Chapter Three: Utter Ruin (Part One)

As dusk fell and lanterns began to glow, the flower boats moored along the Qinhuai River were ready, awaiting the arrival of young scholars for an evening of poetry, companionship, and romance.

Yet, despite the preparations, not a single guest appeared. Many of the courtesans leaned over the boats’ rails, their eyes searching the riverside in vain hope.

“Xiaohong, go see what’s going on.”

At last, one of the courtesans, unable to bear the loneliness any longer, ordered her maid to go ashore and seek out customers.

“Hurry and see for yourself! There’s a scholar from the Top Scholar’s Pavilion who’s fighting four others at once!”

Before Xiaohong even reached the bank, she overheard an onlooker shouting out the news of a dramatic contest taking place at the Top Scholar’s Pavilion.

Some of the scholars, upon hearing this, glanced at the courtesans nearby, then looked toward the direction of the pavilion. After a moment’s hesitation, they rushed from the boats, hastily pulling up their trousers as they went.

“You...” The courtesans, who had finally managed to attract some customers, watched the scholars’ receding backs in dismay, realizing for the first time that their allure was no match for a juicy piece of gossip.

...

Within the Top Scholar’s Pavilion, a crowd of scholars encircled Zhu Yang and four provincial top examinees. It was to be a decisive contest—one that would determine who would have to address whom as “Grandfather.”

“I am Zhao Jin, the top scholar from Shandong. My challenge is a couplet, inspired by my visit to Baotu Spring in Jinan. My upper line is: ‘Baotu Spring roars eight times—four above the stone, four below; the sounds swirl around a pool of spring water.’”

“I am Jiang Jitong, the top scholar from Jiangxi. My reputation as a portrait artist is somewhat known in my province, so I challenge you to paint a portrait. If your work surpasses mine, the victory is yours.”

“I am Sun Decai, the provincial champion from Shanxi. I have brought a chess puzzle today. Unlock it, and you win.” Sun Decai presented his board, the black and white pieces locked in a fierce and tangled struggle.

A chess enthusiast among the crowd glanced at the board, shook his head, and walked away. When pressed for an answer, he could only say, “It’s impossibly difficult.”

As Sun Decai finished setting up the puzzle, Zhu Yang leaned in for a look. It was the legendary Zhenlong chess puzzle, a staple in many heroic tales he’d read in his previous life—always a sign that the protagonist was about to demonstrate their brilliance. He couldn’t help but wonder if, perhaps, he too was meant to be the protagonist here. Excitement stirred within him at the thought of moving to North America and living like Wei Xiaobao with seven wives—one for each day of the week.

Wait, had Wei Xiaobao been thinking the same thing?

“Cough...” Wu Wentao, seeing Zhu Yang drifting into a daydream at such a crucial moment, cleared his throat pointedly.

“Uh... go on, please...” Zhu Yang said with an awkward laugh, scratching his head. The thought of seven wives was hard to shake off.

“I am Wu Wentao, the provincial champion from Zhejiang. My challenge is for you to compose a poem about love, in which the words ‘autumn wind’ must appear.”

With the four challenges set, the proprietor of the Top Scholar’s Pavilion lit a long incense stick and signaled for the contest to begin.

Zhu Yang surveyed the challenges and sighed—not because they were difficult, but precisely because they were so simple. He wondered where these four found their confidence. Well, if he was going to put on a show, he might as well do it properly.

Taking up his brush, Zhu Yang approached Wu Wentao first and wrote the poem he had prepared:

“If life were but as it was at first sight,
Why should the autumn wind sadden the painted fan?
So easily does an old friend’s heart change,
Yet it’s said the heart itself is fickle.
Halfway through the night at Mount Li, words are spent,
Yet tears fall in the rain, never with regrets.
How could that faithless nobleman,
Ever match the wish for branches grown together in flight?”

This poem, penned by Nalan Xingde in the Qing Dynasty, had struck Zhu Yang with its beauty when he first tasted love in his youth. He once copied it and gave it to the girl he liked, only for her—a top student—to instantly grasp its meaning, after which she never spoke to him again.

He had never imagined that, years later, in another world, he could use it to awe an audience. He felt grateful to Nalan Xingde, to that studious girl, and to Wu Wentao before him.

But Wu Wentao had no time to appreciate Zhu Yang’s gratitude. The moment Zhu Yang wrote the opening line, “If life were but as it was at first sight...,” Wu Wentao was stunned.

Born into a great family in Zhejiang, Wu Wentao was raised among generations of scholars. From a young age, he had read the poems of countless masters and believed that everything beautiful and emotional had already been captured by the poets of the Tang and Song. No one, he thought, could rival the boldness of Li Bai or the delicate grace of Liu Yong or Li Qingzhao. But seeing Zhu Yang’s poem, he realized how wrong he had been.

“I concede,” Wu Wentao declared, bowing his head without hesitation as Zhu Yang finished writing the last word.

The scholars nearby, unable to read the poem immediately, were surprised by Wu Wentao’s quick surrender. But when they pressed forward to see the still-wet ink, they fell silent. They were all men of letters, and in their hearts, they felt Wu Wentao’s surrender was actually delayed—had it been them, they would have admitted defeat at the very first line.

“Snap!”

As everyone was still caught in the poem’s lingering beauty, Zhu Yang placed a black piece on the chessboard, shattering the Zhenlong puzzle in an instant.

As for why he made that move, Zhu Yang had no idea—he knew nothing about chess. All he remembered was that Xu Zhu had solved it this way in a novel. When he’d first watched “Demi-Gods and Semi-Devils,” Zhu Yang had thought Go was cool and even memorized some famous endgames online, dreaming that one day he’d be like Xu Zhu.

Did he want seventy years of inner strength like Xu Zhu? Of course not! He wanted twin maidservants, a beautiful princess, and a palace full of women.

Inner strength? What good was that if you couldn’t eat it?

Ahem, back to the story.

Having solved the Zhenlong puzzle, Zhu Yang moved on to Zhao Jin from Shandong. He cupped his hands and said, “Brother Zhao, you found your couplet at Baotu Spring in Jinan. As luck would have it, I recently visited Cold Mountain Temple. The temple bell rang—I heard five chimes outside and five inside. I, too, came up with a matching line: ‘Ten chimes of Cold Mountain’s bell—five within the temple, five without; the sound carries a hundred li to distant boats.’”

“Well said!” Zhao Jin exclaimed, and the outcome was clear.

Before half the incense had burned, Zhu Yang had already won three rounds; only the portrait remained.

Sun Decai, the Shanxi champion, had already completed half his portrait. The likeness was striking—if not perfect, then at least seven or eight parts alike.

Rather than immediately picking up a brush, Zhu Yang requested that the inn’s servant bring some charcoal from the kitchen, sharpening it into fine sticks.

If the previous three challenges had been copied, this last one—drawing—was something Zhu Yang truly knew.

He owed this skill to a romantic episode before his journey to this world. Back in university, he’d been smitten with a senior from the art college. Determined to impress her, he spent a year’s worth of living expenses on sketching lessons, eventually drawing a portrait of her using her own name.

He presented the portrait as a confession, which succeeded beyond his wildest dreams—he even claimed her first kiss. Unfortunately, not long after, the God of Transmigration came for him, tossing him into Ming Dynasty China as he slept.

“Oh, my wretched fate...” Thinking of his lost love, Zhu Yang decided to draw her once more, using her name, as a tribute to his dead romance.

“Xu Miaojin!” Zhu Yang wrote her name on the paper, again and again, until the page was filled.

What he didn’t know was that, as he wrote the name, both Zhu Yuanzhang and a certain young woman disguised as a man among the crowd wore shocked expressions.

Zhu Yuanzhang looked as if his precious grandson was about to steal someone’s daughter, while the young woman’s face turned a mix of anger and embarrassment.

“Young miss, he’s writing your name!” whispered her maid Xiaochan.

“Shut up!” Xu Miaojin quickly covered Xiaochan’s mouth, glancing around to see that everyone was absorbed by Zhu Yang’s drawing and hadn’t noticed their conversation.

Xu Miaojin was the third daughter of Xu Da, a founding hero of the Ming Dynasty. Gifted in poetry, painting, music, and chess, when she heard there was a contest at the pavilion, she had disguised herself as a man to watch the excitement.

She never imagined she herself would become part of the spectacle.

“You scoundrel, just wait until I catch you alone—I’ll beat you to death!” Xu Miaojin glared at Zhu Yang, her hatred boiling over.

With each repetition of her name, a beautiful face emerged from the charcoal strokes.

Clang!

The incense burned down, and the contest was over.

Both Zhu Yang and Jiang Jitong set down their brushes at the same time.

Jiang Jitong’s portrait was of a woman as well, but her beauty was slightly less than the one Zhu Yang had drawn—and Zhu Yang had composed his entirely from her name.

“I concede,” Jiang Jitong said simply.

“My thanks,” Zhu Yang replied with a respectful bow.

“Brother Zhu, who is this Xu Miaojin? Is she your beloved?” an onlooker asked, pointing to the name on the portrait.

“Yes,” Zhu Yang replied, imitating the heartfelt tones of Stephen Chow from “A Chinese Odyssey.” “Once, I had a sincere love before me, but I failed to cherish it. Only after losing it did I regret it deeply. If Heaven gave me another chance, I would say three words to her: ‘I love you.’ And if that promise needed a time limit, I’d wish for it to last ten thousand years.”

“So that poem was about her too?” the onlooker pressed.

“Yes,” Zhu Yang nodded. If not for the god of transmigration’s heartlessness, sending him to the Ming Dynasty, he and his senior might even have had children by now.

His conversation with the onlooker was sincere and full of genuine emotion.

But what Zhu Yang didn’t expect was that, in this world, there was also a girl named Xu Miaojin whose face was identical to the one he had drawn.

“Young miss, he says he once shared a sincere love with you!” Xiaochan poked Xu Miaojin’s waist, whispering, “As your personal maid, how come I’ve never heard of this Zhu Yang? And from what he says, it sounds like you were the one abandoned...”

“Did you sneak out without telling me...?” Xiaochan pouted.

“Shut up!” Xu Miaojin nearly wept. Her name was being used in a portrait, her reputation being maligned.

“Come, let’s go home and find my brothers!” Xu Miaojin pulled Xiaochan away toward the Duke of Wei’s mansion, determined to have her brothers punish Zhu Yang.

...

“Since you’ve all conceded, does that mean I’ve won?” Zhu Yang asked.

“Yes!” Wu Wentao admitted, though reluctant, “But as agreed, you must now pose four questions. If we answer them, we’ll be spared from having to... ahem... call you ‘Grandfather.’”

When Zhu Yang had set this condition earlier, Wu Wentao and the others hadn’t paid it any mind—now, it was their only hope.

“Very well, here are my questions,” Zhu Yang said, glancing at Wu Wentao. He rather liked the man, but he wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

“I’ll ask four simple questions. If you can answer, all is forgiven!

“First: Everyone knows one plus one equals two, but who knows why it must equal two? Why not three, or four?

“Second, since Brother Zhao’s challenge involved water, here’s one involving its nemesis—fire: Why can a sky lantern float into the air, but if I hollow out a stone and light a fire beneath it, the stone doesn’t float like the lantern?

“Third: Why do children resemble their parents and not someone else? For example, none of you look like your neighbor Old Wang—unless Old Wang is your father!

“Fourth: Why do we die if we stay underwater too long, but fish don’t?”

“These are my four questions,” Zhu Yang declared.

“This...” Wu Wentao and the others were dumbfounded. These were everyday phenomena, but it was the first time anyone had posed them as riddles.

“You’re deliberately making things difficult!” someone in the crowd protested. “There are no answers!”

Of course I am, Zhu Yang thought, but he replied grandly, “Nonsense! Just because you don’t know doesn’t mean others don’t! If our ancestors hadn’t wondered why meat tasted better when cooked over fire, we’d still be gnawing on raw flesh and grass! So there must be answers!”

“Well, I won’t expect you to answer immediately. I’ll give you some time—just don’t make me wait too long!” Zhu Yang smiled at the crowd of scholars. “Good night, gentlemen!”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving behind a group of young men lost in thought, pondering the mysteries of why.