Volume One, Chapter Twelve: Silver-Tongued Eloquence—What a Tragic Death for Uncle!

“Mr. Fang, please wait.”

Butler Ren’s voice, tinged with urgency, called out from behind.

Hearing this, Mr. Fang halted, his graying brows knitting slightly as he turned back in mild confusion—just in time to see Butler Ren hurrying toward him.

Butler Ren quickly approached, first bowing respectfully, before reciting word for word the four-line poem that Chen Pingchuan had spoken in the dining hall earlier.

After reciting, Butler Ren lifted his gaze, a searching look in his eyes as he cautiously asked, “Sir, with your vast knowledge, have you ever heard this poem before?”

“This poem… Does it have a title? Who is the author?” Mr. Fang’s expression was still composed at first.

Yet as Butler Ren reached the line, “Sweat drips on the soil beneath the grain,” Mr. Fang’s fingers tightened unconsciously around his book, and a subtle change flickered across his face.

When the butler finished, Mr. Fang stood frozen, as if rooted to the spot by some invisible force.

His hand, stroking his graying beard, began to tremble uncontrollably.

His lips moved, silently mouthing the simple yet weighty verses over and over, savoring them in his heart.

“This… This poem…”

The more he pondered, the more he felt that although the words were plain and easy to understand—almost anyone could grasp their meaning—the poem’s depth and compassion were such that every word seemed written in blood, striking directly to the heart.

“It truly… truly is thought-provoking, with the deepest of meanings!”

Mr. Fang’s voice trembled with emotion, his usual dignified demeanor completely forgotten.

“Never in my life… never have I encountered such a direct, incisive masterpiece!”

Though he was but a scholar who’d failed the civil service exams time and again, in his youth he had traveled far and wide, witnessing with his own eyes the hardships of farmers working bent-backed beneath the blazing sun.

Still, to capture the toils of agriculture and the preciousness of each meal in such plain yet profoundly moving lines—this was something he had rarely, if ever, seen!

No, this was a level of artistry he had never even heard of!

Mr. Fang felt as if a tempest was raging in his chest, a surge of indescribable emotion that refused to subside.

He suddenly grabbed Butler Ren’s arm, his gaze burning with urgency as he demanded, “Butler Ren, where did you hear this poem?!”

Startled by Mr. Fang’s intensity, Butler Ren quickly replied, “It was… it was from the new page boy in the household, Chen Pingchuan.”

“Just now in the dining hall, when he saw the young miss wasting food, he… he recited it.”

“Chen Pingchuan?”

Mr. Fang’s brows furrowed deeply, knotted with disbelief.

“The new page boy?”

He pictured the thin, sallow farm boy with the clear, bright eyes.

“A mere eight-year-old child, and he can recite such lines?”

A child so young, uneducated, even if a little cleverer than his peers—how could he compose verses filled with such hardship and the weight of time?

Impossible!

He dismissed the notion almost instinctively.

Surely the boy had heard some fragments somewhere, and, inspired by the moment, cobbled them together as best he could!

Yes, that must be it!

Mr. Fang took a deep breath, his eyes flashing with complex, indecipherable thoughts.

He made up his mind.

Tomorrow, during lessons, he would question Chen Pingchuan thoroughly!

He must learn where such a remarkable poem originated! If he could find the original author, it would be a great boon for the literary world!

…

The next morning.

Gentle dawn spilled through the window lattice, scattering mottled light across the study.

Chen Pingchuan arrived early.

He meticulously wiped down the desk, leaving not a speck of dust.

Then he arranged the brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone with care, ground the ink, added water—a place for everything, and everything in its place.

As he busied himself, his mind was occupied with another problem.

How could he possibly get through to that blockhead Zhang Jinbao, to spark even the smallest bit of enlightenment?

It was truly a difficult task.

Lost in thought, he was brought back by the sound of familiar footsteps approaching.

Mr. Fang entered, clad in a spotless white robe, his face grave.

But today, instead of going straight to his desk as usual, he stopped right in front of Chen Pingchuan.

His slightly clouded eyes fixed sharply on the boy.

“Chen Pingchuan, come here,” Mr. Fang commanded, his voice low but authoritative.

Chen Pingchuan’s heart skipped—he had no idea what was going on.

Still, he kept his face perfectly composed, maintaining his obedient, respectful demeanor as he stepped forward.

“Sir, what is it you wish of me?” he asked, tilting his head up, his gaze clear.

Mr. Fang scrutinized him up and down, as though trying to see straight through him.

After a pause, he spoke slowly, “The poem you recited in the dining hall yesterday—where did you copy it from? What is its title?”

Chen Pingchuan blinked his dark eyes, feigning confusion with a tilt of his small head.

“Which poem do you mean, sir?”

Mr. Fang’s brows pinched together, his tone growing stern. “The one with ‘Hoeing grain beneath the noon sun, sweat drips on the soil beneath the grain’! Don’t play the fool with me!”

Only then did Chen Pingchuan seem to understand. “Oh,” he exclaimed, scratching the back of his head with a hint of childish embarrassment.

With a child’s innocent lilt, he explained, “Sir, that poem is called ‘Pity the Peasants.’ I heard it from my late uncle before he died.”

“My uncle was a scholar, always reciting things we couldn’t understand.”

“I thought these lines sounded nice and made sense, so I remembered a few.”

He bowed his head slightly, speaking in a small, careful voice, “Yesterday, when I saw the young miss throwing away her food, I just thought, all this came from the hard work of farming uncles and elders.”

“So I… I recited it without thinking.”

“Sir, did I say something wrong?”

Mr. Fang stared intently into Chen Pingchuan’s eyes, searching for any sign of deceit.

But Chen Pingchuan remained calm and sincere, his gaze pure and guileless.

Tugging thoughtfully at his sparse beard, Mr. Fang pressed, “And how did your uncle die?”

Chen Pingchuan put on a sorrowful expression, his eyes reddening. “My uncle… was kicked in the groin by the family’s yellow ox. The doctor said everything was shattered. He suffered for days before he passed…”

Hearing this, Mr. Fang felt a sympathetic ache in his own nether regions. Wiping cold sweat from his brow, he sighed, “Heavens… truly, the talented are often ill-fated.”

Seeing the boy’s open, honest manner, Mr. Fang’s suspicions faded away.

A pity, though, for the late uncle—had he lived, surely more masterpieces would have followed!

“Enough,” Mr. Fang said at last, waving his hand.

“If you only heard it, don’t claim it as your own, lest you become a laughingstock.”

“And don’t speak out of turn again, understood?” he admonished with a stern face.

“It’s getting late. Let’s begin today’s lesson.” With that, Mr. Fang turned and walked to the desk.

Chen Pingchuan quietly breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for his quick thinking.

Using his late scholar uncle as a shield had gotten him through, for now.

But it was a reminder—if he ever “borrowed” the wisdom of the ancients again, he’d need to be much more careful, and never so blatant, to avoid unnecessary trouble.

Elsewhere, in the Chen household, Chen Zhongwen suddenly sneezed several times in a row, utterly baffled. “Who’s talking about me behind my back?”