Ye Chutang watched as Ye Anzhi’s face turned deathly pale, the corners of her lips curling in amusement.

Didn’t Kong Ru insist that the firstborn son must come from her own womb?

She couldn’t wait to see the expression on Kong Ru’s face when she learned that the firstborn son, in order to save his own life, would have to kill her.

“There’s only one antidote left. Will you live, or will Kong Ru?”

After tossing this life-or-death question to Ye Anzhi, Ye Chutang left the Minister’s Mansion and headed for the Poetry Pavilion.

Strike while the iron is hot.

She intended to climb to the pinnacle of the literary circle, commanding respect with a single word.

From then on, anyone who dared to move against her would have to weigh the consequences of angering scholars and students across the land.

On the way, Ye Chutang overheard commoners discussing “the demonic priest who will bring ruin to the kingdom” and “the eighteen layers of hell.”

“The eighteen layers of hell have descended upon the mortal realm! That demonic priest deceived the emperor—he deserves to be torn apart by five horses!”

“The pursuit of immortality is nonsense. Now that divine signs have appeared, surely the emperor will awaken.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure…”

No sooner had the skeptical voice spoken than someone came running from the direction of the palace, shouting.

“Court has adjourned! Rumor has it the emperor not only spared Heavenly Master Zhang but also ordered the second prince to clear his name!”

The crowd erupted in disbelief.

“You must have misheard! Heaven itself has given us a warning—how could the emperor possibly protect that demonic priest?”

“Exactly! The fate of the kingdom is at stake. Even if the emperor is foolish… he wouldn’t…”

The man who had brought the news pointed toward the city gates.

“A royal decree has been posted! The ‘Ghost Thief’ not only stole from the imperial kitchens but also framed Heavenly Master Zhang as a demonic priest. Anyone who captures him will be rewarded with ten thousand taels of gold!”

“Ten… ten thousand taels? Is that true?”

“Of course it is! The decree is already up at the city gates.”

Hearing this, Ye Chutang felt a pang of disappointment.

She had spent half an hour last night working hard, thinking she could use the emperor’s hand to eliminate the demonic priest. Now, it seemed her efforts had been in vain.

But no matter. If the foolish emperor had money to spare, she would simply pay the imperial treasury a visit tonight.

Arriving at the Poetry Pavilion, a young attendant greeted her respectfully.

“Miss Ye, our dean wishes to meet you. Would you be available?”

The dean of Huating Academy was not someone just anyone could meet.

For him to seek her out personally was a recognition of her talent—an opportunity to forge a valuable connection.

This was a shortcut to fame, and Ye Chutang had no intention of refusing.

“Of course. But first, I’d like to attempt today’s challenge.”

“Miss Ye, this way.”

Today’s challenge at the Poetry Pavilion was unusual: compose a line of poetry related to the livelihood of the people.

Ye Chutang picked up a brush and wrote:

“Behind the vermilion gates, wine and meat rot;

On the road, bones of the frozen lie forgotten.”

[Note: From Du Fu’s Reflections on My Journey from the Capital to Fengxian]

She had initially considered writing a poem satirizing the Second Emperor of Qin, who was manipulated by Zhao Gao, but decided against it—too direct a comparison might invite trouble.

Instead of handing her poem to the usual examiner, the attendant kept it in hand and led her to the fifth floor of the Poetry Pavilion.

The fifth floor was dedicated to musical instruments.

As soon as she stepped off the stairs, Ye Chutang heard the ethereal notes of a guqin, reminiscent of High Mountains and Flowing Water.

Curious, she asked, “Are the instruments here available for playing?”

The attendant explained, “Only those who have restored ancient musical scores are permitted to play them. Today, it’s the dean performing.”

“What kind of person is your dean?”

“A great scholar of our time, unmatched in knowledge and refinement. He enjoys befriending others through literature.”

As they spoke, the attendant led Ye Chutang to the qin chamber.

The door was closed, and outside stood a group of literati who appreciated music, murmuring occasional critiques.

Just as the attendant raised his hand to knock, Ye Chutang stopped him.

“No need to rush. Let’s wait until Dean Song finishes.”

The moment her words fell, the music ceased abruptly.

A pleasant male voice called from inside, “Miss Ye, please come in.”

The attendant pushed the door open.

A young man seated directly across from the entrance stood and bowed in a gentlemanly manner.

“Song Jinyu greets Miss Ye.”

The dean of Huating Academy was the eldest son of the prestigious Song family, his given name Zhiyan, courtesy name Jinyu.

Ye Chutang returned the courtesy with a slight curtsy. “This humble girl, Ye Chutang, greets Dean Song.”

“No need for formalities, Miss Ye. Please, come in.”

Ye Chutang stepped inside confidently. The attendant handed her poem to Song Zhiyan before withdrawing and closing the door behind him.

Outside, the gathered scholars tactfully moved away from the chamber.

A maid removed the guqin from the table, while a servant placed a cushion on the floor.

Ye Chutang and Song Zhiyan sat facing each other.

“Dean Song, you wished to see me?”

Song Zhiyan poured her a cup of tea. “Alike. Truly alike.”

Ye Chutang accepted the cup. “Have you met my mother?”

Song Zhiyan shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard of her kindness.”

“Then who do I resemble?”

“My fifth brother, Song Jingning. If you met him, you’d see the resemblance in your eyes and brows.”

It wasn’t just their features—their aura, their temperament, even their personalities were strikingly similar.

Ye Chutang was well aware of Song Jingning’s reputation.

The prodigy of the Song family, he composed poetry at three, debated great scholars at seven, earned nationwide acclaim by ten, and at twelve, left to travel and teach—never returning home since.

Yesterday, whether she was composing poetry, writing calligraphy, solving puzzles, or painting, her skills were inevitably compared to those of Song Jingning, said to be the reincarnation of the God of Literature.

Smiling, she said, “Among countless people in this world, many share similar features. Dean Song, surely you’re not here to play matchmaker for your fifth brother?”

By age, both she and Song Jingning were seventeen—considered well past marriageable age in ancient times.

Prime candidates for pairing!

Seeing her misunderstanding, Song Zhiyan hurried to clarify. “My apologies for the confusion, Miss Ye.”

To make amends, he drained his cup of tea in one go.

Relieved that this wasn’t an attempt at matchmaking, Ye Chutang cut to the chase.

“Dean Song, why did you ask to see me?”

“Miss Ye, your literary talent is exceptional, your knowledge vast, and your insight profound. I wished to seek your guidance.”

“And after seeking guidance?”

Song Zhiyan was taken aback by her perceptiveness.

He answered honestly, “I’d like to invite you to become a female instructor at Huating Academy.”

The Song family had long wanted to establish a school for women but had yet to find a learned and willing female scholar to teach.

Ye Chutang tilted her head. “Why do you think I’d agree?”

Song Zhiyan recited the poem she had just written.

“One who writes such lines must care deeply for the world and wish to change the state of Beichen Kingdom.”

“Surely you don’t believe that producing a few more scholars will uproot the rot at Beichen’s core and revive this dying kingdom?”

“Of course not. But if each person contributes a little, drops will form streams, streams will gather into rivers, and rivers will flow into the sea. One day, the sea may overturn the boat.”

His words were veiled, but Ye Chutang understood.

If the day came when Beichen Kingdom teetered on collapse, the Song family would be willing to push it over—to topple this hopeless world.

“Aren’t you overestimating me?”

She only wanted to live her life well, not play the savior.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep