Volume One: Flames at the Frontier Chapter Eighty: The Way of the Jianghu

Cui Mo did not believe a word He Yu said. With a cold snort, he pressed, “If that’s so, I ask Sect Master He to recite them one by one. I, Cui, am all ears. Whether good or bad, the gentlemen here will judge for themselves.”

“In that case, may I have your attention,” He Yu intoned, striding to the center of the room. With a resonant, chant-like cadence, he recited, “The ‘Inscription of the Humble Room’: A mountain need not be high; its renown comes from immortals. Water need not be deep; dragons make it spirited. This is but a humble room, yet my virtue makes it fragrant. Moss greens the steps, grass hues the curtain. In laughter and talk, there are great scholars; none who come and go are mere commoners. Here, one may tune the plain zither, read golden sutras. No cacophony of strings and flutes to assail the ear, nor wearying files of officialdom to burden the form. The thatched cottage of Zhuge Liang in Nanyang, the Pavilion of Ziyun in Western Shu. As Confucius said: ‘What baseness is there in this?’”

This was the immortal work by Liu Yuxi, a literary giant of the Tang dynasty. To recite it in this setting was truly overwhelming, crushing Cui Mo utterly, leaving him no chance of victory.

All present were scions of great families, men of refined taste and broad learning. Thus, even before He Yu had finished the ‘Inscription of the Humble Room,’ they were already struck dumb with astonishment, staring at him in silent awe: “How could the world contain such talent? Never in our lives have we seen the like.”

Some, fond of literature, even resolved that later they must ask He Yu to repeat it so they could write it down and ponder it at leisure.

Cui Liang and Cui Hao were even more startled. Previously, they had thought He Yu formidable only in martial arts, never expecting his literary talent to surpass even his martial prowess. In this era, culture was prized above arms, both in the North and the South. However high He Yu’s martial skill or cunning, to young noblemen like Cui Liang and Cui Hao, it might inspire admiration, but not true awe. Only literary brilliance was the true badge of a scholar-gentleman. As paragons of the Cui clan of Qinghe, both had toiled over literature and history and were naturally confident in their own abilities. But He Yu’s extraordinary gift instantly eclipsed them, leaving them not even a chance to resist.

Cui Liang was silent, deeply dejected. Cui Hao, brimming with youthful arrogance, found himself utterly outmatched in every respect; his proud heart felt plunged into an icy abyss, and he even contemplated abandoning his efforts altogether. Raised in privilege, accustomed to the finest of everything, and possessing considerable talent, the two had always been benchmarks within their clan—their lofty pride was easily imagined.

When He Yu finished his recitation, he fell silent, eyes fixed on Cui Mo, waiting for him to speak. Seconds ticked by. Cui Mo racked his brains but could not summon a single poem or essay to match He Yu’s. Beads of sweat broke out on his nose and brow. At last, in desperation, he bent down, picked up the short sword from the floor, and positioned it, about to drive it into his own eye.

Cui Liang snapped back to his senses and shouted, “Second brother, don’t!”

Cui Mo hesitated, then stopped, suddenly bursting out in indignation, “Sect Master He, your literary talent is unmatched—I admit defeat. But I would wager you again, this time in calligraphy. If I lose once more, I’ll willingly give up both my eyes. Does Sect Master He dare accept?”

In the Wei and Jin dynasties, scholars prized calligraphy above all, producing many great masters. The most renowned then were Wang Xizhi and his son Wang Xianzhi.

Since this was a contest of letters, calligraphy was naturally fair game. Yet Cui Mo had just lost; to raise a new challenge at this juncture seemed shameless—unworthy of a gentleman’s heir. But to Cui Mo, a little shame was preferable to losing an eye; so he brazenly proposed it. He prided himself on his calligraphy, having put in years of effort, and hoped to redeem himself or at least fight to a draw. Humbled by his earlier defeat, he no longer dared to address He Yu as “boy,” instead using the honorific “Sect Master.”

He Yu, though quick to repay an insult, was not without understanding. He had prepared himself to intervene with lightning speed if Cui Mo truly tried to blind himself. Having already achieved his aims—allying with the Cui clan and making his name—he saw no need to create further enemies. He could easily have said, “A calligraphy contest is fine, but let us first carry out the original wager,” thus cornering Cui Mo completely. After all, who could compete in calligraphy after gouging out an eye in agony?

He Yu had practiced calligraphy for some days, uncertain of his progress. His own handwriting, lacking formal training and any models to copy, was of the rough, lively “jianghu style.” He did not know whether it would find favor with these connoisseurs. But having already won twice, he could afford to be magnanimous—and he was curious to see the calligraphy of others.

With his mind made up, He Yu nodded. “Very well, then. I would be honored to witness Master Zimo’s calligraphic treasures.”

This time, Cui Mo dared not act arrogantly or waste words. With a gesture, he had servants bring brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, setting them on the table. After witnessing a dazzling contest of poetry, everyone was eager for the upcoming calligraphy duel and crowded around.

Cui Mo composed himself, spread out the paper, and with a flourish, wrote two of his own poems. He Yu saw at a glance that the verses were decent—likely Cui Mo’s proudest compositions. Written with a brush, one in regular script, one in running script, the strokes were firm and assured, clearly the fruit of long practice. The Eastern Jin was famed for its calligraphic culture—even officials needed to be skilled calligraphers. Masters abounded. Cui Mo’s handwriting reflected the prevailing aesthetic: graceful, pleasing, and elegant. Though it could not rival Wang Xizhi’s immortal “Preface to the Orchid Pavilion,” it was, in modern terms, the work of a competent second-rate calligrapher.

He Yu felt a sudden pressure. “If Cui Mo is at the level of a modern second-rate calligrapher, then I’m just a wild amateur. I’ve never studied systematically; in terms of skill, I am no match. It all depends on whether my unique, creative script catches their eye.”

He Yu’s so-called creative script was, in fact, based on later styles such as Yan Zhenqing’s and the “slender gold” script—deliberately distorted and exaggerated for effect. He had little choice. Though intelligent, he had never formally studied calligraphy. After being transported to this era, not only had the great copybooks of later masters yet to appear, even those of contemporary figures like Wang Xizhi and his son were hard to come by. Planning to make his way in Jiangnan, mastery of calligraphy was essential; speed was of the essence. So, relying on himself, He Yu invented his own script: not truly refined, but instantly recognizable as a distinctive “jianghu style.”

When Cui Mo finished, he looked to He Yu for his verdict. Having lost twice in a row, utterly helpless, he now felt weak and anxious, unsure if He Yu could even write. By rights, calligraphy required years of study, and He Yu, barely twenty, could not have mastered it—unless, of course, his natural talent was so prodigious that he accomplished in a year what others did in ten. The thought made Cui Mo even more uneasy. What made matters worse, if He Yu lost, it would be a draw, but if Cui Mo lost, he would have to gouge out both eyes in public—a truly ruinous bargain. Distraught, his brushwork had been sluggish; realizing this, he felt even more disheartened.

He Yu admired Cui Mo’s calligraphy and found it quite decent. He offered sincere praise, then spread out a sheet of mulberry paper, dipped his brush in thick ink, and began to write. The paper was of fine mulberry bark, far superior to yellow hemp; the brush and ink were also superbly crafted. The Cui clan of Qinghe was indeed wealthy—everything was of the best.

After pondering a moment, He Yu wrote out, in his modified Yan style regular script, the poem “Lament for the Fallen State”:

Armed with Wu spears and clad in rhino-hide armor,
Chariots wheel and short weapons clash,
Banners block the sun, enemies gather like clouds,
Arrows rain down as warriors vie to be first.
Lines break, formations fall,
Left steed slain, right hand wounded.
Wheels mired, four horses trapped,
Grasp the jade drumsticks, strike the sounding drum.
Heaven’s wrath, the spirits rage,
Fierce slaughter leaves corpses on the field.
Gone and never to return,
Plains stretch, the road grows long.
Long sword at the side, Qin bow in hand,
Heads and bodies parted, resolve unwavering.
Brave and mighty, indomitable to the end,
Dead in body, yet the spirit endures,
O soul, become a hero among ghosts!

This poem, from Qu Yuan’s “Nine Songs,” was a standard in a scholar’s repertoire—famous to all. Its solemn, heroic spirit matched the robust energy of the Yan style script. Had it been written in the graceful style popular in the Eastern Jin, it would not have felt right. Yan style regular script was majestic, powerfully structured, its rules strict—a hallmark of later calligraphic schools, and visually distinct from the free-spirited style of the present era. Knowing his own limitations, He Yu cleverly chose a poem universally known and well-suited to his script.

The onlookers exclaimed in wonder. Someone remarked, “They say Southerners are gentle, Northerners strong—Sect Master He’s brushwork is so vigorous, it is truly rare in this world.” The Jin dynasty prized expressive, elegant calligraphy, befitting the air of a cultured gentleman, while He Yu’s bold, sweeping Yan style was like a general on the battlefield—one soft, one hard, each with its own merit.

Cui Hao gazed at He Yu in admiration, asking curiously, “Sect Master He, may I ask who taught you? Your calligraphy is so novel—it’s truly eye-opening.” He Yu, seeing his unorthodox “jianghu style” had won the day, felt a great weight lift and boasted shamelessly, “In my youth, I studied a few days with a hermit in the mountains. This old man and Wang Yishao were close. Wang Yishao once said, ‘If this old man emerged, I would hide my own brilliance.’” Wang Yishao was Wang Xizhi, who had recently died, his fame unrivaled. He Yu made up the story without a qualm—there was no one left to refute him. The crowd, hearing that even Wang Xizhi had praised this mountain recluse so highly, were even more in awe of He Yu’s calligraphy.

He Yu did not linger. Spreading another sheet of mulberry paper, he quickly wrote out, in “slender gold” script, Su Shi’s “Calm Wind and Waves”:

“Pay no heed to the sound of wind and rain through the woods,
Why not sing and stroll at your own pace?
A bamboo staff and straw sandals outmatch a horse—
Who fears?
Let a lifetime’s mist and rain come as it may.
A chilly spring breeze wakes me from wine,
A slight coldness, but the setting sun on the hill greets me still.
Looking back at the bleakness behind,
Going home—
No wind, no rain, no sunshine.”