Chapter Seven: The Riverside Pavilion (1)

Yang Qi swiftly ordered Yang Kuan to send three hundred strings of coins to Kong Sheng’s residence. He feigned concern, telling Kong Sheng he could temporarily stay at the Kong ancestral home and move out once he found another place. The Yang family was not worried about Kong Sheng reneging on their agreement. In Jiangnan, especially in Jiangning Prefecture, no one dared to openly defy Yang Qi. If Kong Sheng failed to attend the poetry gathering at Wangjiang Pavilion tomorrow and did not publicly deliver his letter of withdrawal as arranged, the consequences would be unimaginable.

It would not simply be a matter of the money being reclaimed by the Yang family.

Kong Sheng accepted the money in silence, gave a receipt to Yang Kuan’s men, and handed over the deed and the signed bill of sale for the house to be taken back. Immediately after, Kong Sheng went out to a tavern, indulged in food and drink, and did not return to the ancestral home. Instead, he found a modest inn in the city called Shunsheng, rented a tranquil room, and settled in.

No sooner had Kong Sheng moved in than a Daoist, ethereal and dignified, arrived at the inn with a handsome, refined apprentice. From registering to entering their room, the apprentice muttered incessantly, his face sour, while the Daoist, smiling serenely, treated everyone with remarkable kindness.

Once inside, the Daoist flickered across the room, seated himself cross-legged on the couch, and began to meditate. The apprentice continued to grumble, “Master, is it worth wasting our time on such a scoundrel?”

The Daoist remained silent, eyes closed.

The apprentice stamped his foot, “Master, I’ve looked into it. This fellow has just been cast out by the Yangs. Imagine—just one night, and he’s already sold his ancestral home. Such an unfilial, shameless degenerate—”

The Daoist slowly opened his eyes, their depths gleaming. “Ah Tai, hearing is unreliable; seeing is believing. I trust this young man is neither as disgraceful as you’ve discovered nor as simple as you imagine. Rest for now. After tomorrow’s poetry gathering at Wangjiang Pavilion, all will be revealed.”

Ah Tai still wanted to say more, but suddenly, the sound of flute and pipe wafted from the next room. The melody was winding, melancholic, rising and falling as if weeping, gripping Ah Tai’s spirit with its ancient, mysterious emotion. He listened intently, and his disdain for Kong Sheng vanished like mist.

Ah!

The music ceased with a sigh, and a deep, resonant voice began to sing:

Whose dream rises to the heavenly gate,
Cold moon at the frontier,
Smoke of war, shepherd’s flute echoing,
No sight of vast desert or wilderness.

Whose love brings harmony to the world,
All corners resound with music,
…
Whose dream weighs the fate of the land,
Counting warmth and cold,
Sun and moon sing, heaven and earth drum,
Resolving storms and grudges.

Whose love remains unfinished,
Passed down through ages,
…

The song was distant, its lyrics novel and vastly different from the current popular tunes. Ah Tai exclaimed, “Master, who could be so refined? First the flute, then song, and such extraordinary lyrics, so profound in meaning!”

The Daoist chuckled softly, his eyes shining brighter. “Ah Tai, if I’m not mistaken, it must be the young scoundrel Kong Sheng next door. Just the artistry of his flute and the elevated theme of his lyrics prove he isn’t an ordinary wastrel. Go and see.”

Ah Tai hesitated, but obeyed. He slipped out, approaching Kong Sheng’s room, whose door was slightly ajar. Kong Sheng, clad in a thin shirt, sat cross-legged, lost in thought, holding a golden-threaded bamboo flute.

Ah Tai glanced once, about to leave, when Kong Sheng raised the flute to his lips once more. The sound this time was deep and forceful, less mournful and far more vigorous, the rhythm bold and heroic, like armored knights charging into battle, or a lone hero amidst a thousand foes, the melody lingering in the night air. Ah Tai, leaning on the corridor railing, was shaken to his core.

He gazed at Kong Sheng for a long moment, then left quietly.

Back in his room, the Daoist had risen and stood by the window, his eyes shining with hidden light.

“Ah Tai, what did you find?”

“Master, the flute player next door is Kong Sheng…” Ah Tai frowned, unsure what to say. The skill in Kong Sheng’s music revealed a certain temperament and talent. As someone versed in music himself, Ah Tai could sense the depth of feeling within the melody—surely not the work of a mere wastrel.

“The flute earlier was mournful and twisting, as if lamenting yet expressing ambition. Now it is filled with the energy of conflict… Ah Tai, it seems tomorrow’s poetry gathering at Wangjiang Pavilion will be worth watching. Wait and see.”

The Daoist waved his sleeve. “Rest now.”

The flute next door gradually faded. The golden-threaded bamboo flute was something Kong Sheng had happened upon in a music shop and, moved by impulse, bought for three hundred coins. With nothing else to occupy him, he played two tunes, venting his tangled feelings and uncertainty about the future.

He had no idea he had drawn the attention of the Daoist and his apprentice, marking a turning point in his destiny.

The night passed in silence. At dawn, the sound of bustling vendors and workers drifted from the street outside the inn. Kong Sheng rose calmly, washed, donned the new azure round-collared robe he had purchased the day before, and, flute in hand, stepped out refreshed.

The Daoist and his apprentice stood at the balustrade, watching Kong Sheng’s graceful departure, a meaningful smile on the Daoist’s lips. “Ah Tai, let us pay a visit to Wangjiang Pavilion.”

At this time, Wangjiang Pavilion stood atop Lion Mountain outside the city, facing the Yangtze River, rising over ten fathoms, with two stories. The lower floor had sweeping eaves on all sides, the upper floor an octagonal roof, crimson pillars, jade tiles, and gilded finials. The galleries were spacious, each side with four columns, the roof covered in green glazed tiles, corners upturned, beams carved and painted, golden ornaments shining.

Since the end of the Sui dynasty, Wangjiang Pavilion had been a famous haunt for poets and scholars in Jiangnan. In the past two years, it had become renowned far and wide thanks to poetry gatherings hosted by Yang Qi’s daughter, Yang Xue Ruo.

With Yang Qi’s power and status in Jiangnan, poetry gatherings personally organized by his daughter naturally received enthusiastic support from scholars and local elites. Moreover, Yang Xue Ruo was famed for her beauty and unmatched talent, and rumors had spread that the poetry contest was also a search for a son-in-law, attracting throngs of young scholars eager to participate. As for Kong Sheng, the nominal fiancé of the Yang family, he was simply ignored.

To gain both poetic fame and a beauty—what could be more desirable?

As the sun rose over the river, its light fiery red, the summer waters green and blue. Early in the morning, scholars arrived at the foot of Lion Mountain, some having stayed overnight, ascending to impatiently wait outside Wangjiang Pavilion. On the road below, splendid carriages and sedan chairs streamed by, tall steeds galloped past, and vendors selling food and writing supplies hurried along.

Compared to previous years, the crowd was even larger, though Wangjiang Pavilion could accommodate at most a hundred people. Besides local officials and elites, only fifty or sixty young scholars from across Jiangnan, each with a handwritten invitation from Yang Xue Ruo herself, could enter.

Still, more and more young scholars gathered outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famed talent Yang Xue Ruo. Among them, ambitious men dreamed of climbing high by marrying into the Yang family.

Near the end of the morning hour, excitement stirred outside Wangjiang Pavilion, voices rising in celebration. Two soft sedan chairs ascended the mountain path toward the pavilion halfway up.

Yang Qi, the governor of Jiangnan, and his daughter Yang Xue Ruo had arrived together!