Chapter Sixty-Eight: That Person Alone in the Corner (Part One)

Chapter Sixty-Eight: One Stands Alone in the Corner (Part One)

“So even the Sage of Cursive, Zhang Xu, was once this young! Heavens above, this trip has truly not been in vain!” The same festivities appeared entirely different in Zhang Qian’s eyes than to those around him.

Back in the twenty-first century, whether it was Wang Zhihuan or Zhang Jiuling or Zhang Xu, they were nothing more than lifeless words in a book, or perhaps an image printed on paper. He could admire them, or mischievously scribble mustaches, bicycles, or flying brooms onto their portraits, but these figures remained ever distant—beings to look up to, like cold stars a billion light-years away in the night sky.

Now, however, they stood before him, alive and breathing, peers of his own age, sharing the same delicacies, the same beautiful scenery, the same vibrant commotion!

Soon, they might call each other brothers, drink and carouse together, grow up side by side, sing and laugh, perhaps even fight shoulder to shoulder. Together, they would bear witness to the flourishing age of Kaiyuan, and share in the glory and dreams of the Chinese people in the Middle Ages!

Such joy and fortune—just imagining it made his blood surge with excitement.

He, Zhang Qian, would watch Wang Zhihuan grow from a young wanderer into a towering pillar of frontier poetry. He would witness Zhang Jiuling’s rise from a minor official returning to the capital into a statesman celebrated for a thousand years. He would see Zhang Xu, once a passionate scholar, become the Sage of Cursive and a legendary drinker for the ages. He, Zhang Qian, would see…

He would watch them.

And they, in turn, would see him.

He had already become, and ultimately would become, one of their number—together, illuminating the great starry sky of the Tang Dynasty!

“Heavens above, thank you!” Turning away to secretly wipe the corner of his eye, Zhang Qian silently gave thanks in his heart.

He resolved to make peace with the heavens once and for all—never again would he curse their ancestors at the slightest provocation. Even though, truth be told, the heavens had never heard his curses, nor cared for his gratitude.

Even though, when he was thrown into the black hole of time, the heavens had not gifted him a portable mentor or some monster-slaying upgrade system.

While his heart was still surging with emotion, a sudden melody of “ding ding dong dong” rang in his ears. Looking up, he saw a young man with a bristling beard, strumming his sword and singing. His voice rang out bright and clear, echoing into the sky: “Bitter frost seals the grass, red leaves wither and fall, the little garden is empty. Where are the lotus flowers by the stream? Only wild chrysanthemums by the fence smile at the autumn wind…”

“Wang Ziyu is such a madcap—will he ever let me live in peace?” Wei Dao groaned, clutching his forehead in mock agony.

“Brother Ziyu is a quick wit, especially when there is wine at hand!” Sensing that Zhang Qian was attending such a poetry gathering for the first time, Wang Zhihuan kindly explained in a low voice, “He’s from Taiyuan, with the single given name of Han. He is by nature dashing and unrestrained, fond of wandering the land with his sword. Last year, with a single line—‘Drunk, I lay on the battlefield, do not laugh at me; how many have returned from ancient wars?’—he left all present speechless, unable to compose a single verse! Today, as we gather to taste wine and appreciate chrysanthemums, he’s cast his jade first. Those who wish to follow with their own poems must now ask themselves whether what they offer is truly worthy, or merely a common stone.”

“Ah, so it’s him?” At once, Zhang Qian matched the image of the bearded, sword-strumming singer with his memories.

Yet the Wang Han of his recollection was far less vivid and interesting than the man before him—he was so exuberant and unrestrained, caring only for his own enjoyment, heedless of whether others dared follow his lead.

From his own university days, Zhang Qian had learned that those bold and uninhibited were rarely scheming or devious. Admiring the man, he instinctively wanted to approach, raise a glass, and share a few words. But before he could move, he saw He Zhizhang’s servant, He Jun, hurrying toward him.

“Young Master Zhang, Young Master Zhang. My lord wishes to introduce you to a few elders. He’s otherwise engaged, so sent me to see if you have a moment?” Without waiting for Zhang Qian to inquire further, He Jun stopped before him and courteously relayed the message.

“Grand Master He wishes to see me?” Zhang Qian was taken aback. Hesitating, he glanced around and soon spotted He Zhizhang beneath a large pavilion on the other side of the garden, raising his wine cup and gesturing toward him from afar.

Not daring to keep such a venerable man waiting, Zhang Qian quickly excused himself to Wang Zhihuan and Wei Dao, then hurried toward the pavilion. As he neared, he heard He Zhizhang laughing, “There he is! Longweng, Daoji, Anzhi, this is the Zhang Yongzhao I just spoke of. Though a disciple of the Mohists, he has a deep understanding of our Confucian classics. A casual remark from him can serve as a whetstone for us all.”

This was not just praise; it was as though gold dust had been poured over Zhang Qian’s head. Flushed with embarrassment, he bowed deeply to He Zhizhang and the other three elders in the pavilion, “This humble junior, Zhang Qian, pays his respects to Elder He and all present. I am but a novice, prone to misinterpreting the words of the sages, and beg your indulgence for my foolishness.”

“What’s this about making a fool of yourself? If every junior were struck dumb before their elders, how would the elders know the limits of their own learning?” When it came to academic matters, He Zhizhang was never as cautious as he was in political disputes. He smiled and countered, “Young man, don’t be overly modest, or you’ll lose your edge. If you wish to wield the axe, do so at the door of Master Lu Ban. Only then will Lu Ban himself give you some pointers. And as he grows old, his vision may well be dulled by age. Seeing a young man wielding an axe may even inspire him to greater heights!”

“Such open-mindedness commands my respect!” Zhang Qian, his nervousness gone, replied with a smile and a respectful gesture.

“No need for respect—just send more good wine to my home in the future! To be honest, ever since I tasted your brew, no other wine in Chang’an can compare!” He Zhizhang joked, then gestured to the elderly man opposite him, “Come, Yongzhao, meet my old friend Longweng—his surname is Bi, given name Gou. A few years ago, he toured Runzhou on imperial orders, and has only just returned to Chang’an to report.”

“Your junior, Zhang Yongzhao of Hejian, greets you, Elder Longweng!” Seeing the white-haired elder, Zhang Qian bowed deeply in the manner of a junior to his senior.

“No need for formality, my young friend. The wine you gave to Ji Weng the other day—I took half of it for myself. These past few days, I’ve been longing for more, and now, at Shi Weng’s home, I meet the wine’s original master!” Bi Gou rose with a smile and returned the gesture.

“I brought four barrels especially for today’s chrysanthemum feast,” Zhang Qian replied, more relaxed upon seeing the elder’s easy manners. “Master Zhang has already sent them to the kitchen—they should be warmed and brought out soon.”

“In that case, I’ll drink no more of this cup!” Bi Gou decisively set aside his wine, laughing heartily.

“I was thinking the same!” He Zhizhang laughed as well, then introduced the next man, a middle-aged gentleman with jet-black hair, “Yongzhao, this is also an old friend of mine, Zhang Daoji, given name Shuo. His writings possess a grand, upright spirit. If you ever wish to study further, you would do well to study his works.”

“Your junior, Zhang Qian of Hejian, greets you, Master Dao!” Having met so many illustrious figures in one day, Zhang Qian’s heart had grown numb. He bowed with composure to the man who would one day be a renowned minister of the Kaiyuan era.

“No need for formality, Yongzhao.” Zhang Shuo smiled, stood, and returned the greeting. “Shi Weng’s praise just now was excessive. If you wish to study in earnest, you’d do better to study his writings—he is a true top scholar!”

“Daoji, you’re using me as a shield again!” He Zhizhang laughed, immediately taking up the thread, then introduced the third elder present, with deliberate formality.

This man’s name was Wang Shi, styled Anzhi—a master of letters as well. Yet Zhang Qian had never encountered his name in the annals of history or literature, so he was unmoved, simply greeting and exchanging pleasantries as was polite.

“For today’s chrysanthemum feast, you’ve brought wine—did you bring a poem as well?” Borrowing Zhang Ruoxu’s garden to host so many young talents, He Zhizhang had always meant to give them a chance to shine. As soon as Zhang Qian had paid his respects to all the elders, He Zhizhang smiled and asked.

Zhang Qian, having been hinted at countless times by Zhang Ruoxu—almost to the point of having the poem written for him—had certainly come prepared. At He Zhizhang’s inquiry, he thickened his skin and replied, “Thank you for asking, Elder. I am not skilled in poetry. After much thought these days, I managed to piece together a rough verse. I hardly dare present it for your ears.”

“What do you mean, ‘hardly dare’? Poetry must come from the heart. As long as it is sincere, there’s no harm in sharing it!” He Zhizhang denied him the chance to be modest, urging him with a smile.

“Then I shall do my best!” Helpless, Zhang Qian reached into his sleeve, retrieving the poem he’d labored over for several nights, and respectfully offered it to He Zhizhang for critique.

He was willing to risk embarrassment rather than plagiarize, not from any moral scruples, but out of a sense of conscience.

A prodigy like Zhang Ruoxu left behind only two poems in his life. If Zhang Qian took one as his own, half of that legacy would be lost. To casually claim half of another’s achievements as his own—surely, his children would be born with no backside.

And with Tang-era medicine so primitive, there would be no artificial means to fix it. In contrast, those twenty-first-century pirates and plagiarists had no such worries—their ill-gotten gains only filled their coffers and contributed greatly to the field of proctology.

As for the prolific writers, like the so-called “Perfect Elder,” Zhang Qian never cared for their work. Of the forty thousand poems attributed to him, one could easily find some about chrysanthemums, but their quality was so uniform as to be frightening—each indistinguishable from the ramblings of a village scholar, not one rising to the standard of the civil service exams, let alone dazzling the reader.

So, rather than copy such verses, Zhang Qian would rather craft his own. It might not be brilliant, but as He Zhizhang said, poetry must come from the heart. Even if the quality was lacking, there was no shame in it.

As for whether He Zhizhang would crumple his “masterpiece” into a ball after reading it, Zhang Qian no longer cared. His abilities were what they were—no matter how hard he tried for ten years, he would never impress He Zhizhang.

“Let us hear your poem on the chrysanthemum.” Just as Zhang Qian braced himself for a blow, He Zhizhang tapped the table for rhythm and read his poem aloud: “Lonely beneath the eastern hedge, sparse clusters two or three; only blooming late in autumn, no chance to greet the spring breeze!” (Note: The poem is made up, wielding the axe at the gate of the master, merely to provoke a laugh.)

Bi Gou and Wang Shi listened, eyebrows knit, then nodded and smiled. Clearly, Zhang Qian’s “axe” was a bit too clumsy for their tastes.

But Zhang Shuo, after frowning, did not immediately relax his expression. He quickly turned to Zhang Qian and asked in a deep voice, “Yongzhao, how old are you this year? Why is your heart so melancholy? If it is merely youthful affectation for autumnal sorrow, that is one thing. But if it truly comes from the heart, then as one twice your age, I must urge you to go out more, to spend time with Zhang Bogao, Wang Jiling, and Wang Ziyu. Otherwise, you’ll find your heart old before its time!”