The Great Song Dynasty: You were put in charge of teaching, and you produced a whole bunch of prime

There was an indescribable smell in the air of Runzhou Academy.

It was the fresh scent of cheap ink, mixed with the salty, fishy smell of someone who had stayed up all night, and the steam rising from the three boys.

Day 20 of seclusion.

When Su Shi, Zeng Gong, and Su Zhe, all with dark circles under their eyes, neatly placed their final, meticulously crafted eight-legged essays on the table, Jiang Lin merely glanced at them indifferently.

"The structure is stable, the logic is sound, and the problem-solving is quite accurate."

He casually pushed the thick stack of papers aside, his tone as calm as if he were discussing what to have for dinner: "You've passed the first hurdle, the 'technique' level."

The three of them breathed a sigh of relief, their nerves, which had been tense for twenty days, finally relaxing. Just as they were about to slump into their chairs and rub their sore wrists, Jiang Lin's next words came down like a whip.

"Don't relax just yet. The eight-legged essay is just a stepping stone, it can only guarantee that you won't be rejected by the examiners. But if you really want to stand out, or even... make the examiners slam their fists on the table while grading your papers, you need a killer weapon."

Jiang Lin stood up, walked to the bookshelf, and gently tapped the row of yellowed poetry collections with his fingers.

"That is—poetry."

Upon hearing these two words, Su Shi's previously listless eyes suddenly lit up, like a hungry wolf seeing meat.

If the eight-legged essay was like dancing in shackles, making him feel uncomfortable, then poetry was his comfort zone, even his domain!

"Sir!" Su Shi perked up, disregarding his image, and pulled a crumpled piece of Xuan paper from his robes, his face beaming with pride. "This is a seven-character quatrain I wrote before leaving home. The old master in Meishan said it has great talent. Could you please take a look?"

Jiang Lin took the paper and glanced at it.

Indeed, there is talent in it. The language is ornate, the imagery is abundant, and although it is slightly immature, one can already see that extraordinary talent. If it were placed in the Runzhou County Examination, it would have no problem getting one of the top places.

"good."

Jiang Lin put down the paper and gave only a two-word evaluation.

Su Shi was stunned. His expectant face instantly fell, and he even became a little agitated: "Sir, I spent three days pondering this before I wrote it! Even the old master of Meishan said it was an excellent work, so how come you only call it 'acceptable'?"

Jiang Lin laughed when he saw his defiant look.

"Zizhan, do you know that poetry has three realms?"

Su Shi was taken aback, then cupped his hands and said, "I would like to hear the details."

Jiang Lin held up one finger: "The first level is ornate language and perfect parallelism. That's called craftsmanship. Anyone who has studied for a few years and memorized a few rhyme books can do that."

He then held up a second finger: "The second level is the fusion of emotion and scenery, with substance in the writing. That's what makes a poet, someone who can move readers to a ripple in their heart and make them exclaim, 'Well written!'"

Finally, he extended his third finger, his gaze suddenly becoming profound, as if piercing through time and space to look towards that future filled with dazzling stars.

"The third level—a single sentence, passed down through the ages. Even after a thousand or ten thousand years, even after dynasties change and the world changes, as long as someone reads this poem, they will still shed tears, their heart will still tremble, and they will still feel that this poem is etched into their very bones. This is called—the Sage of Poetry!"

Su Shi opened his mouth, his initial resentment turning into a wry smile: "Sir, your standards are too high. That's for the likes of Li Bai and Du Fu; we mere mortals..."

"Ordinary people?"

Jiang Lin suddenly interrupted him, his voice carrying an undeniable certainty.

"In my eyes, you have never been ordinary people."

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. The vast library of ten thousand volumes in his mind was activated again, and countless golden words flowed rapidly before his eyes.

A timeless masterpiece, powerful enough to illuminate the entire starry sky of Song Dynasty poetry and leave countless poets in despair, slowly emerges.

Jiang Lin suddenly opened his eyes, walked to the desk, picked up the wolf-hair brush, and dipped it in thick ink.

"Watch closely."

He didn't look at Su Shi, nor at anyone else; he just stared at the blank sheet of Xuan paper, his wrist suspended in the air, his brush moving like dragons and snakes.

When will the moon be clear and bright? I raise my cup to ask the heavens.

I wonder what year it is tonight in the celestial palace...

As each character in ink fell, the air in the lecture hall seemed to freeze.

Su Shi had only come closer out of curiosity, but when he saw the first sentence, his breath caught in his throat.

That starting stance... what a grand gesture! It's as if he's standing directly in the heavens, conversing with the gods!

Immediately afterwards, Jiang Lin continued writing, his brush moving like flowing clouds and running water, completing the work in one go.

People have sorrows and sorrows and joys, and moons have yin and qing, which is difficult to complete.

Upon seeing this line, Zeng Gong's hands began to tremble. This wasn't just writing lyrics; it was using the most common words to express the most extreme helplessness and profound understanding of human existence!

Finally, Jiang Lin flicked his wrist and wrote down those two concluding lines that would haunt the dreams of countless people throughout the ages—

Nung, moon and new moon.

"Snapped!"

Jiang Lin slammed the pen to the ground, the ink splashing out like exploding fireworks.

Dead silence.

The only sound in the entire lecture hall was heavy breathing.

Su Shi stared intently at the paper, his eyes red-rimmed, his body trembling uncontrollably.

The feeling was so strange. Every word in this poem seemed to be ingrained in the depths of his soul, as if... it was written by him himself, only to be awakened prematurely by some force and extracted from his very being.

"This...this..." Su Shi trembled as he reached out, wanting to touch the paper, yet he dared not, for fear of shattering this dream. "Sir, this...this really was written by you?"

Zeng Gong took a deep breath, feeling a chill run down his spine: "If this poem is uttered, all other poems will be rendered useless! This is not just poetry, this is... this is a miracle!"

Even the usually composed Su Zhe stared wide-eyed at Jiang Lin, looking at him as if he were a god.

Jiang Lin stood with his hands behind his back, looking at the three teenagers who were completely stunned, and silently apologized to Su Dongpo in his heart: I'm sorry, future you, I'm borrowing your light to illuminate the present you.

"Last night in my dream, an old man with white hair told me that these are the lyrics you will write in the future."

Jiang Lin activated his charlatan mode, his voice deep and seductive.

"Zizhan, I have discerning eyes. I know you are no ordinary people; you are destined to illuminate the sky of this great Song Dynasty. This poem was originally yours; I am simply presenting it ahead of time for your future self."

Su Shi shuddered and knelt down again with a thud. This time, it wasn't because of the bet, nor because of awe, but because he was struck hard on the knees by a tremendous sense of destiny.

"The student...has learned a lot!"

Jiang Lin didn't help him up, but turned around and picked up his pen again.

Feeding mode is now officially open.

The grand and majestic style of "Nian Nu Jiao: Reminiscences of Chibi" is dedicated to Su Shi.

Several profound policy outlines were written for Su Zhe.

Several ancient and desolate classical-style poems were written for Zeng Gong.

"Remember this 'spirit'." Jiang Lin slapped sheets of paper filled with writing in front of them. "I don't expect you to be able to write something like this right now, but I do expect that—even if you only imitate three-tenths of its essence, it will be enough to crush those so-called talented people under your feet!"

Late at night, the lights in the academy finally went out.

Meanwhile, in Runzhou City, the Wang Family Academy was brightly lit.

Wang Dehou looked at the intelligence report brought to him by his subordinates and sneered:

"Is Jiang Lin still in seclusion? He's been in seclusion for twenty days. I bet he's crying his eyes out inside."

The steward fawned, "Master, the Chang Le Gambling House has already raised the odds to 1 to 100! The whole city is waiting to see Jiang Lin make a fool of himself."

"Hmph." Wang Dehou picked up his teacup, blew away the foam, and his eyes were full of disdain. "Let them hide for a few more days. On the day of the county examination, I want to see what kind of rubbish those three peasants can write!"

What he didn't know was—

The poem those three "peasants" had just memorized was called "Prelude to Water Melody".

The article that those three "useless" people just studied will later be included in the "Collected Works of the Eight Great Masters of Tang and Song Dynasties".

In the examination hall ten days later, they will let the whole of Runzhou know what the light of a firefly is, daring not to compete with the bright moon!