Chapter Twenty-Eight: Kong Rong Offers the Pear (Part One) — Second Update

A new week had begun, and Zheng Yanqing resumed his regular routine. Each day was filled with classes, practicing calligraphy, listening to tales of the Three Kingdoms, and training in martial arts—his life was rich and purposeful. In the evenings, after returning home, he would sit at his desk and devote himself to composing his own version of the Romance of the Three Kingdoms. Though the structure of the tale was clear in his mind, writing it proved far from easy.

After all, he was not formally trained in literature, and the original Romance, penned by Luo, mingled classical and vernacular styles, making composition a real struggle. Writing a novel and telling a story aloud were essentially two different arts. When telling a story, one could use the plainest of language, but writing a novel required genuine literary skill. Especially so with the half-classical, half-vernacular style of fiction now favored; it was an even greater challenge. Ever since the era of Emperor Xiaowen, the literary style of the south had flourished, with a premium placed on “layered meanings and graceful unfolding, like the accumulated beauty of high mountains,” and so forth.

In short, the words had to be ornate, or they would not be considered beautiful. This was the legacy of Southern dynastic literary taste, and Zheng Yanqing could do little about it. What did “layered meanings and graceful unfolding” mean? It meant finding depth and delight even in the subtlest details—seeing beauty in a bare stone. For Zheng Yanqing, this was pure torment.

Thus, writing the Three Kingdoms was not merely a matter of appealing to the common folk; if he hoped for acceptance among the gentry, his prose required embellishment. But how difficult that was! As a result, after a whole week, Yanqing had managed to compose only two chapters, and he was exhausted. Fortunately, he had a teacher to support him. If not for Li Ji’s assistance, it would have been nearly impossible for Yanqing to write a piece that satisfied him.

That day, after school, he returned home while it was still early. Zheng Shian was not at the estate, and the house was empty. Yanqing set down his satchel, took out his brush case, and then withdrew the lecture notes Li Ji had prepared for him, ready to review his lessons.

It must be said, Li Ji was an excellent teacher—meticulous and attentive. Before each Three Kingdoms lesson, he would prepare notes in advance. After the lesson, he would give them to Zheng Yanqing so he could ponder them thoroughly at home. Li Ji’s approach to teaching had, in turn, influenced Yanqing’s own attitude toward writing; he took the work very seriously, often laboring over a single word.

In some respects, Yanqing’s version of the Romance of the Three Kingdoms was already diverging from Luo’s original. The story was the same, but in terms of literary merit, Zheng Yanqing believed his version would surpass the original.

The brush case had been a gift from Dou Fengjie. Inside were seven superb Xuanzhou purple-tipped brushes—expensive, indeed. Among Chinese brushes, the Xuan and Hu brushes were the most famous. Xuanzhou purple-tipped brushes, known as Xuan brushes, were considered the finest before the Yuan dynasty. A single top-quality Xuan brush was worth a hundred strings of cash, well beyond the means of ordinary people. The seven brushes Dou Fengjie gave Yanqing were worth as much as a prosperous family’s entire annual income. At first, Yanqing felt the gift too extravagant and dared not accept it. But Dou Fengjie insisted, and Yanqing had no choice but to accept.

Dou Fengjie was mild-mannered and somewhat timid, but overall, he was a good fellow. Though shy, he was sensitive. Had Yanqing refused, Dou would have felt slighted, thinking Yanqing looked down on him and did not wish to be friends. Only by accepting the gift did Dou Fengjie beam with delight once more.

Truth be told, Yanqing cherished those seven Xuanzhou brushes. Though Zheng Shian was a steward and received a monthly stipend, buying a single Xuanzhou brush was one thing, but a set of seven was beyond his reach. Yanqing had seen such sets in the markets of Luoyang—a fine one cost a fortune.

Only someone like Dou Fengjie, born to a noble family, could afford to give such a gift.

Yanqing opened his notes, ready to read. Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door, followed by a child’s voice: “Yanqing, Yanqing, are you home?”

Zheng Yanqing started and poked his head out the window.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, Xu Shiji.”

What was Xu Shiji doing here? Yanqing wondered, puzzled, and went out of the study to the door. Opening it, he saw Xu Shiji standing outside, accompanied by a boy of about six or seven, a little shorter than Yanqing and dressed as a child of wealth. The boy was fair and round-faced, strikingly adorable.

“Shiji, what brings you here? No lessons today?”

Xu Shiji grinned. “There’s no class today. Teacher’s been busy writing and has no time for us. The eldest young master is at a banquet, and the lady has business of her own. So they sent me to take the young master out for a walk, and I thought of you.”

Yanqing had already guessed the boy’s identity, and Xu Shiji’s words confirmed it.

Zheng Hongyi!

This little boy was Zheng Renji’s son—the very Zheng Hongyi with whom Yanqing had once shared a carriage. Years ago, Yanqing was adopted by the Zheng family on the road, sharing a swaddling cloth with the infant Zheng Hongyi. But after arriving in Yingyang, they had no further contact. After his marriage, Zheng Renji had taken Zheng Hongyi to Chang’an, and in the blink of an eye, that baby had grown into a handsome child. Yanqing could not help but smile, stepping aside to let them in.

“So you’re the young master?”

Although Zheng Hongyi was a child, his pampered upbringing lent him an air of superiority.

He glanced at Yanqing’s plain clothes and nodded, “You’re Zheng Yanqing, Zheng Shian’s grandson. I’ve heard of you.”

With that, Zheng Hongyi strode into the courtyard.

Yanqing felt a twinge of displeasure at Hongyi’s blunt mention of Zheng Shian’s name. He frowned slightly and cast a glance at Xu Shiji, as if to say: Why have you brought him here?

Xu Shiji gave a wry smile and whispered, “Don’t blame me. I couldn’t withstand the little rascal’s pestering. Ever since I told him your stories, he’s been after me to tell more... I had no choice but to bring him to you. So, do you have any new stories lately?”

Yanqing shot him an exasperated look.

“You have the nerve to ask for stories? You’ve landed me in quite a mess.”

“Huh?”

Yanqing was about to recount the incident with Master Yan’s challenge, when Zheng Hongyi, already in the courtyard, called out impatiently, “Zheng Yanqing, Zheng Yanqing, I heard from Brother Shiji that you’re a great storyteller, is that true?”

“Well, I know a few.”

“Then tell me some!”

Xu Shiji, hearing this, inwardly cried out in alarm. He knew Yanqing’s temperament well. Zheng Hongyi’s commanding tone, though childish, carried a sense of entitlement. If he angered Yanqing, things could get troublesome. Xu Shiji also knew that Yanqing and his grandfather were in a precarious situation now. He had hoped that bringing Zheng Hongyi here might bring Yanqing some benefit, but if Yanqing’s stubborn streak surfaced, it could backfire.

But Yanqing smiled. He would not stoop to quarrel with a child. In his view, Zheng Hongyi’s manner was not his own fault, but the result of poor upbringing by Zheng Renji and lax guidance from Master Yan.

“You want to hear a story?”

“Yes! Brother Shiji told me about Liu, Guan, and Zhang—I loved it. Especially Zhao Yun of the white horse and silver spear... Tell me a new one. Brother Shiji keeps repeating the same tales, I’m getting bored.”

Yanqing said, “Very well, I’ll tell you one.”

With that, he led Zheng Hongyi into the study.

Xu Shiji followed, and at the sight of the stack of papers and brushes on the desk, he felt a surge of admiration.

Look at that—no wonder he’s the prodigy who wrote the ‘Ode to the Goose.’

Xu Shiji knew Yanqing was the ‘Goose Prodigy,’ but as a child, his words carried little weight, and no one would believe him if he told. Besides, Yanqing had asked him never to reveal the secret. For good reason: once the truth came out, it would need a worthy occasion. He had heard that among great noble houses, the killing of servants was all too common.

There were always those with dark ambitions.

Zheng Renji might be a man of integrity, but not necessarily magnanimous enough to tolerate such a thing. If a servant outshone his master, wouldn’t that spell trouble? Now that Lady Cui managed the household, if she whispered a word in the right ear, Yanqing’s life would hang by a thread.

So Yanqing took special care, while quietly seeking his chance.

He seated Zheng Hongyi on the mat, then asked, “Young master, what stories has Shiji told you?”

As a servant, he had no right to share a seat with Zheng Hongyi. Fortunately, Hongyi was still young, not yet infected with the odd airs of noble children and, eager for stories, paid it no mind.

“He’s told me about the Oath of the Peach Garden, the Battle of Changban, and the Ride Alone for a Thousand Miles.”

Yanqing smiled. “Then today, I’ll tell you the tale of Hulao Gate, where three heroes fought Lu Bu. How does that sound?”

“Great!”