Chapter Thirty-One: A Shroud of Mist

“Li Zisheng, what is your intention in mentioning the phoenix tree?” the man asked softly, his tone betraying no emotion.

“When I was a child, I often listened to storytellers in the village. The tale that left the deepest impression on me spoke of the phoenix groves in Qizhou, planted by Prince Ning for his beloved consort. His lady was from Luoyang and held a special fondness for the phoenix tree, so Prince Ning personally planted a hundred li of them in Qizhou. The princess, too, passed away suddenly when the phoenix seeds fell and the blossoms filled the air with fragrance. This poem was written in memory of Prince Ning and his consort.”

At these words, a ripple of emotion flickered in the man's eyes, usually as calm as a still well. All those present, save for him, revealed odd and wistful expressions; Zhang Shuling looked especially pained.

“How do you interpret this?” the man continued, his voice as even as before.

Though the poem seemed simple on its surface, its true meaning was deeply elusive—a fact the man had long noticed. He had summoned Li Zisheng precisely to hear his interpretation of the poem’s intent.

“The brocade zither is said to have twenty-five strings. Why do you write of fifty strings here?” the man asked, a hint of curiosity breaking through. He was clearly intrigued, especially by the manner in which the poem borrowed from the past to illuminate the present—a true mark of poetic mastery. No matter the intent, it was hard to believe such a poem could have been penned by an eight-year-old child.

“In ancient times, the zither had fifty strings. Now it has twenty-five.” Li Zisheng answered succinctly, saying no more.

The man understood what Li Zisheng meant and did not press further. Poetry is meant to be savored. If the poet were to explain every nuance, the charm would be lost.

“You make frequent references to classical allusions in your work, which shows your profound accumulation of knowledge. When did you begin learning such grand and sweeping references?” the man probed further.

“Sir, when I was three, I often listened to storytellers in the village. At five, I began studying poetry, and at six, I took up the study of medicine. Until now, I have understood that to master both the past and present is the proper path for a scholar of the Tang. That is how I have come to accumulate these references.”

Li Zisheng’s answer was flawless. After all, these were simply facts. For a man of such stature, investigating his background would be effortless; there was no need for concealment, so he spoke plainly.

“Go find the academy steward and report to Tiandeng. You may choose three books a month to read from the academy library. Your monthly stipend will be three taels of silver, and your board and lodging will be covered.”

“That is all. You may go now.” The man clearly wished to say no more and dismissed Li Zisheng without pretense.

Li Zisheng took his leave, having achieved his purpose. Though he understood little of the true events behind the scenes, it was enough that he had obtained what he needed. What he did not know was the stir his poem had caused.

“This feeling can only be recalled in memory; at the time, it was all confusion.”

After reciting this line, the man’s eyes welled with unshed tears. Zhang Shuling and several generals saw this and felt a deep ache, for while others might not understand their lord, they knew the pain and hatred he bore for that person.

Li Zisheng left the tower and met with the academy steward, who seemed already aware of the rewards and punishments decreed by the man. After receiving his uniform and stipend, the steward left him alone. One thing remained unchanged: Li Zisheng still occupied his original dormitory, with no relocation. Not one to seek trouble, he did not pursue the matter.

Back in his room, as he organized his belongings, he found a crumpled note. It had been slipped to him by Zhang Shuling when he first entered the tower. The entire examination had felt strange, and Li Zisheng had been uneasy throughout, especially upon realizing he had met a prince, a figure of imperial blood.

The choice to present the “Brocade Zither” poem was deliberate. He had surmised that those in the tower must be of the highest rank—likely due to Zhang Shuling, whose extraordinary fortune bespoke noble birth or great influence. He needed to write well to attract notice. But who was Zhang Shuling, really? The man in the three-clawed dragon robe was certainly of royal blood—perhaps a prince—but Zhang Shuling did not bear the imperial surname. What was her true identity?

To such people, he was but a child. Why had he been summoned here, and why would such great personages observe his examination? What lay behind all this? Li Zisheng felt as if he had entered a fog.

He unfolded Zhang Shuling’s note. There were but eight characters: “Be wary of the steward and Kong Zhichong.”

Seeing these words, Li Zisheng felt as if he had become embroiled in something far beyond his reckoning. He began to review everything he had done, every person he had met, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

But the more he thought, the more confused he became, unable to make sense of it. At the same time, he could not help but dwell on the warning.

“It’s clear Zhang Shuling bears me no ill will and has no reason to harm me. I must heed this message.”

He could see the steward’s unusual closeness with Yan Ziqing—after all, the steward had pleaded for her in that place, and it would be no surprise if he now bore a grudge against Li Zisheng.

But why Kong Zhichong? He had never met him; their paths had never crossed. The only possible connection was his first teacher, Cheng Zhongliang.

Wait—his teacher, Cheng Zhongliang. At this, Li Zisheng suddenly realized something. When he left Tianshui Village, his teacher had given him many ancient books. Of these, three came with strict instructions: once read, he was to burn them immediately. This was the only thing he had never understood.

His teacher was a scholar of rites, and would never advocate book burning. There must be some hidden reason. At the time, he had not questioned it, but now, recalling his teacher’s troubled expression, he sensed a deeper secret.

“Could it be because of my teacher? But my teacher is only a village elder, perhaps known to some seventh- or eighth-rank officials as a scholar of ritual. How could such a person draw the attention of a prince?”

The more Li Zisheng thought, the more bewildered he became. He could not discern what plot or intrigue might be at play. Nevertheless, he took Zhang Shuling’s warning to heart. The steward was sure to bear him ill will, but as for Kong Zhichong—whom he had never wronged—his hostility was a matter that deserved the utmost scrutiny.