The banquet hall still carried the fragrance of roasted duck and spiced wine when Zhao Cheng rose from his seat. With a scholar's poise, he adjusted the sleeves of his long robe, lifted his cup toward the head of the hall, and bowed low.
"General Lu," he said with a smooth voice, "such a gathering of heroes and scholars deserves not only fine food and drink, but also a test of our wit and artistry. Might I beg you, as the host, to grant us a topic? Let us see which of us can weave words worthy of your honored table."
The hall stirred with interest. Some of the younger officials leaned forward eagerly, while older captains muttered under their breath.
Lu Zhi, seated in the place of honor, raised a brow. His weathered face, lined by decades of campaign and service, gave away little. He studied Zhao Cheng a moment, then set down his wine cup with deliberate care.
"You wish for a theme?" he said. "Very well. Since this hall tonight gathers both scholars and soldiers, let us hear verses on Duty to One's State. A subject fit for young men who one day must shoulder heavier burdens."
A murmur ran through the crowd—approval from the generals, more cautious from the civil faction. Duty was a heavy word, one not easily turned into mere ornament.
Zhao Cheng smiled thinly, as though he had expected nothing less. "A noble theme. Then allow me, with your permission, to offer the first humble verse."
He moved to the center, where the candlelight caught the embroidery of cranes on his robe. His voice, trained to carry, rose in practiced cadence:
"Heaven above grants mandate bright,The noble man must guard it right.Golden halls demand the sage's pen,Steel is but the tool of lesser men."
The words fell like silk, polished and ornate, drawing approving nods from Minister Zhao's allies. Yet a few officers exchanged looks, one even snorting into his beard. Everyone heard the edge beneath the fourth line—the dismissal of soldiers, the subtle jab at those who lived by the sword.
Zhao Cheng bowed, letting the silence swell, inviting applause. The ministerial faction clapped politely, while the military men gave little more than a grunt.
Lu Zhi leaned back in his seat, eyes narrowing with wry amusement. His gaze flicked between Zhao Cheng and the young Lu Ming, then settled on Lu Heng.
"Cousin," he said with a half-smile, his voice pitched loud enough for the hall to hear, "it seems your second boy and Zhao Cheng share more than just wine tonight. There's a bite in their glances. Tell me truthfully—what quarrel simmers between them?"
The hall quieted instantly. All eyes turned.
Lu Heng stiffened. His hand tightened slightly on the stem of his cup. To admit such a feud openly would be improper; to deny it outright would make him a liar in a hall where many already knew whispers. He weighed his response carefully.
"I…" he began, voice measured, but faltered for the briefest moment.
Before the pause could lengthen, Lu Xian, ever quick-tongued, leaned forward and spoke with an easy smile. "General, it is nothing of weight. A youthful matter only. Some months ago in the city, a courtesan of Luoyang found my younger brother's conversation more to her liking than Zhao Cheng's purse. Harmless, really—yet our friend has not forgiven the slight."
Laughter rippled across the room. Some covered their mouths, others let out open guffaws. A grizzled captain slapped the table. "Ah! So that's the root of it. A woman's smile sharper than any blade!"
Even the ladies of the hall struggled to hide their mirth. Minister Zhao's face darkened slightly, but he forced a polite chuckle. Zhao Cheng's jaw tightened, though he kept his head bowed in feigned modesty.
Lu Zhi, however, laughed outright, a deep sound from the belly. "So that is all? A quarrel of youth over beauty? Come, who among us did not act a fool in our younger years? If every lost courtesan sparked a feud, Luoyang's streets would drown in blood!"
More laughter followed, the tension easing. But Lu Zhi's eyes lingered—not on Zhao Cheng, whose ears flushed red despite his forced smile—but on Lu Ming.
The young man sat with his cup steady in hand, expression calm, unruffled even as the entire hall laughed at his supposed dalliance. No boast, no fluster, no shrinking. He simply inclined his head slightly, as though the jest were no more than weather passing through.
This one is different, Lu Zhi thought. Most boys his age would puff their chest or hide their face. But he sits as if the storm does not touch him. Interesting.
The general stroked his beard slowly. Out loud, he said, "Let us hear what the young Lu can craft then. But not yet—his turn will come. First, let us finish with our friend Zhao's verse."
He waved his hand, and attendants refilled the cups. Zhao Cheng returned to his seat, but the pride in his eyes had dulled, replaced by a flicker of unease.
Lu Heng, meanwhile, leaned slightly toward his younger son, searching his face. He still doubted, still wondered if Ming could stand against Zhao Cheng's sharpened tongue. Yet when he saw the faint curve of confidence at Ming's lips, a memory stirred—how his boy had stood in the courtyard at dawn, blistered hands gripping a wooden sword, refusing to falter.
For the first time, Lu Heng let himself hope.
The hall quieted as Zhao Cheng stepped once more into the open space at the center. The young man moved like an actor on a stage, each gesture deliberate, each glance angled toward the most flattering candlelight. He clasped his hands behind his back, posture tall and unbending, as if he already stood above the gathering.
"Since the honored general has blessed us with a theme so grave," Zhao Cheng began, his voice pitched to carry across lacquered beams and silk drapes, "it would shame me not to give the subject its proper weight." He turned his head slightly, enough to allow the jeweled hairpin at his crown to glint. "Let me offer a second verse—humble in form, but earnest in spirit."
He lifted his cup high, then let the words flow, smooth and rehearsed:
"The jade seal rests by Heaven's throne,Guarded not by sword, but bone.The sage inscribes, the ink gives law,While soldiers brawl with brutish flaw.
A single brush can calm the land,Yet steel consumes by reckless hand.Better pen than bloody blade—In letters, true empire is made."
The cadence was strong, polished with long hours of practice. Zhao Cheng lingered at the end, pausing just long enough for the hall to register the echo of his final line before bowing with a flourish. His robe sleeves rippled dramatically as he straightened, chin tilted high.
The ministerial faction erupted in claps and murmured praise. "Elegant!" one court official declared. "A verse fit for the annals." Another leaned forward with shining eyes, "Ah, such refinement—each couplet flows like water!" Their voices overlapped, swelling in a tide of approval.
But not all ears were swayed. From the military side of the hall, the reception was more restrained. A few captains exchanged knowing looks. One scratched his beard, muttering just loudly enough for his table to hear, "Pretty words. Wouldn't feed a starving soldier." His companion grunted, "I've seen more substance on a ration scroll."
Still, courtesy demanded some acknowledgment, and so a smattering of polite applause followed the ministers' enthusiasm.
Zhao Cheng drank it in, basking as if every clap were a coin pressed into his palm. His gaze slid across the tables, finally alighting on Lu Ming. A thin smile curved his lips. He took two deliberate steps toward the younger Lu, raised his cup, and bowed just enough to pass for courtesy.
"Forgive me, Brother Lu Ming," he said, voice dipped in honey and thorns. "Poetry requires a certain cultivation of taste. I hope I haven't made it too difficult for you to follow along."
A ripple of laughter broke from the ministerial circle. Fans fluttered before lips, sleeves hid grins. The barbs were dressed in jest, but everyone heard the sting. The laughter was not with Lu Ming—it was at him.
Lu Heng's hand twitched on the table, though he did not rise. Lu Xian stiffened, his smile tight, while Lady Lu's brows knit faintly together.
And Lu Ming?
He did not so much as blink. His cup remained steady in his hand, the wine within untroubled by even the faintest ripple. He raised it calmly to his lips, drank once, and set it down again with the serenity of a monk at prayer. His eyes, when they lifted to Zhao Cheng, were unreadable. No anger, no fluster—only a composure so complete it unsettled.
In another life, he remembered, he would have snapped here. He would have leapt at the bait, lashed back with sharp words, and in doing so given Zhao Cheng the satisfaction of watching him stumble. But this time… this time, he savored the moment. Let him strut, let him crow. A man who overreaches always exposes the hollow beneath.
The silence stretched. What had been intended as a jest now hung awkwardly in the air. Some of the younger courtiers glanced between Zhao Cheng and Lu Ming, puzzled. Wasn't the boy supposed to sputter, to protest? Instead, he sat like stone in a river's current, unshaken.
Up on the dais, Lu Zhi watched closely. His expression revealed nothing, but behind his eyes thoughts moved quick as blades. Interesting, he mused. Most lads would snap or shrink beneath such mockery. Yet this one neither burns nor bends. He lets the insult pass as though it never found purchase. That is not weakness. That is strategy.
Zhao Cheng, expecting an outburst, faltered slightly at the lack of response. He covered it with another bow, broader this time, meant to disguise the stiffness in his jaw. "Of course," he added with forced graciousness, "the young Lu surely carries hidden talents of his own. We all look forward to being enlightened."
Again the laughter came, but thinner this time, uncertain.
The military men did not laugh at all. One scarred veteran leaned back, arms folded across his chest, and muttered to his neighbor, "The lad sits calm. Reminds me of my old commander before a charge. Those who smile loudest before the clash are never the ones who ride home."
Bit by bit, the hall's attention shifted. The show was over; the crowd had heard Zhao Cheng's polished arrogance, seen his attempt to needle his rival. Now their eyes turned, inexorably, toward the boy who had yet to speak. Toward Lu Ming.
The air grew taut. Even the servants sensed it, their steps slowing as they brought in fresh dishes, careful not to break the tension with a clatter.
Lu Zhi stroked his beard, his voice mild but carrying easily: "A fine display. But the contest is not one-sided. Let us see what Cousin Lu's boy has to offer."
All eyes fixed on Ming.
He felt the weight of every gaze—soldiers and courtiers, allies and rivals, even the shadow of his father's doubt pressing from behind. And yet his pulse did not quicken. He lifted his cup, drained the last of the wine, and set it down with unhurried grace.
Then he rose.
Not swiftly, not timidly. He rose with the ease of a man standing to take a walk after supper. His robe fell neatly into place, his hands folded at his waist. He inclined his head once to Lu Zhi, once to the hall, then let his eyes rest briefly on Zhao Cheng.
Where Zhao's verse had been a performance, Ming's silence was an answer all its own.
The room leaned forward, hungry.
It was his turn.
The banquet hall held its breath as Lu Ming stepped forward. He moved without hurry, each step steady, as though the weight of so many gazes upon him was no burden at all. Where Zhao Cheng had strutted with every sleeve and gesture demanding attention, Lu Ming seemed almost plain—yet that plainness was its own kind of authority.
He reached the center, bowed first to Lu Zhi, then turned to the gathering. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Not weak—quiet, like water running deep.
"General, honored guests. My words may lack polish, but they are earnest. I offer them in respect to our host, and to the duty all men bear to their state."
Then he began:
"Mountains rise, yet do not boast their height;Rivers flow, yet do not vaunt their might.The farmer tills, the soldier stands,Each bleeds alike for soil and land.
Brush and blade—two tools, one cause,Both bound beneath the Heaven's laws.When pen and sword together bind,Then lasting peace the people find."
He paused, letting the lines hang in the air. Then, after a breath, he continued, his voice gaining a quiet strength:
"Mock not the hand that bears a blade,Its scars the price of peace once made.Ink records, but blood defends,And both must serve till conflict ends."
When he stopped, the silence was total. No laughter, no murmur, not even the faint clink of chopsticks. Only the sound of torch-flames cracking in their sconces.
The contrast with Zhao Cheng's performance was stark. Where Zhao's verse had been ornamented, dripping with self-pleasure, Lu Ming's was stripped bare: no gilded flourishes, only truth. The hall felt the weight of it, heavy and undeniable.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then a captain at the military tables slammed his fist on the wood, rattling the cups. "Good!" he barked, voice booming. "That is verse a soldier can drink to!"
Applause burst from the generals and captains, rough and unrestrained. Others joined—servants hiding smiles, even a few young scholars nodding despite themselves. Lu Zhi chuckled, stroking his beard, while Lu Heng's eyes widened with something caught between disbelief and pride.
Zhao Cheng sat frozen, color draining from his face.
It was not just that the verse was better. It was that his own words, meant to cut down the worth of soldiers, had been answered—answered cleanly, without insult or boast, simply turned upon him and shown hollow.
Minister Zhao's friends scrambled for words. One coughed, forcing a brittle smile. "Polished, yes, but… rough in meter," he muttered. Another added weakly, "The thought is earnest, but perhaps lacks refinement."
But their protests rang thin, especially against the swell of voices praising Lu Ming's sincerity.
Zhao Cheng forced a laugh. "A… bold attempt. Rustic, but bold." He rose to his feet, robe sleeves trembling faintly with the effort to keep steady. "Yet surely we should not judge on sentiment alone. The art of verse lies in elegance, in refinement—"
"Wrong," Lu Zhi interrupted, his voice firm enough to cut through the hall. Every head snapped toward the old general.
Zhao Cheng's mouth shut at once.
Lu Zhi leaned forward, his gaze sweeping the hall before fixing on the young man who still stood calmly at the center. "Poetry, like statecraft, is not mere ornament. It is the vessel of truth. And truth does not require gilding." His smile was wry, but his eyes glinted sharp. "This boy has spoken as one who understands weight. His verse honors both pen and sword, scholar and soldier alike. That is wisdom."
Cheers erupted from the military tables. Even some courtiers bowed their heads reluctantly, conceding the victory.
Lu Ming lowered his gaze respectfully. "General flatters me. I spoke only what I have seen and believed." He returned quietly to his seat, his face still composed, as though he had not just bested one of the most pampered young scholars in the capital.
Lu Heng studied him, wonder stirring in his chest. For years he had thought his second son wild, unfocused, unworthy of serious notice. Yet here he was, calm under fire, words sharp as a general's command. For the first time in years, Heng felt something shift—doubt giving way to pride.
Zhao Cheng, meanwhile, burned. Every glance in the hall was a knife, every murmur of approval for Lu Ming a lash across his pride. His nails dug into his palm beneath his sleeve until crescents of blood welled.
He forced himself to bow stiffly toward Lu Zhi. "General, forgive me. I am… unwell. May I beg leave to retire early?"
The request was formal, but his voice cracked just faintly, betraying the fury beneath.
Lu Zhi regarded him for a long moment, eyes hooded. Then he waved a dismissive hand. "As you wish. Go, and rest your spirit. You have shown us enough for one night."
The words were courteous, yet they cut like dismissal.
Zhao Cheng bowed again, lower this time, his teeth clenched. He turned sharply, his sleeves snapping as he strode from the hall, face pale with humiliation. His father's allies watched with tight jaws, but none dared protest. The tide of the room had already shifted.
The moment he left, laughter rippled through the military side, unrestrained and full of relish. A captain barked, "Couldn't stomach the boy's steel, eh? Scholar's belly too soft!" Another clapped Lu Ming on the shoulder as he passed, booming, "Good verse, lad. Better than half the generals here could muster!"
Even the courtiers, though quieter, could not deny what they had witnessed. Zhao Cheng had come to humiliate and had instead been humbled.
Lu Zhi refilled his cup, smiling faintly as he lifted it toward Lu Ming. "Well done. Few men your age could hold such composure under fire. You've given us more than verse tonight—you've shown spirit."
Lu Ming bowed his head slightly. "I thank the General for his grace."
But inwardly, he felt the faintest spark of satisfaction. In his first life, he had squandered moments like this—reacted rashly, lost face, let others dictate his worth. This time, he had chosen patience. And patience had won.
The banquet resumed, dishes flowing, laughter swelling again. But the balance of the night had shifted. Where Zhao Cheng's name had once dominated such gatherings, now whispers carried another—Lu Ming, the quiet second son who had turned a hall with his verse.
And in the shadow of the lantern light, the path ahead bent, subtly but unmistakably, in his favor.