Chapter 533: Chancellor of the Realm

“Master paints bamboo with a heart that holds ten thousand stalks within it. When inspiration stirs, his brush moves freely—ink flowing in bold, unrestrained strokes—so natural that it seems born of heaven itself. Having read these words, this student wishes only to take a single bamboo from the painting, and fashion from it a fishing rod to cast into the river beneath the clear breeze.”

Zhu Ping’an studied Old Master Sun’s painting of wind-swept bamboo with great care, his gaze lingering over every stroke. The more he looked, the deeper his admiration grew. With only a few simple lines, the old master had captured the very spirit—the unyielding backbone—of bamboo in its fullest expression. Unable to contain his respect, Zhu Ping’an rose to his feet, cupped his hands in a formal salute, and spoke with sincerity.

“To take a single bamboo from the painting, and make of it a fishing rod in the river breeze…”

The line he spoke was adapted from a verse written by Zheng Banqiao upon resigning from office: “I would paint a single slender bamboo branch, and in the autumn wind upon the river, make it my fishing rod.” Yet beyond mere imitation, Zhu Ping’an was moved by the quiet strength and integrity revealed within Old Master Sun’s brushwork.

“Zihou, you exaggerate,” Old Master Sun replied, stroking his beard as he gently shook his head.

“Not at all, Master. This student speaks from the heart.” Zhu Ping’an’s honest, guileless face was filled with earnestness. As he spoke, he raised a hand and gestured toward the bamboo painting spread across the stone table. “The bamboo in your painting stands slender and aloof—its spirit soars boldly into the clouds. It grows clinging to rock, yet is never confined by it. Its joints are expressed through form and color, yet not bound by mere outline. Its character…”

Spirit. Life. Integrity. Character.

These four qualities—these “four essences” of bamboo—were precisely what Old Master Sun had held in his mind while painting. To hear Zhu Ping’an articulate them so completely, without missing a single aspect, struck directly at the depths of the old man’s heart.

Yet Old Master Sun did not reveal it. He merely continued stroking his beard, shaking his head as before. Only the faint change in his gaze betrayed a growing satisfaction as he looked at his student.

“This painting has yet to be inscribed,” he said at last, a small smile forming beneath his beard. “I have pondered it for quite some time, yet no suitable words came to mind. Now that you are here, Zihou, you may as well inscribe it on my behalf. Let this old man steal a brief half-day of leisure.”

From these words, Zhu Ping’an realized that the master’s earlier nap—head resting upon the table—had not been mere idleness. He had truly been deliberating over the inscription… until, at some point, he had drifted into sleep.

Now, being asked to write upon the painting, Zhu Ping’an could not help but give a wry smile and shake his head. “I fear I might ruin Master’s work.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest,” came a warm, teasing voice.

His teacher’s wife approached with a gentle smile, carrying freshly brewed tea. “This old man would rather go without meat than live without bamboo. If you ruin it, he can simply paint another—after all, he paints bamboo every single day. Besides, Zihou, you are now the top scholar of the realm. Whatever you write will surely be worthy of the painting.”

As she spoke, she prepared to pour tea for them.

“Allow me, Madam,” Zhu Ping’an said quickly, stepping forward to take the teapot from her hands. With careful movements, he poured a cup for Old Master Sun, one for her, and one for himself.

“You child, why so formal?” she said, watching him with a smile full of affection.

Old Master Sun lifted the tea Zhu Ping’an had poured and took a slow sip, savoring it. After a moment, he glanced at his wife with a faint smile. “Madam, your tea-making skills grow finer by the day.”

This earned him a light glare.

“You old rascal, no sense of propriety,” she chided, though there was no real anger in her voice.

Standing to one side, Zhu Ping’an could not help but smile. His teacher and his wife were truly a model couple—not only embodying the dignified harmony of ancient times, but also sharing the playful intimacy one might expect of a more modern marriage.

“No matter,” Old Master Sun said, turning back to Zhu Ping’an. “Zihou, simply inscribe it with peace of mind.”

With both teacher and his wife urging him on, refusal was no longer possible. Zhu Ping’an could only nod in acceptance. Under their attentive gazes, he began to grind ink, his thoughts turning inward as he considered what words might best suit the painting.

Old Master Sun watched quietly from the side, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. He stroked his beard, eager to see what his most accomplished student would write.

His teacher’s wife, too, paused her tasks, her attention fixed upon Zhu Ping’an.

Once the ink was ready, Zhu Ping’an studied the painting again with care. Jagged rocks rose sharply; a shallow pond lay clear and still; several stalks of bamboo swayed in the wind—some slender, some thick, some tall, some short. Beneath them, clusters of young bamboo shoots pushed up from the earth.

After a moment, his eyes brightened. The idea had come.

Old Master Sun straightened slightly at once. From the look in Zhu Ping’an’s eyes, he knew the young man had already decided.

His teacher’s wife also turned fully toward him, watching with quiet anticipation.

Under their gaze, Zhu Ping’an set down the inkstone, reached for a brush from the rack, and dipped it deeply into the freshly ground ink. With steady control, he began to write.

Soon, a poem appeared upon the painting, perfectly placed within the blank space. The characters pressed firmly into the paper, vigorous and full of life, as if riding the wind and breaking through waves. They carried a righteous energy that harmonized beautifully with the resilient, wind-tempered bamboo.

“New bamboo rises higher than old bamboo’s branches;
All thanks to the support of the old stalk beneath.
Next year, should new shoots emerge once more,
Ten zhang of ‘dragon grandchildren’ will encircle the Phoenix Pool.”

The poem Zhu Ping’an inscribed was “New Bamboo” by Zheng Banqiao of the Qing dynasty—a master among those who wrote of bamboo. It was perfectly suited to the moment.

“New bamboo rises higher than old bamboo’s branches; all thanks to the support of the old stalk beneath.” The meaning was clear: the new surpasses the old only because it is nurtured and supported by it. In truth, it spoke of how a person might surpass their teachers and predecessors—only because of the guidance and cultivation they had received.

Through this poem, Zhu Ping’an subtly expressed his gratitude and reverence toward Old Master Sun.

As for the line “dragon grandchildren encircle the Phoenix Pool,” the term “dragon grandchildren” was not an affront to imperial dignity. It was, in fact, a poetic name for bamboo shoots, commonly used in southern regions. Many poets of earlier dynasties had used the same term—for instance, Mei Yaochen wrote, “Dragon grandchildren in spring push forth a foot-long bud,” and in another verse: “Swallow chicks leave the nest for a while, while dragon grandchildren have already begun to sprout.”

No taboo was broken.

As soon as Zhu Ping’an finished writing, Old Master Sun began to read the poem aloud in a low voice, his fingers still absently stroking his beard.

“New bamboo rises higher than old bamboo’s branches; all thanks to the support of the old stalk beneath…”

From this line alone, he could clearly sense Zhu Ping’an’s deep respect for his teacher. In truth, he had already felt it—in the young man’s every word and action. Even earlier, when Zhu Ping’an had stood quietly in the courtyard for so long, unwilling to disturb his rest, like a motionless wooden post… it had not gone unnoticed.

“Next year, should new shoots emerge once more, ten zhang of dragon grandchildren encircle the Phoenix Pool… Phoenix Pool…”

After finishing the poem, Old Master Sun repeated the final two words softly. His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Zhu Ping’an, a complex expression crossing his face.

“Zihou… you harbor ambitions to govern the realm.”

The reason lay in those two words—“Phoenix Pool.”

In ancient times, the Phoenix Pool referred to the imperial gardens’ ponds. During the Wei, Jin, and Southern and Northern Dynasties, the Secretariat was established beside such waters, and people came to use “Phoenix Pool” as a metonym for that office—the center of state affairs. By the Tang dynasty, it had become synonymous with the position of prime minister.

A person’s writing reflects the person. So too does their poetry.

Old Master Sun, widely read and deeply learned, was naturally well aware of this allusion. Thus, he concluded that Zhu Ping’an harbored aspirations of high office—of guiding the empire itself.

“Ah… Master, you’re overthinking it.”

Zhu Ping’an scratched his nose with an awkward smile. This time, it truly was a coincidence. Though he did indeed possess such ambitions deep within his heart, he had not intended to reveal them through the poem.

Old Master Sun simply stroked his beard and smiled, saying nothing.

His teacher’s wife, however, looked at Zhu Ping’an and smiled warmly. “And what is there to be embarrassed about? A young man should have ambition.”

Well then… once a notion had taken root, no amount of explanation would change it.