Chapter 21: Eligible to Enter the Seventh Floor of the Wenfeng Pavilion

When the poem "Fisherman's Pride: Autumn Thoughts," transcribed by An Xiaowei, was placed before the great Confucian scholar Xu Zizhou, he stroked his long beard, picked up the paper, and fixed his gaze upon it.

Master Jiang and the two others watched Xu Zizhou intently. They were curious—curious about the young master they had long known as someone who could barely recognize a few characters, yet who now presented such a contradiction. What kind of poem could he possibly have composed?

They held no high expectations. Writing a refined poem is difficult; writing a classic is even harder. In Master Jiang's estimation, even if Chen Xiaofu could read and had some talent, his work would likely be, at best, third-rate. Being third-rate was already an achievement; the vast majority of young students at the Lin'an Academy, who had spent a decade in diligent study, rarely reached even that level.

But as Xu Zizhou studied the paper carefully, Master Jiang's old eyes suddenly widened. Xu Zizhou’s expression had become intensely agitated. The old scholar drew a sharp breath and swallowed hard. He had been holding the paper with one hand, but now he held it with both, as if that light, fluttering sheet had suddenly become heavy as a mountain. His hands were visibly trembling.

Seeing this, the academic official Huang and Dean Li noticed the shift. Dean Li leaned in and whispered, "How is the poem?"

At that moment, three scholars from the Qi State arrived, having finished their bathing. As they pushed open the bamboo gate and stepped into the courtyard of the elegant residence, they saw their teacher holding the paper with overwhelming excitement: "This poem... it deserves a place on the seventh floor of the Wenfeng Pavilion!"

When the great scholar spoke these words, everyone gasped. The three students stopped in their tracks, looking at their teacher in utter disbelief.

The Wenfeng Pavilion in the capital of the Great Zhou Dynasty did not originate with the founding of the dynasty. It had stood for five hundred years. Begun during the Xia Dynasty and lasting through the Chen Dynasty, it housed not only the works of celebrities from those eras but also the most recognized literary masterpieces of the past half-millennium. For any student in the world, having a poem or essay included on even the first floor of the Wenfeng Pavilion was a supreme honor, enough to be recorded in family genealogies and cherished by generations to come.

As for the seventh floor... it was said that in five hundred years, only eighteen pieces of writing had ever been placed there.

There were ten poems, five lyrics, two parallel proses, and one rhapsody. How many years had it been since any work had earned a place on that seventh floor? Today, their teacher claimed this poem belonged there—did that not mean the author’s talent could rival their teacher’s own? Xu Zizhou himself had one poem on the seventh floor, which was precisely why he stood at the pinnacle of all great Confucian scholars in the world.

An Xiaowei and Liang Jingru, standing beside Xu, were also stunned. Outside the library, An Xiaowei had said the poem’s artistry was exceptionally high and might reach the sixth floor, but the great scholar had now raised it even higher.

Liang Jingru asked skeptically, "Is... is it really that good?" This was not just her doubt; it was the doubt of everyone present.

Xu Zizhou reread the poem, pondered for several moments, and nodded slightly. "I believe it is indeed that good." He handed the paper to Master Jiang. "You all should take a look."

Master Jiang took it with trembling hands and focused his eyes. He felt only excitement and dared not offer an opinion, feeling unworthy to judge such a work. He passed it to Dean Li, who read it three times, took a deep breath, and passed it to the academic official Huang.

Though Huang Can's scholarship did not quite match the other three, as an academic official, he possessed a certain level of connoisseurship. He read it three times, set the paper down, and felt his heart race. As a Great Zhou official overseeing the Lin'an Academy, with the endorsement of the great scholar Xu, he immediately saw the prestige this could bring to Lin'an.

This poem came from Lin'an! From Chen Xiaofu of Lin'an! If it could truly enter the seventh floor of the Wenfeng Pavilion—no, even the sixth—it would shock the world! It would be included in textbooks for students everywhere to study; it would be sung by courtesans in every house across the land! This was a testament to the thriving academic spirit of Lin'an, and it would be the crowning achievement of his tenure.

He became animated at once. "A magnificent poem!" He looked at Master Jiang with deep respect. "Master Jiang, you have taught a fine student! I believe you should continue to guide Ji'an. Even if he no longer needs to attend the academy, his status as your student should remain in the records. He is a member of the Lin'an Academy."

He turned to the Dean. "Dean Li, register him officially. Since he intends to study in the library, and there are so many books there that he will surely be occupied for a long time... is there any space left in this residence?"

Before Master Jiang could process this, Dean Li understood the official's intention. "There is still one room available."

Official Huang waved his hand. "Then invite Ji'an to stay here. The Huaxi Villa is quite far, and living here will make it more convenient for him to visit the library. Master Jiang, he is your student—would you mind going to the library to inform him?"

Master Jiang was bewildered. "But—"

"No 'buts.' It is almost noon, and I haven't seen him bring a lunch box. It is not good for him to neglect his meals while reading! He is still a youth, in his growing years; he must eat! A meal and a short rest in the residence will be of great benefit for his afternoon studies."

Master Jiang considered this and found it reasonable. He also had his own questions about the poem and felt it would be better to ask Ji'an directly. He stood up and took his leave for the library.

The three students of Xu Zizhou then stepped forward, bowing respectfully. The eldest, Yufu, asked tentatively, "Teacher, may we also see this poem worthy of the seventh floor of the Wenfeng Pavilion?"

Xu Zizhou looked at his students and handed the paper over. "Yufu, take a careful look."

The young man accepted it with both hands, his two companions leaning in. A moment later, all three were struck with astonishment.

Mo Zhiqiu, standing to Yufu's left, had already grasped the extraordinary nature of the work. He exclaimed, "This is a frontier poem of the rarest kind! The first half evokes such a sense of desolation, sorrow, grandeur, and depth! Yet, amidst this melancholy, a heroic spirit echoes between heaven and earth."

"In the second half, a sense of heroic resolve emerges, exhausting the sorrow of the soldiers missing their homes, yet showing how they must forgo their return for the sake of the frontier. This is the weight of the nation, the responsibility of the people. I can almost see the great spirit of those iron-willed men who speak not of their homesickness or the pain of their wounds!"

"This poem has the sighs of the 'Qiang flute playing amidst the frost,' the gloom of the 'long smoke and setting sun over the lonely city,' and the sorrow of 'the general's white hair and the soldier's tears.' The author uses such somber ink to capture the persistence and steadfastness of the frontier troops!"

"My scholarship is shallow, but this is what I perceive." Mo Zhiqiu bowed again. "May I ask, Teacher, who is the author of this poem?"