C15 Faceslapping!

When Xiaoqin uttered the first line of her poem, the anticipation on the faces of the three elders quickly turned to disappointment. It was far too blunt—lacking any sense of artistic imagery or poetic sentiment. It appeared that Lau Mingzhu's husband was hardly presentable. Zhao Yan nearly burst into laughter... Could this even be considered poetry? The little girl was clearly inexperienced, having not been exposed to much of the world. How could such verse be deemed poetry?

However, as Xiaoqin delivered the second line, Bai Jingxuan's expression shifted dramatically. His phoenix-like eyes narrowed. The first line had the air of a simple ditty, but the second line was a masterstroke of a twist. Xiaoqin might have been unaware, but among the well-versed literati present, who could miss the brilliance of her words?

Upon hearing the third line, beads of sweat formed on Zhao Yan's brow. Despite years of feigned cultural sophistication, he could distinguish a fine poem from a poor one. With this line spoken, he realized that all the poems about the moon at this Mid-Autumn Festival gathering paled in comparison to Xiaoqin's. They were utterly insubstantial!

Just then, Xiaoqin faltered, and Zhao Yan couldn't resist wiping the sweat from his brow. It was a relief that she couldn't remember the rest. Had she been allowed to continue improvising, who knew what chaos might ensue?

Zhao Yan's earlier bravado had vanished. Watching Xiaoqin's stuttering attempt, he felt a surge of relief. He secretly wished she would forget the rest. After all, even the best incomplete poem remained incomplete. But he seemed to have forgotten that Xiaoqin was merely a maid—Lau Mingzhu was still there...

The shift from disappointment to awe happened in the span of a breath. When Xiaoqin stumbled over the final line at such a pivotal moment, the collective letdown was palpable. She hesitated for what seemed an eternity but could not recall the closing phrase. The three elders and the assembled literati looked as though they had plummeted from the heavens to the dust of the earth, their faces etched with dismay. It was then that a cool voice broke the silence:

"Looking down, I think of my hometown... Moonlight before my bed, I suspect it's frost on the ground. Raising my head, I gaze at the bright moon, then lower my eyes, and think of home."

Lau Mingzhu's face, cool and exquisitely beautiful, was tinged with a touch of contemplation. As she observed the crowd's reactions, she realized something profound: the poem was not something Lin Han had copied; he had truly written it himself. She could never have imagined that the seemingly shrewd man possessed such talent. It was this revelation that compelled her to steal a glance at the man on the first floor. Who really was Lin Han?

Her eyes sparkled like a sea of stars, her porcelain skin so tender it seemed it might shatter with a touch. Her features were of unparalleled delicacy, her aura like that of a cold moon, impervious to the beckoning sky or the halting frost. When she recited 'Thoughts in the Quiet Night,' the impact was magnitudes greater than anyone else's—hundreds, thousands of times more powerful.

The pleasure boat fell into a hush, as if the very candlelight had been extinguished, leaving only the glow of the moonlight. And Lau Mingzhu was the source of that radiant light.

Bang!

The sound of a head hitting the table abruptly snapped everyone out of their reverie. The culprit was a visibly shocked Lin Han. In that moment, his mind was a whirlwind of chaos, as if ten thousand curses were sprinting back and forth. He had never anticipated such an absurd turn of events and was oblivious to the envious stares surrounding him.

He had lost, and the first-place prize had slipped through his fingers... and he had been bested by himself. Hadn't he discarded that poem? How could Lau Mingzhu know of it?

Lin Han looked towards Moo Lingfei, his eyes brimming with unshed tears and embarrassment.

Everyone assumed Lin Han was simply overwhelmed by the elegance of 'Thoughts in the Quiet Night.' Little did they know, he was actually mourning the loss of a hundred taels of silver...

Pretension can be a silent killer, and in this case, it was nearly the death of Lin Han.

"What a line, 'Looking up at the bright moon, lowering my head as I think of home'... If this poem doesn't take the crown, then this Mid-Autumn Poetry Competition is nothing but a farce... May I ask, Miss Lau, what is the title of your poem?" Elder Gao, utterly captivated, had finally come to his senses and gazed at Lau Mingzhu with the admiration of a martyr, as though hearing her poem had brought him peace in his final moments.

"The younger generation truly commands respect. I never imagined that after more than fifty years of life, I'd be outdone by a child. Your husband is worthy of the name Lin Si'ang. In just a short, twenty-word poem, he's captured the world's longing for home..."

Elder Hu shared this sentiment, his expression one of complete contentment, leaving Lau Mingzhu somewhat incredulous at the profound impact of a single poem!

"Thoughts on a Quiet Night..."

Lau Mingzhu hadn't anticipated the extent of the poem's influence. To imbue a poet with such emotion is the highest of honors. How many have achieved such recognition since ancient times? Lau Mingzhu's eyes were wide with disbelief at Lin Han's extraordinary talent.

Hearing such high praise from the elder, Lin Han's head thudded onto the table once more. He could find excuses for others' blunders, but whom could he blame for his own? One hundred taels of silver, thirty thousand yuan, all gone in an instant. Lin Han felt as if his heart was bleeding. This reckless woman, why did she have to bring it up?

"Thoughts on a Quiet Night," indeed a fitting title... I would very much like to meet this Lin Si'ang..."

The eldest among the three scholars let out a sigh. His age signified the length of time he'd been away from home, and his attendance at the poetry gathering was a testament to the loneliness of his household. The moonlight, cool and thin like water, was the ultimate sorrow. This poem seemed to turn his innermost vulnerabilities inside out, speaking directly from his heart. Though he had not met Lin Han, he felt a profound connection, certain that Lin Han, the creator of such verses, truly understood them.

Every thread of homesickness was woven into the quiet utterance, "Bowing my head, I think of my hometown."

The old scholar gazed at Lau Mingzhu with intensity, as if trying to discern some deeper meaning in her words, or perhaps hoping that she might introduce him to Lin Han.

"..."

Xiaoqin, upon hearing the old man's words, was eager to reveal that her master was just downstairs, but Lau Mingzhu swiftly restrained her. A mere maid was no match for Lau Mingzhu, a trained martial artist, and so she remained immobile. Turning her head, Xiaoqin saw a hint of reproach in Lau Mingzhu's icy gaze.

Ultimately, Xiaoqin didn't dare to add anything further.

"I must say, this poem was simply a casual piece penned by my husband, not intended for the Mid-Autumn Poetry Gathering. Furthermore, it surfaced outside the designated time, thus not adhering to the rules. To force it into the position of champion would be quite a stretch. It would be truly regrettable if such an exquisite verse were to be tarnished by a common title. My daughter's stance is that this poem should not be entered into the Mid-Autumn Poetry Competition..."

It was at this juncture that Lau Mingzhu chose to speak up. Indeed, it wasn't just the three elders who realized that once this poem was presented, it was destined to take the prize. Even Lin Han himself might not be capable of crafting a poem to surpass it. Nevertheless, Lau Mingzhu declined at that moment.

Her reason for refusal was beyond reproach. Despite everyone's reluctance, they concurred with Lau Mingzhu's sentiment. This poem belonged to the celestial realm. To bestow upon it a mundane title would indeed be an insult.