Chapter Forty: The Qixi Poetry Gathering (Part One)

On the seventh day of the seventh lunar month, the annual Qixi Festival arrived. Though the plum rains had passed, a gentle, lingering drizzle fell, as if echoing the intertwined yearnings of lovers. Just as dawn was breaking, Li Yijun entered Yang Yaozong's tent, carrying two large bags of food.

She saw the scar on Yang Yaozong’s back, running from his right shoulder across to his left waist—swollen, about the width of a little finger. She recalled that yesterday, a wooden bridge collapsed during a soldier’s training run; the falling structure nearly struck a soldier returning from beneath the bridge. Yang Yaozong had dashed in, pushing the man aside, only for the heavy timber to scrape his own back. It had torn his shirt, but he had merely grimaced, then hurried to help the fallen soldiers, quickly surrounded by others amidst the confusion. No one seemed to notice his injury. Afterwards, he returned to his tent, likely applied medicine himself, changed his clothes, and immediately resumed training.

Now, as Li Yijun examined the wound, she saw that medicine had been carelessly smeared across it. The injury from his right shoulder to the middle of his back was deep, already scabbed but still oozing pus and blood, badly swollen. The shallower part, from the center to the left waist, had also scabbed but remained puffy. She frowned, her face flushing slightly, and went to Yang Yaozong’s side. Channeling her energy, she conjured a crystalline mist with her right hand, gently wiping away the haphazardly applied medicine.

Yang Yaozong always woke naturally at this hour. Now, the burning pain on his back was eased by a cool, soothing sensation. The tent was still dim; as he became aware of someone behind him and was about to turn, Li Yijun pressed his right shoulder to stop him. “Don’t move. Your back injury is serious. Let me treat it. It will be well in two or three days.”

Hearing the princess’s voice, Yang Yaozong obediently replied, “Oh,” and lay prone, turning his head toward her with a smile. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Li Yijun’s cheeks reddened, but she ignored him and kept working, thinking, When have you ever not troubled me? She cleaned his wound thoroughly, then took a small, flat silver tin from her waist, unscrewing the lid. A faint, enchanting fragrance drifted out, refreshing even to the smell.

Yang Yaozong, seeing she did not respond, turned his head outward and, resting on his pillow, said, “Your Highness, I still don’t know your name.”

She did not answer, her fingertips trembling slightly as she dabbed a milky ointment onto his wound. Yang Yaozong felt an instant coolness that seemed to wash away the pain, and a sense of comfort spread through him, every pore breathing in the balm. He could not help but let out a soft hum.

Hearing this, Li Yijun’s blush deepened to the tips of her ears and down her slender neck, even a fine sweat beading on her delicate nose. Yang Yaozong had not meant to make a sound; it was simply an involuntary response to the relief. Realizing the hum carried a hint of languor, he felt embarrassed. “Your medicine must be extraordinary, Your Highness. It’s almost wasted on someone like me.”

Li Yijun snorted, “As long as you know.”

Unbothered by her sharp retort, Yang Yaozong asked, “Are you an immortal, Princess?”

She thought he was merely flattering her for treating him and replied with a faint snort.

Yang Yaozong pressed on, “Then are you a practitioner of the Dao?”

She realized what he meant and answered, “No.”

“Then how did you master such profound skills—leaping through the air and vanishing at will? Can I learn them?”

Li Yijun thought, What nonsense—leaping through the air? He’ll say anything. “Your constitution is ordinary, your talent lacking, and you are already too old to begin martial training. As you are now, practicing some external forms for fitness is already good enough. Besides, you’re a scholar, what use is martial skill to you?”

Yang Yaozong, unoffended by her scorn, grinned. “It’s said that one can never have too many skills. Learning more is always better. But you haven’t told me how you learned your skills. Maybe I could learn them too.”

Her amusement was barely concealed. Keeping a straight face, she said, “You can’t. I am the last of my sect, and I may never find a successor.”

He turned, surprised. “Such profound arts, and no one to inherit them? What a waste. Why not teach me something, even just enough to protect myself?”

She replied coldly, “I told you, you can’t learn them!” Even she felt she was speaking too much today.

Yang Yaozong’s eyes widened. “Don’t tell me… do I have to become a eunuch to learn your skills?”

Anger and embarrassment flashed across her face. Where did he get these strange ideas? “I told you, you lack the aptitude and foundation. You can’t learn it!”

Yang Yaozong let out a defeated “uh,” and collapsed onto the bed, motionless, like a dejected puppy.

She found his look amusing and consoled him, “You don’t have to fight in battle, and with your current training, you’ll be stronger than most. Even if you could learn my techniques, what would it matter? On the battlefield, one man’s strength is no match for thousands.”

Yang Yaozong was quiet for a moment, then, with childlike stubbornness, said, “That’s true, but everyone dreams of mastering martial arts, seeking immortality, conjuring armies with a wave of the hand.”

His wild talk made her want to laugh—conjuring armies from beans! She wondered what went on in his mind. She had never spoken with anyone like this, but found the experience strangely delightful.

When she finished applying the ointment, she handed him an invitation. “This is for you. The eldest son of the Prince of Qin, Jing Min, invites you to a Qixi poetry gathering. Since you aren’t at the Nangong estate, your invitation was sent to the Crown Prince, who has passed it on to you.”

She paused, her gaze turning cold. “The gathering is at the Prince of Qin’s manor. The Crown Prince won’t attend, but instructed me to tell you: you must showcase your talent—compose a poem or two, at least.”

Yang Yaozong frowned, taking the invitation. “But I have no talent for poetry. Besides, composing poetry isn’t like cooking—you can’t just whip something up on command. Even for cooking, you need ingredients. How am I to make poetry out of nothing? And I don’t even know this Prince of Qin’s son. Why has he invited me?”

Li Yijun looked at him coolly, as if he were an idiot.

Feeling uneasy under her gaze, he stammered, “What… what is it? I really don’t know him.”

Her stern expression hid her amusement. “Don’t forget, you are now the Crown Prince’s tutor. Lately, there have been unkind rumors about both you and the Emperor—saying you’re mediocre and only got your position through the Nangong family, that the Emperor is old and foolish and appoints people carelessly. You wouldn’t have heard this in the mountains, but in just a short time these slanders have spread throughout the capital. The originators are certainly malicious. The poetry gathering isn’t just because you’re the Crown Prince’s tutor; there’s likely another purpose. You must prove yourself.”

Yang Yaozong finally understood, remembering his status. He frowned, realizing the trouble his new position had brought both himself and the Emperor. While others might not know, he could now see that the rumors had to come from someone familiar with his predecessor’s life. Spreading tales of his mediocrity seemed trivial, but it hinted at deeper schemes. As the Crown Prince’s tutor and future Emperor’s teacher, his supposed lack of talent would reflect poorly not only on himself but also on the Emperor and the Crown Prince. With war against the Turks ongoing, such rumors could sow unrest, and if exploited by enemies, could lead to internal strife. The Prince of Qin’s son likely intended to confirm these rumors or even publicize them further.

Seeing his thoughtful silence, Li Yijun guessed he understood her implication. She turned to leave. At the tent’s entrance, without looking back, she said, “My name is Li Yijun.” With that, she lifted the curtain and was gone.

Yang Yaozong, lying on the bed, watched the curtain still swaying, and murmured, “Li Yijun. Li Yijun.”

As evening approached, Yang Yaozong finished arranging the mountain training and left Qin Haizhou in charge. After a quick wash and change into clean scholar’s robes, he set off down the mountain.

Not far from the camp, Li Yijun appeared at his side. “You certainly are calm. It’s so late, and you’re only now heading down.”

Yang Yaozong smiled. “I’m no poet and have no desire to attend this Qixi poetry gathering. Mingling with scholars and discussing verse is less enjoyable than being with the soldiers. It’s not as if I’m refusing to go—I’m just going late enough that, with luck, the gathering will be over when I arrive.” He clapped his hands and spread them before him, chuckling.

Li Yijun shot him a glance. “You wish! Aren’t you afraid they’ll say you’re arrogant and aloof?”

He shrugged. “A Crown Prince’s tutor should have some dignity, shouldn’t he? Not just go wherever he’s invited, whenever he’s summoned.”

She was taken aback by his reasoning. What went on in that head of his? She huffed softly. “I’ve never met a tutor like you. The higher your rank, the more you should respect others. Remember, you represent the royal family! And are you really going to attend the gathering dressed like that?”

He looked at his attire. “Well… I’ll have to return home and change first. I don’t want to, but with the rain, my clothes and shoes will be filthy by the time I get there. I can’t show up like this, can I? The royal image must be maintained.”

She was nearly exasperated. If the road were easier, would he really just go as he was? Was he using the royal image to tease her?

Without warning, she grabbed his arm and, with a burst of strength, leapt forward, carrying him down the mountain.

Startled, Yang Yaozong shouted, “Auntie, what are you doing?!” The wind rushed past his ears, and he quickly realized she was simply carrying him down the mountain.

She scowled. “Who are you calling Auntie? Stop that! At your pace, the gathering really would be over before you arrived.”

As the sensation of flying through the air thrilled him, excitement replaced his initial alarm. “Yijun, you’re so strong—carrying me so lightly.”

She shot him a glare. “Don’t call me by name!” What girl wanted to be praised for her strength? The thought annoyed her.

He shrugged. “If I can’t call you Auntie or by your name, what should I call you? Calling you ‘Princess’ feels too formal for a friend.”

She ignored him, but in her heart, she repeated the word: Friend?

In the space of a tea’s time, they reached the foot of the mountain, where Heiyao awaited them. The horse nuzzled Yang Yaozong’s arm and head in greeting.

Yang Yaozong laughed at the ticklish sensation. “Alright, alright, I know you missed me. I missed you too.” As he stroked Heiyao’s mane, he thanked Li Yijun. “Thank you! Princess.”

She nodded curtly. “In the bundle on Heiyao’s back are clothes and shoes for you. Change and go straight to the Prince’s manor. It’s already late.” Hearing him call her ‘Princess’ made her feel awkward. After a moment, she said, “If you consider me a friend, you may call me by my name.” The words seemed to take great courage, and her cheeks flushed pink.

Yang Yaozong replied, “Alright,” and began removing his robe, exposing a tanned, lean but sturdy chest.

Li Yijun turned away in alarm. “What are you doing?!”

He blinked, puzzled. “Didn’t you tell me to change?”

She fumed, “Couldn’t you go into the woods?”

He gave a little “uh,” glanced at her innocently, took up the bundle, and walked toward the trees, muttering, “It’s not like you haven’t seen before.”

Hearing his footsteps fade, Li Yijun turned to look at the now healing, scabbed scar on his back, her face burning as red as fire.