Chapter Twenty-Nine: The Brocade Zither

Yet he was still only a messenger, which meant that the person above in the loft must hold a status of unimaginable weight. Li Zisheng could not fathom why a county-level examination would attract such a figure, but since the opportunity was before him, he was determined to leave an indelible impression.

Li Zisheng remained calm, absently toying with the teacup on the table.

"Master Kong, Master Kong," the overseer called anxiously from below.

Kong Zhichong pretended not to hear, but the overseer's persistent urging finally forced a sigh from his lips, and he had no choice but to turn and face the assembly.

Meeting the crowd's puzzled gazes, Kong Zhichong, for the first time, felt a trace of bitterness in his heart.

"Forgive me, but I cannot judge this poem," Kong Zhichong managed, summoning all his strength to utter these words. The brilliance that once shone in his eyes had dimmed, and in this moment, he seemed to have truly aged.

The audience erupted. Even the man in the light yellow robe above in the loft, along with his companions, exchanged glances filled with amazement.

Kong Zhichong's meaning was unmistakable: Li Zisheng's mastery of poetry—or to be precise, the poem itself—had surpassed what Kong Zhichong was capable of evaluating. This implied that Li Zisheng's talent for verse was nothing short of prodigious.

Kong Zhichong saw the expressions of those below and understood their thoughts, but he was powerless. The realm this poem touched was beyond his reach—this was his most immediate and honest impression, and so he had no right to pass judgment.

"Master Kong, is this not a biased conclusion? If even you cannot evaluate Li Zisheng's poem, forgive me, but I cannot accept that," Yan Ziqing interjected. For if Li Zisheng had written a poem that even Master Kong could not critique, then his own literary reputation was truly finished.

Thus he spoke out, regardless of decorum. Li Zisheng, observing the crowd, could scarcely suppress a wry smile. He knew well the worth of his poem; now that he had written it, his name would not be limited to this single province, but would echo throughout all of Great Tang.

The reason was Mount Tai and the imperial sacrifices.

Next year, the imperial ceremony at Mount Tai was set to take place. According to the chronicles, the Emperor Xuanzong would tour the realm in the coming year, projecting power to all lands.

Lingzhou, as his mentor had said, was the first stop—meant to awe the Turks and to seek out talent.

By Li Zisheng’s own reckoning, seeking talent meant that the focus would fall upon the prefectural and county academies, much like campus recruitment in later ages: the students were the main prize.

This might explain the unusual nature of this examination, especially since, as Zhang Ziyang had mentioned, the main judge had been dispatched from the Academy of Literary Excellence. The implications were clear enough.

Compared to Li Zisheng’s composure, the crowd’s emotions had reached a fever pitch—especially after Kong Zhichong’s admission of inability. Their anticipation mounted to its peak.

Kong Zhichong stepped aside, aware that without an explanation, the crowd’s emotions would surely boil over.

But if the poem were made public, their designs would come to naught—this deepened Kong Zhichong’s bitterness. Had he known, he would have omitted poetry from the contest altogether.

All eyes turned to the paper before Li Zisheng. Eight lines of poetry, elegantly arrayed.

Yet as they finished reading, the crowd was left stunned—even the man in the light yellow robe drew a sharp breath, while Yan Ziqing’s face turned ashen.

The Brocade Zither

The brocade zither, for no reason, has fifty strings,
Each string, each fret, recalls those radiant years.
Zhuangzi’s morning dream confounded the butterfly,
The King of Shu’s spring longing entrusted to the cuckoo.
Moonlight over the sea, pearls weep their tears,
Sunshine on Bluefield, jade exhales its vapor.
Such feelings await remembrance,
Yet at the time, all was confusion.

"This... this... this is impossible. Impossible! How could a mere eight-year-old child write such poetry? Impossible!" The man in the pale yellow robe could no longer maintain his composure.

The crowd below, sharing his disbelief, drew sharp breaths. The once-bustling hall fell into a stunned silence—no one spoke, not a single whisper.

"Impossible! How could an eight-year-old have such experience, such a depth of life to draw from? He could not have written this—someone else must have penned it, and he merely saw it."

"No, impossible, impossible!"

After the initial shock, waves of doubt swept through the audience. They were no longer critiquing the poem, but rather questioning its authorship—surely Li Zisheng had copied it from someone else.

Li Zisheng, of course, understood. Given his current circumstances, even if he were a true prodigy, composing such poetry would be impossible. But he was a man from another time, and he had chosen to present this "Brocade Zither." Naturally, he was prepared with an explanation for everything.

And so Li Zisheng remained calm, sitting quietly, unruffled, tracing patterns on his teacup as if, for all the world, he were a bored child, waiting for the results to be announced.

Yet in the eyes of the onlookers, his composure took on another quality—especially that serenity.

Most had assumed Li Zisheng must have plagiarized the work, but his calm, combined with the poem's remarkable depth, made them doubt. If someone else had written this poem, it would surely have already become famous throughout Great Tang, known by all.

Everyone present was well-versed in the world of letters, intimately familiar with all the celebrated works. Yet this "Brocade Zither" was utterly unfamiliar—and it fit the examination’s theme too perfectly.

The academy’s venerable scholars were all men of vast learning; poetry flourished in Great Tang, and it was the chief currency among the literati. Any renowned poem would be on every tongue, known to all.

But this poem was too new, unmistakably an original work.

"Brocade Zither, Brocade Zither—now that this poem exists, there can be no rival among elegies of remembrance." The man in the light yellow robe sighed softly; yet he still found it difficult to accept that such a poem had sprung from the hand of an eight-year-old child.

"General Zhou, bring me a slip of paper." At his word, brush and ink appeared on the table.

The man copied the "Brocade Zither" in his own hand, passed it to General Zhou, and then fell silent, staring in a daze at the poem. The slip of paper was carried away, destination unknown.

His gaze lingered on the poem, and the sense of longing in his eyes deepened. Such a poem could only be written after experiencing profound sorrow. If it had not been lived, then its author was a heaven-born genius.

Even now, he could scarcely believe it was the work of an eight-year-old. The poem’s atmosphere was unutterably heavy.

He looked again at Li Zisheng, who gazed with placid eyes, toying with his teacup, as if simply awaiting the outcome—a composure too deep for words.