The Great Song Dynasty's Soul-Forging in Progress

On the tenth day of the twelfth lunar month, in Chenzhou City.

As the year draws to a close, the ancient city of Huaiyang seems to have been activated by an invisible hand, triggering a bustling atmosphere. Before the morning mist has even dissipated, a dense crowd has already surged into the city gates—farmers pushing wheelbarrows loaded with cabbages, radishes, and pigs for the New Year; peddlers carrying loads on shoulder poles, one end of which is steaming hot and sour soup, the other freshly baked sesame cakes; and then there are caravans from Yingchang Prefecture, Caizhou, and even Bianjing, their mules and horses neighing, bells jingling, leaving deep ruts on the bluestone slabs.

Although Chenzhou is not directly connected to the Bian River, the Ying River connects to Cai, and the Cai River flows into the Bian River, making its waterways as busy as those of the surrounding prefectures. At this moment, a thin layer of ice covers the river, but it cannot freeze the bustling activity at the water gates. Grain ships and cargo ships are packed together, and boatmen, shirtless, shout in unison, unload sacks of white rice, bundles of Huai salt, and boxes of Ru porcelain. The riverside inns have already displayed signs for "New Year's Wine and New Bamboo Shoots," and the aroma of warmed wine mingles with the smells of mutton soup and scallion pancakes, condensing into white mist in the cold air, making one's stomach rumble.

The shops along the street displayed their best New Year's goods as if in a competition. In the silk shops, Song brocade from Hangzhou and kesi tapestry from Sichuan were piled up like small mountains, and the shopkeepers were busy greeting families preparing dowries. In front of the paper-craft shops, there were mounds of spirit houses, carriages, horses, servants, and other items for ancestral worship. In the bookstores, door gods, kitchen gods, and New Year's couplets were stacked up to the rafters, and several scholars were arguing about the auspiciousness of the leap month next year around a newly arrived calendar.

The liveliest place was the entertainment district south of Zhouqiao Bridge. Although it was winter, the brothels were bustling with activity. Storytellers struck their gavels, recounting the history of the Five Dynasties; acrobats swallowed knives and breathed fire, winning cheers from the audience; and itinerant doctors selling medicine beat drums and gongs, exaggerating the miraculous effects of their "Ten-Ingredient Tonic Pill." The teahouses were packed with people, copper kettles bubbling as they boiled water, and tea servers, carrying long-spouted teapots, moved among the tables and chairs, their wrists flicking as a silver thread fell into a bowl without a drop spilling.

As the sun rises higher, the courtyards deep in the alleys become lively. Butchers carry half a piece of pork to each door, and cooks in aprons haggle over prices; barbers carry their loads and set up their stalls at the alley entrances, waiting for those who want a "shaved face and clean hair" for the New Year; and there are also peddlers who travel from street to street, shaking their rattles and selling rouge, face powder, needles and thread, catering specifically to women's businesses.

The market in front of Fuxi Mausoleum reached its peak. It mainly sold local farm produce: bright red dates, golden persimmons, dark smoked bacon, and dried pheasants and rabbits. An old man squatted on the ground, several strings of candied hawthorns in front of him. The hawthorns were pitted, filled with red bean paste, and coated with a thin, crisp, and translucent sugar coating, attracting several children who circled around them, their eyes fixed longingly on their mothers.

Smoke rose from every chimney. The smoke mingled with the aromas of fried meatballs, steamed buns, and stewed meat, weaving an invisible net over the city and capturing the hopes of every household.

In taverns, people play drinking games; in gambling dens, people shout "one" and "six"; at banquets in wealthy households, courtesans play the pipa and sing a song called "He Xinlang".

This is Chenzhou on the tenth day of the twelfth lunar month. This ancient city with a history of thousands of years, an important town in Huaiyang, is using the most worldly prosperity and the most lively fireworks to make the most grand preparations for the upcoming Spring Festival at the threshold of the year's end.

Wang Zhonghua and his entourage entered the city in a small entourage. After settling in, Wang Zhonghua, along with Qin Tiehua, Liu Xinyi, Du Ziteng, and others, strolled to the famous Xiange Lake.

On the lakeside in winter, the bare branches of the willows create a unique, desolate beauty. On the island in the middle of the lake, the String and Song Terrace stands quietly, said to be the place where Confucius played music and sang continuously when he was trapped in Chen and Cai.

Standing on the platform, gazing at the vast, misty lake, Wang Zhonghua recalled his various experiences since his transmigration, and suddenly felt a surge of emotion. He stood with his hands behind his back, facing the biting lake wind, and began to recite aloud, his clear voice piercing the cold wind:

"I am a carefree wanderer from the mountains and rivers of Qingdu, ordained by Heaven to be unrestrained and wild."

He once granted rain and wind permits, and repeatedly borrowed moonlight from clouds.

Ten thousand poems, a thousand cups of wine, how often have I ever paid attention to princes and kings?

"I'd rather not return to the golden palaces and jade towers, than get drunk in Luoyang with plum blossoms in my hair!"

After reciting the poem, a surge of heroic spirit arose within him. Qin Tiehua listened with admiration, her beautiful eyes sparkling, feeling as if all the pent-up emotions in her heart had vanished. Liu Xinyi also nodded slightly, feeling that the poem's artistic conception was lofty and far surpassed the ordinary works of literati who merely sang of the wind and moon.

"Excellent! What a powerful statement, 'How could I ever deign to look upon princes and kings!' What a bold statement!"

Suddenly, a deep, resonant voice of praise came from behind me.

Everyone turned around and saw an elderly man in a blue robe standing not far away. The old man had white hair and beard, a thin face, and gentle yet profound eyes, as if they contained endless wisdom. He held a bamboo cane, dressed simply, yet possessed an extraordinary air, and was accompanied only by a taciturn page.

Wang Zhonghua quickly bowed and said, "You flatter me, sir. I was just speaking offhand and have made a fool of myself in front of you."

The old man slowly approached, looking Wang Zhonghua up and down with a mixture of scrutiny and admiration in his eyes: "Young man, did you write these lyrics?"

Wang Zhonghua hesitated for a moment. This was certainly not his work; it was a poem by Zhu Dunru of the Southern Song Dynasty. But Zhu Dunru hadn't even been born yet. If he told the truth, it would only make things more difficult to explain.

"It was... something I wrote haphazardly in my spare time," he admitted, forcing himself to admit it.

The old man nodded, not asking any further questions, but simply murmured, "'Never once did I pay attention to princes and kings'... Heh, young man, it's easy to say, but not so easy to do."

As he spoke, Wang Zhonghua noticed a detail—the old man squinted slightly, his gaze somewhat unfocused when he looked at people, as if he was trying to focus but always missed a little. Moreover, his face was flushed, and although it was the cold winter, there were fine beads of sweat on his forehead, and his breathing was slightly more rapid than usual.

"What the old gentleman says is true." Wang Zhonghua followed his words. "I am just a young man who is not afraid of tigers. If I were to actually stand in front of a prince, I would probably be too scared to move."

The old man was amused by him, but as he laughed, he suddenly coughed. The cough was hollow and rapid, carrying a burning sensation of rising internal heat. The pageboy quickly stepped forward and handed him a gourd-shaped water jug. The old man took it, tilted his head back and drank a few mouthfuls, which calmed him down.

Wang Zhonghua saw this and already had some ideas in mind.

"Is the old gentleman also here for a boat trip on the lake?" he asked.

The old man waved his hand: "Boating on the lake? I'm here to escape to a quiet place." He pointed to the String and Song Terrace, "This place is wonderful. Back then, when Confucius was in distress in Chen and Cai, his string and song never ceased. I'm also in a 'distress' situation now, so I've come to bask in the glory of the sage."

These words, spoken in a self-deprecating tone, carried a deep sense of melancholy.

Wang Zhonghua's heart stirred, and he cupped his hands in greeting, saying, "May I be so bold as to ask your esteemed name, sir?"

The old man glanced at him, remained silent for a moment, and then slowly said, "I am Ouyang Yongshu from Luling."

Ouyang Xiu!

"...Who is the prefect? ​​It is Ouyang Xiu of Luling." As an amateur writer, Wang Zhonghua knows "The Story of the Drunken Pavilion" by heart.

Wang Zhonghua was startled. Although he had a premonition, hearing the name still made his heart race. The seemingly down-on-his-luck old man before him was none other than Ouyang Xiu, the leader of the Northern Song Dynasty literary world and a master of prose for all time!

But he remembered that Ouyang Xiu should be...

Wang Zhonghua quickly searched his memory. In the fifth year of the Qingli reign, Ouyang Xiu was framed by his political enemies because of his niece Zhang's case and was sent to Chuzhou as prefect; in the eighth year of the Qingli reign, he was transferred to Yangzhou as prefect; in the first year of the Huangyou reign, he returned to Yingzhou to observe mourning for his mother, Lady Zheng. Calculating it up, he was currently in the period of mourning, and according to custom, he was in mourning and could not participate in court affairs, attend banquets or entertainment; he could only stay at home, reading and writing.

No wonder he appeared in Chenzhou—Yingzhou is not far from Chenzhou, and the Xiange Terrace is a sacred place of Confucianism. It is reasonable for him to come here to relax and relieve his worries.

However, the Ouyang Xiu before him was far from the "Drunken Old Man" that Wang Zhonghua had imagined. He had thought he would see a romantic, unrestrained, and magnanimous scholar, but the Ouyang Xiu before him was old, sickly, and with an unyielding sorrow in his eyes. He was clearly an old man who was exhausted by political setbacks and the pain of losing his mother.

"So it's Mr. Ouyang!" Wang Zhonghua quickly bowed deeply. "I have long admired your name, and it is my great honor to meet you today!"

Ouyang Xiu waved his hand: "What great name? Just an old geezer who was banished from the court." He looked Wang Zhonghua up and down, "Young man, in your poem just now you said 'ten thousand poems, a thousand cups of wine,' I thought the same when I was young. But now..." He gave a bitter smile, pointed to his eyes, "I can't drink wine anymore, and I can't write poetry anymore. These eyes of mine can barely read."

Qin Tiehua, who was listening nearby, couldn't help but interject, "Is the old gentleman's eye not good?"