Chapter 8: Willow Tendons and Willow Bones

“Ah…” Du Runsheng choked on his words, fanning himself with a peach blossom fan and deliberately closing it with an air of elegance. “Top scholar of the new generation, you should focus on how to write a poem themed on the willow.”

“Willow?” Luo Yunyao stirred, and without thinking, recited, “Adorned in jade-green, a tree stands tall, a thousand branches hang down like green silk ribbons.” At first, she spoke clearly, but as she went on, she sensed something amiss and her voice softened.

Setting aside the immorality of plagiarizing poetry in this alternate era, there was still that copy of the “Lanting Preface” at General Qin's residence. Heaven only knew how embarrassing it would be if someone exposed her then. A tarnished reputation would mean no foothold in officialdom.

“A fine poem!” Du Runsheng repeated the line several times before finally grasping its form, genuinely admiring the poetic charm. Of course, he admired the poem even more. Turning his burning gaze to Luo Yunyao, he asked, “Any more?”

Such earnest thirst for knowledge—truly a good student. Luo Yunyao’s playful spirit awakened. Like a teacher guiding a disciple, she said, “Want to know more? Then don’t spread this verse around. Just between you and me. Understand?”

Du Runsheng propped his chin on the peach blossom fan and obediently murmured, “Mm.”

So obedient. Luo Yunyao smiled, nodded, then turned and walked away, flicking her hand with flair. “That was a friend’s poem. There are others… you should ask him.”

Luo Yunyao was naturally more versed in court politics than Du Runsheng; perhaps more suited for officialdom. He had teased her earlier, and now she silently returned the favor—using his own game against him.

Willows by painted bridges, winding streams with floating cups. Rainbow bridge’s clear shadows, willows reflecting in tranquil waters. Distant green mountains like screens, mingling with the clamor of wine and tea.

When the Hundred Poems Gathering came, the heavens smiled upon them, raindrops danced gracefully among slender willows.

The Hundred Poems Gathering was a grand cultural event of the Western Qin dynasty, but with different occasions and settings. Nobles and officials gathered in the imperial palace.

Seeing Yue Liuxi flutter toward Qin Jinghao like a butterfly, Luo Yunyao quietly pitied Qin Jinghao and stepped back a few paces, unwilling to endure the fragrance of the butterfly’s presence.

The poetry Luo Yunyao composed was top-tier.

From a judge’s perspective: this poem was richly adorned with literary grace, meticulously crafted in parallel prose, capturing the spirit of the willow vividly yet ineffably—a true masterpiece.

Yet, Luo Yunyao barely achieved second place; the champion was none other than Western Qin’s Crown Prince Xiao Limo.

Notably, the second prince Xiao Ming’s thematic style was almost indistinguishable from the crown prince’s.

Willows—they were inherently ambiguous, often used by poets to evoke hidden emotions.

In the world Luo Yunyao came from, the renowned poets likewise wrote romantic odes to willows.

“Willow-lined shore, morning breeze and waning moon”; “The inn is green, the willows vivid”; “The city in spring, willow shadows on palace walls.” Willows were hailed as the most beautiful motif in classical poetry.

Thus, it was understandable that the two princes likened the willow to beauty.

The second prince’s poems were ornate but often decadent, depicting willows bending low and lovers entwined beneath their boughs.

Luo Yunyao had yet to meet the famed two consorts but guessed their temperaments—given such a father and such children, how formidable could they be? She could only marvel at the strong inheritance of their genes.

In contrast, the crown prince’s five-character quatrain was breathtakingly sublime. Just twenty words, neither more nor less, with no replacements possible—perfectly formed, as if the poem were a natural wonder created by heaven itself.

Luo Yunyao found herself admiring the crown prince’s skill—using the sinew of the willow as the soul of the poem.

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At the announcement by the Grand Tutor—that is, Du Runsheng’s earlier teased secret was true; the only master beside the prince was the Grand Tutor himself—Xiao Limo rose with humble grace, performing an elegant bow.

His gaze then fell upon Luo Yunyao, who was also looking at him. Their eyes met briefly; Luo Yunyao raised her cup and bowed her hands in a distant congratulation, and Xiao Limo smiled and nodded in return.

Xiao Limo then approached Luo Yunyao. “Thank you kindly. I am truly unworthy of this honor, especially before the Minister of War.”

Luo Yunyao bowed in return. “Your Highness is well-deserved. I am but a humble amateur before such mastery. Please do not mock me.”

Her light-hearted words eased the subtle tension between first and second place.

Xiao Limo’s favor toward this willow-like delicate youth grew stronger. In politics, talent was important but merely a stepping stone; sometimes crucial, yet survival depended on character. Arrogance without backing was dangerous; such people either faltered or were removed without effort.

“The Minister of War is too modest. Your literary talent is evident to all, unrivaled in state affairs,” Xiao Limo’s praise sounded flattering, but the discerning knew it was genuine—a subtle way to win over an ally, a hallmark of the crown prince’s demeanor.

Luo Yunyao was about to respond when Xiao Limo, reading her intentions, smoothly interrupted, “The Grand Tutor asked me to convey this: Minister, your poem is top-notch but slightly lacking in spirit and harmony. If you have time, the Grand Tutor wishes to discuss it with you.”

Since both were top-tier, the conversation, though low-toned, was audible to the entire assembly.

At this, all eyes turned to the Grand Tutor on the dais, who smiled kindly at Luo Yunyao and nodded gently. Low murmurs arose among the crowd, praising the Grand Tutor’s love of learning and talent, marveling at Luo Yunyao’s fortune.

Luo Yunyao bowed to the Grand Tutor, then quietly thanked Xiao Limo amidst the murmurs. The prince smiled silently, deeply admiring her. He nearly invited her to his residence, but recalling Minister Lu’s prior invitation, he held back, thinking, “The Minister understands my intentions—she is a perceptive person.”

What were these intentions?

Luo Yunyao had already gained notice in the palace exams; now shining at the Hundred Poems Gathering might be unwise. Too much spotlight could be harmful to a newcomer—excessive brilliance invites downfall. Besides, she had just refused to join the Marquis Xiang’s faction.

She glanced sideways at the sullen Xiao Ming, then exchanged a smile with Xiao Limo.

Xiao Limo’s compliments subtly pushed Luo Yunyao deeper into the fray.

As for Xiao Ming, having suffered a humiliating defeat, he was naturally displeased at Xiao Limo but could not openly show it.

Still, Xiao Ming needed to vent, and who was in the spotlight? Luo Yunyao.

One: she lacked status or backing and was expendable.

Two: she had just declined to join Xiao Ming’s faction.

Three: most importantly, Xiao Ming had ammunition. Luo Yunyao’s poem was commendable but now elevated to the top, giving him grounds to find fault.

However, if such criticism came from a master like the Grand Tutor, it was an honor—and it tactfully pointed out Luo Yunyao’s flaws.

This delicate young top scholar was still a learner, which added a sense of approachability, especially to the six divisions under the Ministry of War.

Naturally, as the crown prince, Xiao Limo’s victory drew countless congratulations, and Luo Yunyao happily slipped away, inwardly lamenting the complexity of court politics—naivety only brought losses.

As she wandered, reflecting, she unexpectedly found another poem.

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At first glance, the poem seemed unimpressive and off-topic. It mentioned the willow throughout, yet evoked none of its essence.

Luo Yunyao recalled her earlier studies of Zen philosophy: life’s understanding has three stages. First, seeing the mountain as a mountain; second, seeing the mountain as not a mountain; third, seeing the mountain as a mountain again.

This poem’s depth was akin to that.

Seeing the willow as not willow, yet permeated with willow’s spirit. The willow appeared fragile but possessed iron bones, bearing the scars of battle. Plain on the surface, yet profoundly mysterious.

As Luo Yunyao marveled, she caught the signature—bold and graceful: “Qin Jinghao.”

She had always assumed Qin Jinghao was just here to play, not to compete in poetry. Privately, she thought he couldn’t write poetry—not out of disdain for a warrior by a scholar, but out of admiration.

Instinctively, Luo Yunyao believed that if Qin Jinghao committed to something, he would be the best. Since he wasn’t among the top three, she assumed he hadn’t entered the contest. This admiration defied explanation, so she never probed further.

Now, seeing Qin Jinghao’s remarkable poem, Luo Yunyao couldn’t help but protest, “How could this poem not be first?”

“First prize?” a slender, well-defined hand reached from behind Luo Yunyao and took the paper.

Their hands touched, and she felt the calluses of a seasoned swordsman.

Qin Jinghao, in turn, sensed soft, delicate fingers—an unworthy metaphor, but he thought of scholars as fragile beings to be treated gently.

“You think the Grand Tutor didn’t understand it as you did?” Though his mind urged kindness, his words were anything but.

“Hmm.” Luo Yunyao was unoffended, instead lowering her head to ponder the poem’s hidden meaning.

Qin Jinghao’s biting tongue felt strangely familiar. Of course, Du Runsheng had warned her no good would come of this; Qin Jinghao, no stranger either, certainly wouldn’t be kind.

“So, General Qin, aren’t you with the Princess?”

Qin Jinghao choked, then covered Luo Yunyao’s head with the poem. “Have you figured it out?”

Caught off guard by his shameless retaliation, and since the poem wasn’t hers, Luo Yunyao blew a breath and gave a reluctant “Mm.”

Qin Jinghao’s poem depicted the willow as the willow itself. Willows never grow in places of ostentation—they are supporting characters, unobtrusive and unassuming.

No matter how ornate Luo Yunyao’s writing or how naturally perfect Xiao Limo’s, neither was the willow.

The willow’s beauty lay in its quiet subtlety.

This one could never have taken first place at the Hundred Poems Gathering.

The beauty of moderation.

Luo Yunyao looked up at Qin Jinghao. “Is this your way of neutrality?”