Amid the clinking of cups and the crisscrossing of toasts, everyone gradually grew familiar with one another. Once the initial reserve faded, words naturally began to flow. After all, these were Hanlin scholars—what they said carried refinement and elegance, steeped in literary grace. They debated the Four Books and contended over the Hundred Schools of Thought, clearly different in tone and temperament from men like Yan Shifan and his ilk.

Across from them, the imperial physicians from the Imperial Medical Academy had also drunk themselves warm and flushed. They seemed to be arguing over which prescription was better for treating cold damage disorders. One of the physicians invoked the saying that in letters there is no first place, and in martial skill no second—insisting that medicinal principles and drug properties had to be argued until perfectly clear. The discussion quickly escalated, voices overlapping in heated dispute.

“Among letters there is no first; among martial arts, no second. Why not debate it—what do you say?” Someone from the Hanlin side, having overheard the argument across the table, laughed and repeated this old, oft-quoted line, turning it into a topic for discussion.

“That’s easy,” said a forthright archivist among them, setting down his wine cup and speaking first. “Writings each have their own merits, and superiority is hard to judge—hence, no first place in letters. But martial skills are tested with blades, spears, and staves; once you cross hands, victory and defeat are clear—hence, no second place in martial arts.”

This, indeed, was how many people understood that saying.

Yet the moment the archivist finished, Yuan Wei, seated beside him, let out a soft chuckle. “I see it differently. Scholars are humble and courteous; they dare not claim themselves the best. Since no one dares to call himself first, we say there is no first in letters. As for martial men—brutes, most of them—fond of contest and rivalry, unwilling to acknowledge another’s superiority, each insisting he alone is the best. Thus we say there is no second in martial arts.”

“Exactly so,” another chimed in at once. “Just the other day, in Xiwu Alley, I saw two martial fellows draw blades over a single sharp word. Blood flowed like a stream.”

“Literature has no fixed form, and styles vary greatly,” someone else added, blending the previous views into his own. “What one loves, another may despise—like radishes and greens, each to his own taste. Public opinion is hard to unify, hence no first in letters. Martial men, being rash, settle things face to face—win is win, loss is loss. First and second are easily seen.”

This sort of debate was nothing like the elaborate formats of later ages. People spoke whatever came to mind; as long as one wished to speak, anything could be said. Many offered their thoughts. Zhang Siwei and Zhang Juzheng each added a few words of their own.

Remove AdsWhenever someone spoke, Zhu Ping’an watched attentively, wearing the expression of a devoted listener. In truth, he was practicing lip-reading.

“Zihou listens so intently—why not try saying a word or two?” Li Chunfang turned his gaze toward Zhu Ping’an, and the rest followed suit, their eyes shifting to him.

Zhu Ping’an had been focused on studying their lips when Li Chunfang called him out. He paused for a moment. He had, in fact, listened carefully to everything just said, and the topic itself was quite simple—nothing more than differing perspectives. As it happened, when it came to “no first in letters, no second in martial arts,” he remembered an interesting variation he had once encountered in a Gu Long wuxia novel. Perhaps he could share that with everyone.

With that thought, Zhu Ping’an smiled and nodded. In a light voice, he said, “No first in letters, no second in martial arts? Heh. I rather think it’s better reversed—no second in letters, no first in martial arts.”

No second in letters, no first in martial arts?

Everyone present heard this for the first time. A ripple of surprise passed through the room. Why would reversing it be better? No second in letters? Earlier, saying ‘no second in martial arts’ implied the rashness of martial men—so what did ‘no second in letters’ imply now? Was Zhu Ping’an suggesting that scholars belittled one another?

Scholars belittling one another—this was practically taboo among men of letters. Could it be that the newly crowned top scholar was too young, an untempered calf unafraid of the tiger?

All eyes turned to Zhu Ping’an, eager to hear his explanation.

“No second in letters, no first in martial arts,” Zhu Ping’an said with a smile, “because in letters, there is a first, while in martial arts, there is none. Confucius, the Sage, gathered and perfected the essence of our Chinese culture. He founded Confucian learning, which has been handed down to this day. He stands as the first, without dispute. As for martial skill—there is yet no universally acknowledged number one. Hence, no second in letters, and no first in martial arts.”

Most of those present were hearing such an interpretation for the first time, and found it strikingly fresh. Indeed, Confucius was unquestionably deserving of first place. What everyone had said earlier were mostly familiar, timeworn explanations. Zhu Ping’an’s formulation—no second in letters, no first in martial arts—was a genuinely new proposition. Around this new idea, the group launched into yet another round of spirited debate.

From civil and martial matters, they extended the discussion to Confucius himself; from there to the Four Books and Five Classics; and then onward to Zhu Xi. The men of the Hanlin Academy truly lived up to their reputation for dazzling eloquence.

While the Hanlin side of the banquet buzzed with lively discourse, the Imperial Medical Academy table was arguing just as fiercely. Though the distance between them was not great, the voices from that side were indistinct. Yet because Zhu Ping’an faced them directly, he could reconstruct their conversation from lip movements and fragments of sound.

The main dispute seemed to center on a young physician arguing with the others. It was likely connected to the Jiajing Emperor’s pursuit of immortality—some directive from the throne to improve elixir formulas, all in hopes of achieving eternal life.

“If mercury is taken over a long period, properly blended with fine substances, it can prolong life,” one physician declared.

“The Inner Canon says that refined sulfur, when ingested, can strengthen the flesh and increase vital energy,” another countered, citing classical authority.

“And many texts record that lingzhi is an immortal herb—consume it over time and one may extend life and years,” yet another added. “We should issue orders throughout the realm to collect lingzhi, snow lotus, and the like, to prepare elixirs for His Majesty.”

Remove AdsThis proposal earned the approval of many physicians.

“Absurd! Utter nonsense!” the young physician shouted in rebuttal. “Mercury comes from cinnabar—it is water-silver, a substance of great toxicity. It must not be taken internally, and is especially forbidden for pregnant women. Sulfur comes from mineral deposits; it is acidic, warm, and toxic, entering the kidney and large intestine meridians. Taken internally, it often causes severe diarrhea—highly contraindicated. As for lingzhi, it is rare, enhances wisdom, improves complexion, and serves as a medicinal agent for beauty, detoxification, and internal regulation—but where is the claim that it prolongs life? And to collect such things nationwide would only exhaust the people’s strength. Why invite such suffering?”

“Li-surnamed fellow, what do you know?” several physicians retorted at once. “These are recorded in the classics—words handed down by our ancestors!”

“Classics, classics, classics!” the young physician grew heated. “The classics are riddled with omissions and even errors. Since the Song dynasty, medicinal substances have steadily increased. For His Majesty’s sake, and for the common people’s sake, we should revise the Materia Medica, remove mistakes and correct errors, and conduct real, on-the-ground investigation—”

“Enough, Li-surnamed fellow, there you go again. You’re an imperial physician, not a Hanlin scholar. What do you know about compiling books? Focus on studying your prescriptions—that’s what matters!”

Listening to the argument from the Imperial Medical Academy, Zhu Ping’an suddenly fell into thought. Materia Medica. Revising texts. Surname Li. Wait—could that young physician be Li Shizhen? A legendary medical sage of later generations. If so, he must find a chance to get to know him well. Befriending Li Shizhen would be like gaining an extra talisman to preserve one’s life.

As time passed, several wine jars on the table were emptied. Though Zhu Ping’an had deliberately restrained himself and drank far less than the others, his tolerance was low. In the end, he still drank too much.

At banquets in ancient times, composing poetry was common—how much more so at a Hanlin Academy feast. No one knew who proposed it, nor exactly why, but soon the scholars all took up their brushes, composing poems to commemorate this welcoming banquet.

Yuan Wei took the lead. While the others were still pondering and polishing their lines, he swept his brush across the page in one go. The poem’s language and meaning were both exquisite, drawing loud applause from the crowd.

The poems by Zhang Juzheng and the others were also excellent.

Yet the most eye-catching piece of the evening was the poem written by a thoroughly tipsy Zhu Ping’an:

Chopped-pepper fish head, roast duck;

Sweet-and-sour ribs, paired prawns;

Boiled pork slices, phoenix claws;

Meat skewers, chicken frames;

Stir-fried bean sprouts with fatty intestines.

The poem was composed entirely of dish names—and all of them were dishes on that very table. It truly was a poem written to commemorate the banquet itself.

“Heh heh heh—Zihou, that’s fitting indeed,” the crowd laughed.

Zhu Ping’an’s Tianjingsha quickly spread. Before long, it reached the Jiajing Emperor’s table. With his secret police and eunuch agents monitoring the realm, the emperor knew exactly what his ministers ate at their evening banquets. Naturally, this welcoming feast at the Hanlin Academy had been observed as well.

Remove Ads“Heh, interesting,” the Jiajing Emperor chuckled after reading it. “First time I’ve ever read a lyric that makes one this hungry. Huang Ban, tomorrow prepare a table like this for me.”

“Why wait until tomorrow?” Huang Jin replied promptly. “This servant will have the Imperial Kitchen prepare it at once.”

At that moment, Huang Jin’s favorable impression of Zhu Ping’an deepened even further. In recent days, after taking elixirs, the emperor’s appetite had waned, leaving Huang Jin anxious beyond measure. Now, seeing the emperor’s appetite awakened, the knot in his throat finally loosened, and his long-held worry was at last set down.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep