"Who won?" someone asked curiously.
Without needing anyone to answer, they already knew the answer. Qin Yue and Du Jia both fell backward at the same time, their eyes closed and motionless, having both fainted.
"It's a draw!" Qin Yao stepped forward, glanced at the situation, and said. Then he waved his hand, signaling someone to help Qin Yue down. He knew their condition best; this was due to excessive mental exertion, causing them to faint. They would be fine after a good night's sleep.
Although it's hard to admit, it was indeed an undeniable draw.
After Qin Yao waved to put away the chessboard and had someone set out a table with writing brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, Qin Mu knew it was his turn to take the stage, and he was genuinely a little nervous. To be honest, composing a poem was a completely new experience for him. He had hardly ever even read or written one, let alone read any.
"The characteristics of a fu (a type of classical Chinese prose-poem) are: first, it mainly uses four- or six-character lines, with varied sentence structures and a pursuit of parallelism; second, it requires harmonious rhythm in pronunciation; third, it emphasizes ornate language and allusions; and fourth, it focuses on describing scenery and expressing emotions through the landscape. As long as you follow this direction, you can write it as an essay." Perhaps noticing Qin Mu's slight nervousness, Huang Yuqi lowered her voice and said to him.
"Thank you for your guidance, Miss Huang." Although Qin Mu knew all this, having someone to talk to made his slight nervousness disappear. He bowed in thanks and calmly walked forward.
If he had to say what he was most worried about, it would be a problem if he were given a set topic for an essay and the topic didn't happen to be in his mind.
Fortunately, that didn't happen. If the subject matter of the poem were restricted, they probably wouldn't have agreed, since this was a spontaneous competition. Too many restrictions would mean they had to be prepared. The time was the one that had been prepared beforehand.
"Write a poem, feel free to be creative. It's getting late, and everyone's hungry, so let's set a half-hour time limit," Qin Yao said, glancing at the sun.
His request wasn't excessive; after all, more than an hour had passed since the competition was announced, and Qin Mu and his companion should have already come up with some ideas.
The writing brush, ink, paper, and inkstone were already prepared, and Qin Yueju stood beside him. Qin Mu couldn't help but glance at her curiously.
"You've composed two poems that have moved Heaven, so you must be quite good at writing prose as well. I'll grind the ink for you so you can get a sneak peek," Qin Yue said with a smile.
"You're even more confident than I am," Qin Mu chuckled. Then, without further ado, he closed his eyes and began to recall.
To be honest, he couldn't remember many of the fu poems. Apart from Qu Yuan's "Summoning the Soul," the most famous ones were "Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River," "Ode to the Epang Palace," and "Ode to the Red Cliff." Unfortunately, they were either already deceased or unsuitable, given his own experiences and age. In terms of life experience, he had never been to Xianyang or Red Cliff.
Finally, Qin Mu remembered that he had unintentionally read a very classic piece called "Lament for the Ancient Battlefield." It was quite lucky; he had only read it casually while searching for the "Ode to the Goddess of the Luo River." He retrieved the TOEFL hyperthymesia from his memory.
When Qin Mu closed his eyes to recall, he was surprised again. Although he could remember things he had seen in the past, it was like a replay; he would recall the scenes from the past. If it was a book, he would only remember himself holding the book. To copy the words down, he had to read it slowly, like replaying the scene over and over again until he could write the words down.
But today, when I deliberately searched for memories from a long time ago, it was not surprising that I found them so quickly. The images were very clear, and I felt like an observer. The memory was frozen in place, allowing me to zoom in and out as I viewed it.
In other words, copying poems and articles from memory used to be like watching TV; it required constant recall and repetition—reading a sentence, copying it down, and then starting over. But now it's as if the words are right in front of him. Most importantly, after recalling them once, the text in his memory is as if it's firmly memorized; it's the kind of memorization he can recite fluently and write down at any time.
One was merely a life experience from memory, while the other had become an instinct—the difference was enormous. Although he didn't understand what was going on, Qin Mu was too lazy to investigate further; anyway, it was a good thing for him.
By the time Qin Mu realized the changes in himself, Qin Yue had already prepared the ink.
"Thank you!" Qin Mu said, and picked up his pen to write.
Vast and boundless is the flat sand, where no one is to be seen. The river meanders, and the mountains entangle. Dark and desolate, the wind is mournful and the sun is dim. Tumbleweeds are broken and grass is withered, as cold as a frosty morning; birds do not fly down, and beasts flee in terror. The village headman told me, "This is an ancient battlefield, where armies often perished. Ghosts often cry out, and their cries are heard when the sky is overcast."
…………
As Qin Mu wrote with effortless grace, Qin Yue silently followed along, growing more and more astonished with each reading. When Qin Mu finished the first stroke and changed the Xuan paper, she couldn't help but cover her mouth to prevent herself from exclaiming.
Qin Yue's appearance naturally attracted the attention of others, and some people couldn't help but walk over.
...No one at home knows. Some may speak of it, but I am skeptical. My heart is heavy, I see it waking and sleeping. I lay out offerings and pour wine, weeping and gazing towards the ends of the earth. Heaven and earth grieve, the grass and trees weep. No one comes to offer condolences, the spirit has no place to rest. There will surely be a year of famine, and people will be scattered. Alas! Is it fate or destiny? It has always been so! What can be done? We must remain with the barbarians.
Qin Mu wrote it down in one go, as if it were an instinct.
As soon as Qin Mu put down his pen, he was pushed aside and looked up in surprise to see Qin Yao stroking his beard, head down, shaking his head as he read aloud. Although Qin Yao was not a Confucian scholar, he was not a pure martial artist either. As the head of a large family, his vision was naturally not low.
Qin Mu's copy of "Lament for the Ancient Battlefield" is meticulously crafted, weaving together reality and imagination, blending emotion with scenery, and interweaving narration and commentary. It seamlessly integrates description, storytelling, emotional expression, and argumentation, connecting the past and present across vast distances. It paints a series of desolate, desolate, and horrific historical scenes of the ancient battlefield, deeply moving and heart-wrenching. Qin Yao, a seasoned veteran of many battles, naturally found it even more relatable.
For many, a fu (a type of classical Chinese prose-poem) requires careful reading to understand the story it tells. Qin Yao, with his refined cultural background, certainly didn't need to. After reading it only once, he couldn't help but shake his head and exclaim, "Excellent! Excellent! It's truly superb! This is the most magnificent piece of writing I've ever seen in my life!"
Seeing Qin Yao praising his son so highly, Qin Qiong couldn't stop smiling. He couldn't really tell whether the poem was good or bad, but that didn't matter; as long as it was written by his son, it couldn't be bad. Besides, Qin Yao had said it was an excellent poem, and for a moment, Qin Qiong straightened his back even more.
"Is it really that good?" Luo Cheng asked, raising an eyebrow.
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