The two older young masters across the way quickly interjected, and it was clear they were deliberately hyping up Shen Hao.

Praise that kills, indeed—let’s see what kind of work you produce in a moment. If you can’t make the Ink List, or if even half fail to give their approval, it will be humiliation of the worst kind. Who knows what sharp-tongued scholars will say about you then?

Even Zhang and Gan, who knew nothing about poetry, felt instinctively nervous. They understood better than Shen Hao how formidable these scholars were in the current Jingjiu Dynasty’s climate, and did not wish the promising youth aboard their ship to suffer future career setbacks over something so needless.

The others on the opposite side wore amused smiles, ready to enjoy a mishap. In their eyes, Shen Hao had proven his talent with works like "A Cut of Plum," but belonged to the slow-to-create type—otherwise, why only three poems? Perhaps he had nothing else left; they waited for him to make a fool of himself.

Some even believed Shen Hao’s earlier works were likely plagiarized, certain he would disgrace himself today.

Of course, whatever happened, the four mature young masters from the Imperial City had done their job, pocketed the money, and felt secure. Their only worry had been if Shen, steady as a rock, performed too well—they’d miss their reward.

Shen Hao twirled his black fan, indifferent to the array of glances around him. After a moment’s contemplation, he abruptly snapped the fan closed.

"East wind at night scatters blossoms by the thousand trees.

More blow down, stars fall like rain.

Fragrant carriages of carved steeds fill the avenue.

Phoenix pipes stir the air, jade-vessel lights revolve, a night of dancing fish and dragons.

Moths, snowy willows, golden threads.

Laughter trails, the secret scent fades.

Among the crowd I search for him a thousand times.

Suddenly, I turn, that person is there, where the lanterns grow dim."

As the last syllable fell, Shen Hao flicked open the fan with a swish, fanning gently before his chest. Smiling, he even had time to wink at Lian Xiang on the tense stage below.

Every word rang out with measured rises and falls, his voice deep and resonant, magnetically subdued, yet firm—just the first line conjured vivid scenes in the mind, describing tonight’s grand, gold-spilling celebration with exquisite accuracy.

Then with a single line—"a night of dancing fish and dragons"—the entire spectacle, all its facets, was neatly encapsulated, its subtle meanings left for each to interpret.

At the close, those last two lines—might they become immortal verses?

Perhaps yes! So thought anyone in the hall with a measure of culture.

What superb lyrics! So good they are assuredly destined for fame!

The calligraphy master wasted no time, even fetched a fresh cloth, excitement etched on his face as he recorded Shen Hao’s new work atop it.

"Lord Shen, please grant it a name!"

"This poem is called ’Cyan Jade Case: Blue Moon.’"

Shen Hao shamelessly muttered "Sorry" to his ancestors—after all, "Yuanxi" had no place in this world, and tonight was Blue Moon Festival; it suited the mood, so he changed it.

Thus, the poem that had made all hold their breath was officially titled "Cyan Jade Case: Blue Moon."

"Wow!"

As people regained their composure, a chorus of exclamations broke out. There were many who knew quality. If those earlier compositions by the older young masters were called excellent, then this was destined for fame, perhaps even eternity. To witness such a work’s birth was truly luck earned over three lifetimes; everyone leapt up, eyes blazing toward the balcony where that cloud-patterned white robe and black fan stood, as if gazing at the Poetry Immortal and Poet Saint.

Comparison is a harsh mistress. The four proud young men, haughty moments ago, now wore altered faces. None expected Shen Hao would produce such a masterpiece—a classic! This was not their hoped outcome; instead, it felt like they had queued up to be humiliated.

But to claim, eyes open, that "Cyan Jade Case: Blue Moon" was lacking would be even more disgraceful. They shut their mouths, visibly annoyed.

"Four venerable young masters from the Imperial City, does this poem of mine pass your eye?"

No one dared respond. The outcome was obvious to all.

The only comfort for the four was that even with this famous poem, Lian Xiang’s Flower Lantern tally only rose from fifty-three thousand to just over fifty-four thousand, still short of Saitama for first place.

But once "Cyan Jade Case: Blue Moon" was written onto the Ink List, Shen Hao spoke again: "There is one more; I invite all to savor it."

If you want to slap faces, do it thoroughly—send them all into the mud.

One poem not enough? Why not two?

Shen Hao intended to show those who sought to sabotage his reputation with poetry that with five thousand years’ worth of ancestors backing him, he feared no one.

"When will the bright moon appear? Raise the cup, ask the blue sky.

I know not in heavenly palaces, which year it is tonight.

I long to ride the winds and return, yet fear the jade towers and crystal mansions, heights too cold to bear.

I rise to dance, play with the shadow, so unlike living in the world.

Circle red chambers, dip low to carved doors, shine upon sleepless souls. Should bear no resentments—why must the moon be full when parting?

Men have their joys and sorrows, partings and reunions; the moon its waxing, waning, and fullness—since ancient times, perfection has been hard to come by. May we live long, though miles apart, and share this moon’s beauty."

How best to describe it?

If the previous "Cyan Jade Case: Blue Moon" could be called a renowned masterpiece, then this "Song of the Water Melody: When Will the Bright Moon Appear" may well be dubbed an eternal classic.

Even Zhang and Gan, unlettered brutes, caught the transcendental mood and the heartfelt insight into life within "When Will the Bright Moon Appear." On such a festival night, everyone found in their heart a resonance uniquely their own.

This time, the calligraphy master, face flushed, tossed aside his cloth, and with a leap and his skilled Body Technique—revealing not just artistry but high Cultivation—he bounded up to a white wall in Hong’en Hall, scrawling in graceful bravura strokes the very words of "Song of the Water Melody: When Will the Bright Moon Appear."

Seeing this sure-to-be-eternal poem inscribed upon his own wall, the Hong’en Tower Master did not grow angry but instead laughed heartily, inwardly full of praise for the calligraphy master’s tact. He foresaw that this wall would become a landmark at Hong’en Tower.

When "Cyan Jade Case: Blue Moon" appeared, some still felt dissatisfied and complained; but with "When Will the Bright Moon Appear" unveiled, there was no room left for objection. The gap was too wide—even the four once-proud young masters now saw clearly that, in all their days, they could never hope to compose such lines.

What else could they do if they felt unwilling?

Thus Shen Hao, still twirling his black fan and smiling, nodded toward Lian Xiang onstage, then sat, lifted his cup, and drank all at once with the laughing Zhang and Gan. Their hearts soared together.

Lian Xiang’s Flower Lantern tally officially reached fifty-five thousand, now just shy of Saitama by less than a thousand.

"For these two famous poems, I am honored to light two Blue Moon Flower Lanterns for Lord Shen in celebration!"

"I too would light five Red Flower Lanterns to honor Lord Shen!"

"One Blue Moon Flower Lantern from me!"

...