bayedsolid Chapter 757: If scholars don’t go to the battlefield, what are they called scholars?
Chapter 757: If scholars don’t go to the battlefield, what are they called scholars?
The dusk dyed the Gan River into a deep dark blue like ink, and the copper bells on the eaves of Tengwang Pavilion made a delicate and distant sound in the river breeze.
The attic was brightly lit. Dozens of gilded palace lanterns illuminated the entire hall as bright as day. The flickering candlelight cast mottled light and shadows on the carved beams and painted buildings.
Yan Boyu was wearing a brocade robe embroidered with gold thread and cloud patterns. He paced back and forth in the hall, and the corners of his robe brushed the ground, making a rustling sound.
The unfinished "Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng" on the desk seemed to have turned into a dancing flame at this moment. Every time he looked at it, it burned his eyes and made him feel anxious.
The old scholars around sat around an antique sandalwood round table. They all had white hair and their white beards trembled slightly under the candlelight. The folding fans in their hands had long stopped waving, and instead their faces were full of expectation.
From time to time, someone sighed, breaking the suffocating silence.
"As long as this character is not fixed, this wonderful article will not be complete."
An old scholar stroked his beard and muttered to himself, his words full of regret and anxiety.
It was already late at night when Meng Chang stumbled into the attic.
He came running all the way, his hat and belt were askew, and he looked in a dishevel.
Beads of sweat the size of beans kept rolling down his forehead, soaking the green scarf that bound his hair. His wide black sleeves were also covered in dust and were still trembling slightly.
He was out of breath, holding onto the door frame and panting violently, his chest heaving like a bellows. After a while, he squeezed out a few words: "Words... are coming!"
The voice was so hoarse that it was almost inaudible, but it instantly broke the silence in the attic.
Everyone in the pavilion immediately gathered around like lit firecrackers.
The old scholars stretched their necks, their eyes widened, and there was a gleam of expectation in their turbid eyes.
The young scholars stood on tiptoe, eager to peer over the crowd's heads, and kept urging, "What's that word? Tell me!"
"It's so frustrating!"
The voices of the crowd rose and fell, like a pot of boiling water, pushing the atmosphere of the entire attic to a climax.
Meng Chang spread out his palms, but he just gasped for breath and couldn't speak.
Yan Boyu squeezed closer and stared at his son-in-law's palm in confusion, only to see that the palm was clean and there was nothing on it.
He frowned, his face full of confusion, and kept waving his hands, signaling Meng Chang to explain quickly.
The anxiety of the people around them also reached its peak, and the air seemed to be ignited by this anxious atmosphere.
Finally, Meng Chang regained his breath. He swallowed hard, his voice still trembling: "The words are right in my palm!"
Everyone looked at his palm again in unison, but all of them had confused expressions - his palm was empty, without even a trace of ink.
"How could this happen? How could this happen? The words disappeared?"
Meng Chang stared at his palm, his eyes full of disbelief, as if he had lost the most precious treasure in the world.
His hands began to tremble slightly and his body swayed a little.
The scholars around were also dumbfounded. For a moment, the attic fell into an eerie silence.
This missing word is like a thin silver needle, constantly plucking their heartstrings, and like a naughty kitten, scratching their hearts with its claws, making them feel uneasy.
The old scholars kept shaking their heads and sighing, muttering to themselves: "I can't fill this word. I won't be able to close my eyes even when I'm in my coffin!"
"Master Meng, your palm is empty! There's nothing in it!"
A young scholar couldn't help but shout out, "How could it be empty?"
"This word is driving me crazy! What on earth is it?"
"Master Meng, why don't you go back and ask again?"
The voices of questioning and urging were intertwined. Meng Chang felt his head buzzing and the sounds around him seemed to become blurred.
At this moment, a sudden flash of inspiration struck Meng Chang. He raised his head abruptly, his eyes gleaming with excitement: "Empty, empty! I know, I know! It's empty!"
His voice was high and trembling, filled with uncontrollable excitement. "It's the word 'empty'! It's 'Outside the railings, the Yangtze River flows on in vain'!"
As soon as he finished speaking, the sky was suddenly covered with dark clouds, a flash of lightning cut through the dark night, followed by deafening thunder, as if the heaven and earth were shaking at this wonderful word.
Everyone in the pavilion was stunned for a moment, then burst into thunderous admiration. "Empty? Great! Great! So it's the word 'empty'!"
"What a good word!"
"The greatest parallel prose of all time!"
The old scholars were so excited that they burst into tears, clapped their hands and cheered, their cloudy eyes full of admiration.
The young scholars were shocked and kept shaking their heads and sighing, and they admired Wang Bo's talent even more.
The word "empty" fully expresses the vicissitudes of life and the impermanence of time. It pushes the artistic conception of the entire article to an unprecedented height and opens a door to a higher realm.
Two days later, a depressing atmosphere filled Meng Chang's home.
He quietly collected all the pens, inks, papers and inkstones in the house. Each of these four treasures carried the memories of his countless days and nights of hard study in the past.
Those exquisite Duan inkstones and Hu brushes seemed to have become an unspeakable pain in his heart at this moment.
He said goodbye to his parents, wife and children at home. His parents' eyes were full of worry, his wife was secretly wiping away tears, and his children hugged his legs tightly and refused to let go.
Seeing the reluctance in their eyes, Meng Chang felt sad, but his eyes were extremely firm.
He gently stroked the child's head, said a few words of comfort, then picked up his sword and resolutely walked out of the house.
Walking on the street, Meng Chang recalled his past.
He was well-versed in classics and history since childhood, and was once well-known in the literary world, praised and admired by countless people.
But now, in the face of Wang Bo's extraordinary talent, he deeply realized that he was just a drop in the ocean.
The pride and confidence that I once had collapsed in an instant in the face of the shocking "Preface to the Pavilion of Prince Teng".
He felt that he had reached the end of his road.
In this case, why not try a different path? Perhaps you can find your own value in another world.
In the third year of Yonghui, there was a solemn atmosphere in the Taiji Hall of Chang'an City.
The golden glazed tiles shine in the sun, and the white marble railings in front of the hall are solemn and majestic.
Documents and imperial edicts were issued from the palace and flew like snowflakes to the various prefectures, counties and districts of the Tang Dynasty.
"The Emperor of the Great Tang has issued an order for the armies of all prefectures, counties, and provinces to march out in an orderly manner. The Tang army is advancing westward!"
The news quickly spread throughout the Tang Dynasty. People in the streets and alleys were talking about it, with some expressing worry, some feeling reluctant, and some expectantly.
Those passionate men are eager to fight, eager to achieve success on the battlefield and realize their ambitions.
Meng Chang stood in the conscription team, looking at the young people around him who also had dreams, their faces filled with passion and desire.
Meng Chang gripped the sword tightly in his hand; the cold touch of the hilt made him more sober.
His eyes looked firmly towards the west, where was the battlefield, the unknown challenges, and his new journey.
Once upon a time, he pursued glory in literature.
Now, he will shed his blood on the battlefield.
If a scholar only knows how to quibble over words and doesn't go to the battlefield, what kind of scholar is he?