Hearing the last sentence, the courtiers were greatly puzzled. This poem had appeared in the capital in the spring and had already spread throughout the land. Apart from the character for "great" (大) in "Great River" (大江), which some found awkward, many poets had always thought that the poem was flawless. However, the essence lay in the last four lines, and they did not understand why Zhuang Mohan contradicted them.

Zhuang Mohan said coldly, "The reason why I say the first four lines are good is not because the last four lines are bad, but because... these last four lines were not written by young master Fan!"

As soon as these words came out, there was a commotion in the hall, which quickly turned into deathly silence. No one spoke.

Fan Xian pretended to be stunned, but he understood many things and calmed down. His drunken body leaned against the table, his face full of smiles as he looked at Zhuang Mohan.

A few months ago, Lin Wan'er had said that someone in the palace claimed he had copied the poem. At the time, he didn't care, but he didn't expect it to erupt today. Guo Baokun had stirred up this matter, obviously at the behest of some noble.

Since arriving in the capital, the only thing he could boast about was his reputation in writing. If she ruined his reputation, in a world that valued literature and virtue so highly, he would have no choice but to take the initiative to break off the engagement.

Fan Xian felt relieved when Zhuang Mohan recited the first four lines. Seeing that Grand Scholar Zhuang still didn't know that "Great River" (大江) was the Yangtze River (长江), he knew that his greatest fear had not come to pass. If Zhuang Mohan wanted to accuse him of plagiarism, he could only rely on his learning and impeccable reputation to suppress him. That was all.

He just didn't know how the Eldest Princess had managed to persuade Zhuang Mohan, a man with such an excellent reputation, to travel all the way to be a villain.

——————————————————————

After a long while.

His Majesty frowned. An accusation of plagiarism was a very serious charge. If Zhuang Mohan had nothing to rely on, he wouldn't dare to talk nonsense in the Qing Kingdom's palace.

"Empty words have no proof," Zhang Ziqian, the Vice Minister of the Ministry of Rites, who had been sitting next to Fan Xian, said with a smile. "Mr. Zhuang Mohan is a grand scholar of his generation. When I was young, I often studied the classics annotated by Mr. Zhuang. Naturally, no one in the world dares to doubt Mr. Zhuang's words. But since it involves plagiarism, perhaps Mr. Zhuang has been deceived by villains."

He glanced at his superior's son, Guo Baokun, not at all afraid to reveal who he thought the villain was.

Zhuang Mohan raised his head, a complex emotion flickering in his wise eyes. "The last four lines of this poem were written by my teacher when he traveled in Tingzhou. Because it was my teacher's posthumous work, I have cherished it in my heart for decades. I don't know where young master Fan happened to obtain these phrases. Originally, I thought it was good that a buried pearl could see the light of day again. However, I disapprove of young master Fan using this to seek fame. Scholars place the utmost importance on cultivating their hearts and virtues, and literary phrases are only a trivial matter. I cherish talent like my own life and was unwilling to lightly expose this matter. My original intention was to come to the Qing Kingdom to observe young master Fan's character. I didn't expect young master Fan to be unrepentant and even more arrogant."

Fan Xian almost laughed, thinking, *Shameless, how shameless!* But others couldn't laugh. The atmosphere in front of the hall had become very oppressive. If this matter was true, not only would Fan Xian have no face to enter the officialdom and literary circles in the future, but even the entire Qing Kingdom's court would lose face.

Scholars all over the world respected Zhuang Mohan's lifelong conduct, morals, and writing. They couldn't possibly harbor any doubts. Moreover, Zhuang Mohan said that it was written by his teacher, which, according to the respect for teachers that scholars had, was tantamount to using his teacher's character as proof. Who would dare to doubt it?

In their hearts, the officials had already determined that Fan Xian had plagiarized the poem. The gazes they cast upon him were somewhat strange and disgusted. However, they couldn't allow this matter to become a reality, because it involved the face of the Qing Kingdom's court. Therefore, His Majesty coldly looked at Grand Scholar Shu Wu of the Wenyuan Pavilion. After a moment of embarrassment, Grand Scholar Shu stood up with difficulty and first bowed to Zhuang Mohan. "Greetings, teacher."

This Grand Scholar Shu had once studied in Northern Qi and was taught by Zhuang Mohan, so he greeted him as a student. At this time, he already believed what Zhuang Mohan said, that Fan Xian's poem was plagiarized. But under His Majesty's stern gaze, he had no choice but to stand up and speak for Fan Xian. "Teacher, young master Fan has always had poetic talent. Take his earlier 'Short Song Style' for example, which was also extremely brilliant. To say that he plagiarized is really hard to believe, and it doesn't seem necessary."

At this time, Zhuang Mohan had already sat down and coughed twice, saying gently, "Shu Wu, are you perhaps suspecting that I am stealing my late teacher's name?"

Grand Scholar Shu was drenched in sweat, repeatedly saying that he dared not. He no longer cared about His Majesty's cold gaze and retreated back honestly. At this time, if anyone dared to question him further, it would be equivalent to saying that Zhuang Mohan was an ungrateful and shameless person with no teacher or father. No one dared to bear this reputation.

But the Emperor was not an ordinary scholar. He was not Consort Shu, nor was he the Empress Dowager. He simply didn't like this Zhuang Mohan, so he said coldly, "The Qing Kingdom places the utmost importance on the law, which is somewhat different from the weak state of Northern Qi. If Mr. Zhuang wants to accuse someone of a crime, he needs some evidence."

The courtiers could all hear that His Majesty was angry. If Zhuang Mohan really proved that Fan Xian had plagiarized, Fan Xian would probably find it difficult to make a name for himself.

Zhuang Mohan smiled slightly and instructed his followers to take out a painting. He said, "This is my teacher's handwriting. If an expert were to look at it, they would naturally know the age." He looked at Fan Xian and said sympathetically, "Young master Fan originally had poetic talent, but unfortunately, his intention to imitate was too strong. He doesn't know that poetry is the voice of the heart. With young master Fan's experience, how could he have written the last four characters of this poem?"

At this time, all that could be heard in the hall was Zhuang Mohan's slightly aged but extremely steady voice interpreting the poem: "Ten thousand miles of sorrow in autumn, how desolate! A hundred years of illness, precisely when my late teacher was in his declining years, he climbed high alone, with the surging river and desolate scenery before his eyes… Young master Fan is still young and doesn't know how to interpret this 'hundred years of illness'?"

The more Zhuang Mohan spoke, the more everyone felt that such a poem could not have been written by a young man. Listening to Zhuang Mohan's voice again, they heard him say leisurely, "The 'prosperous frost temples' (繁霜鬓) refers to the white hair that grows profusely. Young master Fan has a head of black hair, so he is forcing himself to feel sorrow."

……

……

Zhuang Mohan finally said softly, "As for the last sentence, 'fallen on hard times, newly stopped drinking cloudy wine' (潦倒新停浊酒杯), first of all, young master Fan's family is wealthy and prosperous, so what 'fallen on hard times' can he speak of? But speaking of the five characters 'newly stopped drinking cloudy wine' (新停浊酒杯), I'm afraid young master Fan doesn't understand why my late teacher said so." He looked at Fan Xian, a trace of reluctance in his eyes. "My late teacher contracted a lung disease in his later years, so he couldn't drink alcohol, hence the use of the words 'newly stopped' (新停)."

As soon as these words were spoken, the Qing Kingdom's courtiers finally lost heart. The painting was no longer needed. Just these inexplicable problems were enough to make it extremely difficult for Fan Xian to escape the charge of plagiarism.

At this moment, a round of applause suddenly rang out in the silent palace!

Fan Xian, who had seemed to be drunk at his desk, suddenly stood up tall, smiling as he looked at Zhuang Mohan. He slowly lowered his hands, and a hint of admiration appeared in his heart. No one knew who Mr. Zhuang's teacher was, but the fact that he could deduce the circumstances and illness of Du Fu from this poem proved that he deserved the title of the leading literary figure of the time.

However, Fan Xian knew that the other party was framing him today and that the painting had probably been tampered with, so he couldn't admire him to the end. A hint of madness appeared on his refined face as he laughed drunkenly and said, "Mr. Zhuang, you are even willing to disregard your teacher's reputation today. I really don't know what made you disregard your former good name."

Others thought that he had lost his mind after being exposed and that his words were becoming increasingly inappropriate, so they frowned. The Empress softly ordered the people around her to call in the guards, lest young master Fan do something shocking. However, His Majesty coldly waved his hand, telling everyone to listen to Fan Xian's words.

Fan Xian staggered out, his eyes full of amusement and disdain. He shouted loudly, "Bring the wine!"

The palace maids in the back didn't dare to approach him because of his mad appearance. But a minister, who had been feeling indignant for Fan Xian, brought over a wine jar of about two pounds from the back and delivered it to Fan Xian.

"Thank you!" Fan Xian laughed loudly, smashing the seal of the wine jug with a single slap. He raised the jug and drank, like a whale swallowing the sea. In a short while, he poured the wine into his stomach. After a burp, the alcohol took effect. His face became flushed, his eyes sparkling, and his body swayed uncontrollably.

He staggered to the head seat like he was dancing, pointing at Zhuang Mohan's nose and saying, "This grand scholar, are you really insisting on this statement?"

Zhuang Mohan frowned slightly, smelling the alcohol coming towards him. "It would be good if the young master has a heart of repentance. Why must he hurt himself so?"

Fan Xian looked into his eyes, smiling slightly, his words seemingly a bit slurred. "Everything has a cause and an effect. Mr. Zhuang accuses me of plagiarizing these four lines from your teacher. I wonder why I would plagiarize? Could it be that I can't win this fame before and after death (生前身后名) with my previous 'Short Song Style'?"

The words "fame before and after death" were extremely well-chosen. Even Zhuang Mohan was somewhat moved. He was concerned about a certain important matter, and under duress, he was undermining his lifelong integrity today, intentionally framing the young man before him, which he already regretted. He slowly turned his head away and said faintly, "Perhaps young master Fan's poem was also plagiarized."

"Plagiarized from whom? Is it plagiarism if I write a poem? Does Mr. Zhuang have disciples all over the world and his writings known in all four seas, so he has the right to determine that I plagiarized?"

Seeing Zhuang Mohan's fingers gently tapping the scroll on the table, Fan Xian sneered, "Grand Scholar Zhuang, such tricks can only fool children. You say that I plagiarized your teacher's poem. I find it strange that this poem has never appeared in the world before I wrote it."

Zhuang Mohan seemed unwilling to argue with him further. Fan Xian said softly, "Sir, you said that I have not had white hair, so I cannot speak of 'frost temples'; my body is well, so I cannot speak of 'a hundred years of illness'... However, sir, you don't know that I like to cause trouble the most in my life, and I plan to start my life over again. You don't know my past, yet you wrong and harm me. How boring."

Whether it was because he was really drunk or because he finally had a rare opportunity to vent his pent-up frustrations, a few hints of madness suddenly appeared on Fan Xian's refined face.

"Poetry is the voice of the heart." Zhuang Mohan looked at him gently and said, "Young friend Fan has not had this past, so how can he write this poem?"

"Poetry is the way of literature." Fan Xian looked at him coldly and said, "The way of poetry always emphasizes genius. Perhaps my poem is forcing sorrow, but who says that things that have not been experienced cannot be transformed into one's own poetic sentiment?"

His words were extremely arrogant, actually comparing himself to a genius, thus proving that Zhuang Mohan's previous poetic arguments were all invalid!

Seeing that the other party had fallen into his trap, Fan Xian smiled slightly, impolitely picked up the wine jug from the other party's table, took a sip, and quietly looked at him. The drunkenness in his eyes gradually intensified, and he suddenly waved his green sleeves and shouted three times:

"Bring the paper!"

"Bring the ink!"

"Bring the people!"

The three shouts of a drunkard puzzled everyone in the hall. Only His Majesty remained calmly instructing the palace maids to prepare these things according to Fan Xian's instructions. In a short while, everything was ready. A large open space was cleared in front of the hall, with only one table, one inkstone, and one person standing alone and proudly in the center.

Fan Xian was a bit unsteady. He reluctantly saluted His Majesty and said, "May I borrow a brush-holding eunuch from His Majesty?"

Although the Emperor didn't understand what he meant, he still nodded slightly in agreement. A brush-holding eunuch walked to the table and sat down, spreading out the white paper and grinding the ink. Unexpectedly, Fan Xian endured his drunkenness, shook his head, and said, "One is not enough."

"Fan Xian, what are you doing?" The Crown Prince, who was quite close to him, finally couldn't help but speak. But the Emperor remained calm and granted his request, a smile gradually appearing in his eyes, as if he had guessed what was about to happen.

Fan Xian smiled and looked at Zhuang Mohan, the drunkenness in his eyes intensifying. He said to the three eunuchs who were waiting to write, "I will recite, and you will write. If you write slowly and don't copy it down, I won't write it a second time."

The three eunuchs became inexplicably nervous. Many people were guessing what Fan Xian was preparing to do and how he could make the world believe that he was the true poet, not Zhuang Mohan. It wasn't long after nightfall, and the summer breeze wasn't very cool, but the atmosphere was somewhat similar to the rising drums on a battlefield.

……

……

"…The wild fire cannot burn it out, the spring breeze blows and brings it back to life… The dazzling flowers are gradually becoming enchanting, the short grass can barely cover the horses' hooves… Heaven and earth will eventually come to an end, but this hatred will last forever."

Without warning, without preparation, Fan Xian blurted out a passage, all written by Bai Juyi. In a short while, there were more than a dozen poems. He stood beside the writing desk, looking at the night outside the palace, constantly reciting all the famous poems that his strange brain could remember. The eunuchs wrote furiously, but they were almost unable to keep up with his speed.

Everyone was silent, savoring the poems.

Faced with the endless plots and calculations, under immense pressure, he finally erupted at this moment. In his madness, he only cared about reciting the poems he remembered in his brain, not caring whether the eunuchs remembered them or whether others understood them. The fragrant words of his previous life echoed constantly through the Qing Kingdom's palace from his thin lips.

A few very strange changes gradually appeared in Zhuang Mohan's eyes.

And the courtiers, who had initially been purely watching the excitement, couldn't help but murmur in their hearts at this time. They had never heard of any of these poems, but they were indeed extremely beautiful. Could it be… that they were all written by young master Fan?

"Late in the evening, it looks like it's going to snow, can we drink a cup of wine..." This was Bai Letian drinking wine.

"Have you not seen..." Next, it was Li Bai's turn to drink wine.

"Facing the shadow, there are three people..." This was still Li Bai drinking wine.

"If only the host can make the guest drunk..." This was still Li Bai drinking wine.

"Those who abandon me, yesterday's day cannot be kept; those who disturb my heart, today's day is full of worries..." This was Li Bai after drinking too much.

……

……

The people in the hall no longer cared about the crime of disrespect before the Emperor. They gradually gathered around Fan Xian, listening to the poems he recited, their faces filled with shock and disbelief. Everyone had ears and knew good poems. There were many geniuses in the world, but since ancient times, there had never been such a scene as today.

They had seen people write poems, but they had never seen anyone write poems like this! Writing poems was definitely not like carrying cabbages in a market—but countless uninterrupted lines of poetry poured out of Fan Xian's mouth, as if he didn't need to think at all. What was the difference between that and carrying cabbages!

Although some of the phrases in these poems were strange, it was because the courtiers didn't know the allusions of that world. But the courtiers were still shocked and terrified. These poems… every one of them was a masterpiece!

Fan Xian still hadn't stopped. The courtiers' gazes toward Fan Xian began to become strange, feeling that this refined young man was no longer a mortal, but a celestial being who had descended to earth. In their terror, the clear-headed scholars of the Wenyuan Pavilion replaced the three exhausted eunuchs and began to bury their heads in furiously copying these fleeting lines of poetry. Young master Fan had said earlier that he would only say them once.

Fan Xian didn't know about the scene around him. He still had his eyes closed, his brain spinning extremely fast, both recalling these lines of poetry and thinking about his actions later. If he let the courtiers know that he still had time to think about other things at this moment, they would probably be even more shocked.

He felt a little thirsty, so he stretched his hand into the air beside him. The perceptive Taixue teacher took the wine and carefully placed it in his hand, afraid of disturbing his mood at this time.

From the "gentleman's good pursuit" in the *Book of Songs* to Gong Zizhen's "ten thousand horses are all muted," the bright moon of the Tang Dynasty, the spring river water of the Song Dynasty, Du Fu building a thatched cottage, Su Dongpo cooking fish in Huangzhou, Du Mu frequenting prostitutes, Liu Sanbian also frequenting prostitutes, Yuan Zhen loving concubines after having crossed the sea, Li Yi'an endlessly thinking of his lost youth, Ouyang Xiu loving his niece to death (this was a miscarriage of justice).

Fan Xian closed his eyes, took a sip of wine, and "created" a poem. Three jugs of wine were finished, and three hundred poems were produced!

In the vast palace, there seemed to be countless lights and shadows dancing, gradually condensing into a scene that only he could see with his eyes closed. It was the poets of his previous life, the handsome men and little handsome men of his previous life, singing lightly under the bamboo, lying bare-bellied in bed, saying "this wind is swift" on the avenue in the pavilion, shedding tears sadly by the riverbank.

This was everything from his previous life, all of Fan Xian's previous life, suddenly descending on the Qing Kingdom's world in this abrupt way, striking the hearts of everyone. With the help of countless famous figures from his previous life, Fan Xian was fighting against Zhuang Mohan.

He suddenly opened his eyes, looking coldly at Zhuang Mohan, but as if looking at a world even further away.

"Have you not seen, the Yellow River's waters come from the sky." Who could be more unrestrained than Li Bai?

"The waves wash away, the famous figures of the past." Who could be more heroic than Su Shi?

"Last night the rain was sparse and the wind was strong, but a heavy sleep could not dispel the lingering wine." Who could be more delicate than Li Qingzhao?

How could the famous figures of the past be defeated by one person's strength?

……

……

With a crisp sound, Zhuang Mohan's trembling hand finally couldn't hold the wine cup, and the wine cup fell on the bluestone floor, turning into countless fragments.

Silence, a complete silence.

He didn't know how much time had passed, Fan Xian had finally stopped his mad performance, but the people in the Qing Kingdom's royal palace could not break free from these emotions. The scholars and brush-holding eunuchs had already been replaced several times. They were the first to come back, collapsed on the ground, stroking their extremely sore right hands, and looking at Fan Xian with eyes that one uses to look at immortals.

Fan Xian was very drunk and swayed as he walked to Zhuang Mohan, pointed a finger at his nose, shook it, burped, and said softly:

"Annotating the classics and explaining the texts, I am not as good as you. Writing poetry, you... are not as good as me."

The palace was still silent, so this sentence, although spoken very softly, clearly fell into everyone's ears. At this time, the courtiers certainly believed this sentence. They were already in awe of the poetic talent of little master Fan. No matter how high Zhuang Mohan's reputation was, as for poetry, those who had listened to Fan Xian's "recitation" of three hundred ancient famous poems on the spot would not be able to believe in the future that anyone's poetic talent could surpass Fan Xian's.

At this time, there was no need to mention anything about plagiarism. Everyone already believed what Fan Xian had said, that there were so-called geniuses in the world who could write shocking poems without having to experience certain things. What was that just now? That was the skill of a poetry immortal! Plagiarize your mother, plagiarize your mother!

Since no one believed that Fan Xian needed to plagiarize poetry with his talent, then Zhuang Mohan was naturally lying. At this time, the people in the hall could not help but reveal disappointed, pitiful, and contemptuous looks towards Zhuang Mohan, thinking that this great scholar of his generation had tarnished his reputation in his old age by competing with a junior for fame.

Zhuang Mohan looked at Fan Xian as if he were looking at a monster, a look of despair in his eyes. For some reason, he suddenly felt a tightness in his chest, covered his lips with his white sleeve, and spat out blood.

The Emperor had an inscrutable expression on his face as he looked at Fan Xian and said, "With such talent, why haven't you shown it before?"

Fan Xian appeared both drunk and sober, looked back at the Emperor, and said, "Poetry is something to cultivate the mind, not a skill for fighting."

These words were a bit shameless. Wasn't he fighting tonight? He could see that Fan Xian finally couldn't stop his full of complaints and alcohol, collapsing on the steps in front of the throne, squinting his eyes at Zhuang Mohan, whose lips were trembling, muttering, "I'm drunk and want to sleep, you can go, go to hell."

Finally striking Li Taibai's last pose, Fan Xian fell into a drunken dream at the foot of the Emperor.

……

……