Chapter 410: Shenanigans

Huang Jin, who had come to deliver the note, was not the least bit surprised at how effortlessly Yuan Wei completed his task. Yuan Wei had always been quick-witted; in the past, whenever the emperor sent a late-night missive requesting a brief poem, Yuan Wei would pick up his brush and compose it in one fluid motion—always to the emperor’s great delight.

Now, seeing him finish with the same ease, Huang Jin’s face lit up with a satisfied expression. He stepped closer to admire Yuan Wei’s work.

The characters seemed to dance across the paper like dragons and snakes, vigorous and commanding, written in one seamless flow. The calligraphy was masterful, and the poetic phrasing exquisite—each line practically sparkling with literary brilliance. Yet, while the work was undeniably excellent in skill and artistry, it lacked a certain visceral appeal; it stirred the mind but barely tempted the appetite. What a pity.

“Your Grace has taken great care,” Huang Jin said, keeping his expression neutral, giving Yuan Wei a subtle nod.

Receiving Huang Jin’s quiet praise, Yuan Wei’s pride deepened visibly. He raised his chin by at least forty degrees, as if to physically lift his superiority above everyone else.

Once Yuan Wei set down his brush, the others began to write as well. The next to finish was Li Chunfang. Like Yuan Wei, Li Chunfang had often composed poetic responses for Emperor Jiajing. During these days in the Hanlin Academy, his poetic skill had grown even stronger:

Fresh bamboo shoots from the outskirts of the capital, paired with shad,
Boiled slowly as the spring wind breezes in March.
Only perch and water shieldweed truly delight,
Even immortals would pause to savor the fish.

Compared to Yuan Wei, Huang Jin’s expression softened slightly as he read Li Chunfang’s poem. It was flavorful—just enough to tempt the appetite—but still, only just. It did not fully awaken one’s hunger. A pity, indeed.

“Your Grace has taken great care,” Huang Jin said again, nodding subtly, hiding any deeper judgment.

As Li Chunfang finished, the remaining scholars slowly completed their compositions. Zhang Juzheng and Zhang Siwei each produced poems of their own.

Zhang Juzheng’s work was unquestionably of the highest caliber:

The Dragon King knows the fish are fine,
The mountain spirits sense the fragrance of bamboo shoots.
Sweet wine fills a white jade cup,
Even half a sip leaves lingering pleasure.

Zhang Siwei did not disappoint either, immediately following with a poem of similar quality.

All the Hanlin scholars present had now produced their pieces, save for one: Zhu Ping’an. A top scholar and champion, he still had not lifted his brush. All eyes inevitably turned toward him.

Could it be that the number-one scholar, faced with the emperor’s prompt for the first time, was stumped?

Huang Jin’s gaze, too, settled on Zhu Ping’an. If there was anyone in whom he had high expectations, it was Zhu Ping’an. It had been Zhu Ping’an’s playful poem at the banquet the previous night that had earned the emperor two extra bowls of rice.

When Zhu Ping’an first saw the emperor’s small note, his mind had immediately leapt to the “food poems” he had seen in the modern world—those whimsical, appetite-inducing creations. His joke poem from last night had been one such inspiration, something he had encountered online. Back in the modern era, seeing those poems had made his stomach rumble; they were more appetizing than even watching A Bite of China. Instant noodles? He’d happily skip the chili sauce—it would be that good.

But there was a catch. Could such humor be acceptable here, in this era? And more importantly, would it suit the taste of the most powerful man in the world?

“Why hasn’t the top scholar begun?” Huang Jin asked.

“May I ask, Sir Huang, are there any restrictions for the poem?” Zhu Ping’an replied, bowing slightly as he posed a question rather than answering.

“No restrictions,” Huang Jin said, shaking his head. “Just make it appetizing. Write whatever comes to mind.”

There was a hidden nuance in his words—but Zhu Ping’an liked it. A subtle nod later, and Zhu Ping’an had already formed his plan. If he wrote conventionally, he could never match Yuan Wei, Li Chunfang, or Zhang Juzheng in literary flair. Frankly, their poetry, however brilliant, stirred little appetite.

He reminded himself: Emperor Jiajing lacked appetite and needed stimulation to awaken it. Literary style mattered little; Huang Jin had confirmed as much. Even if the verse fell flat, a few smiles might be the only consequence. That alone could please the emperor.

Status? Pfft. Worth the hassle? Not really.

With clarity in mind, Zhu Ping’an’s lips curved in a faint, mischievous smile. He picked up his brush, soaked it fully in ink, and poised himself over the paper.

All eyes fixed on the brush, ink glistening ominously at its tip.

The initial motion was impressive—confident and steady—but then he paused. The brush hovered over the page, unmoving.

What on earth was he doing?

Had he frozen from nerves? The other scholars’ gazes sharpened, Yuan Wei’s expression now tinged with contempt.

“Ah…pardon the interruption, Sir Huang,” Zhu Ping’an began, voice calm after a brief pause. “Might I inquire what dishes the imperial kitchen intends to present to His Majesty today? I would not wish to disrupt the emperor’s meal arrangements.”

Zhang Juzheng’s eyes widened slightly. Clever—how had he not considered this perspective? The others seemed to feel the same.

“The emperor has recently fasted and eaten vegetarian for quite some time. The kitchen plans to prepare more meat to replenish his qi and blood,” Huang Jin explained. His gaze softened with approval, clearly impressed by Zhu Ping’an’s attentiveness. A minister who considered the emperor’s needs, rather than simply fulfilling a task, was the kind the emperor valued.

Ah—more meat, then.

Nodding, Zhu Ping’an began writing, the brush moving with elegant flourish, each stroke flowing naturally:

Without bamboo, one becomes mundane;
Without meat, one grows thin.
Neither mundane nor thin—bamboo shoots braised with pork.

Initially, the others were struck by Zhu Ping’an’s exceptional calligraphy, truly the finest in the Hanlin Academy. But as they read the lines, their surprise deepened. A “playful poem,” but refined and sophisticated. Zhu Ping’an had adapted Su Shi’s famous verse: Better to live without meat than dwell without bamboo. He borrowed the lines, then reimagined them, crafting a complete, appetite-inducing poem.

Setting aside literary merit, the poem made one desperately crave the dish it described—bamboo shoots braised with pork, neither mundane nor lean.

Of course, compared to the scholarly finesse of Yuan Wei or Li Chunfang, Zhu Ping’an’s poetry could not compete. This is a poem? Some glances carried disdain.

“Actually,” Zhu Ping’an admitted with a shy smile, “I love food. Sometimes, reading classical poems makes me think of dishes, so I try to make interesting lines…like this.” He then wrote for everyone to see:

An old friend departs from Yellow Crane Tower, traveling a thousand miles to buy fish heads!
You ask when I’ll return—no answer yet; braised eggplant and oil-braised chicken await.
Having seen the vast seas, no other waters suffice; fish-flavored shredded pork with chicken drumsticks.
Meeting is hard, parting is harder; steam the crab, but don’t add salt.

The room erupted in a mix of astonishment, mutters, and giggles. If the first poem could still be called a poem, these lines were beyond categorization. A playful poem? Even that felt generous.

You ask when I’ll return—no answer yet; braised eggplant and oil-braised chicken… What on earth was this?