Volume One: Flames on the Border Chapter Seventy-Eight: Reciting Poetry Upon Objects

Such accusations were nothing short of outright insults, like a fool cursing in the street, and truly unbecoming of a noble family like the Cui clan. The Cui family members present shook their heads in dismay, feeling their faces burning with shame. Some had already begun to quietly rebuke him, voicing their dissatisfaction.

Cui Mo had long been confined within the family, rarely given the chance to appear in public, and today, he was determined to let things fall apart and make things difficult for Cui Liang. The foolish are often mysteriously self-assured; Cui Mo, unable to be entrusted with important tasks, occupied the fringes of the family’s affairs. Thus, he surrounded himself with a band of equally useless friends, spending his days in poetry, wine, and idle talk, dabbling in literature and history, and his calligraphy was passable. With the flattery of others and lacking self-awareness, he always felt his talents were suppressed by the family, lamenting his unrecognized abilities. Whenever he drank, he would complain, speak absurdly, and had often been punished by the family head, Cui Hong. In a grand family like the Cui of Qinghe, with numerous relatives and strict rules, the house regulations were rigorous, complementing the rites and laws.

Today, Cui Mo made a spectacle of himself in public, first hiding behind his drunkenness, and second, being away from home, the family rules could not reach him. Cui Liang was so angry he could only grit his teeth, watching as the feast was about to be ruined by Cui Mo, yet powerless to stop it. Should word of this incident spread, where would he hide his face? The Cui family of Qinghe would become a laughingstock.

Cui Mo had gone too far, becoming utterly brazen. He Yu, his sword-like brows raised, curled his lips in a lofty manner and said, "To think that the Cui family of Qinghe has a figure like Mr. Mo—it truly broadens my horizons as the head of my sect."

At these words, everyone present felt their faces burning. Cui Mo, hearing He Yu boldly call himself the sect leader and speak with sarcasm, was enraged and shouted, "You impudent youth, how dare you be so disrespectful before your elders? Tell me, at your young age, what talents do you possess to dare point fingers before me?"

Ha—

Ha—

He Yu deliberately laughed exaggeratedly, "Mr. Mo, you are quite right. I am indeed young, and compared to the distinguished elders like Mr. Ming, my learning is certainly lacking. But compared to you, Mr. Mo—well, well, well... ha ha... ha ha..."

He seemed about to say more, but his tone was filled with unmistakable contempt.

Cui Mo, relying on his age, failed to intimidate He Yu; instead, he grew agitated and sneered, "So you think a few arrows make you so arrogant? Hmph, you are just a brash warrior, full of courage but lacking wisdom—hardly worth mentioning." He glanced sideways at He Yu, as if to say, "You are proud, but I am even prouder." At the time, noble families respected scholars over warriors; martial men were often called "vulgar fellows," held in low esteem.

Cui Mo was intent on causing trouble, but he was not stupid. Before coming, he had heard of He Yu’s legendary feat—four bows, one arrow, piercing the heart guard. Though skeptical, he reckoned that a contest of arms with He Yu would be like an egg striking a stone; family scions practiced martial arts for amusement, and with his lazy nature and advancing age, he had no advantage. Thus, he slyly dismissed He Yu’s strengths in a single sentence.

He wanted a contest of words, not of arms.

He Yu saw through it all, his mind clear as a mirror: "With more than sixteen hundred years of accumulated culture, if it comes to literary play, what is there to fear?"

Cui Mo observed He Yu standing silent and assumed he had struck a nerve, feeling smug and pressing, "You boasted loudly, so why are you silent now? Are you afraid? If so, I won’t stoop to your level. Go ahead—my Cui family of Qinghe does not dine with ignorant paupers." He was issuing an expulsion order.

He Yu was Cui Liang’s guest, yet Cui Mo sought to drive him out—this was a slap in Cui Liang’s face. Regardless of his concern for propriety and composure, Cui Liang could no longer restrain himself; he sprang up and cursed, "He Yu is my invited guest. No need for your interference. Today’s events I will report to my elder brother for a fair judgment. All brothers and nephews here are witnesses. Come! Throw him out!"

"Heh heh... heh heh... heh heh heh... Unable to reason, you resort to force—so that’s all the longhouse can muster. Ha ha... ha ha..."

"No need for you to lay hands; I’ll leave myself. Pity, oh pity—a vulgar ignoramus has become an honored guest of my Cui family of Qinghe. Alas..."

Having achieved his aim of humiliating Cui Liang, Cui Mo decided to withdraw, shaking his head as he swaggered away.

With Cui Mo’s outburst, the internal strife of the Cui family was laid bare for outsiders to witness, inviting ridicule. Cui Liang had come with his clan and retainers to assist, hoping to shine, but now he could not restrain the wastrel Cui Mo. News of this would surely damage his reputation. A leading figure of the Cui family of Qinghe, mocked and ridiculed by a lesser relative in public, left him unable to save face.

Watching Cui Mo leave, Cui Liang trembled with rage, thinking, "If only my elder brother Cui Hong were here. As head of the family, he could punish him by house law. But then, if my brother were present, even with borrowed courage, Cui Mo would not dare act so brazenly. Clearly, agreeing to bring him to Pingcheng was a mistake—an error already made, too late for regrets..." Bitter with anger, he blamed himself deeply.

He Yu, sensing the moment was ripe, suddenly spoke: "The mountain remains silent all day, yet all under heaven know its greatness; the stream babbles endlessly, and all know its insignificance. True charm lies not in clever speech, but in quiet reserve. To defeat Mr. Mo in argument is no difficulty; it is not that I dare not, but that I choose not to."

His words, ornate and layered, immediately cowed the crowd. He Yu thought, "This is the advantage of having the culture of later ages—famous sayings and aphorisms come effortlessly. I’ll overwhelm this old turtle, let him taste the despair of being crushed by talent." Confident of victory, he put on an air of invincible swagger.

Cui Mo, hearing this, stopped instantly, turned to look at He Yu, and sneered, "Since you dare utter such arrogant words, are you willing to make a wager with me?"

He Yu gave a mysterious smile, "Please speak, Mr. Mo. I am eager to hear your terms." His repeated use of "sect leader" to refer to himself was a deliberate assertion of stature, nearly driving Cui Mo mad with anger.

Cui Mo managed to restrain himself and said, "In days past, Emperor Wen of Wei tested the talent of Prince Chen Si, commanding him to compose a poem within seven steps. Prince Chen Si, quick-witted, accomplished it within the allotted steps, thus earning the famed 'Seven Steps Poem,' which reads: 'Boiling beans to make soup, filtering the juice; stalks burn beneath the pot, beans weep within. Born of the same root, why so eager to destroy each other?' It became a celebrated story. Today, we emulate the ancients—let us each select an object and compose a poem on it, and see whose verse is superior."

Confident in his poetic abilities, Cui Mo always carried drafts in his mind, so he proposed this seemingly fair but in truth advantageous literary contest. He judged that, even if He Yu possessed some talent, his youth and limited study would make him no match in poetry.

Cui Liang had witnessed He Yu’s martial skill, strategy, and eloquence, but never his literary talent. He harbored the same doubts as Cui Mo, and urgently signaled He Yu to avoid entangling himself, lest he court humiliation.

He Yu pretended not to notice, thinking, "If Cui Mo wanted to compete in playing or singing, I’d have to bluff my way through, but composing poems on objects is nothing to fear. This hall is full of ordinary items, and there are countless object poems from later ages—I can easily defeat him without effort. Cui Mo is courting disaster; he has only himself to blame."

Rolling his eyes, he said, "Mr. Mo’s suggestion is excellent. I am in full agreement. There is just one matter I am unclear about, and I must ask you."

A gentle smile, he continued, "Since we are competing in literature, we must determine a winner and loser. Let us agree: if I lose to Mr. Mo, I will gouge out an eye here as an apology—a lesson for my youthful arrogance. But if Mr. Mo... Mr. Mo... fails to best me... then... then..."

He deliberately spoke haltingly, provoking Cui Mo to fall into his trap. Cui Mo, as expected, exploded in anger, "How could I possibly lose to an ignorant youth like you? If I am defeated, I will do the same—gouge out an eye to present to you. Is that sufficient?"

The two, having spoken so definitively, turned a simple poetry contest into a struggle of life and death. Everyone present was tired of Cui Mo’s obstinacy and hoped He Yu would defeat him. Some felt He Yu was too reckless—if he lost and had to gouge out his own eye in public, they must intervene, lest the Cui family of Qinghe be mocked for inviting guests and then gouging their eyes out.

In truth, they worried too much. Not only was He Yu almost certain to win, but even if he lost, his thick-skinned modern sensibilities would surely prevent him from actually gouging out his eye. After all, what is face worth? At worst, he could simply stop frequenting the north. Thus, He Yu had no concern for the eye-gouging wager, his mind at ease.

Cui Mo, thinking like an ancient and a noble scion, held his word as gold, unable to easily back out. Though he was ninety-nine percent sure he could win, literary contests have no fixed champion, while martial contests do. If unlucky, he could fall into the one percent and have to gouge out his eye in public—pain aside, his reputation would be ruined, and he could never return to the Cui family of Qinghe. The more he thought, the more fearful he became, regretting the cruel wager with He Yu. Winning would lack grace, possibly earning a reputation for ruthlessness; losing would be even worse, bringing ridicule and exile from the family.

Calculating in his heart, Cui Mo realized he had walked right into He Yu’s trap, but it was too late for regrets. Only by defeating He Yu could he escape.

He Yu, calm as an old dog, raised his hand invitingly, "Please, Mr. Mo, propose the first topic."

Cui Mo, valuing his status, shook his head and postured, "I am older and do not wish to bully the young. You may propose the topic first."

He Yu responded, and casually picked up the sword at his side, placing it on the table, "Please, Mr. Mo, compose a poem on the sword."

As soon as the topic was announced, Cui Liang frowned, "This is too easy for Cui Mo. In those days, men often wore swords, and there are countless renowned poems on blades and swords. This topic is far too simple."