Chapter Thirty: The Prince?

Seeing Li Zisheng’s demeanor, the man felt for the first time a powerful fondness for talent surge in his heart. He had never expected such an unpolished gem in this small place. Originally, he had come merely on a whim, treating it as a diversion, but was now confronted with this poem. As for the upcoming academy’s Tian-level advancement examination, he had utterly lost interest.

The supervisor below had naturally also seen “The Brocade Zither,” and finally understood why Kong Zhichong had been so stupefied. This poem was truly a masterpiece, and it was no wonder Old Kong reacted as he did.

“The brocade zither, for no reason, fifty strings; each string and pillar recalls the youthful years…” Sitting among the Di-level seats, Zhang Shuling gazed at the poem, tears welling at the corners of his eyes, his mood heavy. What had he experienced, or what had he seen?

Zhang Shuling’s gaze was entirely fixed on Li Zisheng.

“General Zhou, dismiss today’s examination. There’s no need to announce the results. As for the Tian-level exam, postpone it,” the man in the bright robe instructed.

The supervisor received the news, and his expression shifted slightly. This examination had consumed great effort, but in the end, it seemed all had been arranged to highlight Li Zisheng.

“Everyone, today’s exam ends here. There will be no ranking this time.” As soon as the supervisor spoke, a brief silence fell over the crowd. No one said anything, nor did anyone speak up for Li Zisheng.

With the emergence of this poem, comparison was pointless; to compare it with Yan Ziqing’s work would be an insult to the poem itself.

Li Zisheng heard the supervisor’s announcement and said nothing, yet waves of emotion surged in his heart.

“Indeed, the contest with Yan Ziqing was merely a prelude; there must have been further plans. But due to this poem, those plans are now forced to be abandoned.”

If Li Zisheng’s thoughts were known to the man in the bright robe or the academy’s higher-ups, they would surely be astonished by the depth of his mind.

Everyone had no choice but to disperse. In the great hall, only those in the loft remained: Li Zisheng, Yan Ziqing, Supervisor Kong, and Zhang Shuling, sitting motionless, staring at the lines on the rice paper, unable to extricate themselves.

“Yan Ziqing, do you realize your mistake?” Old Kong’s eyes widened, locking fiercely onto Yan Ziqing.

Li Zisheng, watching the scene, was utterly bewildered—what on earth had happened?

“Old Kong, Yan Ziqing has been in our academy nearly ten years. For his father’s sake, I hope you’ll pardon him this time,” the supervisor pleaded, his face showing a hint of supplication.

Seeing this, Old Kong’s face was grim as iron. Today’s examination had gone awry; if not for Yan Ziqing, everything would have been meticulously arranged, but Yan Ziqing had ruined it.

Li Zisheng grew more confused, unable to grasp what had occurred. Yet since he’d been kept behind, there must be a reason, or perhaps a necessity.

These were the true focus of today’s exam, but now seemed to have fallen through. Otherwise, Old Kong wouldn’t be holding Yan Ziqing accountable.

Li Zisheng remained calm, sitting quietly to the side. After all, he had been roped in for reasons unknown; best not to invite trouble. He had only submitted a poem as required.

“Old Kong, this junior admits his fault and begs your forgiveness,” Yan Ziqing pleaded, tears streaming down his face in an almost comical display.

Old Kong’s face was still grim. His gaze briefly flickered to Li Zisheng, waiting quietly nearby, as if resolving something in his heart.

“Strip him of his rank as overseer, demote him to probationer in the Literary Talent Hall, cancel his monthly stipend, and forbid him from borrowing books from the library,” Old Kong declared, then departed for the loft, motioning for Li Zisheng to follow.

Yan Ziqing sat there, his face ashen.

The supervisor, seeing Yan Ziqing’s state, sighed softly. He had brought this upon himself; none but himself could be blamed.

Li Zisheng followed Old Kong up to the loft. There were four people present, one of whom was Zhang Shuling, whom Li Zisheng had met before.

Seeing Li Zisheng enter, Zhang Shuling was delighted, but then remembered Li Zisheng’s “Brocade Zither,” and his eyes flickered with complicated emotions.

Li Zisheng responded to Zhang Shuling with polite courtesy, then turned his gaze to the man in the bright robe.

The man before him wore a pale yellow deep robe, a three-beamed traveling crown adorned with gold and cicada motifs atop his head, and on the robe, three-clawed dragons coiled. Even seated, he emanated a heavy aura of authority.

But this attire startled Li Zisheng. Given his supposed age, he should not have recognized what it signified—but he was not truly a child. This was unmistakably the garb of a prince.

This man was a royal, a true member of the imperial clan. Otherwise, to wear such attire would be courting death.

Li Zisheng bowed to the man, performing the scholar’s salute. This was not mere formality; Old Kong and the supervisor had already saluted the man before him.

“Lord Prefect, I will attend to the aftermath. I beg leave,” Kong Zhichong and the academy supervisor departed, the man in the bright robe granting permission with a gesture. Thus, only the man’s retinue and Li Zisheng remained.

“You are Li Zisheng, I presume?” The man’s voice was calm, devoid of any worldly warmth.

“Yes, my lord. I am Li Zisheng.”

“How did you compose this poem? Considering your age and experience, it is truly unfathomable. Are you aware of the severe penalties for impersonation in our Tang dynasty?” His tone, though mild, would have terrified the average person, compelling them to confess everything.

But Li Zisheng, versed in psychology, understood the tactic—a psychological pressure, followed by an expectation to confess.

“Does my lord recall the Phoenix’s song upon the high hill? The parasol tree grows in the morning sun. Lush and abundant, harmonious and clear.” After reciting this, Li Zisheng bowed his head in a scholar’s posture, awaiting the man’s response.

Unexpectedly, upon hearing these words, the man’s expression shifted from calm, showing signs of reminiscence, regret, melancholy, and sighs.

“Parasol tree, parasol tree, gently tapping the trunk, late winter and early spring, the first breeze brushes the face, three branches bloom.” A wave of memory flooded the man’s mind, as if transporting him back to another time.

Under the parasol tree, a beauty danced; in the moonlight and dew, half adorned, the scent of cassia lingered.

The man’s gaze returned to Li Zisheng, his face once again calm and unreadable.

Li Zisheng, head bowed, was unaware of these changes, still wondering which prince this man before him was.