However, it has been three hundred years since the emperor who loved Qingci wrote poems. Now he still has to write poems. The only solution now is to learn from Liu Ziyu and find a ghostwriter.

However, among his own party, Lin Jingmo and Lu Zhi were not good at such minor skills as poetry. Yu Yunwen was still in another province, and Liu Qi packed his bags and went to see his brother who was still working as a helmsman on the Yellow River and also played a guest icebreaker after returning from Yuetai. Qu Duan was both literary and martial and was also in the capital, but with Qu Da's character - didn't Zhang Deyuan have any face!

As for Lü Benzhong, who was incompetent but founded the Jiangxi School of Ci, just as Qu Duan was unwilling to face Li Shifu easily, Zhang Jun was also unwilling to trouble this Zhong Sheren easily. After all, his father, Prime Minister Lü... was still very prestigious.

I have no choice but to trouble Brother Yuan Zhen again.

At night, three stars were in the sky, and Zhang Jun went to Zhao Ding's house alone without his entourage. It was rare that a certain Dongfu official was not working overtime to deal with government documents, but was trimming several pots of flowers and plants outside the study. It was the season, the orchids were blooming purple, the chrysanthemums were blooming yellow, and the several golden osmanthus trees on both sides also spit out jade beads, and the heavenly fragrance lingered all over the body. However, the plum blossoms and wintersweets in the corners had not yet bloomed, and the strong stems were slanted, and the moonlight was reflected on the window paper, shining together to create an interesting effect.

Seeing Zhang Jun coming, Zhao Ding slowly lowered his rolled-up sleeves and led Zhang Jun into the study. The fresh air slowly came in, and the rich osmanthus fragrance came through the door and windows, which also felt a little lighter. After the two sat down, a waiter brought tea and then closed the door and left as usual. Seeing this, Zhang Jun took out a small sandalwood box from his sleeve and handed it to Zhao Ding with a smile.

When he opened it, he found that it was neither the new incense that Zhang Deyuan had given him before, nor the Huanhua paper or the Tinggui pine smoke, but just a few lotus seeds. Zhao Ding pondered for a moment and smiled softly: "The lotus seeds have become old lotus leaves. Is Deyuan thinking of the wind and the tree branches because of Fen'er?" He was originally thin and elegant, and when he smiled, the dimples on his cheeks became more obvious, and against the moon-white cloth clothes on his body, he had a good charm of "the wind is suitable for the clear night and the dew is suitable for the autumn."

Zhang Jun leaned forward and grabbed his sleeve and asked, "Are these lotus seeds worthy of Brother Yuan Zhen's money for writing?" Zhao Ding thought for a moment and knew that Zhang Jun came here for the festival hymn. He also tried hard to hold back his laughter: "A few lotus seeds may not be enough. I need Deyuan to follow Li Bai's example and grind ink and spread paper for me." Zhang Jun raised his eyebrows when he heard this, and went straight to the desk to take the inkstone and ink stick. He raised his eyes and smiled: "For this matter, why not."

When the ink dissolved, Zhang Jun hurriedly urged Zhao Ding to pick up his brush, but he turned around and sat down to drink tea. Zhao Ding had always lived a simple life. The tea at home was ordinary new tea, the cups were ordinary plain porcelain, and the candles were specially given by the government. Perhaps Zhao Ding didn't like the smell of burning grease cotton wicks that polluted the fragrance of osmanthus, so he rarely equipped them with lampshades, making the candlelight look softer. When it fell on Zhang Jun's hand holding the tea, it exuded a jade-colored glow.

The poem was finished in a moment of deliberation, and Zhang Jun had not yet finished half of the tea in his hand. Zhang Jun hurriedly put down the teacup, looked at Zhao Ding, and said depressedly: "Although Brother Yuan Zhen is better than me in poetry and prose, I can't say that I am quite good at this. How did you finish it so quickly?" Zhao Ding coughed, looked up at the top of the study, and replied: "Since it is a ghostwriter, it is necessary to imitate your style to a higher level, which is not difficult."

Zhang Jun took a deep breath of the tea fragrance. Forget it, forget it. He should take a look at what Brother Yuan Zhen wrote. As for the advantage of the quarrel, he can get it back in the court sooner or later. Seeing the slender and white fingers taking the plain paper, Zhao Ding's heart moved, and whispered teasingly: "How deep is the eyebrow painting?" Zhang Jun heard the music and understood the elegant meaning, and also smiled back: "Brother Yuan Zhen really knows that he is bright and beautiful, but he is more thoughtful."

"Then Deyuan, please remember to write neatly when you copy. The emperor is not the Taoist emperor of Shaolin Temple, and he does not understand the freehand style in your writing."

A few jingle sounds.

I think it was a certain Prime Minister of the Western Palace who was criticized by Li Xiantai as a "vase" who was doing some frivolous things to harm his "kind".

Since ancient times, fame and fortune have been achieved through hard work, but to whom will one be entrusted in the end?

At that time, it was dark and people still accepted the mistake, and the chaotic customs of the time further confused the truth.

Street gossip is the most foolish and shallow; rumors are the most deadly.

Ten days after the Mid-Autumn Festival, a rumor gradually spread in the streets of Bianjing. It said that the prime ministers of the East and West Palaces pretended to be at odds in public, but in fact they had close contacts in private. They joined forces to exclude dissidents and block the court from the inside and outside. Some people even swore that they had seen Prime Minister Zhang Shu secretly meeting with Prime Minister Zhao in the middle of the night on the eve of the Mid-Autumn Festival, and that Zhang Shuxiang was even in high spirits after coming out of Zhao's palace. The rumor sounded very convincing, which added a lot of truth to it.

That day, Zhang Jun and Zhao Ding were called into the palace by Emperor Zhao. After leaving the palace and returning home, Zhang Jun locked himself in the study to think for a while. After a while, he sent his trusted servants to deliver invitations to the homes of his own Mudang members.

When the people from Zhang's residence arrived, Qu Duan was standing at the specially opened martial arts arena in the residence, watching Xiahou Yuan lift the stone locks with his arms folded, and he was in high spirits. Xiahou Yuan was born with supernatural power, and at this moment, he practiced with his upper body naked. He danced with two stone locks weighing about 100 kilograms with great vigor, and the old soldiers who gradually gathered around him cheered. An old servant led the servants from Zhang's residence over, and when the visitor explained the whole story respectfully, Qu Duan took the invitation, but after a little thought, he waved his hand casually: "Please reply to Prime Minister Zhang Shu, I will be there by then." He said this but his eyes were always on the martial arts arena. When it came to the most exciting part, he blurted out: "Good!" The servants from Zhang's residence had long been accustomed to the style of the commander-in-chief of the imperial camp cavalry, and did not care, and simply bowed and left.

Qu Duan watched for a while, and suddenly remembered the night of the Yuetai Poetry Meeting, because many of his colleagues in the army came to toast Xiahou Yuan, Xiahou also accepted all of them, and finally got drunk. Qu Duan thought that they were his friends after all, so he personally helped them to rest in the barracks. When he frowned and took off the armor of his drunken boy, Xiahou Yuan suddenly opened his eyes and looked at him directly. Under the light, his eyes were as clear as the moonlight in the sky. "The solitary lamp is dim, and I am thinking about it. I roll up the curtain and look at the moon and sigh." These two lines of the poem about the moon were spoken by Xiahou Yuan word by word, and his voice was as loud as iron.

My dear, there is more to this chapter. Please click on the next page to continue reading. It’s even more exciting later!