Chapter Thirty-Three: Turmoil in the Dining Hall

In the early days of spring, the cold wind still lingered. Li Zisheng had been practicing calligraphy with a suspended wrist by the riverside for nearly half an hour. The sky was fully bright, and his young face had been tinged red by the chill. Glancing at the time, he gathered his belongings and returned to his dormitory.

Most of the students at the Academy were sons of wealthy and noble families, so the dining hall opened rather late. According to the unbroken tradition upheld in our country from ancient times to the present, when meals are provided by the public, the size of the kitchen and the quality and quantity of dishes are all divided by wealth and status.

Even at the modest Huiluo Academy, it was no different. The dining hall was split into three sections. This was not based on distinctions between the Literary, Martial, or Genius Houses, but rather a communal arrangement.

The first and least desirable section was the commoners’ area, reserved for the impoverished students in the Genius House. Li Zisheng and his cousin Wang Qianlang both belonged to this section.

The second was the gentry section, designated for sons of the affluent; the final and most prominent section was for the offspring of the truly powerful.

“Cousin, cousin, hurry over! I’ve already got our food!” Wang Qianlang’s voice rang out across the dining hall. Tall and broad-shouldered, his voice was naturally booming. Li Zisheng had only just reached the entrance when he heard his cousin call.

Of course, everyone else in the hall heard it too. Li Zisheng quickly found his cousin and took a seat.

“Cousin.”

“You’re finally here! If you’d taken any longer, the food would’ve gone cold,” Wang Qianlang urged loudly.

Li Zisheng looked at him, his cousin’s booming voice drawing a wry smile. He picked up his chopsticks, eating his simple fare, while Wang Qianlang chattered on, enthusiastically recounting what he’d learned lately.

The Martial House placed little emphasis on poetry, ritual, or music, focusing instead on military tactics, horsemanship, and archery. The Tang Dynasty was the Celestial Empire, awe-inspiring to all nations not just for its robust economy, but more so for its formidable military.

Studying martial arts and cultivating physical strength was a required course for every Tang citizen. Those in the Martial House trained relentlessly, braving the bitterest winters and the hottest summers, never slackening for a moment. Only through diligent practice could a martial man truly hone his skills.

Li Zisheng wholeheartedly agreed—whether in literary or martial pursuits, without unwavering effort, nothing good would ever come of it.

He listened while eating, his cousin’s words flowing ceaselessly. Though Wang Qianlang had little talent for poetry or literature, he had an innate gift for military strategy. He could recite the classic tactics and recount the major battles of past and present with ease. His eldest cousin was already a junior officer in the army, and their uncle, being comfortably well-off, had purchased many ancient texts for him since childhood.

“So, you’re Li Zisheng—the one who wrote that affected, musty ‘Brocade Zither’ poem?”

Li Zisheng looked up to see a burly young man standing before their table, flanked by a few sycophantic followers.

Wherever people gathered, so did intrigue. He had expected this the moment he wrote “Brocade Zither.” His usual reclusiveness was meant to dampen such effects, but now, trouble had found him anyway.

Li Zisheng surmised these fellows were likely close to Yan Ziqing, which explained their eagerness to provoke him. Of those with any direct grievance against him, there was only Yan Ziqing, or possibly Kong Zhichong, hinted at by Zhang Shuling and the academy supervisors. The latter two, being senior staff, would hardly stoop to such petty harassment, leaving Yan Ziqing as the obvious instigator.

Li Zisheng saw through them but said nothing, merely smiling as he stood and responded politely. After all, one does not stoop to argue with curs.

“Yes, I am Li Zisheng. And you are?” Li Zisheng replied amiably, showing not the slightest irritation. But Wang Qianlang was not so composed—he was on the verge of exploding, only to be restrained by Li Zisheng.

“I was at the Red Pavilion today and found Chunling’s room a bit plain. Here’s the deal: write ten or so couplets for Chunling, and I’ll pick one to give her. Get on with it—I’m heading to the Red Pavilion this afternoon,” the burly youth sneered, turning away and immediately launching into a raucous discussion about the courtesans with his cronies.

Hot-blooded and upright, Wang Qianlang could not endure such provocation. Though a martial man, any insult to his cousin was an insult to himself.

Literati in the Tang Dynasty often frequented pleasure quarters, elegantly dubbing it “flowers in the wind and snow under the moon.” Many literary gatherings and occasional parties were held in such places. Yet to command someone to compose poetry for a courtesan without cause, as this brute had done, was a blatant insult to a scholar—one made all the more cutting by his open disdain, having called “Brocade Zither” nothing but pretentious drivel.

Wang Qianlang shook off Li Zisheng’s restraining hand, slammed the table, and glared furiously at the burly youth.

“What are you trying to do?” Wang Qianlang’s face flushed red with anger as he stared the youth down.

“Well, well, someone here doesn’t know his place!” The burly youth looked at Wang Qianlang with interest, clearly hoping for an outburst.

“Oh no, young master, I’m terrified! He’s so loud—my heart can’t take it!” cried one of the cronies, pretending to collapse in fright.

The burly youth was quick to play along, rushing to catch his fainting follower.

“Second Brother, are you all right?” he asked in mock concern, his intent to provoke obvious.

“You oaf, how reckless! Don’t you know my man here has a heart condition? You’ve frightened him! Don’t think you’ll get away with this. Boys, teach them a lesson!” The burly youth cast a malicious look at Wang Qianlang and Li Zisheng, ordering his followers forward.

Everyone nearby had noticed the commotion and discreetly moved aside. The burly youth’s father wielded significant power in Huiluo County, and none wished to cross him. Those of even higher rank were equally disinclined to intervene, preferring to watch Li Zisheng’s misfortune unfold.

As the thugs advanced, Li Zisheng’s face remained calm and unruffled. The burly youth, seeing his composure, found it deeply irritating—he detested those who feigned calm under pressure. Without further ado, he urged his lackeys to set upon the two cousins.