YBTGX 03

Chapter 03

Literary Rank and Talent

After tidying up briefly, Li Shi brought over breakfast. The family sat around the table in silence, and as always, the meal was simple. There was a pot of coarse rice porridge so thin one could see their own reflection in it, and a dish of blackened, pickled vegetables. The only difference was that in Lu Lin’s chipped bowl, there was an additional white, boiled egg. In the past, such luxuries were only enjoyed by the eldest uncle of the first branch who studied, or the spoiled youngest uncle of the third branch.

Lu Lin finished his porridge absentmindedly, then carefully peeled the egg and ate it in small bites. He ate slowly and meticulously, not daring to waste a single crumb. Once he finished the last bite, he pushed his bowl away and ran out the door without a moment’s delay.

“Lin-er, don’t run too far, be careful!” “Don’t go playing by the water, come back early!”

Lu Lin waved his small hand without looking back, and in the blink of an eye, he had disappeared outside the courtyard gate.

It is worth noting that as of this morning, Lu Lin’s pants were no longer the “open-crotch” style that fluttered in the wind. Last night, he had used every ounce of stubbornness a six-year-old could muster to insist that his mother, Li Shi, spend the night sewing them shut. What a joke. An adult with the psychological age of over twenty could not possibly endure wearing open-crotch pants. If there were an accident, he might face the risk of his “QQ” being permanently uninstalled.

After a light jog, Lu Lin arrived at the creek by the village entrance. At this hour, there wasn’t a soul in sight. Lu Lin looked around, found an old tree for cover, picked up a sturdy branch, and squatted down on the damp mud at the base of the tree.

In his mind, the ocean of knowledge formed by thousands of years of brilliant culture was surging. There was so much he wanted to write, but when he waved the branch to begin, he immediately felt that something was wrong. His memory was incredibly clear, and he knew the stroke order of every character perfectly. However, the branch in his hand felt as heavy as a thousand pounds.

An invisible force seemed to gush in from all directions, binding his wrist tightly and making every stroke exceptionally difficult. Just sketching the simplest character, “Dao” (道), exhausted all his strength, and he couldn’t even finish it. He couldn’t even complete the “Shou” (首) part, which makes up half of the character.

No, this is absolutely wrong. Lu Lin’s heart sank. He tried changing angles to circumvent the invisible resistance, but the force followed him like a shadow, as if it were fused with heaven and earth, leaving him with no way to proceed.

Could it be that the level of the “Tao Te Ching” is too high, and my six-year-old body simply cannot bear even a fraction of it?

Lu Lin took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. Then I’ll try another.

Su Shi’s timeless masterpiece, the “Ode to the Red Cliff” (Chibi Fu), flashed through his mind. The spirit of this essay was equally grand, but compared to the “Tao Te Ching,” which expounded on the ultimate truths of the universe, it should be easier. Lu Lin gathered his focus and lifted the branch again.

This time, he changed his target from the character “Dao” to the opening line: “In the autumn of the Year of Renxu, on the day of the full moon in the seventh month.”

The first character, “Ren” (壬), went reasonably well, though he felt a slight struggle. The second character, “Xu” (戌), was also written without too much resistance. Lu Lin felt a surge of joy—it seemed his hypothesis was correct.

But when he gathered his strength to write the third character, “Zhi” (之), a sudden change occurred. A resistance several times stronger than before appeared out of thin air, as if an invisible giant hand had firmly gripped his wrist.

The character “Zhi” was clearly in his mind, right before the tip of his branch, yet it felt as if it were blocked by an insurmountable chasm. He used every ounce of his strength, his little face turning beet-red, the veins on his arm slightly bulging. Yet, the branch in his hand remained motionless.

He couldn’t write it.

Snap. With a crisp sound, the branch he had poured all his strength into snapped in half. Lu Lin released his grip, and the fragment fell into the mud. He stared intensely at the two crooked, distorted characters on the ground, his brows furrowed.

Even the “Ode to the Red Cliff” doesn’t work? Was my thinking wrong? Is the supernatural power of this world fundamentally different from the literature in my mind? Or is my method wrong? Or is the level of the “Ode to the Red Cliff” also too high?

He rapidly scanned his mind again. From Tang poetry and Song lyrics to Yuan operas, countless brilliant passages flowed through his brain. If the “Tao Te Ching” and the “Ode to the Red Cliff” are the sun and the moon, then I must start with the fireflies.

He needed a poem that was simple enough yet had enough power.

Got it. A poem jumped out from a corner of his memory. In terms of rhetoric and artistic conception, this poem was far inferior to the eternal masterpieces—it was almost crude and straightforward—but it was the most suitable for his current situation.

Lu Lin picked up a new branch and squatted on another patch of flat, damp mud. This time, he didn’t rush to write. Instead, he closed his eyes and recited the poem in his heart repeatedly.

“The Son of Heaven prizes the heroes, literary merit teaches your lot; of all occupations, only the scholar is high.”

It was the “Poem for Prodigies” (Shentong Shi), an introductory poem that best represented a scholar’s ambition and matched the values of this era. As a six-year-old child about to be sent off as a pageboy, it was perfectly logical for him to write this poem.

When he opened his eyes again, the confusion and frustration were swept away.

This time, he didn’t feel the massive resistance from before. The branch in his hand felt like an extension of his own arm, and the strokes glided across the wet mud like running water. As the final stroke of the character “Gao” (High) was completed:

Hum.

A soft buzzing sound seemed to resonate from the depths of his soul. Lu Lin felt a sudden shock in his brain, and the scene before his eyes began to blur. Then, a primitive bamboo scroll slowly unfolded in the empty space of his spiritual world.

On the scroll, clear lines of text appeared out of thin air:

[Lu Lin, from Ping’an County, born in the Year of Gengzi] [Literary Rank: Novice Scholar (Mengsheng)] [Talent (Caiqi): 100 strands] [Self-created Classic: “Poem for Prodigies”] [“Poem for Prodigies”: Level: County-tier. Special Effect: Increases comprehension. Doubles study efficiency for classics, history, and poetry. Child listeners have a chance to awaken the “Early Intelligence” talent; the effect lasts for three days.]

So that’s how it is.

Looking at the information on the scroll, Lu Lin instantly understood the cause of everything. It wasn’t that he couldn’t write the “Tao Te Ching,” nor that he couldn’t replicate the “Ode to the Red Cliff.”

It was that he had no “Talent” (Caiqi).

Caiqi—this was the foundation of the literary path in this world, the only lever to pry open the power of heaven and earth. Without Caiqi, even if he held a thousand volumes in his mind, he was just a mortal sitting on a mountain of treasure without a key to enter.

Just now, because the “Poem for Prodigies” fit his identity, situation, and ambition, it was recognized by the literary rules of this world, making it a “self-created classic” in the true sense. Because of this, the rules of heaven and earth bestowed a reward: the most basic literary rank, “Novice Scholar,” and one hundred strands of “Talent” as initial capital.

Lu Lin lowered his head to look at the crooked “Poem for Prodigies” on the ground. He felt his mind was clearer than ever. He waved his arms casually and felt that his body was stronger than it had been before.

Is this the power of Talent? It can even slightly enhance physical fitness.