Joy of Life: Born to Ye Qingmei, raised by Li Yunrui

Even Ye Tian himself couldn't help but secretly admire Zhuang Mohan's "deduction." This great Confucian scholar from Northern Qi, in order to frame him...

This was truly painstaking work. He managed to precisely "reverse deduce" the life and experiences of an "original author" from Du Fu's poem "Ascending the Heights," even meticulously "verifying" details like "lung disease and abstinence from alcohol." If I weren't a true plagiarist, I'd probably be fooled by his vivid performance. This Zhuang Mohan truly deserves the title of the greatest literary figure of our time; even in framing someone, he does it with such "reasonableness and evidence," making it utterly "convincing."

Seeing that the time was ripe, Zhuang Mohan played his trump card: "Your Majesty, esteemed officials! What I say is not unfounded! My master left behind this manuscript of a poem, which I have treasured ever since. The handwriting, the ink marks, and the age of the paper all serve as irrefutable evidence! However, I dare not easily show such a precious relic to others, nor did I expect to encounter such a case of theft of my master's work in Qing Kingdom. If Your Majesty and you do not believe me, I can write a letter back to my country and order my disciple to send a rubbing of the manuscript to Your Highness for a face-to-face confrontation!"

His words only solidified everyone's belief. Who would joke about their mentor's posthumous work and reputation?

Scholars throughout the land have always respected Zhuang Mohan for his noble character and exemplary moral conduct, which are widely praised.

They couldn't even muster the slightest doubt. Moreover, Zhuang Mohan now claimed with absolute certainty that the poem was written by his own teacher.

And there are manuscripts to prove it. In the ancient society, where respect for teachers was extremely high,

This is almost equivalent to using one's teacher's character and even the reputation of the entire school as evidence. Who would dare to doubt it?

And who would doubt that a highly respected old scholar would use such despicable means to slander a young boy?

In an instant, the crowd inside the hall was filled with indignation!

"Outrageous! Absolutely outrageous!"

"I never imagined that His Highness, at such a young age, would commit such a heinous act of stealing others' poems to gain fame and fortune!"

"I was just admiring him so much, I was so blind!"

"Plagiarizing the works of our predecessors is an act of literary thievery, despised by all scholars! It should be severely punished!"

The officials who had just been praising Ye Tian now turned their guns on him, becoming messengers of justice and judges of morality, hurling accusations and condemnations at him. Their eyes were filled with contempt and anger as they looked at Ye Tian.

And this moment.

It seems that in their hearts,

Ye Tian has degenerated from a talented young man skilled in both literature and martial arts into a shameless plagiarist.

·······················

Zhuang Mohan's passionate and righteous accusations, along with his claim of possessing "the late master's manuscripts" as irrefutable evidence, were like a bucket of dirty water, splashed fiercely on Ye Tian. Inside the hall, the ministers who had just been amazed by Ye Tian's poetic talent were now filled with indignation, their gazes towards Ye Tian filled with contempt, anger, and disappointment.

"Outrageous! This is utterly disgraceful! I never imagined His Highness the Prince of Qin would be such a despicable person!"

"Plagiarizing the works of our late teacher for personal gain is a disgrace to us scholars!"

"I just praised him for being both scholarly and martial, bah! He's just a fraud!"

"Your Majesty! If such behavior is not severely punished, how can we set an example and deter others from following suit?!"

Immediately, accusations, curses, and sighs rose and fell. The other members of the Northern Qi delegation watched this scene with mockery and schadenfreude, as if they could already see the soon-to-be-disgraced Prince Qin of Qing Kingdom.

Emperor Qing sat high on his dragon throne, a barely perceptible hint of smugness on his face. This was exactly the effect he wanted; he wanted Ye Tian to fall hard from his zenith, to be shattered to pieces!

However, Ye Tian, ​​who was at the center of the storm, showed no sign of panic or shame. He simply listened quietly to the accusations from the crowd, a faint, enigmatic sneer even playing on his lips.

Of course he dared! He possessed memories of two lifetimes, his mind containing the brilliant treasures of thousands of years of Chinese civilization. These poems and songs didn't even exist in this world, so how could there be any plagiarism? Zhuang Mohan's actions were clearly instigated by Emperor Qing, aiming to ruin his reputation in one fell swoop.

"Heh, what a fine 'master's posthumous work,' what a fine 'treasured for decades,'" Ye Tian sneered inwardly.

His expression remained unchanged. He slowly put down his wine cup, his gaze calmly sweeping over the indignant crowd, finally settling on Emperor Qing's seemingly fair but actually calculating face.

"Your Majesty," Ye Tian said in a clear voice, not loud, but clearly overwhelming all the noise, "Master Zhuang has made a very assertive accusation that I have plagiarized his late master's work, thus tarnishing my reputation. Although I am young, I know that the four words 'the integrity of a scholar' are worth more than a thousand pieces of gold. This matter concerns my reputation, and even more so, the face of the literary world of Daqing. It cannot be ignored, nor is it necessary to argue any further!"

He paused, his tone carrying an undeniable confidence and arrogance: "Your Majesty, I humbly request permission to grant me paper, brush, ink, and an inkstone, and to have a skilled calligrapher attendant to record my work. I wish to offer my humble efforts on the spot, composing several more poems—no, dozens, even hundreds! I also request that Master Zhuang and all the other experts jointly appreciate them and see whether my poetic talent, as Master Zhuang claims, is stolen, or a divine gift, something you mere mortals cannot even hope to match!"

These words caused another uproar in the hall!

"What? He's going to compose poems on the spot? And dozens, even hundreds?"

"Arrogant! Utterly arrogant! What does he think poetry is? Like cabbage? Something he can just spout off whenever he wants?"

"I think he's run out of tricks and is just bluffing to try and fool us!"

A flicker of surprise crossed Emperor Qing's eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a deeper, cold laugh. He wanted to see what other tricks Ye Tian could pull! Compose poems on the spot? Dozens or even hundreds? That was utterly absurd! He was digging his own grave!

"Very well!" Emperor Qing slapped the armrest of his dragon throne, feigning magnanimity. "I am greatly pleased that the Prince of Qin possesses such lofty ambitions! I grant your request! Bring pen and ink!"

Immediately, eunuchs brought over a table, laid out snow-white Xuan paper, ground Huizhou ink, and prepared various kinds of precious wolf-hair brushes. An older eunuch, renowned for his calligraphy, also stood respectfully to the side, ready to take notes.

All eyes were on Ye Tian. There was anticipation, doubt, mockery, and schadenfreude.

Ye Tian walked to the desk, but did not immediately pick up a pen. Instead, he picked up a jar of fine wine bestowed by the emperor, tilted his head back and gulped down several mouthfuls. He wiped his mouth, and a smell of wine mixed with his unique youthful spirit wafted out.

"Hahaha," he suddenly burst into laughter, his laughter filled with unbridled joy and wild abandon, "Life is short, so seize the day! Don't let your golden goblet stand empty before the moon! Today we have wine, we have enemies, and we have this hall full of 'refined scholars,' how can we be without poetry?!"

His eyes sharpened, his gaze sweeping over Zhuang Mohan with a hint of disdain, and he began to recite a poem:

"The grass on the plain grows lush and green, withering and flourishing year after year."

Wild fire, in spring.

The distant fragrance invades the ancient road, and the clear green meets the deserted city.

Again, I see the young nobleman off, my heart heavy with parting sorrow.

After reciting Bai Juyi's "Farewell to the Ancient Grassland," before anyone could react, he took another sip of wine, turned his gaze to the early spring scenery outside the window, and casually recited:

Spring Trip to Qiantang Lake

North of Gushan Temple and west of Jia Pavilion, the water is initially calm and the clouds hang low.

A few early warblers compete for the warmth of the tree, and the new bird pecks the spring mud.

Squandering flowers gradually become attractive, so Asakusa can have no horseshoes.

My favorite place is the eastern shore of the lake, where I could never tire of strolling along the white sandbank shaded by green willows.

The two poems, one praising grass and expressing aspirations, and the other depicting spring scenery, are both fresh and natural, with profound artistic conception, and are perfectly matched and seamlessly integrated!

Inside the main hall, those who had been clamoring that Ye Tian had plagiarized were now somewhat speechless. They had never heard of these two poems before, but their quality was already comparable to many timeless masterpieces!

Looking at Zhuang Mohan's slightly surprised expression, Ye Tian sneered, his tone filled with endless mockery and disdain: "Master Zhuang, you are proficient in commentary on classics, textual research, and exegesis. In these areas, I, Ye Tian, ​​may not be as deeply immersed as you. But when it comes to impromptu poetry and lyrics, hmph, you are probably not even worthy of carrying my shoes!"

"You arrogant brat!" Zhuang Mohan was so angry at Ye Tian's merciless public humiliation that he trembled all over and his face turned red.

Ye Tian ignored him, seemingly entering a wondrous creative state. He would sometimes close his eyes in deep thought, sometimes tilt his head back to drink, and sometimes pace back and forth reciting poetry. With each sip of wine, it seemed as if countless inspirations surged into his mind.

"Have you not seen the Yellow River's waters come from the sky, rushing to the sea never to return!"

"Have you not seen the bright mirror in the high hall reflecting the sorrow of white hair, like black silk in the morning turning to snow by evening!"

The opening two lines of Li Bai's "Bring in the Wine" once again captivated the audience with their bold and unrestrained spirit!