Chapter Forty-Nine: Yingchuan Academy

The bed and seat seemed borrowed from the brush of Wang Wei, the laurel branch awaited the legend of Xiao Shan... The fragrance of peach blossoms drifted for ten miles; the peach trees of Peach Blossom Garden were a sight to behold—majestic and vast like the sea from afar, delicate and charming like a maiden’s first makeup when viewed up close.

What a place for a rendezvous! Originally, it was a haven for lovers, but now, with more and more scholars gathering, the air was thick with the scent of books. This place, like a secluded Peach Blossom Spring behind the dormitory, was free from troubles and worries—there was only the uplifting freedom of life.

Zifan’s eyes were filled with longing. Such a carefree life: no need to lead troops into battle, no machinations of society, everything was pure and fresh.

Yet, on this pristine sheet of paper, a blemish appeared. Zifan glanced at Dian Wei beside him, covering his forehead with his palm and shaking his head vigorously. His gaze turned odd—who would have thought that Zifan would end up coming to a lovers’ sanctuary with a rough fellow like Dian Wei?

After a moment, a bitter smile crept onto Zifan’s lips. In a world at war, peace was but a fleeting illusion; once the clang of armor resounded, this haven would disappear as well. Absolute freedom was unattainable and would ultimately be lost.

Zifan’s purpose in coming today was twofold: to befriend more renowned scholars and to calm the anxieties in his heart.

Yingchuan Academy was famed throughout the Han Dynasty, a sacred place dreamed of by countless people. Established by eminent families and renowned scholars, private schools flourished here, nurturing talents like Guo Jia, Xun Yu, Xun You, Ji Zhi Cai, and Zhong Yao—all renowned figures who emerged from the many private academies of Yingchuan.

Thus, Yingchuan Academy became a gathering place for heroes of the era.

This visit, Zifan should have come alone, but Dian Wei persistently insisted on accompanying him. Though illiterate, Dian Wei could not appreciate the famous poems and paintings scattered throughout the mountains—he would simply repeat his exclamation, “Wow!”

Unexpectedly, this rough man harbored a deep love for learning. Though he had not studied, his respect for scholars was profound.

The academy was built against the mountain, clusters of pavilions and gardens nestled among ancient towering trees. Perhaps it was the influence of sage poetry, but even the halls bore an aura of elegance and serenity.

The vermilion gates stood wide open, corridors winding and twisting, with the Hall of Sacred Rites at the center, forming a vast, harmonious architectural complex. The academy boasted over three hundred and sixty halls and study rooms, including the Imperial Library, the Hall of Enlightenment, the Temple of Ancestral Scholars, the Shrine of Former Sages, and the Shrine of Loyal Heroes. The Hall of Sacred Rites was where students paid homage to Confucius, with plaques above the door inscribed “Learning Reaches the Nature of Heaven” and “Teacher for All Ages.”

Yingchuan Academy, renowned far and wide, had no towering walls, no gilded plaques, no brass beast-head door knockers. Its low walls were painted snowy white, the aged wooden door stood open, and above the entrance hung a black lacquered plaque with four large red characters: “Yingchuan Academy,” signed by Master Water Mirror. The calligraphy was vigorous and powerful, the red and black complementing each other—red like fresh blood, black like the night sky, blended perfectly, steady and weighty.

“Who goes there? The academy is a sacred place; idlers may not enter…” Before Zifan and Dian Wei could step inside, a young attendant stopped them.

“I am Wu Zifan, Governor of Youzhou. I have heard Yingchuan Academy is renowned far and wide, and have come specially to seek instruction. I hope you will kindly inform the master,” Zifan said with a smile, taking a string of candied hawthorn from his cloak and discreetly handing it to the attendant.

Yingchuan Academy, being a literary sanctuary, was strict about those who entered.

“Wait here…”

Taking the treat and bearing the responsibility, the attendant hurried off to report. He dared not delay, for Zifan was not only an official of the court but his reputation was also widely known.

The Confucian scholars regarded Yingchuan Academy as a place for independent study and self-cultivation. Since its inception, it had been linked to the scholars’ pursuit of “self-perfection.” One of its founding purposes was the transcendence of worldly concerns, embodying the humanistic spirit of Confucianism—making it the last haven of purity.

This was a sacred place for scholars and deserved respect. Moreover, the literati here were skilled in rhetoric; they could twist facts with ease, so Zifan sought to build rapport and leave a good impression.

A short while later, Xun Shuang led several refined scholars out from within.

“General, I apologize for not welcoming you sooner. Please forgive us,” the scholars behind him bowed their heads in respect, honoring Zifan’s arrival.

“Yingchuan Academy is not open to ordinary folk. Besides, General, you are famed in Luoyang for composing poetry at a mere seven paces—your reputation precedes you. This time, we elders dare to trouble you; such an occasion is a lifelong regret for us. Might the General grant us this favor?” Xun Shuang feigned a pitiful look, squeezing out a few tears.

Now that the peach blossoms were in full bloom, their fragrance permeating the academy, he proposed using them as the theme, with the time it takes for one stick of incense to burn as the limit, inviting Zifan to compose a poem.

Though Xun Shuang was exceedingly polite, his words pressed forward with subtle persistence. It was clear he would not yield until his purpose was achieved, and the scholars behind him were equally eager, their curiosity about Zifan palpable.

Since he had come, he might as well settle in. If he was to accept the challenge, he would make sure they were convinced, both in heart and in words.

“Very well…”

Little did he expect these literati to be such old foxes. If Zifan came unprepared, he would not dare to step forward so easily.

Neither poverty nor wealth can sway a true gentleman.

Under the gaze of all present, Zifan bowed his head and sifted through “Three Hundred Ancient Poems” in his mind, searching for famous lines about peach blossoms. Today, he must leave these scholars utterly convinced.

“At the end of the river in spring, hearts break.”

With his opening, interest sparked among the crowd; Zifan’s eyes were filled with anticipation.

“Leaning on a cane, I stroll slowly upon the fragrant islet.”

Xun Shuang nodded in approval, his gaze full of admiration, though he sensed something was still lacking.

“Madly, willow catkins dance with the wind; lightly, peach blossoms float along the stream.”

Xun Shuang’s eyes widened instantly, lowering his head in silence—what a line, “lightly, peach blossoms float along the stream.” He promptly ordered his attendants to record it. Such exquisite poetry would surely astound the world.

“Sir, your talent is extraordinary. Today, I am truly humbled; your reputation is indeed well deserved. I was discourteous earlier.”

Now Xun Shuang was thoroughly convinced. This poem, praising the peach blossoms, perfectly matched the scene and requirements, and since it was recited on the spot, Zifan could not have fabricated it.

The surrounding scholars smiled in admiration, their hearts full of praise. Some famous literati, like old friends, took Zifan’s hand and led him to their studies to discuss literature and exchange verses.