Volume Two: The Noble and the Knave Chapter Eight: How Was It Done?

As a standard establishment of its kind, the House of Delight was not only abundant in beauties, food, and wine, but always kept the Four Treasures of the Study at the ready. At a word from Huang Ming, and with a brief nod from Zhao Jian, someone promptly brought over the finest brush, ink, paper, and inkstone.

This time, the crowd’s curiosity was even more piqued. Though the whole affair seemed utterly unreliable—how could a few idle dandies like Huang Ming and his friends possibly rival the gathered scholars? Even if they weren’t composing poetry on the spot but responding to a set topic, the gap would surely be enormous. Even Zhang Han and his companion now hesitated, saying, “Young Master Huang, perhaps we should let this go… There’s no need to compete with them.”

“I don’t mind personally, but the three of us represent the Imperial Academy. How can we allow ourselves to be looked down upon?” Huang Ming, however, stood firm in his resolve.

Once he received the set of writing instruments, he immediately turned and returned to his private chamber, instructing, “Keep watch. Don’t let anyone else in to peek.” Though unsure what trick he might have up his sleeve, his friends ultimately trusted him. After a brief hesitation, they stationed themselves at either side of the door like guardian deities.

They also called out to boost their own morale: “Just wait—Young Master Huang will soon deliver a work so astonishing you’ll all be left speechless.”

This prompted another round of chatter. By now, Yang Dun had recovered from his earlier defeat and mocked, “Him? If he manages to compose a poem with any substance and proper form, his ancestors must be smiling on him from their graves!”

His companions burst out laughing, and the rest of the crowd clearly doubted Huang Ming could produce anything on par with the scholars’ work. Indeed, events unfolded as they expected: after Huang Ming entered the private chamber, he did not reappear for some time.

An entire meal passed, and still he sat hunched over his desk, writing endlessly, showing no sign of stopping. What sort of lengthy poem could possibly require so much time to compose?

“You might as well give up this attempt to stall—it only makes you look worse!” one of the scholars called out.

Another chimed in, “Exactly! Do you think composing poetry is so easy?”

“We don’t expect you to be so talented as to compose verses in seven steps like the ancients,” someone else added, “but if you drag this on only to produce some incoherent drivel, you’ll only be wasting everyone’s time!”

Impatience and skepticism echoed through the room, so much so that Zhao Jian was tempted to intervene again. Just then, however, Huang Ming abruptly put down his brush and said, “Master Zhao, come in and judge my work. Is what I’ve written superior to those clumsy verses?”

Zhao Jian was taken aback, but curiosity quickly got the better of him. He hurried into the private chamber, stood at Huang Ming’s side, and gazed intently at the ink-stained sheet.

At first glance, the handwriting made him frown. The script was not at all presentable; though Huang Ming had tried to write neatly, it was still a bit rough and unrefined, lacking in strength. Clearly, this young master was vastly inferior to the scholars when it came to calligraphy. Even without reading the content, the disparity was obvious at a glance.

Bearing this thought, Zhao Jian moved on to the poem itself—and then he froze.

He began to read the several hundred characters before him, word by word, as though deciphering a profound essay brimming with deep truths. He dared not skip a single line.

A good quarter of an hour passed before he finally snapped back to himself, unable to help but ask, “And the rest?”

“It’s not that there isn’t more—I simply don’t wish to write further for now,” Huang Ming replied with a smile, flexing his wrist, which was sore after hastily writing so many characters with a brush.

“But the poem isn’t complete…”

“Some things require a price to be seen,” Huang Ming answered with another smile. Then, raising his voice, he called out, “Master Zhao, make your judgment—are their clumsy verses better, or is my work more refined? Which helps you make your decision?”

Zhao Jian scarcely hesitated before declaring, “Naturally, Young Master Huang’s work is far superior. Ziyun, Hongying, the rest of you, come back at once and attend to Young Master Huang and his friends.”

As he spoke, he quickly gathered the several sheets of rough script from the desk, folding them carefully and stowing them away in his sleeve with great reverence. “Young Master Huang, as for the rest of the poem…”

“When those who truly make the decisions at your House of Delight have thought it through, they can come to me,” Huang Ming replied with a broad grin. He then settled back into his seat and called out, “Young Master Xu, Young Master Zhang, bring the girls in—let’s drink and enjoy ourselves!”

Everyone was left utterly perplexed, unable to fathom what sort of poem he had written to make Zhao Jian change his stance so decisively, and even treat him with such marked respect. The most maddening part was that no one else was allowed to see the poem. When someone asked Zhao Jian about it, he merely smiled and hurried away.

Speculation buzzed, but in the end no one could arrive at an answer, and the crowd dispersed, filled with bafflement. In their view, the only explanation was that Huang Ming’s composition was truly extraordinary, and that the House of Delight would now treat it as a secret weapon, not to be shown to outsiders.

Only Yang Dun and the other scholars were left in stunned humiliation, their faces a mixture of shame and anger, helpless to do anything about it. After all their efforts, things had ended in this fashion. Worse still, even in the realm of literature, their greatest pride, they had been bested—an unbearable blow.

“Let’s go! The capital has more than one brothel with a famous courtesan!” Yang Dun declared as they left, but his heart was filled with resentment and indignation.

In contrast, the private chamber, now once again a secluded haven, was filled with a scene of languid pleasure. The girls, eager to make amends for the earlier incident, lavished every attention on Huang Ming and his companions—especially Ziyun, who pressed her delicate form so closely against Huang Ming that it was as if she had melted into him.

Amidst laughter, teasing, and stolen kisses, even the shy Qi Changfeng found himself overwhelmed. After offering Huang Ming three cups of wine as an apology, Ziyun finally asked in a sweet, coaxing voice, “Young Master Huang, could you please tell us what marvelous poem you wrote for our master? Let us broaden our horizons, won’t you?”

Her eyes brimmed with affection as she gazed at Huang Ming, her glances as soft as silk. Soon, Zhang Han and the others joined in, asking, “Yes, Young Master Huang, what sort of brilliant poem did you compose to defeat those self-important fellows? How did you do it?”