Chapter Eight: Ascending to the Second Floor

Li Zisheng was still deep in thought, pondering what kind of lyric would be most fitting.

Outside, the gathered crowd murmured among themselves.

“Brother Zhou, that young lad is certainly quick with poetry, but when it comes to lyrics, a mere child hasn’t known separation or sorrow—this will surely stump him.”

“Indeed, Brother Chen, you speak true. In our Great Tang, poetry flourishes, but lyrics and songs are but fleeting amusements, never held in high esteem among scholars—just a pastime. I doubt the boy has even heard any lyrics or songs before; this challenge is beyond him.”

“Well then, let’s prepare ourselves. I’ve brought a few fine poems today—perhaps I, too, will ascend to that second floor and join the critics.”

All those gathered outside shared this view, and began eagerly making their own preparations.

“Look, the boy is making a move,” someone exclaimed, drawing all eyes to Li Zisheng.

He paid no heed to their scrutiny. Taking up his brush, he swept it boldly across the rice paper.

A Tune for Ruan Lang Gui

The slanting wind and fine rain fall in a gentle haze,
Painted curtains trail to the ground.
Behind the screen, curling incense wavers in the air,
While, in the quiet courtyard, willow catkins drift and dance.

New green is dense, scattered petals are few,
Young orioles call in the waning light.
Spring’s chill seeps through silk robes,
And the one who left has yet to return.

As Li Zisheng finished writing the title of the piece, a vague melancholy stirred in his heart. He had always cherished this lyric, and now, almost unconsciously, he recited it softly under his breath.

Though he had not drunk, he felt a touch of intoxication. Nalan Xingde, the lyricist, was a man of deep emotion, one whom Li Zisheng had always respected.

The stout innkeeper, seeing Li Zisheng lost in reverie after completing his work, said nothing, but waited patiently until he came back to himself before carefully taking up the rice paper.

Just then, the incense stick burned out, its last wisp of ash falling.

Li Zisheng found a stool and sat, closing his eyes to rest. Meanwhile, Balian, bored, wandered about, observing the renowned Three Flavours Hall, curious what marvels could draw such crowds—folk who would spend ten silver taels without a second thought.

Time passed. The throng outside grew ever larger, while no news emerged from the second floor. Balian grew restless, several times on the verge of storming upstairs, only for Li Zisheng to hold him back, leaving him to fidget anxiously.

The crowd outside was growing impatient as well. Ordinarily, poetry and lyrics were judged swiftly at the Three Flavours Hall; good or bad, results were soon announced before all, sometimes leaving authors flushed with embarrassment, but never for long. Now, however, the judging had dragged on well past the burning of an incense stick, with no word given—unprecedented and most peculiar.

At last, as anticipation peaked, the stout innkeeper descended from the second floor, holding a single slip of paper. Without a word, he handed it to Li Zisheng, then stood respectfully aside, waiting for his reply. The writing desk, brush, ink, and paper had all been replaced with brand new ones.

“Look, even the writing set has been changed for the boy! Never have I seen such a thing—today we’re witnessing something extraordinary. This lad must be remarkably gifted.”

The crowd buzzed with excitement, all having seen the innkeeper’s gesture. The replacement of the writing set had caused quite a stir.

Li Zisheng looked at the slip in his hand. On it, in elegant, flowing script—far more like a woman’s hand than a man’s—were a few simple words: “Why do we drink? What is drinking?”

He pondered briefly, then took up the new rice paper and, in small characters, penned his view on drinking.

It was, in truth, his own reflection, drawn from his experiences as a young intellectual in the modern world.

Wine in the cup, the cup in hand, words in the wine, feelings in the heart.

The candor, integrity, and diplomacy shown as cups are raised and exchanged, the temper, character, and manner revealed after three rounds—all are mirrored in the vessels we share.

The gentle and the petty, the warmth and chill of human affairs, the rise and fall of fortune—all are revealed in a single sip.

As he looked over his words, Li Zisheng’s mind was awash with thoughts. He had a feeling that the master of the Three Flavours Hall was no ordinary man—or woman. There was something exceptional about this person, of that he was certain.

Yet, such status is always relative, and Li Zisheng could not say for sure if his guess was accurate. Still, the master’s unusual behavior only confirmed his suspicions—where there is strangeness, there is intrigue.

The stout innkeeper took Li Zisheng’s manuscript and once again vanished up the stairs.

Meanwhile, Li Zisheng remained composed, eyes closed in meditation and undisturbed by anything. Balian, on the other hand, was beside himself with anxiety.

Outside, the atmosphere was in uproar.

“How can it be that the boy is having a conversation with the head proprietor? It’s simply unbelievable! Who is he, really?”

“Laifu, I want all the information on this child within the hour,” commanded a man in a bright yellow robe from a distant wine house, addressing his attendant.

“Sir, please, upstairs,” the stout innkeeper said, returning from the second floor and now even more deferential toward Li Zisheng.

“Ladies and gentlemen, today the Three Flavours Hall is honored to welcome another talented scholar who has gained entry to our second floor. We shall be closing early; please return tomorrow,” announced the innkeeper, then promptly shut the doors.

The crowd’s excitement only grew. It was as though they had witnessed the birth of a future champion. To enter the second floor of the Three Flavours Hall was a rare honor, reserved for the most brilliant. Of the few publicly known patrons, two stood out: both were the top scholars from the Lingzhou Lecheng Academy, each famed as a prodigy.

These two were considered worthy of the highest literary laurels, their mentors revered as national scholars, their families holding prominent positions at court.

Now, this young boy had ascended to the second floor, having passed the trials set by these illustrious talents. He was a poet and lyricist of rare distinction. Even more remarkable, he had completed both works within the time it takes an incense stick to burn.

The crowd outside lingered for a long while, passionately discussing the young scholar who had just gone inside.

“Ling’er, whatever are you doing?” muttered the gentleman who had watched from the upstairs window. His features were set in a frown, his fingers whitening as he gripped his white fan, eyes fixed on the second floor of the Three Flavours Hall.