Grand Secretary

In the southern borderlands, the Witch Clan was long despised by the world. Their mastery of gu magic and raising of gu insects, combined with some individuals who wreaked havoc using poisonous gu in the martial world, brought them nothing but scorn and disdain. Yet, once Zhang Jingqian visited the Witch Clan, blending their gu insects with a rare assortment of medicinal herbs, he endured countless failures and immense costs. In the end, he succeeded in cultivating a new kind of gu insect, called the “Medicinal Gu.” Unlike ordinary gu insects, which often brought mixed blessings, the Medicinal Gu could invade the human body and consume accumulated toxins silently, akin to an unconventional surgery. Although initially met with skepticism, Zhang Jingqian’s renowned status as a medical sage and the countless lives saved by his Medicinal Gu gradually shifted public opinion. Consequently, the Witch Clan’s ties with the Medicine King Valley grew ever closer.

Wu Zhi looked at the Medicinal Gu in Zhang Ling’s hand and said, “I never expected Meng Qian to give you something like this.”

Zhang Ling shook his head. “She didn’t give it to me.”

Wu Zhi’s thoughts shifted. “Oh, I forgot your elder brother is the Medicine King Valley’s Medical Sage. This thing was originally developed by him. It’s no surprise you have it. But can this gu actually kill someone?”

Zhang Ling suddenly took out a green vial, tilting it to feed the Medicinal Gu the bright red liquid inside. Then he pried open Lu Cheng’s nose and mouth, allowing the gu-infected Medicinal Gu to crawl in. His voice turned cold. “I can’t kill him today, but with this Medicinal Gu inside him, I can end him anytime. And it self-devours, leaving no evidence.”

A chill ran down Wu Zhi’s spine. How could the Medicine King Valley have produced such a ruthless person?

Having dealt with the immediate matter, the three stepped out of the cabin. Zhang Ling warned Meng Qixin and Yang Li once more, “If you dare speak of today’s events…”

He made a slashing motion across his neck to intimidate them. Seeing both nod in agreement, the three then jumped back onto their original boat.

Song Linjie asked, “If they talk, will you really kill them?”

Zhang Ling shook his head and smiled. “Just a scare. I’m not so reckless as to kill innocents.”

Feeling reassured, Song Linjie relaxed. Having traveled the martial world before, he had witnessed many people change drastically due to circumstances—kind souls becoming bloodthirsty when pushed beyond their limits, others betraying kin for profit. Such reflections troubled him, but he was glad his own heart remained strong and resilient.

At that moment, all heads turned as an elegant middle-aged man stepped out from a painted pleasure boat in the center of Jinming Lake. Dressed simply yet with an air of distinction, his demeanor was calming. Standing at the bow, he called out, “Ladies and gentlemen, the poetry gathering aboard the pleasure boat begins now. Those interested may come aboard and recite their verses.”

The middle-aged scholar then beckoned for wooden planks and rope ladders, standing aside to oversee the proceedings.

Wu Zhi looked at the man and said, “It’s him! Lu Zhaoxian, Grand Secretary of the Cabinet. He spends his days reviewing documents and compiling state affairs, busier than even Chancellor Xiao Qin. Yet here he is, taking time to join a poetry gathering.”

As Wu Zhi explained, a rowboat slowly approached the central pleasure boat. The two vessels were level, and those on the painted boat prepared a plank for crossing.

A graceful young gentleman adorned in red and green stepped from the rowboat. Every detail of his attire bespoke wealth and status. The handsome young man bowed to Lu Zhaoxian, then turned to the crowd and introduced himself, “I am Jin Qingyi, son of the Left Censor of the Metropolitan Censorate.”

Jin Qingyi looked to Lu Zhaoxian, but the elder showed no sign of warmth. Puzzled, Jin wondered where he had offended him. Without expression, Lu Zhaoxian said simply, “Please.”

Jin Qingyi sat and began writing a poem on prepared paper.

Zhang Ling saw the reason for Lu Zhaoxian’s displeasure. “He didn’t boast of his own talents but immediately name-dropped his father. Only someone relying on nepotism would annoy others so.”

Soon, Jin Qingyi finished and stepped back.

Lu Zhaoxian picked up the poem, glanced over it with disdain—not because the verse was nonsensical, but because knowing Jin’s background, it was likely purchased, not penned by him. Yet it was not the time to expose him. He read aloud casually:

“A gentle breeze brushes the face,
Longing carried by the wind’s embrace.
Red beans send my thoughts afar,
Under moonlight, alone I ponder.”

Murmurs rose around him. After finishing, Lu Zhaoxian tossed the paper on the table and walked away, showing no further interest.

Jin Qingyi, undeterred, said to himself, “This poem is for Su Zhi, daughter of the Minister of Revenue—only to catch a glimpse of her beauty.”

Moments later, another rowboat approached, clearly signaling a forthcoming union between the two families. Yet such matches were seldom due to genuine poetic charm; more often, they were decisions by the Minister of Revenue or prearranged alliances, using this setting to add poetic flair and publicize their connection.

Jin Qingyi leisurely stepped onto the plank, and the two boats parted, leaving the rest to their own merriment.

Grand Secretary Lu Zhaoxian’s displeasure faded when his gaze shifted. The three on the nearby boat turned to see others emerging from the cabin, including Ren Pingsheng, who nodded and smiled knowingly. The two clearly shared an understanding.

After a brief wait, a third rowboat squeezed its way forward from the back rows. This boat was lower, and the painted pleasure boat prepared a rope ladder. The young man climbed up politely, his demeanor respectful, unlike the overconfident Jin Qingyi. His attire was simple yet elegant.

The young man bowed as well, earning a nod from the Grand Secretary. Jin Qingyi watched, baffled. Could the Grand Secretary favor such a humble fellow?

Though modest, the young man was capable. He greeted the crowd respectfully and introduced himself, “I am Xuan Yubei, compiler at the Hanlin Academy.”

As a compiler at the Hanlin Academy, he was a seventh-rank official—modest compared to the high-ranking sons around, most above fourth rank. This earned sneers from those without status or talent.

Xuan Yubei bowed again to Lu Zhaoxian, who stepped aside. Xuan sat, casually wrote his poem, and handed it directly to Lu for recitation.

Lu Zhaoxian examined the poem carefully. Its literary quality surpassed the previous, with neat, proper calligraphy. Most importantly, it was genuine work, not borrowed words. He read aloud:

“Stone throne adorned with jade, flat as still stream,
No shadow of a beauty lingers in the dream.
Withered vine’s reflection mirrors lone autumn’s sigh,
Only red leaves remain to form a small isle nearby.”

After finishing, Lu Zhaoxian did not ignore the poem as before. He spread the verses for all to read and patted Xuan Yubei on the shoulder, calling him aside to explain and correct the poem.

Those present who had scoffed before now blushed with shame. Only the shameless playboys clung to their petty official connections to argue.

Thus, the poetry gathering on Jinming Lake continued, a subtle contest of talent and status unfolding beneath the serene surface.