Chapter Forty: Truly, a Master

Chapter Forty: The True Giant

"Young friend, could it be that you and I share some connection?" The one his companions called "Master Shi," Zhang Ruoxu, was utterly baffled by Zhang Qian's wide-eyed, near-mad gaze. Uneasily, he took a few steps back and added in a low voice, "I am from Yangzhou, and in my youth, I studied in Jiangnan, later serving as a military official in Gunjou..."

His unease stemmed from a rather colorful past—wealthy and unrestrained in his younger days, he had left behind more than a few questionable entanglements. If, by chance, he had left a seed in the womb of some official’s daughter, the child would likely be about the same age as this young man before him.

And this youth’s surname was also Zhang!

Fair-skinned, tall, and handsome, he even faintly resembled Zhang Ruoxu’s own youthful self.

If this boy were to recognize him publicly today, it would be quite the spectacle. Even if he hardened his heart and refused, he would become the butt of his friends’ jokes for years—especially this mischievous "Master Ji" at his side. At worst, he’d have to write a dozen or so poems about it, immortalizing his reputation for all the wrong reasons.

Luckily, his worst fears did not come to pass. Hearing his question and catching the wary look, Zhang Qian snapped out of his daze and quickly realized his own rudeness. He took several deep breaths to calm himself, then offered a respectful bow. "Forgive my outburst, sir. I have long admired your name, and it is a rare fortune to meet you in person today! You wished to hear music from Qin; I dare not refuse. But merely repeating old words seems dull. Perhaps, instead, I might recite your great work..."

Without waiting for Zhang Ruoxu’s permission, nor caring about the others’ confusion, Zhang Qian began to recite in a clear, rhythmic Mandarin:

"The tide of the Spring River meets the sea, and the bright moon rises together with the tide.
For thousands of miles, the shimmering waves stretch on—where by the Spring River is there not moonlight?
The river winds through fragrant meadows; the moon shines on flowered groves like frost;
Frost in the air falls unnoticed, the sands on the islet gleam white, hidden from sight.
The river and sky merge without a speck of dust, and in the vast sky, the solitary moon hangs bright.
Who first saw the moon by the riverbank? What year did the moon first shine on man?
Generation after generation, life is endless; year after year, the river moon is ever the same..."

He no longer cared if his disguise as a disciple of the Mo School might be exposed. Nor did he have the heart to worry what he would do if Zhang Ruoxu pointed out that this was not the language of Qin. The thrill of meeting his idol in person so overwhelmed him that nothing else mattered—not the near-fifty-year-old Zhang Ruoxu, nor the immortal poem "Moonlit Night on the Spring River," nor anything else.

Zhang Ruoxu himself, at first frowning as he tried to discern the similarities and differences between Zhang Qian’s speech and Tang dialect, soon found his eyes growing misty. His lips trembled, his beard quivered, and he unconsciously fell in step with the recitation’s rhythm.

"Is he reciting Master Shi’s masterpiece?" The three—Master Ji, Master Gui, and Imperial Physician Sun—could not understand Zhang Qian’s Mandarin, but from the cadence and musicality of each line, they sensed that he was indeed reciting a work of extraordinary beauty. They exchanged astonished glances, their faces reflecting shared wonder.

To their knowledge, Zhang Ruoxu was skilled in many languages and music, as well as martial arts—a truly accomplished man. Yet, he rarely composed poetry. Now, a young man claiming descent from the reclusive Mo School could recite Zhang Ruoxu’s work fluently and was nearly beside himself with excitement at meeting the poet in person. The whole situation defied belief.

"...The slanting moon sinks into sea mists, while the endless road winds through Jieshi and Xiang.
Who knows how many return on moonlit nights, as the setting moon stirs longing among the riverside trees!"

As their astonishment peaked, Zhang Qian finished the entire "Moonlit Night on the Spring River." He raised his head, gazing at Zhang Ruoxu with unvarnished adulation on his youthful face.

"Master Shi, when did you compose this long poem? Why have you never shared it so that your humble brother might admire it too?" For Master Ji, asking when in doubt was always a virtue. The moment Zhang Qian finished, he stepped forward, pressing Zhang Ruoxu for an answer.

"Master Shi, this poem is so fluent and harmonious—its rhythms faintly echo the old tunes of the Music Bureau. Alas, I understood not a single word!" The elder known as Master Gui, momentarily forgetting his grudge against Zhang Qian, eagerly agreed.

"Damn!" Zhang Qian shivered at their words. The excitement of meeting his idol dissolved instantly. "What if Zhang Ruoxu hasn’t yet written 'Moonlit Night on the Spring River'? Whose poem is it, then? In his whole life, only two poems survived the ages, and I might have stolen one of them right before his eyes. What a crime!"

"To be honest, this poem is indeed mine," Zhang Ruoxu replied in time, sparing Zhang Qian from further regret. "It follows the old theme of the Music Bureau—'Moonlit Night on the Spring River.' But at the time, I was so weary in body and spirit that I did not present it, fearing to dampen everyone’s mood."

Steadying his emotions, he turned to Zhang Qian and smiled kindly. "I do not know if your words were those of Qin, but by their cadence and vocabulary, I can tell they are kin to Tang speech, not the gibberish of the eastern barbarians. This humble piece was written in a time of hardship—too melancholy for one so young as yourself. A youth should be as the rising sun, not mired in the self-pity of old men like me."

Clearly, Zhang Ruoxu saw in Zhang Qian a kindred spirit, and so spoke as an elder, hoping his work would not burden the youth with sorrow.

"So it was set to the old theme of 'Moonlit Night on the Spring River'—no wonder it sounded so familiar!" Before Zhang Qian could reply, Master Gui clapped his hands in sudden realization, laughing with delight. "Such a fine poem—why did you not share it earlier, Zhang brother? I could have fetched musicians and singers to spread your work far and wide!"

"No need for your fuss!" Master Ji, disliking the bluster, shot him a look and shook his head with a smile. "This young Zhang, fresh from the mountains, can recite the poem by heart. Clearly, it has already spread far and wide. It is only you and I, forever trapped by our ledgers, who have grown so ignorant!"

He then turned to Zhang Qian, smiling as he asked, "Young friend, since you have already recited Master Shi’s poem in Qin speech, could you repeat it in Tang for us old men? That might finally soothe our itch to hear it properly!"

"This..." The rush of excitement having faded, Zhang Qian dared not act rashly. He turned to seek Zhang Ruoxu’s opinion.

"This gentleman is also a close friend of mine—a former top scholar of the year Yi Mo, and Grand Master of Ceremonies, surname He, given name Zhizhang," Imperial Physician Sun interjected before Zhang Ruoxu could answer, introducing the eager old man to Zhang Qian. "If he asks you to recite, you should do so! Many a young man considers it an honor to receive his guidance in person. Young friend—you, why are you trembling again?"

Why? What else could it be?

If you were in my place, you’d be the same!

I just met Zhang Ruoxu, and now you tell me that the man who just heard my wild claims is He Zhizhang!

The first is a giant of literature.

The second? A giant squared!

You could have warned me!

Either none, or they come in pairs...

Zhang Qian screamed inwardly, but could not utter a word. Only when Imperial Physician Sun pinched his philtrum did he regain some composure, stumbling back a few steps, bracing himself with one hand on his knee and waving the other.

"No, it’s nothing! Forgive me for alarming you, sir. Never in my dreams did I imagine I’d meet Lord Zhang and Grand Master He in person today. 'The February spring wind is like scissors'—I cannot count how many times I’ve recited that in my life!"

"You young fellow, have you smeared honey on your tongue?" Though he had heard countless praises in his life, to hear such heartfelt admiration from a stranger still delighted He Zhizhang. He waved his hand, teasing, "You’ve only just left the mountains—how could you have memorized my poems? You don’t even know how many times?"

I did it in elementary school! Zhang Qian grumbled inwardly, but dared not say so aloud, only managing a sheepish smile.

"This gentleman is another dear friend—of the Lu clan of Fanyang, given name Zangyong, styled Zipian, and currently a scholar at the Institute of Letters," Imperial Physician Sun continued, formally introducing the third member of the group, the elder known as Master Gui. "If you wish to learn, you might seek his guidance."

"Not at all, not at all!" Lu Zangyong, straightening his back and tilting his chin, waved his hand modestly.

In his view, though his poetry was not as renowned as He Zhizhang’s, he was not far behind. With his position and noble lineage among the Five Surnames and Seven Clans, he expected this country youth to be even more excited—perhaps faint on the spot and, upon waking, weep with remorse for his earlier boldness.

To his surprise, Zhang Qian simply bowed politely and said, "So it is Scholar Lu before me—Zhang Qian of Changshan pays his respects."

His tone was calm, showing none of the excitement he had displayed upon hearing the names Zhang Ruoxu and He Zhizhang.

The bow, too, was merely a matter of basic courtesy.

As if to silently ask: Who is Lu Zangyong? Is he famous? Why have I never heard of him?