At that moment, inside the lavish private room on the third floor of Heyu Tea House, more than twenty distinguished merchants had gathered.
A young man dressed in black took a sip of tea, then set the cup down with quiet deliberation.
"The flavor is slightly thin," he said, his voice unhurried and calm.
"Master Zhongli truly has impeccable taste — this tea is indeed unworthy of your discerning palate. Someone, brew a pot using the leaves I brought and serve them to Master Zhongli."
A bright, easy laugh rang out.
"Young Master Xing is too kind," Zhongli said, turning to look at the young man seated beside him — a youth in an elegant green robe — and offering a mild smile.
He recognized this young man: the eldest son of the Feiyun Commerce Guild, and the very person who had organized tonight's poetry competition. The auction to follow would be under his management as well.
"So long as Master Zhongli does not find it wanting," the young man in green replied with an easy smile.
Before long, someone carried in a fresh pot of tea and poured a cup for Zhongli.
Before he had even lifted the cup, Zhongli spoke. "Mellow and refined, with a delicate fragrance that greets you before you drink — a superior blend. Among the teas produced at Qiaoyingzhuang, this ranks among the finest."
"As expected of Master Zhongli — your eye for quality is truly unmatched," the young man in green said with a smile. "Speaking of which, at the last competition, Master Zhongli outbid everyone to claim first place for a full million Mora. I imagine that this time, should a work of exceptional quality emerge, you intend to have it as well?"
"Young Master Xing flatters me," Zhongli said with a faint smile, his expression placid. He lifted the teacup and took a small, measured sip.
Before long, all the competitors had taken their seats.
The panel of judges was composed entirely of venerable cultural figures — scholars who had devoted their entire lives to the study of poetry and verse. They had declined to compete themselves, choosing instead to leave the stage for the younger generation.
After the head storyteller of Heyu Tea House — the tea master — took to the stage and delivered a few words about the Moonfin Festival, the poetry competition officially commenced.
Since most competitors had come prepared, only one incense stick's worth of time was allotted.
At the tea master's signal, the contest began. From that moment on, no one other than the judges was permitted to move about.
As Hu Tao closed her eyes to gather her thoughts and settle into her creative mood, Fang Qiu quietly ground the ink beside her.
Once the ink was ready, Hu Tao picked up the brush, dipped it, and began to write.
Time passed in unhurried silence.
A poem took shape.
Hu Tao's calligraphy was quite fine, and the poem itself was genuinely good.
And yet — Fang Qiu found herself puzzled.
Hu Tao's poem, impressive as it was, had almost nothing to do with the Moonfin Festival aside from a single appearance of the word "moon." And much like the Hilitune, it leaned decidedly toward the dark and macabre.
But Hu Tao looked thoroughly confident, so Fang Qiu said nothing.
Soon enough, Hu Tao raised her hand to summon a judge.
The one who arrived was an elderly gentleman well into his seventies, dressed in pale blue robes — the sort who radiated erudition at a glance, and was clearly on an entirely different level from the kind of old man who, upon losing a chess game to hecklers, would snatch up a stool and start swinging.
The old judge picked up the scroll and read it over. Then he fell silent. After quite a long pause, he shook his head and said, "Forgive my bluntness — there is still time remaining. I would suggest, young miss, that you compose another piece."
"Ah? Why?" Hu Tao blinked.
"The poem itself is well-crafted," the old man said, shaking his head, "but in a span of barely a dozen lines, you've managed to fit in five or six words pertaining to death. On a joyous festival occasion like this, that seems rather ill-considered, don't you think?"
"You people," Hu Tao said, "really are tiresome. Why is everyone so squeamish about the topic of death?"
"Do your best, young miss," the judge said.
Seeing that Hu Tao, on this festive occasion of all days, was dropping the word "death" with every other breath and apparently preparing to argue the point, the judge decided not to engage further. He left her with a brisk "Take care of yourself, young miss," turned on his heel, and walked away.
"You should probably write another one quickly — there should still be enough time," Fang Qiu said, hesitating.
Privately, she thought the old judge was entirely in the right. The man was pushing eighty, trying to enjoy a nice festival evening; he picks up a poem, and it's wall-to-wall death. The fact that he hadn't disqualified Hu Tao on the spot was already generous.
"All the poems I prepared are in this style," Hu Tao said, a trace of dejection creeping into her voice. "How was I to know the judges here would be so rigid?" She sighed. "Even if I improvise something now, I won't score high enough for a placement. I had it all planned out — win a prize, promote Wangsheng Funeral Parlor at the same time, and use the winnings to take you and Xiangling and the others out for a proper feast. Looks like that's not happening."
Watching Hu Tao's crestfallen expression, Fang Qiu let out a quiet sigh.
"Why don't I give it a try?" she said.
"Fang Qiu — you can write poetry?" Hu Tao, who had been racking her brain for inspiration, looked up at once, her eyes lighting up.
"After a fashion," Fang Qiu said with a faint smile.
"Then it's all yours." Hu Tao said.
"Alright." Fang Qiu nodded, picked up the brush, and set it to paper.
Quickly, with sweeping, unhesitating strokes, an ancient-style poem flowed onto the page.
To make the handwriting look a little less atrocious, Fang Qiu had deliberately picked up her speed, letting it come out looser and more hurried.
She had intended to add a line at the signature — Wangsheng Funeral Parlor's grand sale: buy one, get one free; the more you buy, the more you save — but the incense stick had burned down to its end, so she could only dash off "Wangsheng Funeral Parlor" in three quick characters.
She had written them in such a rush that she could barely recognize her own handwriting.
But time had run out. There was no redoing it.
By now, most competitors had already submitted their work.
"Hu Tao, what are you staring at?" Fang Qiu nudged Hu Tao's shoulder.
Before Hu Tao could respond, the same elderly judge came striding back to their table. He picked up the scroll and gave it a cursory glance.
Honestly, Hu Tao's poem had been excellent — it simply hadn't fit the theme. If she'd had other pieces prepared, perhaps there would still have been a chance.
But this piece had been written by the white-haired young woman sitting beside her.
She was clearly just here as company — she hadn't even intended to compete. He didn't have particularly high expectations.
Such a pity.
Still, as he skimmed the scroll and found no words relating to death, he decided to take it up to the judging table.
He had already walked several steps away when he suddenly stopped.
Two steps back. His aged face creased like bark on an old tree.
Wait. Hm. Something isn't right here.
He looked again.
He read a few more lines — and his eyes went wide. Goosebumps erupted across his entire body, and an involuntary shudder ran through him.
"How long has the bright moon graced the sky? I raise my cup and ask the heavens above. I wonder what year it is tonight in those celestial palaces on high. I long to ride the wind back to that place — yet fear the jade towers and crystal halls would be too cold, too high to bear..."
When he reached the final line — "May those we love live long. Though a thousand miles apart, we share the same moonlit sky" — the old man's eyes filled with tears that spilled freely down his face, and he wept without a sound.
"This... this is a divine masterpiece," he breathed, voice breaking. "To think that in my lifetime — in my lifetime — I would have the privilege of laying eyes on a work that will echo through the ages. I can die without regret."
He had stopped in the middle of the floor to read, and that alone had drawn the eyes of everyone present. When he was seen weeping openly and crying out about a divine masterpiece, the other venerable elderly judges gathered around him in a flurry.
When they in turn read carefully through the poem's content, they too were moved to tears — voices breaking, eyes streaming — each of them declaring they could now die without regret.
"Elder Ji — who wrote this? Who is it? Show us, quickly!" the other elders urged.
"Right there — the one with the white hair," Elder Ji said, turning to point.
But where Fang Qiu had been sitting, there was no one.
"Eh? Where did she go?" The old man started. He hurried over — and found a note left behind on the table.
We had something to attend to and left early. Please deliver the Mora to Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. Do not disturb. Also: Wangsheng Funeral Parlor's grand sale — buy one get one free, buy three get two free, the more you buy the more you save. Be sure to frame this line when you display the poem, or we won't let you put it on the wall.
The handwriting before and after the note was visibly different — clearly written by two separate people.
The assembled elders looked at one another in stunned silence.
"Ah... this..."
After a long, bewildered pause, one of the elders finally broke the silence: "Should we... keep this note as well?"
Another long silence followed. Then one of them said, "Keep it."
Meanwhile, up in the third-floor private lounge:
"What's all that commotion downstairs?" A wealthy merchant frowned at the noise drifting up from below.
"Something extraordinary must have been written," the young man in green said with a smile. "To cause a stir like that — it seems this auction is going to be quite the battle. Don't you think so, Master Zhongli?"
"Undoubtedly," Zhongli said, with a faint and placid smile.
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