the past, he might have pitied Qin Sangzhi for bearing blame on his behalf and been touched that he invited him in spite of rumors about his own ambition.

But now, Prime Minister Chu remained calm. After all, every detail of this gathering—from the arrangements to the funds—was handled by him. In truth, who owed whom?

With Chu present, the poetry gathering could finally begin.

Qin Sangzhi stood and, in the manner of a host, looked around at the guests with pride and satisfaction, basking in their admiration.

Once he stepped into the spotlight, he would forget all else and focus solely on playing the role of the pure and virtuous genius of the age.

Chu Huaicun saw this clearly and instead turned past Qin Sangzhi to address the Seventh Prince:
“Your Highness is interested in gatherings of literary men?”

The prince’s answer was textbook, stiffly quoting old idioms to prove that he—a newly acknowledged royal son—was devoted to scholarly pursuits. Everything about him reeked of mediocrity, but it all flowed too smoothly.

Too smooth—like he had memorized it all in advance.

Qin Sangzhi, as the chosen one blessed by fate, would never casually befriend just anyone.

Of course not. With a system at his disposal—one capable of rewriting memories and showing the fate values of individuals—Qin Sangzhi thrived. Among the princes, the one with the strongest fate was this Seventh Prince.

Barring any surprises, he was destined to be the future emperor.

The system couldn’t reveal every detail, but Qin Sangzhi thought it obvious: the prince had grown up under harsh conditions, must be emotionally starved, longing for warmth, and deeply sensitive. He might well outlast his brothers simply through patience and endurance.

Though his fate value wasn’t as high as Chu Huaicun’s, Qin Sangzhi knew Chu had no intention of usurping the throne. In that case, why not secure the loyalty of the future emperor early on?

Even if the emperor’s real power was limited, gaining his trust meant acquiring the lofty reputation of a royal confidant.

A high return, indeed.

He wanted all of them to yearn for him but never reach him.

Only by doing that could he be lifted to glory—binding these future villains with guilt and gratitude.

Chu Huaicun quietly stored away his judgment of the Seventh Prince and raised his cup to his lips, watching coldly as the “stream of wine and poetry” gathering began.

Bamboo slips bearing poetic themes were passed around, and each scholar, in turn, had to compose a poem on the spot. Failure to do so meant punishment by drink—and social shame.

Though the scholars pretended to care little for fame or wealth, many were eager to win favor with Chu or the prince, squeezing their brains dry to show off their literary flair.

Wine cups floated in the stream, rising and falling, plucked by hands who recited a few lines. When they failed to gain the attention of those in the main seats, they lowered their eyes in disappointment.

Chu Huaicun twirled the white jade cup in his fingers.

Of course, he cared—if he found someone useful, all the better. But most of these people, clustered around Qin Sangzhi, were arrogant and thought they had to be begged before they’d stoop to offer their talents.

Worse yet, most poems sounded ornate in language but bland in meaning.

Only one left an impression: a young examinee named Liang Kechun.

He drew the theme “Spring Sorrow,” and his verses were gentle and unpretentious—grieving yet restrained, sorrowful without complaint. Chu looked up at him, saw that he was lost in his poem, eyes full of melancholy, unaware that he had drawn the attention of the mighty Prime Minister.

The name Liang Kechun stirred a sense of familiarity—but Chu couldn’t quite place it.

Still, the poem didn’t cause much stir. The man seemed to lack background, so attention quickly moved on.

The ornate wine cup drifted down the stream again, bearing dreams of glory and pride, edging ever closer to the main seat.

The Seventh Prince looked nervous, troubled by his lack of literary talent.

But fortunately, the wine cup stopped in front of Qin Sangzhi. For him, this was exactly what he had been waiting for.

He eagerly plucked the damp cup from the water and unfolded his bamboo slip. Soon, his face displayed calm confidence.

After all, he had written the themes himself—he had already prepared for them all.

He was ready to dazzle the crowd.

He commanded the system to spread open a poetic anthology from its world before his eyes.

Chu Huaicun, seated nearby, watched Qin Sangzhi’s expression in silence. The youth in white sat proud and aloof, with the graceful air of a “First Gentleman” as rumors claimed. But rather than focused on composing, his eyes were locked onto a spot in the air.

Chu couldn’t help but find it absurd—Qin Sangzhi’s poems were not only not his own, but he also couldn’t recite them from memory. Without the system, he likely wouldn’t even understand the verses.

Qin Sangzhi smiled and announced:
“I’ve drawn the theme ‘Spring Night’, and inspiration flows like a spring. I’ve composed a piece titled ‘Spring River, Flower, and Moonlit Night.’ It’s one of my proudest works—I believe it will outshine all others. Please lend me your ears.”

“Young Master Qin’s poetic talent surely surpasses us all!”

The crowd immediately clapped in response, all smiles and flattery, putting on expressions as if eagerly awaiting pearls of wisdom.

Only Chu Huaicun noticed that the examinee surnamed Liang, who had earlier composed the “Spring Sorrow” poem, was still sunk in melancholy, unable to shake off the mood. Amid the bustling admiration of the others, his trace of sorrow seemed insignificant. Chu’s gaze shifted slightly, returning to the self-satisfied Qin Sangzhi.

Once the atmosphere was sufficiently prepared, Qin Sangzhi finally recited the first line in a composed tone:

“The tide of the spring river flows level with the sea…”

Yet just then, a voice—completely out of place—sounded from afar, cutting him off:

“Young Master Qin, how delightful it must be to drink and compose poetry here today.
But why was I not informed? Do I not deserve a seat among such company?”

Chu Huaicun abruptly looked up. The jade cup in his hand knocked against the stone before him with a crisp clink, spilling a few drops of wine.

That soft yet dangerous voice clearly belonged to an unwelcome guest—a voice he knew all too well. Especially when the speaker used that snake-like, chilling tone.

A palanquin had delivered the man directly to the site of the poetic gathering. He lifted the curtain and stepped halfway out, one foot touching the ground, revealing a pale face floating above a robe of deep purple.

Wasn’t he supposed to not come? thought Chu Huaicun.

Ji Ying raised his shadowy eyes, still smiling as he strolled toward the seated scholars by the lakeside, ignoring their expressions of disdain.

He was not like Chu Huaicun. The refined scholars held mixed feelings toward Chu, but their attitude toward Ji Ying was pure: disgust and hatred.

Cries of protest rippled through the gathering. Clearly, Ji Ying was not welcome.

Qin Sangzhi quickly grasped that the man had not come with good intentions and scoffed coldly:

“Lord Ji wants to attend a gathering like this? How unexpected. Tarnishing the court wasn’t enough for you—you want to be welcomed among me and my colleagues now? My poetry isn’t meant for those who can’t even understand it.”

His tone was sharp and unrestrained—after all, he had Chu Huaicun backing him. No matter what he said, someone would clean up after him.

The audience, instead of blaming Qin Sangzhi for his arrogance, admired him for being upright and incorruptible, unwilling to mingle with a known villain.

“Is that so?” Ji Ying cast a brief glance at Chu Huaicun, then looked away. He curved his lips slightly.
“Everyone present is a pillar of the nation, so righteous and pure—truly admirable. The Sage once said: ‘To err is human; to correct one’s errors is the greatest virtue.’ I merely wish to seek your guidance today. Surely Young Master Qin won’t be so narrow-minded as to deny me a seat?”

The guests murmured in confusion, and ultimately, all eyes turned—almost involuntarily—toward Chu Huaicun, who also sat at the head of the gathering.

Everyone knew that Chu Huaicun and Ji Ying now represented opposing factions in court. Even at this very moment, they were locked in a standoff over military rations.

Qin Sangzhi, too, looked to Chu Huaicun, clearly expecting him to resolve the situation.

Chu Huaicun slowly wiped a drop of wine from his fingers with a silk handkerchief. He acted as if Ji Ying didn’t exist, not even sparing him a glance. His calm demeanor made him appear even more aloof and untouchable—like a solitary pine in winter.

His voice was cold and firm:

“If Lord Ji insists on ‘correcting his faults,’ then let him stay.
But he mustn’t disturb the worthy talents gathered here.”

Ji Ying lowered his head slightly. The spring breeze from the capital brushed his face, and for once, Chu Huaicun glimpsed a trace of softness in him.

In a low voice, Ji Ying said—almost as if Chu’s forcefulness had left him no choice:

“And Prime Minister Chu means to say…?”

“Someone of your status, Lord Ji, should not sit among the lesser seats,” Chu said meaningfully.
“Young Master Qin is noble and principled—if you truly came with sincerity, you should know your place. As for the Seventh Prince…”

Suddenly named, the Seventh Prince jerked his head up, panic in his eyes.

He clearly did not want to be associated with this infamous schemer. Deep down, he understood that staying neutral and hiding his stance was the most important thing at this point.

Only by doing so could he earn the approval of these righteous courtiers.

Ji Ying immediately understood what Chu Huaicun meant.

He thought back to how he had rushed here, making up excuses to the Emperor about needing to disrupt a gathering that included Chu Huaicun—yet now, everything had quietly fallen into place.

The spring breeze did not change its course for anyone. It blew gently across his chest, and his heart beat clearly and vividly.

“Then I suppose… I must inconvenience Prime Minister Chu after all.”

Ji Ying walked past the scholars who looked at him with disgust. As he passed the Seventh Prince, the boy shrank back, as though Ji Ying were some kind of man-eating monster.

Qin Sangzhi didn’t bother hiding his contempt—his expression was as cold as ice.

Though Chu Huaicun had not driven Ji Ying away, he still felt a trace of disappointment.

Ji Ying sat beside him—in the empty seat at Chu Huaicun’s side—and for the first time, smiled at him with what seemed like genuine emotion.

No one could tell whether the smile was real or calculated.

To the others, it was clearly the smirk of a treacherous official, trying to provoke.

Even Chu Huaicun might not have realized his own emotions—but Ji Ying did.

After more than ten years, he felt… a bit more alive.

And in his heart, a dangerous desire bloomed—one that only the living could have.

Chu Huaicun sat beside him in silence, and Ji Ying savored the feeling.

What did it mean… that he was finally so close?

The gathering had been briefly interrupted, but Qin Sangzhi soon regained control of the situation.

He had only spoken one line of Spring River, Flower, and Moonlit Night, and now, without glancing at Ji Ying, he continued with icy poise, clearly declaring his hostility.

His voice remained cold and unshaken as he recited the full poem.

At first, the guests were still distracted, sneaking glances at Chu Huaicun and Ji Ying—these two longtime enemies now forced to sit together. But gradually, the poem’s beauty pulled them in, and they became immersed in its imagery.

By the end, even though Qin Sangzhi’s recitation style didn’t fully match the poem’s tone, everyone was stunned.

They marveled at his brilliance once again, praising his endless talent, versatility, and mastery.

Qin Sangzhi was finally satisfied. Amid the sea of compliments, he lifted his chin slightly with pride.

“…Ji Ying,” Chu Huaicun murmured, sensing the man beside him lean forward. But Ji Ying acted as if he hadn’t heard.

Chu Huaicun considered several possibilities, then wanted to sigh.

There was no way Ji Ying had come all the way here just because he had said, “It’s a pity you won’t be there.”

He must have had some other purpose.

Perhaps to mock him, perhaps to draw the crowd’s hatred once more.

Or perhaps… a flicker of suspicion crossed Chu Huaicun’s mind as he stared into Ji Ying’s eyes.

Maybe… Ji Ying truly had something he wanted to do.

At the worst possible moment, Ji Ying stood up.

Qin Sangzhi watched him confidently, amused. He had once considered “targeting” Ji Ying, this villain, after arriving in this world.

But after just a few days of being worshipped as a once-in-a-generation genius and admired like a gentleman of jade, he lost interest.

He had come to truly believe he stood above the world, looking down on others.

After all, Ji Ying’s fate value was pathetically low.

—Clearly, he wouldn’t end well.


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