Great Zhou Wensheng

Chapter 254 "The Charcoal Seller"! The entire ten-mile-long street was filled with weeping!

Outside the palace, the ten-mile-long main street was already packed with the people of Luoyang.

As dawn broke through, a thin layer of frost still clung to the stone slabs of the street, but it couldn't stop the throngs of people from moving about.

Peddlers packed up their stalls early, scholars squeezed into the crowd, tiptoed to look, women in their boudoirs held onto their maids' shoulders, and young children rode on their fathers' shoulders—everyone craned their necks, heading towards the main gate of the palace, as if waiting for a grand fireworks display.

They didn't just want to see the renowned Jiang Hanlin; they wanted to witness firsthand how another masterpiece of poetry was born in the public eye.

Finally, the palace gates slowly opened.

Jiang Xingzhou, dressed in a plain white scholar's robe, slowly walked out and stood in front of the long sandalwood table that had been prepared in advance.

He didn't look at the crowd of people around him, but simply glanced at the snow-white Xuan paper spread out on the table.

He picked up the jade pen that had once written such magnificent articles again—but this time, the powerful literary aura that had flowed around him like clouds quietly receded, like the tide retreating into a deep pool.

There was no dazzling brilliance, no soaring ambition, only an almost devout tranquility that silently permeated his slightly lowered eyelashes and the fingers that firmly gripped the pen.

He put down his pen.

With a steady wrist, the pen tip is sharp as a cone, and the ink penetrates deep into the paper.

What he wrote was not the magnificent prose that everyone imagined, but three plain and almost rough words—"The Charcoal Seller"!
For a moment, Empress Wu Mingyue on the phoenix carriage leaned forward slightly.

The five renowned scholars on either side of the emperor's desk all frowned in unison.

The officials on both sides, dressed in crimson and purple robes, looked at each other in bewilderment. Some unconsciously stroked their beards, while others exchanged puzzled glances silently.

"The charcoal seller?"

An elderly minister with white hair and beard murmured softly.

Why did Jiang Hanlin choose such a topic?

The official next to him lowered his voice.

"Ordinary people in the city, making a living... Isn't this subject matter a bit too mundane, even... crude?"

The whispers, like a gentle breeze across a lake, rippled across the solemn palace gates.

The charcoal seller—that's the most inconspicuous corner of the bustling panorama of Luoyang.

The warm chambers of royal mansions and the stoves of ordinary people's homes all rely on black charcoal.

But those old people who spend their days cutting firewood and burning charcoal deep in the Zhongnan Mountains, and then hunching over and dragging charcoal carts into the city, are the most silent and indistinct figures in this holy capital.

They weren't even considered residents of the city, and were separated from the imposing power of the Zichen Palace by more than one Nanshan Mountain.

Yet it was precisely their withered shoulders that carried the sparks that kept the city warm.

In this silence filled with doubt and incomprehension, Jiang Xingzhou's pen began to move again.

There are no flowery words, no bursts of talent, only a kind of almost cruel, plain description, unfolding quietly, word by word:
The charcoal seller cuts firewood and burns charcoal in the southern mountains.

His face was covered in dust and soot, his temples were gray and his ten fingers were black.

What do you do with the money you earn from selling charcoal? You buy clothes and food.

The poem is too simple, as simple as the panting of a woodcutter in the mountains, or the work chant hummed casually by the charcoal kiln.

Yet each word seems not to be written on paper, but rather carved deeply into the viewer's heart with a carving knife.

In an instant, the mist and cold air from the depths of Nanshan rushed towards us.

Before everyone's eyes, it seemed as if they could truly see an old figure, staggering along the rugged mountain path, accompanied by axes and earthen kilns for many years.

The smoke had already stained his face a dark gray, and even the white hair at his temples seemed to be covered with charcoal ash; his hands, like the charcoal he had burned, had large, black, and cracked knuckles.

He exhausted himself to earn those few copper coins, yet his wish was so humble it brought tears to one's eyes—simply to have a piece of clothing to cover his body and a meal to fill his stomach.

These straightforward verses possess a heart-wrenching power.

It transcends all rhetorical barriers and strikes directly at the softest part of the human heart.

The whispers and doubts from before have now vanished without a trace.

Before the palace gates and along the long street, thousands of people stood in silence, as if they could all see the old man pushing a charcoal cart, shivering in the cold wind and hoping that "the weather would get colder," walking step by step from the poem to them.

...

However, this hardship, which goes straight to the essence of survival, is only the beginning.

Jiang Xingzhou's pen paused slightly on the paper, as if accumulating some deeper power.

Immediately, an even more biting chill, following the flow of the poem that followed, spread like an invisible mist, seeping into everyone's heart:
[His clothes are thin and flimsy, yet he worries that charcoal is cheap and wishes for colder weather.]

These two short sentences perfectly capture what a contradictory and cruel reality!

Dressed in rags, they should be praying for warmth, but instead, worried that the charcoal they depend on for survival won't fetch a good price, they hope the weather will get even colder.

This self-torture stemming from poverty, this "irrational" heart forced out by life, is more heartbreaking than mere hard labor.

The moment the poem spread, the once slightly agitated Shili Tianjie Street fell into a deathly silence!
The cold wind that had just swept through the crowd now seemed to carry the biting chill from the depths of Nanshan Mountain, becoming even more piercing, and felt like a knife cutting into your face.

In the silence, a sob suddenly broke out from the crowd, a sound that was tried hard to suppress but ultimately could not be held back.

He was an old farmer with gray hair and beard, his face lined with deep wrinkles. There were still some unsold vegetables in the basket beside him, and his thin clothes were shivering in the wind.

This poem is not merely about a distant charcoal seller.
It clearly struck a chord with him and countless others like him who struggle to survive in the face of fate!

That sob was like a pebble thrown into a still lake.

Low sobs began to rise from all directions, no longer suppressed whispers, but heavy, empathetic sighs and cries of grief.

Those street vendors braving the bitter cold to set up their stalls, those farmers worried about low grain prices hurting farmers, those craftsmen relying on meager wages to support their families... in these verses, they all saw their own reflections.

This is not the pity of a bystander, but a resonance of blood ties among the lives of the underprivileged!

At this moment when the people were filled with grief and heaven and earth were mourning, a strange change suddenly occurred!

On the rosewood desk, the poems on the snow-white Xuan paper are no longer static ink marks.

Each word seemed to be infused with a soul, faintly radiating a melancholy and compassionate gray-white light.

The light was not dazzling; instead, it appeared solemn and desolate, yet it carried an unstoppable force, shining directly into the softest part of people's hearts, intertwining and resonating with the strong feelings that welled up in the hearts of thousands of people at the scene!
An invisible yet powerful "aura of compassion," accompanied by the winter chill of Nanshan described in the poem, originated from the boats on the river and spread like mercury across the entire Tianjie Street.

The once bright sunlight seemed to have dimmed a bit, and the deep rumble of wind and thunder could be faintly heard from the depths of the clouds!

This is not the destructive power of Heaven, but rather the mysterious Heavenly Way's response and lamentation in response to the suffering of all living beings!

All the people share the same sorrow, and the whole world feels it!
This article is no longer a eulogy for emperors and generals, nor is it merely the leisurely pursuit of literati.

This is a cry for the people's livelihood, and the light of literature and morality, illuminating for the first time so truly and profoundly the most silent corner of this glorious holy dynasty!
On the phoenix carriage, Empress Wu Mingyue sat regally. Her insightful phoenix eyes first gazed at Jiang Xingzhou, whose writings seemed to shine with the joys and sorrows of the people, and then slowly swept over the thousands of people around her who were moved by the poem.

Her hands were slightly clenched within the wide sleeves of her robe, her knuckles appearing somewhat pale.

At that moment, what she saw was no longer just a masterpiece of poetry destined to be passed down through the ages.

What she saw was the most authentic and passionate manifestation of the people's will; the most fundamental and easily overlooked life pulse of the vast holy dynasty under her rule was beating violently before her in an unprecedented way.

...

Jiang Xingzhou's pen strokes were like a cold, sharp knife, precisely and ruthlessly dissecting the tattered lining beneath the brocade of Luoyang's prosperity.

The verses are no longer written, but transformed into a cold stream, winding quietly across the rice paper, spreading a chill that seeps into the viewer's very bones.

"Pitiful man, his clothes are thin, yet he worries that charcoal is cheap and wishes for colder weather!"

This extremely contradictory statement, like a needle chilled to ice, unexpectedly pierced the hearts of all who heard it.

Above the celestial street, the cold wind seemed to echo the prayers in the poem, suddenly becoming fierce. The thinly dressed peddlers and laborers subconsciously wrapped their tattered clothes tighter, and a chill originating from resonance rose from the depths of their hearts, colder than the wind blowing on their faces.

"A foot of snow fell outside the city last night, and at dawn I drove a charcoal cart over the icy ruts."

The poem paints a vivid picture: an old man huddled in the cold night, where the snow was up to his knees, and before dawn he drove his old ox and hauled a charcoal cart with great difficulty.

The wheels crunched over the frozen ruts, the creaking sound seeming to echo in everyone's ears, each sound telling a story of the difficulty of moving forward.

"The oxen were exhausted, the men were hungry, and the sun was high in the sky; they rested in the mud outside the south gate of the city."

Until the sun was high in the sky, and people and cattle were exhausted, they finally made it to the market gate, only to find temporary respite in the cold, muddy ground.

The last word "rest" carries not ease, but the helplessness and bitterness after exhaustion.

As Jiang Xingzhou's pen went deeper, the desolate mood in the poem layered upon layer, and the chill and suffering that permeated the lines almost froze into frost, covering the entire Heavenly Street.

Among the crowd of onlookers, those scholars and students who were usually so elegant and always spoke of sages had long since lost their composure.

Their expressions shifted; some blushed with shame, while others lowered their heads as if overwhelmed by the weight of their burdens. Their eyes held a deep pity for the charcoal seller, as well as a more intense sense of shame and self-reflection.

A young scholar in a blue robe, his throat choked with emotion, whispered to his companion:
“We often sit and discuss philosophy, and we always talk about ‘caring for the people’ and ‘speaking out for the people’... But have we ever really bent down to take a look and ask what kind of life these ‘people’ are living?”
Are their clothes warm?
Is there enough rice in the stove?

An older scholar beside him, his face bitter, muttered to himself:
"Looking back at my previous poems and essays, they were either just idyllic poems about the wind and moon or empty discussions... Now they seem like nothing more than scratching an itch through a boot, and groaning without cause!"
Has a single word or phrase ever touched upon the true blood, tears, and warmth of this world?

Their gazes once again fell upon the tall, handsome young scholar in the center of the arena, their admiration surging like a tide, mixed with an indescribable sense of awe and emotion.

"Sigh, no wonder!"

An elderly scholar with white hair sighed deeply, expressing the sentiments of many around him:
"Lord Jiang was not yet twenty years old, yet he already held a high position. This is not just due to his extraordinary talent."

It is also because he possesses a compassionate heart like that of a saint!
In his eyes, all things have a spirit, and all living beings suffer.

Even the humblest old charcoal seller's struggle for survival is evident in his eyes and deeply felt in his heart!

The old scholar looked around at his many fellow scholars, all of whom had spent their lives studying diligently but had yet to achieve official success, and his tone was filled with endless sighs and self-mockery:

"And we, having wasted decades of our lives, are still nothing more than old, uneducated scholars and poor literati."

Even though I passed by this charcoal seller every day, and even haggled with them over a few coins for charcoal, have I ever truly stopped to consider how difficult it is for them to make a living?!

These words, like the tolling of a bell in an ancient temple deep in the mountains, resonated deeply in the hearts of many scholars.

They suddenly realized that the gap between them and Jiang Xingzhou was not merely a matter of talent, but a world of difference in their realm and vision.

The true roots of literature and morality may never lie in the lofty halls of the imperial court, but rather are deeply embedded in the soil of everyday life and the hardships of ordinary people.

At this moment, the compassionate aura between heaven and earth grew even stronger and more profound, blending seamlessly with the intense resonance surging in the hearts of the people. This made the gray-white light emanating from Jiang Xingzhou's poems even more somber and restrained, as if it bore the weight of a thousand pounds.

This story, "The Charcoal Seller," with its simple yet powerful message, questions the conscience of every scholar and quietly cleanses the soul of this magnificent imperial capital.

...

The moment Jiang Xingzhou put pen to paper, the brush tip was no longer ink, but transformed into a silent thunderclap, a fierce lightning bolt that cleaved through the magnificent robes of a prosperous era.

When the question "Who are those two riders coming so gracefully? A yellow-robed messenger and a white-clad youth?" arises,

When the tyranny of "holding the document in hand and proclaiming the imperial edict, turning the cart around and leading the ox northward" is coldly depicted, a silent sense of oppression seeps into the air with the ink.

Until the very last line—"Half a bolt of red gauze and a length of silk, tied to the ox's head to pay for charcoal"—he slowly picked up his brush and gently placed it on the mountain-shaped brush holder.

The movement appeared calm, yet it seemed to have exhausted a lifetime of energy.

The entire piece is written in plain language, without a single superfluous word, yet every word carries immense weight.

The ten-mile-long street fell into a deathly silence in an instant.

The sorrow accumulated in the previous verses, like an undercurrent, suddenly burst through the ice, turning into a tangible chill that froze every inch of air.

From the dignified Empress on her throne, to the five learned scholars standing on either side, to the civil and military officials in their robes, and even to the tens of thousands of scholars and hundreds of thousands of ordinary people in Luoyang—everyone seemed to be gripped by an invisible giant hand, their breaths stopped, and all was silent.

That sorrow is no longer just words on paper; it permeates the verses, transforming into the deepest chill that seeps into everyone's feet, travels upstream, and instantly freezes the blood and drowns the heart.

What a cruel contrast!
The old charcoal seller, "his face covered in dust and soot, his temples gray and his fingers black," had toiled his whole life, barely clothed, yet still "worried that charcoal would be cheap and wished for colder weather." His existence was so humble, like a candle flickering in the wind, warmed only by a sliver of hope.

However, even this last bit of hope for survival was ruthlessly crushed!

The "yellow-robed messenger" represents the unquestionable imperial power, and the "palace market" requisition, disguised as legal, is the most blatant form of plunder.

The exchange of "half a bolt of red silk and a length of fine silk" for "a cartload of charcoal and over a thousand catties" is such an absurd and unjust act!
The five characters “驱将惜不得” (driving them away is something I can't bear to part with) perfectly capture the old man's bitterness, resentment, and eventual helpless silence.

This is not a natural disaster, it is a man-made disaster!

Beneath this magnificent imperial capital and peaceful era lies a bloody, unbearable wound!

The silence was finally broken.

In the crowd, someone let out a suppressed sob, like the first crack of a dam breaking.

Immediately, cries of grief, like a torrent bursting its banks, swept across the entire Ten-Mile Heavenly Street!

"Alas... my poor old father, last winter when he went to the city to sell firewood, was also taken away in the same way... in the same way!"

A rough-clothed man pounded his chest, tears streaming down his face.

"This is hardly a government-run market."
This is blatant robbery!

Someone was shouting hoarsely.

"In the dead of winter, with no charcoal left, will that old man... still survive?"

An old woman hugged her grandson tightly, tears streaming down her face. Her shared sorrow resonated deeply with countless ordinary people.

The cries shook the heavens, and all the people grieved.

These tears are for the charcoal seller in the poem whom the poet has never met, and also for the hardships and humiliations that the poet and his relatives and friends have experienced or may experience.

Even the wealthy merchants and scholars who were originally uninvolved turned pale at this moment. Under the impact of this overwhelming sorrow, they could no longer remain detached, and their souls trembled violently.

And in that instant when the mournful cry soared to the heavens—

"Buzz!"

On the desk, the manuscript of "The Charcoal Seller," with its ink still wet, suddenly burst forth with an unprecedented grayish radiance!
The light was not dazzling, but as heavy as a mountain, containing the suffering of all people and the compassion of heaven and earth!
A compassionate and literary atmosphere, far more powerful and somber than that inside the Wenhua Hall, soared into the sky like a soaring dragon!

The sky changed color, and the bright, clear sky was quickly obscured by surging, sorrowful clouds. Tiny specks of ash-like light drifted down, as if heaven and earth were weeping.

Empress Wu Mingyue sat upright on the phoenix carriage, her body beneath her magnificent robes trembling slightly amidst the earth-shattering cries of grief.

She looked down at her weeping people, feeling the somber literary atmosphere that permeated the world. Her gaze finally settled on the floating, radiant manuscript of poetry, and on the young man in blue robes standing before it, his face serene yet seemingly bearing an immense weight.

An unprecedented storm raged within her heart.

This is no longer poetry.

This is a demon-revealing mirror, reflecting the lice and nits wriggling deep within the brocade robes of her prosperous reign;

This was a wake-up call, striking her heart with tremendous force.
This is an overwhelming and unstoppable force, a force that originates from the depths of the people's hearts and even makes heaven and earth grieve!

Jiang Xingzhou, with a poem, threw the words "the people's suffering" in a bloody and unavoidable manner before her, and before the eyes of the court officials!

...

Along the ten-mile-long imperial street, the cries of the masses were like a surging tide. The somber atmosphere and desolate mood that permeated the world had not yet dissipated, as if a veil of sorrow had been cast over the entire imperial city.

On her imperial carriage, Empress Wu Mingyue was originally immersed in the immense shock and deep compassion brought by the poem. As the ruler of a country, she instinctively felt heartbroken for the suffering of her people.

However, when she suppressed her surging emotions and calmly examined those sharp, knife-like descriptions again with the composure of an emperor.

A chilling rage, originating from the pinnacle of power, surged forth like a dark spring, swiftly replacing her previous sorrow and covering her exquisite face with a layer of frosty coldness.

Her gaze suddenly sharpened, like two icy arrows, piercing fiercely towards Wang Dequan, the Grand Eunuch of the Directorate of Ceremonial, who was standing to the side, his face showing astonishment at the strange phenomenon.

Who are these two riders coming so gracefully?

The yellow-robed messenger was dressed in white.

Holding the document in his hand and proclaiming it an imperial edict, he turned the cart around, scolded the oxen, and led it north…

The poem echoed repeatedly in her mind, each word clear, the scene vivid in her mind.

So specific! So vivid!

These are details that could not have been imagined by working behind closed doors!
"The yellow-robed messenger"—this striking color of clothing clearly points directly to the eunuchs within her palace!
If it weren't for someone in the palace relying on imperial power to commit such acts of plunder and bullying the weak, how could Jiang Xingzhou, with his unparalleled talent, have depicted it so vividly, as if he had personally experienced it?

This is undoubtedly a reality of the deep-seated problems in the palace market, which has reached a point where it cannot be ignored and has even spread to the ears of scholars!
This poem is a blood-stained petition!
"Wang Dequan!"

The Empress's voice was not loud, but it carried a chill that seeped into the bones. Every word was like an ice bead falling onto a jade plate. "When did my palace begin to harbor such stupid insects who bully the people and ruin the reputation of the court?!"
"You, as the Director of the Directorate of Ceremonial and the Governor-General of the Inner Court, how have you managed to discipline your subordinates for me?!"

"Pfft!"

The high-ranking and powerful eunuch Wang Dequan was so terrified by this sudden and thunderous rage that his legs went weak, and he collapsed to his knees on the cold, golden bricks of the imperial carriage. His hat was askew, and he kowtowed repeatedly, his voice trembling with extreme fear and tinged with sobs.
"Your Majesty is wise!"
Your Majesty is wise!
This old servant...this old servant would never dare to neglect his duties!
All procurement matters within the palace follow established procedures. This old servant's main duties are attending to His Majesty's daily needs and conveying imperial decrees. These… these trivial matters, such as purchasing charcoal and firewood, have always been… handled by the servants in the procurement department. This old servant truly… truly cannot possibly oversee every single detail!

At this moment, he had already cursed those troublesome apprentices and their followers in the Procurement Department a thousand times in his heart, and he was also extremely afraid of Jiang Xingzhou—a mere poem, a few words, was enough to put him, a dignified eunuch of the Directorate of Ceremonies, on the edge of a bottomless abyss!
He cried out his innocence while hastily making statements:
"Your Majesty, please calm your anger!"
The emperor's health is of utmost importance!

This old servant will immediately conduct a thorough investigation!

If there is any fool who dares to falsely issue imperial edicts and extort money from those poor charcoal sellers, this old servant will surely drag him out, skin him alive, and dismember him to uphold palace rules and serve as a warning to others!
"Your Majesty, I beg you to grant this old servant a chance to atone for his crimes!"

Empress Wu Mingyue coldly glared at Wang Dequan, who was trembling like a leaf at her feet. The chill in her phoenix eyes did not diminish in the slightest because of his pleas.

She knew perfectly well that Wang Dequan, as the head of the Directorate of Ceremonial, might not have personally instructed such trivial matters, but he could not escape the crime of lax management and dereliction of duty!

More importantly, Jiang Xingzhou's poem, like a bright and dazzling lamp, pierced into the darkest corners of palace governance that were most easily overlooked, exposing the deep-seated problems of the "palace market" to the public in the most vivid and shocking way, laying them bare before the hundreds of thousands of soldiers and civilians in Luoyang!

If this matter is not handled swiftly, decisively, and severely, how can the royal family maintain its dignity?
Where is the imperial court's prestige?

How could this peaceful emperor face her subjects who were weeping so bitterly over a single poem?

The heavy weight of the people's hearts was now intertwined with the soaring spirit of compassion, weighing heavily on her mind.

"check!"

The Empress's voice suddenly rose in pitch, resolute and unwavering, carrying an undeniable and awe-inspiring authority. It clearly reached the ears of her trusted ministers beside her, and seemed to strike the hearts of every official who held their breath in concentration.

"Investigate this thoroughly to the end!"
From the chief eunuch of the Procurement Department downwards, all officials and eunuchs involved in palace procurement were to be isolated and subjected to rigorous interrogation!

As Jiang Aiqing wrote in his poem…

Her words paused slightly, her gaze sharp as lightning, sweeping over the grief-stricken crowd below, then over the poem suspended in the air, its somber glow seemingly still silently accusing the world. Finally, she declared in a sorrowful yet unwavering tone:
"No matter who is involved, no matter how powerful their background is, they will all be punished severely according to the law, without any leniency!"

I will not only give the charcoal seller in the poem a belated justice, but also use this opportunity to rectify the law and restore a bright and clear world for the people of the world!
"I will absolutely not allow anyone to use my name to commit such acts that harm the country and its people, and undermine its very foundation!"

Upon hearing this, not only did the Grand Eunuch Wang De turn ashen and collapse to the ground, but even the several high-ranking cabinet ministers and royal relatives accompanying the imperial carriage were also shocked, exchanging astonished glances.

They knew that Jiang Xingzhou's poem "The Charcoal Seller" had a power that far exceeded the scope of a classic poem.

It is a sharp manifesto that directly addresses the ills of the times, a boulder that stirs up a thousand waves, and at this moment, His Majesty has clearly decided to take advantage of this opportunity to personally wield that sharp blade that will remove the poison from the bone and deter the villains!

A storm sweeping through the palace and beyond has suddenly begun with the Empress's golden words.

And the eye of this storm was none other than the seemingly calm young man standing before his desk, who single-handedly stirred up the entire capital of Luoyang—Jiang Xingzhou.

...

When Jiang Xingzhou threw down his pen and completed the poem "The Charcoal Seller," amidst the sorrow of the people, the ten-mile-long Tianjie Street seemed to be enveloped by an invisible force of compassion.

The five great Confucian scholars standing in front of the Wenhua Hall, though having cultivated their literary and moral character for decades or even centuries and whose minds had long been as calm as an ancient well, could not restrain themselves at this moment, letting the somber and desolate literary atmosphere wash over their souls like a tide.

Zhou Pu, a renowned scholar known for his rigorous scholarship and profound knowledge of classical texts, tremblingly raised his sleeve to wipe away the tears that involuntarily welled up in the corners of his eyes.

He gazed at the poems and inscriptions that floated in the air, their brilliance restrained yet carrying immense weight, his voice hoarse and sorrowful:
The Book of Poetry, in the section "Huang Yi" of the "Greater Odes", says: "Observe the four directions and seek the suffering of the people!" The word "mo" here is the same as "mo," meaning suffering and hardship.

The way of the former kings was to oversee the four directions, and their aim was to relieve the people's suffering!
We scholars recite the classics and always say that "the people are the most important."

When have we ever truly turned our gaze to these suffering people, whose faces are covered in dust and soot, as we do today?

This poem is a contemporary echo of the ancient teachings of "Huang Yi"!
This is the original meaning of Wen Dao's "observing the customs and understanding the government"!

Before the words were finished, the impassioned scholar Dong Xian beside him had already bristled with anger. He looked up at the sky and took a deep breath, as if trying to inhale all the sorrowful atmosphere that filled the world, and then began to recite:
"I sigh deeply and wipe away my tears, lamenting the many hardships of the people's lives!"

When Qu Yuan wandered along the riverbank, what he sought and lamented was precisely the difficult livelihood of ordinary people like the charcoal seller!
We, who usually reside in the high places of academies and studies, compose poems and essays that are merely elegant desk decorations. How could a single word or phrase like this "Charcoal Seller" be so imbued with blood and tears, bearing the weight of the people's suffering, and capable of moving hundreds of thousands of commoners in Luoyang to weep in unison?!

He abruptly turned to the ashamed scholars and officials around him, his voice booming like a bell, a mixture of lament and questioning:
"The story of 'The Charcoal Seller' is about more than just the sorrow of an old man."

What it reveals is the heart of us scholars!

If poetry and prose cannot speak out for the people, if talent and learning cannot empathize with the vulnerable and isolated, then even if the language is ornate and the realm lofty, what difference is there between them and the stubborn rocks in this cold world?

This article by Xingzhou has taught all of us scholars of the Great Zhou Dynasty a lesson that will never be forgotten!

Although the other three scholars did not speak loudly, their expressions said it all.

Someone closed their eyes and sighed deeply.

Someone murmured lines from the poem.

Some people looked at Jiang Xingzhou with complex emotions that were hard to describe—a deep appreciation for the younger generation's talent and boundless admiration for the profound benevolence contained in his poems.
There are even those who, despite being great scholars, were deeply moved and even awakened by a young man's profound understanding of the fundamental principle of "literature as a vehicle for conveying the Way."

At this moment, the five great scholars were moved to tears. Their quotations from classical texts were not only a judgment of the poems and essays, but also a collective tribute to the literary spirit upheld by Jiang Xingzhou.

This means that the value of "The Charcoal Seller" has transcended the debate over talent, and has instead reawakened the compassion and responsibility inherent in literature.

...

A heavy atmosphere, almost suffocating, mingled with pity and indignation, enveloped the ten-mile-long street.

The cries, shouts, and accusations of the people surged like a tidal wave and have not yet subsided.

In this sea of ​​sorrow, the reactions of two figures stand out. They are out of place with the ordinary people around them, yet they are deeply moved by this profound human tragedy.

Long Zhaoyue, who was using the pseudonym "the Su sisters" and blending into the crowd, was already crying her eyes out, completely losing her usual lively and cheerful demeanor.

As the most beloved little princess of the East Sea Dragon Palace, she was immersed in endless spiritual essence and treasures from the moment she was born. All she saw was the dazzling brilliance of the Crystal Palace, and all she heard was ethereal celestial music. She had never seen or even imagined that there could be such a tragic and devastating thing in the human world.

The image of the old man in the poem, with his "face covered in dust and soot, his temples gray and his ten fingers black," was etched into her mind like a brand.

The phrase "I worry that charcoal will be cheap and I wish for cold weather," a mixture of helplessness and bitterness with the wisdom of survival, made her heart clench.
Especially the final lines about the palace officials driving her away and the plundering of the bull's head with "half a bolt of red gauze and a length of silk"... every line of poetry is like a cold, sharp needle, piercing her innocent yet pure and kind dragon heart.

"Waaah... How could this happen... This old man... He's suffered so much, he's so pitiful..."

Long Zhaoyue instinctively clung tightly to her sister Long Zhaojun's sleeve, as if it were her only support, and her shoulders trembled uncontrollably as she cried.

Crystalline tears rolled down her cheeks like pearls from a broken string. Even the most basic disguise was difficult to maintain due to her turbulent mind, and faint glimmers of light flickered in the corners of her eyes.

"The old man spent so much effort and painstakingly burning charcoal for so long... Why... Why can those people in official robes just rudely steal it away?"

They gave him such a tiny, completely useless thing... How could they bully an old man like that!
How abominable!

So unfair! "

She looked up at her sister with her tear-streaked, pitiful face, her clear, childlike eyes filled with incomprehension and unbearable sorrow at such blatant injustice.

The long lifespan of the dragon race bestowed upon her a privilege, but it also isolated her from the suffering of the mortal world. She could not imagine why a short mortal life had to endure such heavy oppression.

Although Long Zhaojun, standing to the side, did not break down in tears like her sister, her deep, beautiful eyes, as cold as a pool, were red and moist, shimmering with tears welling up in her eyes.

She forcefully circulated her Dragon Essence to suppress her surging emotions and prevent tears from falling easily, but her slightly trembling shoulders and her tightly pursed lips, which were turning slightly white from the effort, revealed the enormous shock and impact she was experiencing inside.

She was older than her younger sister and had traveled the world with her father, witnessing all walks of life. She knew that even within the Great Zhou territory, there were vast disparities between the rich and the poor, and that people's lives were often difficult.

However, what she knew in the past was mostly cold data or distant rumors. Never before had a poem so directly, so sharply, and so brutally brought to the forefront the heavy burden, helplessness, and despair that weighed on the backs of ordinary people.

Jiang Xingzhou's poem abandons all ornate language and empty preaching, and with the simplest and most restrained description, it ruthlessly peels away the facade of prosperity and grandeur symbolized by the ten-mile-long Tianjie Street in Luoyang, bringing the most real and cruel scars inside to the light of day and before the people.

This brutal impact, rooted in reality, strikes the very depths of the soul far more directly than any dragon illusion or offensive technique!

She gently patted her sister's trembling back as she sobbed, but her gaze pierced through the bustling, weeping crowd, fixing on the figure in a blue robe standing in the distance where the light was fading—Jiang Xingzhou.

At this moment, the turbulent waves surging in her heart were no less than the towering waves in the depths of the East China Sea.

She originally thought that Jiang Xingzhou's extraordinary talent lay in creating the ultimate beauty and elegance, such as the flowing wind and swirling snow of "Preface to the Orchid Pavilion" and the secluded paradise of "Peach Blossom Spring".

But no one could have predicted that this young man could use his pen to transform into the sharpest blade, so calmly and incisively dissecting the most unseen festering sores on the body of the Holy Dynasty.

The blood, tears, and silent cries of the most vulnerable people are laid bare to the world in a way that resonates with heaven and earth and evokes universal grief!

This requires far more than just outstanding writing skills.
It also demonstrates immense courage, profound compassion, and a keen eye for understanding the true nature of the world!

"I have read through all the books in the Dragon Palace, and I have also seen countless poems and essays in the human world..."

Long Zhaojun's voice was low and hoarse, tinged with suppressed sobs. It was both a whisper to her sister and an expression of her inner turmoil. "Some describe the magnificent landscape to express their feelings, some embellish their words to compete in skill, and some sing praises to flatter their superiors..."

But never has a poem like this one, "The Charcoal Seller," been so powerful... every word like a hammer blow, piercing the soul, leaving the reader heartbroken, filled with indignation, and unable to calm down for a long time!

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her turbulent emotions.

Looking at Jiang Xingzhou again, his gaze was filled with unprecedented complex emotions—extreme shock at his talent, sincere admiration for his courage, and a deep sense of awe for this power that could move heaven and earth and the hearts of the people.

"This article... has reached a state of perfection, which cannot be discussed in terms of writing skills."

This is clearly written with the heart of a child!

"Use the blood and tears of the common people as ink!"

She murmured to herself, as if deciphering a profound dragon secret, “In his writing, there is an ideal pure land that makes people yearn for it, like the Peach Blossom Spring, and he can also face the bloody reality of suffering, like the Charcoal Seller, without any evasion!”
His writings not only resonated with the refined tastes of scholars in high places, but also spoke out for the common people in the dust!

Such an inclusive mind, such courage to speak out for justice, such insightful understanding of the world…

Long Zhaojun's beautiful eyes shone with a firm and bright light, like the stars.

Her words, spoken slowly and deliberately, were both a patient instruction to her bewildered younger sister and a re-anchoring of her own inner beliefs:
“Moon, look closely, savor it… This is the highest realm of human civilization, as recorded in the ancient texts of my East Sea Dragon Clan, which is ‘literature as a vehicle for the Way’!”

"With a pillar of the Great Zhou Dynasty like Lord Jiang Xingzhou, who cares for the common people, sees through the smallest details, and dares to speak out for the people, how can literature and literature not flourish?"
Why fear the disturbances from both internal and external enemies?

"This is truly... an unparalleled national hero!"
"If the Great Zhou obtains such a person and uses him wisely, he will surely... enjoy a long and prosperous literary career, and the nation's power will grow daily, perhaps even becoming truly invincible in the Eastern Continent!"

Her words were filled with the highest praise for Jiang Xingzhou, but also contained a profound warning that the Dragon Clan of the South China Sea needed to reassess the fate of the Great Zhou Dynasty.

A minister who can so profoundly touch the hearts of hundreds of millions of people and cause the heavens and earth to weep for him possesses energy and value that surpasses that of ordinary armies and is a terrifying existence capable of influencing the fate of a nation!
Long Zhaoyue nodded as if she understood, still wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, sobbing as she said:
"I...I don't care about being a national hero or a great man...I just think...Lord Jiang is the best of the best!"
He... he bravely stood up and spoke up for the old charcoal seller who couldn't speak!

Sister, we...we must find a way to help him in the future, and we can't let those bad guys bully good people like the charcoal seller anymore!

Upon hearing this, Long Zhaojun gently embraced her younger sister, her gaze growing increasingly profound as she looked into the distance, as if she had pierced through the city of Luojing before her and gazed upon the vast East China Sea, and even the entire chessboard of Dongsheng Shenzhou.

Yes!

The charcoal seller was mute; no one in this world would care about him, a poor, insignificant commoner. He was a nobody on the very edge of Luoyang, almost invisible.

Jiang Xingzhou, Lord Jiang is speaking up for him!

She knew that after this night, it was not just her and her sister who were shocked and awakened.

It is likely that the entire East Sea Dragon Palace, and even the four forces closely monitoring the movements of the Great Zhou, will have to examine Jiang Xingzhou, who is only seventeen years old but already bears the hopes of all the scholars in the world, wields astonishing literary power, and is concerned about the suffering of the people, capable of making heaven and earth grieve.

...

"boom--!"

The compassion, indignation, and accusation accumulated between the lines of "The Charcoal Seller," mixed with the vast literary spirit within Jiang Xingzhou, erupted like a thousand-year-old subterranean fire!

The original gentle and refined white aura surged violently under everyone's gaze, instantly changing from white to green, from green to blue, and then from azure to a dazzling and noble purple!

But this didn't stop there!

Amidst everyone's horrified gazes, a thick, dragon-like golden beam of light, imbued with boundless sorrow and indomitable will, shot up from the scroll and pierced the heavens!
Where the golden light reached, the clouds dispersed, as if even the sky itself was about to be pierced by this power!

“Boom!

Boom!
Boom!
......"

Deep within the Luoyang Confucian Temple, the ancient bronze bell, which had stood for a thousand years, seemed to be struck by an invisible hand, striking seven times in succession. The deep, resonant sound of the bell shook every corner of the entire city of Luoyang!
Spread it throughout the world!
This is yet another poem that will be passed down through the world!

But this astonishing phenomenon has only just begun!
Within the golden pillar of light, a vivid and lifelike illusion appeared:

The hardships of felling firewood deep in the Nanshan Mountains, the haggard faces tanned by smoke in front of the cave dwellings, the ruts left by oxcarts struggling along icy and snowy roads, and the arrogant attitude of the yellow-robed messengers when they seized charcoal.

And the old man, clutching the light, fluttering red silk ribbon, staring blankly at the sky, his withered face contorted with unshed tears…

Every detail in the poem is transformed into vivid images, like a scroll of fate, clearly displayed before the eyes of hundreds of thousands of people!

This is more than just poetry; it is a mirror reflecting the world!

The tragic fate of the old charcoal seller in the poem accurately reflects the hardships, grievances, and hidden pains of countless ordinary people present.

That "face covered in dust and soot" is the daily life of farmers in the fields and craftsmen in the workshops.

The bitterness of "wish for cold weather to arrive when charcoal is cheap" is a common anxiety shared by peddlers, merchants, and ordinary families.

The helplessness and resentment of "a cartload of charcoal, over a thousand catties, driven away by the palace officials, with no way to spare it" touched the wounds of countless people who had been oppressed by power in their memories!

Every word and phrase struck like a heavy hammer, hitting the heart of everyone!

"Woo..."

On the main street, amidst a crowd of hundreds of thousands of people, someone let out the first suppressed sob.

The cry was like a stone thrown into a calm lake, instantly creating ripples!
At first, there were sporadic, suppressed sobs, then empathetic choking and sighs, and finally, they turned into a thunderous roar of grief and indignation!
"Sigh... My husband works as a deliveryman, getting up early and working late. He's just as hard-working, and his wages are often deducted. He has no way to complain!"

A middle-aged woman covered her face and wept bitterly.

"Last year, when the officials came to collect taxes, they insisted that the number of acres of land in my family was incorrect and took away half of the grain they were supposed to grow for the winter!"

That's life-saving food!

An old farmer pounded the ground, tears streaming down his face.

"Lord Jiang understands us!"
Lord Jiang spoke up for us!

A young scholar waved his arms excitedly, his voice hoarse.

"This 'Charcoal Seller' is a true depiction of the suffering of ordinary people like us!"
Every word is written in our blood and tears!

Cries, shouts, and accusations merged into a torrent of emotion, washing over the ten-mile-long street.

People were moved to tears not only because of the sorrow in the poem, but also because their long-suppressed grievances were finally seen, understood, and represented in such a powerful way!

This immense comfort and excitement from being empathized with transformed into an even greater force, soaring straight to the heavens!

Suddenly, an elderly man with white hair and a cane struggled to push away his children and grandchildren who were supporting him. He knelt down, trembling but with utmost solemnity, before the proud figure in the blue robe standing in the center of the Imperial Street. With all his might, he cried out in a hoarse voice:

"Lord Jiang!"

You even saw the suffering of the most insignificant old charcoal seller in Luojing City, kept it in your heart, and wrote it into your poems!

You...you are a truly upright and just official who genuinely cares about the lives of us common people!

This kneeling and shout were like lighting the final fuse, triggering a chain reaction!

"Crash-!"

Like wheat fields blown down by the wind, or like the tide overflowing the embankment, along the ten-mile-long street, hundreds of thousands of people, regardless of age, gender, social status, all faced the direction of the boats traveling on the river and knelt down in heartfelt admiration!
The massive crowd bowed their heads, creating an extremely spectacular and solemn scene, a powerful force of public sentiment surging forth!

"Lord Jiang!"

Please promote me to Minister of Revenue!
To manage the money and grain for all the people of the world!
We only trust you!

"Please promote Lord Jiang to Grand Secretary of the Imperial Academy!"

Join the cabinet to assist in government affairs!

"Stand up for the common people!"

"Please, Lord Jiang, uphold justice for us!"

The voices of the people petitioning, like a mountain roaring and a tsunami, intertwined with the soaring golden pillar of light and the distant tolling of the temple bell, shaking heaven and earth!

(End of this chapter)