Volume One: Flames on the Border Chapter Seventy-Nine: A Step Becomes Poetry

Cui Hao was secretly groaning inwardly, thinking, “He Yu is a meticulous person—how could he make such a careless mistake? Setting the sword as the topic is the simplest thing imaginable. Never mind that Cui Mo has some literary talent—even someone with basic literacy could cobble together a poem or essay. This is simply bringing suffering upon oneself.”

This was the consensus among Cui Hao, his nephew, and all the Cui clan members present. But He Yu did not see it that way. He came from the modern era, had attended school from childhood through university, and had taken more exams than he could count. He understood well that while such a simple topic was easy to write on, to avoid clichés and express something truly original was exceedingly difficult. With so many masterpieces by predecessors as both examples and standards, it was easy to write, but hard to write well. Clearly, none present shared He Yu’s perspective.

When Cui Mo heard the topic, he instantly breathed a sigh of relief. “I may have overestimated this fellow,” he thought. “Turns out he’s nothing special. I’ll have to dig out his eyes and have a good look myself.” At once, he held his breath, gripped his wine cup, and paced the room in contemplation. Wishing to emulate Cao Zhi, he even aspired to compose a poem within seven steps, so he moved slowly, bordering on cheating. The others watched the spectacle in silence, not wanting to disturb his thoughts. Their feelings were complicated: displeased at Cui Mo’s unreasonable behavior, yet unwilling for an outsider to best him and tarnish the Cui family’s reputation.

He Yu watched Cui Mo’s deliberate display with amused detachment, sipping his wine, exuding quiet confidence.

“I have it,” Cui Mo suddenly declared. Stroking his beard, he recited a five-character poem in a sonorous tone. It was a piece he had composed before, now polished for the occasion, and his recitation was not without merit.

When he finished, he shot He Yu a sidelong glance. “I have completed my poem, boy. Did you hear clearly? What do you think?” Confident in his work, he waited expectantly for He Yu to make a fool of himself. Having taken seven steps to compose it, he imagined himself emulating the greats. If word of this spread, it would surely make a stir, bringing honor to the Cui clan. Even if Cui Liang complained to the family head, Cui Hong, the latter would be hard-pressed to punish him severely and might even regard him more highly, boosting his family standing.

Cui Mo’s eyes bore into He Yu, eagerly awaiting his surrender. But to his surprise, He Yu suddenly burst out laughing, shaking his head. “I thought, Master Zi Mo, you might produce a masterpiece for the ages, but instead it’s this feeble verse. Not only I—even a child from Jiangzuo could outdo you with offhand mockery. Truly, you overrate yourself—how laughable.”

“Ah!”

“Ah!”

“That’s rather boastful!”

“What, children from Jiangzuo are so formidable? I can hardly believe it.”

Exclamations rippled through the gathering as disbelief spread.

“You insolent brat!” Cui Mo fumed. “Since you speak so boldly, recite your poem now. I’d like to see just how impressive the children of Jiangzuo are!”

He Yu smiled faintly, rose, drained his cup, and without posturing or pacing, recited in a clear voice: “Taking the sword as my theme, I offer a humble poem—pardon my presumption. ‘The Sword’: Ten years I have honed this blade, its frost-cold edge yet untried. Today I show it to you—who among you has grievances unrighted?”

This poem was penned by Jia Dao of the Tang Dynasty. Though Jia Dao’s verses were usually somber and melancholic, this one was bold, spirited, and brimming with confidence—He Yu’s choice was truly apt.

In the Tang Dynasty, poetry was omnipresent—no poem, no Tang. Even though poetic forms were not yet fully matured in that era, nothing could compare to the later Tang poetry’s splendor. The truth is, Cui Mo’s poem was passable, but compared to Jia Dao’s, it fell far short in both conception and diction. More impressive still, He Yu composed his poem in a single breath—without taking even a single step. Such talent rivaled, if not surpassed, the famed Cao Zhi’s seven-step verse.

“Master Zi Mo, what do you think of my poem? Does it meet your standards?” He Yu asked with a sardonic smile, eyes fixed on Cui Mo, clearly intent on embarrassing him. To repay a grievance with virtue—how then to repay virtue? In He Yu’s world, there was only tit for tat, blood for blood.

“This... this... Hmm... The boy does have some skill... some skill indeed...” Cui Mo’s face flushed a deep purple, but under so many eyes, he could hardly deny the poem’s quality.

He Yu chuckled to himself: “These ancients are adorably pedantic. There’s no definitive interpretation of poetry—everyone reads it as they will. If I were in this situation, I’d shamelessly declare my opponent’s poem poor. Nowadays, even the most laughable modern styles get published in national journals. To compose poetry, one needs not only talent, but courage—and, above all, a thick skin. Cui Mo may be mean and arrogant, but he’s not thoroughly bad.”

Without hesitation, He Yu pressed on: “Since we agreed beforehand, please remove one of your own eyes here and now.”

With a clang, He Yu drew the short sword gifted by Tuoba Yan and tossed it to the ground. The entire room was startled. “It’s over—on his first day as host, He Yu killed seven men without mercy, not even yielding to Tuoba Yan’s pleas; Cui Mo is finished.”

Some thought, “Cui Mo was rude, yes, but he is still family. If He Yu, as an outsider, insists on humiliating him, the Cui clan’s dignity will be lost. So much for the gentle refinement of Jiangzuo—so it’s not true, after all.”

Cui Liang felt the same. He did resent Cui Mo, but to have him lose an eye in public was hard to accept. Of course, if He Yu had lost, he would also have intervened. Having witnessed He Yu’s ruthless methods, he knew the man would not let matters rest unless appeased. He coughed, preparing to plead for Cui Mo’s sake.

But Cui Mo, flustered, protested: “In a contest of poetic improvisation, since you set the first topic, it’s only fair that I pose one as well. You had more time to compose your response—this isn’t quite fair.”

No longer daring to be arrogant, he now quibbled over the order of topics, lacking all composure but preferring this to the disgrace of losing an eye. Having lost one round, he hoped to set a difficult topic that He Yu could not answer, thus earning a draw and saving face.

The others noted how swiftly He Yu had composed his poem and suspected he’d had a draft prepared, hence his confidence. Some even thought, “He Yu appears young, but he’s shrewd—perhaps Cui Mo has fallen into his trap.”

He Yu had anticipated that Cui Mo would not surrender easily; with victory assured, he feigned magnanimity: “There is some sense in what you say. But in future, let’s not hear any more about seniority or reluctance to go first. Enough talk—Master Zi Mo, please present your topic.”

He wielded his sharp tongue to the fullest, mocking Cui Mo before granting his request. Cui Mo, infuriated, could barely contain his rage. Never had he encountered such a relentless opponent—argumentative, calculating, and unwilling to yield even an inch.

Suppressing his anger, Cui Mo scanned the room. The objects for the feast were all ordinary—hardly challenging enough for He Yu. He hesitated, knowing that even if he won this round, it would only be a draw; he could not afford another loss. He Yu watched coolly, waiting in silence.

Suddenly, Cui Mo’s eyes fell upon the small courtyard outside the window—a garden with a thatched cottage furnished with a zither table and tea set, clearly a place for music and painting.

An idea struck. Pointing outside, he said, “I invite you, Master He, to compose a poem or essay on that thatched cottage.”

In the Han, Wei, and Jin dynasties, palatial grandeur was the common theme of poetry, with famous works like “Ode to the Two Capitals” and “Ode to the Two Metropolises.” Few, if any, had taken a humble thatched cottage as their subject. The cottage, though small, was fully furnished—describe every detail and it would be tedious; mention nothing and it would seem sparse.

Hearing the topic, Cui Hao instantly relaxed. For him, a draw between He Yu and Cui Mo was ideal: it would silence Cui Mo and prove that Cui Liang’s judgment was sound, showing that He Yu was no empty name. A draw would also save Cui Mo from losing an eye and preserve the Cui clan’s dignity. Cui Mo, having racked his brains for such an odd topic, was sure He Yu would fail. This time, with more time to prepare, Cui Mo figured he could at least force a tie, and then smoothe things over. As for Cui Mo’s troublemaking, that could be dealt with by family discipline—no need to air dirty laundry in public.

Cui Hao was equally relieved. A draw was best. Young and proud, he too began pondering lines of poetry in his heart. Yet before he could finish a single verse, He Yu laughed, stood up, and declared, “Master Zi Mo underestimates me! How is this topic difficult? Even a five-year-old in the countryside could compose on it—why should I not? Ah... ah... this topic is too easy, far too easy!” He shook his head, feigning exasperation, as if the subject were so simple as to be beneath his notice.

The others exchanged puzzled glances. He Yu’s earlier victory could be explained by a prepared poem, but there was no way he had one ready for this. To speak so lightly—did he treat this as child’s play? Only two possibilities remained: either He Yu was a once-in-a-generation genius, able to compose fluently on any topic, or he was boasting outrageously, merely to mock Cui Mo.