Volume One: The Young Monk Returns to the Secular World Chapter 83: Mid-Autumn Festival (Part Five)

“Yes, Miss Zhu makes a good point. I don’t think there’s any need for us to go over,” someone echoed her words.

“Haha, in that case, let’s continue,” Sun Li-min replied with a smile and a nod.

The others nodded in agreement.

…

Yet, as Qin Xuanxuan turned her head slightly, her brows furrowed, for she spotted a figure she knew all too well.

It was a familiar bald head, clad in outrageously colorful clothes—nothing at all like a proper monk.

“Hm?” Qin Xuanxuan stared at the shore in confusion, her gaze sharpening.

But the distance was great, so she couldn’t see clearly, and the bald man was surrounded by a crowd, who seemed to be pointing at him and cursing.

“Xuanxuan?”

Just then, Zhu Wenting gently nudged her, reminding, “Young Master Sun is calling you…”

“Ah?” Only then did Qin Xuanxuan realize Sun Li-min was indeed looking her way.

“What do you think of this poem, Miss Qin?” Sun Li-min, courteous as ever, pointed to the freshly written verse on the table.

“Oh, it’s good,” Qin Xuanxuan replied without even glancing, then turned her eyes back to the shore.

“Well…” Sun Li-min was a little embarrassed, but managed a wry smile and shook his head.

“Xuanxuan, what’s wrong? Is there someone you know over there?” Zhu Wenting asked, puzzled.

As she spoke, she also glanced at the shore, but the little monk’s figure was already gone.

“Hey… don’t run…” Qin Xuanxuan watched the bald head vanish down the street, reaching out anxiously and calling after him.

Under the bewildered gaze of the others, she summoned a small boat and hurried toward the shore.

The people left in the pleasure barge were dumbfounded; the most awkward among them was Sun Li-min. Usually, when he composed poems for a lady as the famed scholar of Jinshan, which woman was not overwhelmed with gratitude?

He’d used this tactic countless times, each ending with admiration and affection…

“What’s going on with Miss Qin?” someone wondered aloud.

“Hmph, such an ill-mannered young woman—never mind her. Let’s continue and not let the uncultured disrupt our gathering,” Zhao Qianming said, shaking his head.

“Yes, Young Master Zhao is right…”

“Truly ungrateful…” murmured Zhu Wenting, but soon her eyes brightened, gossip stirring within her. She whispered conspiratorially, “But perhaps it’s not her fault. Has anyone heard about Xuanxuan’s engagement? I hear it’s to a monk… Maybe she’s already renounced worldly desires and plans to become a nun, so she and that monk can spend their lives together…”

“Haha… Miss Zhu, you do have a way with words…” Sun Li-min gave Zhu Wenting a look of approval.

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“No wonder, hahahaha… Such a fine young lady… what a shame…” The others laughed along.

“Let’s not speak rashly of others,” the white-haired elder interjected, displeased, putting a stop to the conversation.

On the pleasure barge, the white-haired elder held the highest standing and was the most learned; his words were heeded without question.

But noise began to rise from the shore. The paper that had been circulating there was now being brought toward the barge.

“Master, please look at this…” A servant approached, carrying a sheet of rice paper.

“Don’t be reckless,” Zhao Qianming frowned and scolded.

“No, Master, I have a poem here—it’s rather odd…” The servant handed over the rice paper with both hands.

“Leave it for now. I don’t wish to look at others' work yet. Let’s first appreciate Young Master Sun’s poem,” said Zhao Qianming, waving his hand.

After Qin Xuanxuan’s abrupt departure, the atmosphere had soured; the best remedy was to focus on Sun Li-min’s verse and restore the mood.

“But…”

The servant persisted, but Zhao Qianming had already moved to the table.

The white-haired elder also slowly made his way over to critique the poem. His praise could make one famous overnight.

Yet the night wind was strong; the servant struggled to hold the paper, and it fluttered away, landing right on the elder’s table and covering Sun Li-min’s poem.

“Hmm…” The elder frowned, and upon seeing the contents, his brows knitted even tighter.

“What’s this?” Zhao Qianming rushed over to remove the sheet.

“Wait… let’s look at this first,” the elder commanded.

“Yes, teacher,” Zhao Qianming replied, hand half-extended, awkwardly pulling back.

The others gathered around as well.

On the rice paper were lines written in an atrocious hand.

“These… these characters…” someone frowned and asked, “Was this written by a toddler? How could such a thing be shown to the teacher?”

“Indeed… Young Master Zhao, your servant is too bold…”

…

The servant’s face changed, and he hurried to explain, “No, this poem has been spreading on the shore… I can’t judge its quality, but it’s certainly unusual… Young Master instructed me to bring over any good poems, and besides, they say it was written by a monk…”

“What can a monk possibly compose?”

“He’s no ordinary monk…” the servant insisted, though he didn’t know how to describe this monk—he was simply unique.

“Wait, another monk?” Zhu Wenting frowned, recalling Qin Xuanxuan’s earlier words.

Actually… he could write poetry too, though his handwriting was ugly, the verses themselves were not bad.

The writing truly was hideous, but could it be? Such a coincidence?

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Zhu Wenting’s frown deepened, remembering that Qin Xuanxuan had just said the monk’s name was… Xiao Yan?

Impossible… How could a monk write poetry?

She quickly dismissed her absurd suspicion.

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. We should read the poem first…” the white-haired elder said, brows knitted.

“Yes, teacher…”

The group finally began to read the poem with care.

Zhu Wenting was particularly attentive—she needed to confirm her suspicions.

The handwriting was indeed dreadful, crooked and messy, but with effort, it could be deciphered.

“This… this is a lyric poem…”

As they read, their expressions grew increasingly strange.

A gentle breeze swept across the lake, setting the lanterns swaying and casting everyone’s faces in shifting light.

The servant who had brought the paper was anxious; if the poem was poor, he’d surely be punished… It was a rash act, but the people on the shore had reacted very differently when they saw the poem.

He knew little of poetry, but was confident in reading faces.

There were many onlookers, some standing at the back unable to see the text, growing impatient.

“Should someone read it aloud? What does it say?”

Another called out, “Yes, since it’s a poetry gathering, read it aloud—even if it’s bad, it’ll serve as a cautionary tale.”

…

Yet the crowd was silent, as if entranced, staring at the sheet.

Even the white-haired elder was lost in contemplation, his expression shifting.

Finally, after a moment, their gazes broke away, faces complicated.

“Well? How is the poem?”

Those who hadn’t seen the text grew all the more curious, calling out impatiently.

“I can’t say for certain. Let me read it aloud… and we’ll judge together…”

The elder picked up the rice paper, his brows furrowing.

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