"Swish, swish, swish!" Countless gazes shot towards Fan Xian. He smiled shyly, cupped his hands in greeting, and didn't bother tying a flowered headscarf to pretend to be an artist. After all, he was Fan Xian, not Fan Wei.

The young prince almost laughed at his behavior. He wouldn't believe the words of the Fan family's daughter. A ten-year-old boy might indeed write a good poem, but this kind of carefully measured, sycophantic poem was unlikely. He guessed that Fan Xian had written it last night and deliberately had Fan Ruoruo present it today, hoping to amaze everyone at the poetry gathering.

He wasn't repulsed by this; on the contrary, he found it somewhat amusing. Someone as seemingly unrestrained as Fan Xian would actually write such a poem. Fan Xian had no idea what the young prince of Jing was thinking. He only knew that this poem, used in his previous life by Meng Haoran to flatter Zhang Jiuling, was a bit better than the works of those present. So he was quite satisfied, at least satisfying his father's instructions.

Guo Baokun, seeing the gazes of the crowd, was furious. He never imagined that this "绣花枕头" (embroidered pillow, meaning outwardly impressive but useless) actually had such a life-saving poem. Unwilling to give up, he sneered, "I wonder if young master Fan has any other fine works? After all, this is your... work from when you were ten years old."

The meaning was clear: he didn't believe the poem was written by Fan Xian himself.

Fan Xian sighed inwardly, thinking, "Why do people always like to force me to do these things?" When it came to composing poems and lyrics, who in this world could be his opponent? After all, he was possessed by Li Bai, Du Fu, and Su Shi, a monster blessed with five thousand years of poetic power. He smiled and replied, "I never do assigned compositions."

Seeing his confident demeanor, Guo Baokun gritted his teeth and said, "Then please, young master Fan, compose one at will and let the talented scholars of the capital witness it."

Fan Xian frowned, glanced coldly at the annoying fellow, then tossed out a poem, got up, and left the garden, heading to the outhouse led by a servant of the royal palace.

The poem, when uttered, resonated powerfully, astonishing the entire garden, scattering petals, and sweeping away all opposition.

After a burst of applause, everyone was still savoring the taste of the poem. Guo Baokun's face was now green and white, unsure of what to say. The young prince, no longer caring how to hold his fan so as not to be judged by Fan Xian's "character," snapped it shut and recited:

"Wind so swift, sky so high, apes wail mournfully,
Islet so clear, sand so white, birds circle back.
Boundless fallen leaves rustle down,
Endless great river rolls on.
Ten thousand miles, sad autumn, I’m always a guest,
A hundred years, much sickness, I climb the terrace alone.
Hardships and sorrows, like heavy frost on my temples,
Weary and despondent, I've newly stopped drinking wine."

...

...

"Sorrow, clarity, boundlessness, endlessness, ten thousand miles, autumn, guest, a hundred years, sickness, loneliness... eternal sorrow, all in a cup of cloudy wine! A great poem, a great poem!" The young prince exclaimed loudly, suddenly thinking of his father, who appeared leisurely but was actually filled with bitterness, and felt a pang of sadness in his heart, shaking his head speechlessly for a long time.

Only after a long while did he come to his senses. Fan Xian, at such a young age, though his background was miserable, how could he speak of "snowy temples and much sickness?" This was truly incomprehensible, completely illogical. However, the crowd was still immersed in the atmosphere of the poem, and as they watched the setting sun, everyone, whether successful or impoverished, felt a sense of the impermanence of life and the constant presence of sorrow. So, unintentionally, everyone completely forgot the incongruity between Fan Xian's life experience and the heavy mood of the poem.

No one suspected it was written by someone else. After all, this poem could only be written by a master of the poetic world. And if it were a master, they wouldn't even want to write for the Emperor, let alone a small child from the Fan family.

"With this one poem, it wouldn't matter if young master Fan never writes another poem," sighed the young prince of Jing. The talented scholars by the lake remained silent, knowing that they could no longer produce a better verse today. So the entire poetry gathering fell into silence because of Fan Xian's poem, without noticing that the author had already slipped away.

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In fact, this poem didn't match the scenery or the occasion, but Fan Xian was really bursting to go, so he quickly recited a poem to strike down his enemies and be done with it. "Bursting," on the one hand, meant he was bursting with frustration at that little bastard named Guo Baokun, and on the other hand, he really was in a hurry. He had been bored earlier and drunk a bit too much.

Pulling up his pants as he came out of the outhouse, he sighed comfortably, fastened his belt, and took the towel from the servant's hand to wipe his hands. On the way back, he suddenly saw a nursery growing luxuriantly, with tender green leaves and tiny flowers, bathed in the twilight beneath the tall trees, exuding a sense of vitality.

Fan Xian turned and asked the servant if he could take a stroll. The servant, of course, knew that this was a young master from the Fan residence, and that the Fan family's young lady and young master Sizhe were always free to wander around the royal palace. Naturally, he wouldn't refuse, and respectfully replied that there was no problem.

Fan Xian was a little happy and dismissed the servant, entering the nursery alone, casually looking around. He found that this nursery didn't grow the exotic flowers and rare herbs favored by ordinary wealthy families, but instead grew many plants that he couldn't even name. They all looked very rough and simple, probably some wild vegetables or crops.

He was a little curious; the Prince of Jing's family was truly different, actually growing these things.

Walking casually in the garden, the sunlight was still quite bright, but the trees overhead provided shade, so it seemed relatively quiet. He could hear the cheerful chirping of birds returning to their nests above, and he was surrounded by green, which was very comfortable. Fan Xian was glad to escape that boring poetry gathering, feeling very happy, humming a little tune as he walked deeper in, smiling as he thought, "I won't run into a fairy sister like Duan Yu, will I?"

"Who are you?"

A person stood up from the plants, looking at Fan Xian with great curiosity.

...

...

Fan Xian was startled, thinking that with his hearing, he actually only noticed the other person when he was so close. If the other person were an assassin, he would surely be finished. He realized that his vigilance seemed to have decreased a lot after entering the capital.

He looked at the person in front of him and smiled self-deprecatingly.

The other person was certainly not Wang Yuyan, nor was she the white-clothed woman he longed for, but a gardener in his forties or fifties, holding a hoe in his hand and a mud basket at his feet. His face was upright, and his expression was slightly flustered, probably showing some awe at Fan Xian's clothing and appearance.

Fan Xian smiled slightly and bowed to the gardener, saying, "I startled you, old man. I am a guest of the royal palace, and I came here by chance. I saw that this nursery is very well kept, so I took a stroll."

The old gardener wiped his hands on his clothes, seemingly unsure of how to greet him. Hearing him praise the nursery for being well kept, he smiled somewhat honestly.