Chapter Thirty-Two: Three Poems for One City

“…It is said that the borderlands are home to brave warriors who slaughter the invaders and restore the blue sky above us.”

Having finished his poem, Wang Ling stood proudly, his gaze sweeping the hall.

“Bravo!”

The entire assembly of students at the Imperial Academy erupted in applause. One had to admit, Wang Ling’s skill was undeniable. His poem celebrated the warriors of the northern frontier, heroes who had resisted the Turkic invasions. Whether in wordcraft or in stirring emotion, it was a masterful work.

“As expected of Wang Ling, the famed scholar of our Imperial Academy! His poem fills my heart with such passion that I wish I could lay down my brush, take up arms, and serve the nation!”

“With a poem like this, even the esteemed Doctor will be impressed. As for the Mohist boy, let’s see how he dares act so arrogant now. If you ask me, he should just admit defeat and go home before he embarrasses himself any further.”

“The Mohist boy is doomed to lose!”

“I told you, he’s only brought humiliation upon himself.”

A wave of smugness swept through the students, as if Mo Dun had already lost before even composing his poem.

Even Kong Hui-suo nodded slightly. Wang Ling’s poem was indeed grand—an outstanding work. The Mohist’s chance of turning things around was now vanishingly small.

Qin Huaiyu and his friends felt their hearts sink. They hadn’t expected Wang Ling to produce such a high-caliber poem. Though they were known for their idle ways, they could distinguish excellence from mediocrity, and this poem was truly remarkable.

Things were looking grim. Now it wasn’t just a matter of losing five thousand taels to the Mohist boy; even the remaining five thousand, and their own five hundred taels, might be in jeopardy.

“Mo Dun, you have to hold on!” Qin Huaiyu prayed silently.

“So, Mohist boy, what do you think of this poem? Care to offer your critique?” Wang Ling asked, his face brimming with pride.

“Fine words and elegant phrases—nothing but a hollow show,” Mo Dun snorted derisively.

“Insolent brat!”

A wave of outrage swept through the Imperial Academy. None had expected the Mohist boy to utter such arrogance even now.

Kong Hui-suo’s face darkened as well; he himself had thought the poem excellent, but Mo Dun’s words were a slap in the face.

“How conceited! The Mohist boy dares to insult me so!” Wang Ling seethed inwardly.

“Then I shall have to properly appreciate your so-called brilliance!” Wang Ling ground out through clenched teeth.

“When it comes to frontier poetry, you are nothing but scholars who’ve never wielded a weapon. Have any of you even set foot on the borderlands? How could you possibly understand the grandeur of frontier verse? Yours is mere empty lamentation,” Mo Dun retorted, slapping their pride aside.

The students’ faces flushed with anger. So what if we are scholars without martial strength? And you, Mohist boy, are hardly any stronger. We haven’t seen the borderlands—have you?

“When it comes to frontier poetry, Mo Dun surely stands at the forefront. In the days when my late father followed His Majesty in forging the nation, he often clashed with northern cavalry. As a child, I was fortunate enough to reach the mighty fortresses of the border, and the grand vistas left me entranced, haunting even my dreams.”

Mo Dun was not boasting. He had indeed once accompanied Mo Lie to the Great Wall as a child, though his memories were faint from that time.

“I was young then, with little to do in the army. My father was busy with military affairs, and my happiest moments were at sunset, sitting astride the wall of the Great Wall, gazing out at the endless sea of sand. A wisp of smoke would spiral up, the setting sun would dye the sky crimson, and the world would seem boundless.

‘A single plume of smoke rises straight in the desert, the long river sees the sun set round.’ Such wonders—have any of you ever witnessed them?”

“A single plume of smoke rises straight in the desert, the long river sees the sun set round!”

The entire assembly gasped in awe. Until now, they had thought Wang Ling’s poem impressive, but compared to these lines, it was utterly worthless. No wonder Mo Dun had dismissed Wang Ling’s poem as hollow.

With just these two lines, the scene of a sunset over the vast desert sprang instantly to life in everyone’s mind.

“How beautiful!” one student murmured, lost in the scene Mo Dun had painted. No one mocked him, for they too were deeply moved.

“Impossible!” Wang Ling screamed inwardly, refusing to believe the Mohist boy could compose such stunning lines.

“Fortunately, it’s only two lines, hardly a full poem. I haven’t lost yet,” Wang Ling tried to comfort himself.

“That river is the Yellow River, our mother river, which has nourished five thousand years of our civilization. The fortress stands by its banks, guarding not just the river, but our entire culture. Before it lies eight hundred miles of desert; behind, the mountains stretch endlessly. Trade routes are cut off, and the city stands alone, like a solitary soul holding fast. It is a lonely fortress.

When Chang’an bustles with crowds, out there, the land is desolate. As Chang’an resounds with music night after night, there, it is all weapons and warhorses. Each year, as spring blossoms in Chang’an, that place remains bleak. While Chang’an revels in prosperity, the people there can only play mournful tunes on their reed pipes, expressing their loneliness and sorrow.”

“From the distant Yellow River rising to the clouds,
A lone fortress nestles among towering peaks.
Why should the Qiang flute lament the willow trees?
The spring wind never passes Jade Gate Pass.”

“What a poem!”

A student could not help but exclaim.

“What a poem!” Many others sighed in sincere admiration. Even if they were rivals, they could only concede to such genius.

“Defeated!” Wang Ling’s heart was utterly crushed. He had lost, and there was no chance of redemption. He had hoped to rise by stepping over Mo Dun, but now he had become the stepping stone, his defeat establishing Mo Dun’s legendary reputation.

“My father told me this fortress is called Jade Gate Pass. It was built during the Qin Dynasty and now stands as the westernmost outpost of our Tang Empire, bearing our most critical mission. As long as this gate stands, peace will endure. Soon after, war came. The Turks besieged the fortress for twenty-five days. Everyone fought; I was five, and my only task was to carry firewood and heat water for the wounded.

In the end, the Turks retreated and Jade Gate Pass was saved, but sixty percent of its defenders had fallen. Even my father was left with a grievous wound that never healed, and he died young because of it.

‘The bright moon of Qin, the passes of Han,
Ten thousand miles of march, men never return.
If only the Flying General guarded Dragon City,
No barbarian horse would cross the Yin Mountains.’”

At the gates of the Imperial Academy, all was hushed. No one dared move.

Even knowing a masterpiece was coming, to hear such immortal verses shook their souls. They were scholars, devoted to poetry, and now were utterly captivated, as if they had tasted chilled sour plum tea on the hottest summer’s day.

“One fortress, three poems! One fortress, three poems! Each is a timeless classic!”

A student murmured dreamily, as if in a trance.

Staggering backward three steps, Wang Ling nearly fell.

He had lost—completely and unreservedly, with nothing left to say.