The purple-clad fighters all gasped in unison—the words were venomous!
"Zhao Xunan, don't think climbing into bed with the Vice Minister of War makes you untouchable!" one barked. "You're nothing but a cowardly fraud with no real talent. If you've got a shred of balls, fight me one-on-one—I'll beat the filth out of you!"
"Yeah!" another roared. "Single combat, right here, right now. Let's see if your 'talent' holds up!"
The crowd of martial candidates gaped. Where had these idiots sprung from? Challenging Zhao Xunan, the academy's prodigy? Had they lost their minds?
Zhao Xunan chuckled, amused by these self-important fools. A bunch of low-ranking martial artists with delusions of grandeur—what guts they had, challenging him. And "climbing into bed with the Vice Minister"? His recent exploits must've spread far, but these clowns clearly hadn't heard a word.
Feng Lüoxi, hidden in the corner, smirked. Good. The more these idiots provoked Zhao Xunan, the harder they'd fall. Let them dig their own graves.
"So eager to fight?" Zhao Xunan said, feigning warmth. "Very well. If you lose, you'll clean every latrine in the East District for a year. Care to sign the contract?"
The purple-clad fighters nodded eagerly. They'd come to make a name for themselves, to embarrass this "fraud" and win the Imperial Preceptor's favor. A little latrine duty? Child's play compared to that glory.
Zhao Xunan turned to the Great Qin instructors. "Mind fetching the four treasures of the study? Tables and chairs too—we'll need space."
Soon, brushes, ink, paper, and inkstone were laid out. As onlookers gathered, the purple-clad fighters grew uneasy. Why were the crowd's eyes so… strange? Mocking? Pitying?
Ah, right—the Imperial Exams included literary tests. Zhao Xunan, a master of prose and poetry, would crush them. But these fools thought they could outwit him?
Just then, another group swaggered over—purple-robed scholars, same as the fighters. "Zhao the Brute!" one sneered. "Don't get cocky. We're scholars of the Court Academy—we'll bury you in poetry!"
"Yeah!" another chimed in. "Let's see if your 'talent' beats ours. You're just a thief who plagiarizes others' work!"
Zhao Xunan sighed. These clowns were definitely egged on. But where had they come from? His reputation was widespread—how could they not know better?
The crowd swelled, drawing the attention of the academy's officials. Another day, another bunch of idiots, they thought. First the Thirteenth Prince's son, now these morons. What's wrong with Great Qin?
Zhao Xunan agreed to their terms: three rounds of poetry, same latrine punishment for losing. The purple-robed scholars grinned—twelve of them vs. one Zhao Xunan? They'd bury him.
"Let's start with 'Autumn,'" an official declared. "Half an incense stick—no delays!"
The scholars froze. Autumn? That was a common theme. They'd written a hundred poems on it. But as they lifted their brushes, a loud voice boomed:
"Zhao Xunan's poem is ready—Tian Jing Sha: Autumn Thoughts!"
What?!
The scholars gaped. He'd written it that fast? Their hands trembled as they tried to match his speed, but their minds went blank.
"Gnarled vines, old trees, crows at dusk… A small bridge, flowing water, a thatched home…"
The recitation hung in the air. The scholars stared at their papers, their faces ashen. Zhao Xunan's words painted a desolate scene—the setting sun, a heartbroken wanderer. It was as if he were mocking them.
"Bravo!" someone cheered. The crowd erupted in applause.
The Court Academy's headmaster, Lao Yu Bo, stroked his beard. "Amazing. A poem that captures autumn's sorrow in a single breath. The title 'Eight Measures of Talent' suits him perfectly."
An official nodded. "The imagery is stunning—truly a masterpiece. Though it's different from his earlier bold verses about mountains and rivers."
Lao Yu Bo chuckled. "Of course. To wake these layabouts up, you need a sharp dose of reality. If he'd written another rousing anthem, it would've been a joke."
The purple-robed scholars seethed. How dare he mock us with such a bleak poem?
But there was worse to come.
"Next theme: 'Confusion' and 'Heartbreak,'" the official announced. "Half an incense stick—no delays!"
The scholars froze again. Two rare words, half an incense stick to craft a poem? Impossible. They scribbled frantically, but their minds were empty.
Then the voice boomed again:
"Zhao Xunan's poem is ready—Dream Memory!"
The scholars' brushes slipped from their fingers. This was a disaster.
"Ten years apart, two souls lost… I think of her, yet dare not speak…"
Tears streamed down one scholar's face. The rest sat, pale and trembling. Zhao Xunan's words weren't just sad—they were relentless. They struck at the core of their vanity, exposing their emptiness.
Lao Yu Bo sighed. "A bittersweet masterpiece. It cuts too deep, but it's unforgettable."
The official who'd spoken up earlier wiped his eyes. "I… I didn't know Zhao Xunan could write like this. This is a national treasure."
Lao Yu Bo nodded. "His earlier works were bold and grand, but this… this is soul-stirring. Even I, an old man, feel my heart ache."
The third round's theme was "Vitality." Zhao Xunan was about to write when the official whispered, "Please, Master Zhao—give them something uplifting. These poor fools need hope."
Zhao Xunan glanced at the purple-robed scholars. They stood, dazed, their eyes hollow. These fragile egos want to 'teach' me? He smirked.
"Do you understand your mistake?" he asked, his voice calm but cutting.
The scholars flinched. The crowd roared.
Lao Yu Bo chuckled. "Well said. Let this be a lesson to them all."