The Ambition of a Lifetime

Upon hearing his brother’s warning, Qiu Hong, who had been on the verge of continuing the entanglement, immediately ceased his movements. He was himself deeply perplexed as to why he had been following this man’s rhythm since the start, as if his every breath were under the other’s control. Had he continued, he could not have guaranteed where it would lead, and the thought left him with a lingering sense of dread.

Qiu Hong cupped his hands in a salute and said, "I have lost."

It was a performance that was better than some, yet beneath others. Having suffered enough humiliations at the Academy, Ye Yumi finally felt a sense of triumph and put on airs, saying, "Work hard, and you may yet achieve something modest in the future."

With that, Ye Yumi stepped over the railing to return, leaving the dim-witted Qiu Hong with the feeling that everyone on this pleasure boat was unfathomable and beyond his reach. As Ye Yumi turned his back to Qiu Hong, he could not suppress a smile, and his brother, watching him, could only shake his head in amusement.

Zhang Ling retorted, "You certainly know how to put on a show. I saw that Qiu Hong was truly flustered; surely that wasn’t just because of his own temperament. The secret technique you cultivate must be capable of disturbing a person’s state of mind and inducing agitation."

Ye Yumi nodded. "Indeed. But the fellow students at the Academy all possess iron wills; it is only effective against those who have not yet seen much of the world."

Glancing over, Zhang Ling noticed Mo Li frowning from time to time. During this period, Zhang Ling had heard rumors concerning the Mo family. The people of Chenliu had sent envoys to negotiate with the Mo family—not to demand their immediate submission to the Imperial Court, but to force the Ministry of Works to demand the handover of certain mechanical arts. Because the Mo family refused, they were retaliated against and left to fend for themselves in the pugilistic world. The Ministry of Works was no easy mark either; they were extremely picky regarding the Mo family’s inventions, rejecting anything they deemed insignificant, which caused the Mo family great distress. It was said that if they could not weather this crisis, they would likely fade from the martial arts scene entirely. Even with Mo Li’s return, it would be difficult to restore their former glory.

Zhang Ling reflected that his grandfather, Zhang Hongshan, was the Minister of Works. However, he had heard that ever since Zhang Mingze joined the army, he had never returned to the Zhang estate. He figured that even if he were to intercede, it would be to no avail; after all, his grandfather was a court official who would never show favoritism to a grandson. Furthermore, once the identity of the Great General’s son was revealed, he had no idea how many people would harbor resentment toward him. It was no wonder Zong Chentian had insisted he enter the Academy; it was the best choice for establishing a foothold in the capital.

Sighing inwardly, Zhang Ling decided not to disturb Mo Li and turned to head into the cabin to see what the others were doing.

Inside, Cao Minghua sat at a table, brush in hand, writing incessantly, while Ren Pingsheng stood by his side watching. Zhang Ling asked, "You've been at this for so long—hasn't a word been spoken?"

Ren Pingsheng signaled for silence. Puzzled, Zhang Ling leaned in and saw Cao Minghua’s brush flying across the paper without a moment’s pause. It was clear he was not writing something new, but as he finished, he had already produced over five hundred characters. Yet, seeing Cao Minghua hold the brush without setting it down, it seemed he had more to say.

Cao Minghua stood up and handed the manuscript to Ren Pingsheng. After taking it, Ren Pingsheng asked pointedly, "Whom have you offended?"

Cao Minghua replied calmly, "Lu Cheng, the son of the Minister of Personnel. He once demanded I ghostwrite for him, and I refused. The subsequent interference in the imperial examinations must have been his doing, which is why I failed. I have sought help from many dignitaries since, but none were willing to assist. I only hoped to try my luck today."

Zhang Ling exclaimed in surprise, "What a coincidence. I just beat that man up, and he’s currently lying on the neighboring pleasure boat. Shall I take you over so you can vent your anger? He’s still unconscious and won’t even know it was you."

The two looked at each other and burst into laughter.

Cao Minghua cupped his hands and said, "Many thanks, Brother Zhang, for venting this frustration on my behalf. Should I ever have the chance to serve, I will surely repay this debt."

Zhang Ling found a stool, sat down, and laughed. "Think nothing of it. Pingsheng, if you enter officialdom, help him out—he can be your first partisan."

Cao Minghua corrected him, "Brother Zhang, that is not the way to put it. It would be a debt of gratitude for Brother Ren’s patronage, which I would repay out of principle."

Zhang Ling picked up an orange from the table, began peeling it, and said, "Enough with the formalities. You wrote that poem today specifically to draw attention, did you not? If you truly have the talent, cultivate your own faction. Perhaps one day I shall need your help as well."

Cao Minghua replied, "If there is ever a time you have need of me, I shall do my utmost."

Zhang Ling split the orange in two and shared it with them. "Very well, my business is done. Pingsheng, it is your turn."

The three walked out of the cabin one after another. From the bow, they watched as people boarded and departed the grand painted boat, hearing poem after poem drift across the water. The two aspiring officials listened to them all; their hearts were not filled with disdain, but while a few were passable, none were truly breathtaking.

Seeing the flow of people below gradually thinning, Ren Pingsheng said to Ye Yuhuan, "Please, Brother Ye, have the boat moved."

Ye Yuhuan was stunned for a moment, then smiled and turned to inform the helmsman. Seeing the Ye family’s boat move forward, the others also signaled for their vessels to stop.

Just as the people on the painted boat were preparing the gangplank, Ren Pingsheng said to Zhang Ling, "Take me across."

Zhang Ling did not understand his intent, nor why he insisted on showing off at such a moment. Since he had written that poem, *Ascending the Yuzhou Terrace*, on Ren Pingsheng’s hand, his own heart had remained unsettled. Ren Pingsheng believed that since Zhang Ling refused to leave his masterpieces to the world, he should at least let the world remember him, regardless of the method or the number of people who remembered. Of course, Ren Pingsheng did not know that the poem was not Zhang Ling’s own creation.

As the Ye family’s boat pushed forward a yard, Zhang Ling carried Ren Pingsheng and leaped across. A distance of two yards, while carrying another person—the guests, who had been listening to the tedious and uninspired poetry, all stood up in excitement. They had finally seen something fresh, or they might have been tempted to abandon the gathering entirely.

The two landed on the painted boat. When they saluted, the guests were shocked to see the Great Scholar Lu Zhaoxian return the gesture. Everyone stared, eyes wide, waiting to see what the pair would produce.

Lu Zhaoxian asked, "Which of you is to compose the poem?"

Zhang Ling stepped aside. Without offering an introduction, Ren Pingsheng sat at the desk, took up the brush, and began to write with a calm, flowing hand. The strokes were vigorous and powerful, revealing a deep foundation in calligraphy.

Ren Pingsheng stood up and presented the work, saying respectfully, "Master Lu, please."

Lu Zhaoxian read aloud in a resonant, sonorous voice:

"Rising from illness at the southeastern corner of life,
In youth, I labored diligently over embroidered verse.
In my prime, I have spoken all there is to say,
In a chaotic age, I seek a pill to dissolve my sorrows.
My spirit pierces the clouds to shatter the Golden Gate,
Clad in yellow and purple, I seek peace for a decade.
The vast landscape remains for an eternity,
Waiting only for the passing years to tread it into nothingness."