Chapter Fifteen: A Poem in Five Steps

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Li Zisheng feigned ignorance, his words betraying not the slightest restraint in his ambition, yet his actions were steeped in humility. This contrast left his interlocutor feeling as if he had swallowed bitter herbs—unable to voice his discomfort, uncertain what to say. Clearly, the man had not anticipated Li Zisheng’s brazen impudence; he glared at him in frustration, muttering inwardly, “Ignorant child,” before turning away to face General Deng.

“General Deng, I am curious—what is so exceptional about this Li Zisheng that he should replace one of our academy’s most gifted scholars? Is it his background?”

It was obvious that Li Zisheng’s presence had provoked this man, loosening his tongue so that he spoke with unfiltered candor, daring to utter whatever crossed his mind. The tone he adopted with General Deng was stiff, bordering on hostility.

General Deng’s fury was considerable, but he had no choice but to keep it in check. It was a troubled season, and the time called for caution—no need to add complications. Thus, he forced himself to respond patiently.

“Li Zisheng’s mastery of poetry rivals that of the most distinguished scholars; his talent is innate, a gift from the heavens. Even I am deeply impressed.”

It seemed General Deng had prepared his answer long ago, uttering it without hesitation.

“I did not expect you to hold Li Zisheng in such high esteem, General Deng. It is true that he is only eight years old and has already composed several poems; undoubtedly, this is a gift. Yet to claim his poetic ability matches the sages of our Tang Dynasty—that seems excessive. Does Li Zisheng truly possess such talent as you say? Since the spring is in full bloom outside, with gentle winds and fine rain, why not have Li Zisheng compose a poem on the theme of spring? Let us see for ourselves and witness his skill.”

The remaining eight said nothing, merely looking on with calm indifference, paying Li Zisheng no mind.

Li Zisheng had foreseen such a scenario and remained composed, watching his challengers with tranquil eyes and a subtle smile.

“May I ask your name, brother?”

“My name is Zhou Fuxin.” The man was slightly taken aback, not expecting Li Zisheng to inquire after his name first. He suspected provocation and answered harshly, his gaze burning with animosity.

Those observing the scene paid little attention to these exchanges. General Deng and his companions were eager to see how Li Zisheng would resolve this awkward situation. The academy’s supervisor, too, sought to discern what distinguished Li Zisheng, since Governor Zhang had personally sent word to the headmaster, inserting him into this scholarly competition.

“Brother Zhou, as they say, ‘In literature there is no first, in martial arts no second.’ To compare Zisheng’s talent to that of eminent scholars may be mere exaggeration, but among you all, he is more than capable.”

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As soon as Li Zisheng finished speaking, even the eight on the other side were visibly agitated. Zhou Fuxin was utterly dumbfounded; this eight-year-old was shockingly arrogant, bordering on insolence.

“Hmph, I hope your skill matches your words, lest you be swept away by a gust and left in tears.” Zhou Fuxin’s anger was palpable, his sneers continuing unabated.

The eight regarded Li Zisheng with increasing hostility, while General Deng and the academy supervisor exchanged puzzled glances. Was this not adding fuel to the fire, courting trouble? They could not fathom the purpose behind Li Zisheng’s conduct.

“Brother Zhou, you mentioned composing a poem about spring—how much time do you allow?” Li Zisheng feigned innocence, his wide eyes fixed on Zhou Fuxin and the others, his gaze brimming with audacity.

Zhou Fuxin snorted and declared the limit as the time it takes to drink a cup of tea.

Li Zisheng’s eyes sparkled as he began walking toward the wooden relief at the center of the hall.

The relief was only four or five steps away; with each stride, Li Zisheng recited:

“In spring, hardly ten days are clear,
Everywhere drifting clouds bring rain near.
Fields and rivers glisten, greener than glass,
Shadows crossing, the gulls unperturbed as they pass.
Peach blossoms smile beyond the fence with grace,
Half-open, their allure is in that uncertain space.
Thatched eaves shrouded in mist, guest’s robe damp,
Broken dreams awaken as the noon cock stamps.”

Upon finishing, he reached the woodcarving and began to examine it closely. The carving was steeped in antiquity, captivating Li Zisheng from the moment he entered. Now, he seized the opportunity afforded by the poetry challenge to observe it up close.

At this moment, Li Zisheng stood with his back to the crowd, offering only his silhouette.

He was oblivious to the astonished expressions behind him.

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“Five steps and a poem, five steps and a poem!”

Zhou Fuxin was the first to be stunned, followed by the others. To compose a poem in five steps—it was extraordinary. The fresh, vivid depiction of spring, painted in these few lines, was nothing short of astonishing.

“Excellent, excellent! Truly a man of great talent.” From among the eight, a middle-aged man stepped forward, fanning himself with a white paper fan as he gazed at Li Zisheng’s back.

“Fellow student Zisheng, what fine sensibility—peach blossoms beyond the fence, apricot branches over the wall, all common sights in the countryside. Yet you have described the peach blossom with such delicate elegance, as if opening a book to find a treasure. At first, it smiles enchantingly, captivating the soul; on closer inspection, its half-bloomed petals resemble a maiden’s bashful gaze. Though the poem sings of nature, it reveals your youthful heart, the pulse of spring. Truly, you are heaven-gifted. I am Zhou Fulin, leader of the literary competition for the Turkic envoy.”

Li Zisheng realized this was not the right moment to indulge in admiration. Zhou Fulin, the leader of the contest, was evidently the most influential among the nine; he now sought to befriend Li Zisheng. To continue posturing would seem discourteous.

“Oh, so you are Brother Zhou. Zisheng is honored.”

Li Zisheng turned around, his eyes bright, smiling warmly at Zhou Fulin.

Zhou Fulin, seeing Li Zisheng’s humility, understood that though young, he was perceptive. He thus lessened his previous resentment, and the rest of the group’s hostility diminished as well—save for Zhou Fuxin, whose anger remained unabated.

Yet, despite his fury, Zhou Fuxin could not help but feel a grudging admiration for Li Zisheng. Any scholar knew the difficulty of composing a poem in five steps.

“May I ask, what is the title of your poem?” Zhou Fulin inquired.

“As Brother Zhou Fuxin suggested, it is called ‘Spring Day.’”