, "Snow on Qiantang Lake," completed.

Half an hour passed.

Several servants entered the pavilion and set up four low desks in the open space in the middle. On each desk were placed writing brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones.

Chen Mao raised his voice and said, "Gentlemen, the young scholars' discussion just now was quite wonderful. Now, let the young scholars compose poems."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the young faces: "Today, auspicious snow falls outside the pavilion. So, everyone, compose a poem about snow. Four-character, five-character, or mixed-style poems are all acceptable. You have one incense stick's time limit. First, ponder your poems silently at your seats. Once you have a poem, come back to the pavilion and write it down on paper on the spot."

He pointed to the four low desks in the middle of the pavilion and continued, "After the poems are completed, they will be judged by Prefect Zhu, Mr. Meng, and myself. As for the allocation of the ten thousand coins, that will be decided based on a combination of the scholarly discussion and the quality of the poems."

As soon as he finished speaking, some of the nearly thirty young men in the pavilion began to lower their heads in deep thought, while others gazed at the flying snow outside the pavilion, seeking poetic inspiration.

Zhu Yingtai knelt beside Liang Shanbo and couldn't help but turn her head to glance at him.

Liang Shanbo was gently drawing on the felt with his finger, as if he were trying to write some words. His expression was calm, like a deep pool of water, without a ripple.

Zhu Yingtai suddenly remembered something that happened six months ago.

That day, when Mr. Meng was lecturing at Jiazhai, he asked the students to compose a poem on the spot. On that occasion, Brother Liang composed a poem titled "Pine Fence." In just twenty characters, not a single word spoke of metaphysics or reason, yet it captured Zhuangzi's state of "seeing the darkness and hearing the silence" with utmost ethereal beauty. Mr. Meng immediately applauded it, saying that even Wang Xizhi and Xie Anshi would praise it if they saw it.

That time, Brother Liang was just as calm.

Thinking of this, Zhu Yingtai couldn't help but turn her body slightly to the side, lower her voice, and quietly call out, "Brother Liang."

Liang Shanbo turned his head to look at her.

Zhu Yingtai's voice was so low that only he could hear it: "If you could compose another masterpiece like 'Pine Fence' today, that would be wonderful."

Liang Shanbo smiled slightly but did not reply.

Seeing his appearance, Zhu Yingtai felt somewhat at ease.

She sat up straight again, gazing at the falling snow outside the pavilion, and continued to mentally prepare her speech.

Time is passing by little by little.

The servant added more charcoal, and the red glow flickered in the brazier.

Young men kept getting up from their seats, walking to the middle of the pavilion, kneeling down behind the low desk, dipping their brushes in ink, and writing down the poems they had in their minds.

When Xiao Sheng stepped forward, he walked with an air of confidence, knelt behind the desk, picked up his brush, and almost without thinking, began to write on the white paper. He wrote a four-character poem, his strokes vigorous and powerful, consistent with the confident demeanor he had displayed during his earlier conversation. After finishing, he put down his brush, rose, bowed to the elders, and returned to his seat.

Zhu Yan walked up with unhurried steps, his kneeling posture elegant and upright. He picked up his brush, but did not rush to write. Instead, he first looked at the flying snow outside the pavilion, then looked down at the white paper in front of him, before putting pen to paper. His handwriting was neat and orderly, stroke by stroke.

Chu Jing, Sun Yuangui, and Xiao Hu also went up one after another.

Xiao Hu's calligraphy wasn't particularly good, but it was bold and powerful, with each stroke and line looking as if it had been carved with a knife.

Sun Yuangui's handwriting was neater than his personality, but when he was halfway through writing, he scratched his head, made a correction on the paper, smiled, put down his pen, and handed in the poem.

Wang Shu and Gu Jun also stood up one after the other. Wang Shu's calligraphy was vigorous and powerful, with sharp strokes; Gu Jun's calligraphy was gentle and refined, with each character composed and unhurried.

Zhu Yingtai carefully considered the poem in her mind, and only when she felt there was nothing wrong with it did she finalize the draft.

"Brother Liang," she called in a low voice, "have you finished your poem?"

Liang Shanbo turned to look at her, a faint smile on his face: "My dear brother, are you pregnant yet?"

Zhu Yingtai nodded.

Liang Shanbo said, "In that case, let's go write it together. I already have it, but I've been waiting for you, afraid that you might feel uneasy going up alone."

Zhu Yingtai was slightly taken aback, then felt a warmth in her heart.

He had already prepared a plan, but he didn't get up. He was waiting for her, afraid that she would be lonely or nervous!

Zhu Yingtai didn't say anything, she just nodded slightly and then stood up.

The two left their seats together and walked towards the center of the pavilion.

Zhu Yingtai's steps were light and steady, while Liang Shanbo's were calm and composed. The two knelt down behind two adjacent desks.

Zhu Yingtai picked up her brush and dipped it in ink. The ink was freshly ground, carrying a faint, pleasant scent of pine soot. She took a deep breath and began to write.

Her handwriting was neat and even, with a natural grace in the strokes. She was writing a five-character poem, four lines in total. She wrote each character carefully. After she finished, she put down her pen, gently placed the poem on a corner of her desk, and then looked up and glanced to her side.

Liang Shanbo had also put down his pen and was bowing his head, gently blowing on the ink on the paper, his expression focused and calm.

Zhu Yingtai wanted to go over and see what kind of poem he had written, but with so many elders present, she couldn't be impolite.

The two men stood up almost simultaneously, bowed to the elders, and then returned to their seats.

Zhu Yingtai suddenly felt much more at ease. Regardless of whether her poems were selected, the fact that she could walk to the middle of the pavilion with Brother Liang, sit side by side behind the desk, and write her poems was already a reward for the day.

The time it takes for an incense stick to burn is up.

The incense ash fell from the burner, and the last wisp of smoke dissipated.

Nearly thirty manuscripts of poems were presented to Chen Mao.

Chen Mao smiled and said to Zhu Tao and Meng Wenlang, "Lord Zhu, Mr. Meng, let's evaluate them together. It will take some time to review all these poems."

Zhu Tao smiled slightly, rolled up his sleeves, and stretched out his hand.

Meng Wenlang nodded slightly, pushing the cup in front of him aside to make room.

The three of them each took a stack of poems and began to read them.

Chen Mao read quickly, sometimes nodding slightly, sometimes shaking his head gently.

The nearly thirty poems were mostly metaphysical poems, and many contained phrases such as "white snow covers the mountain slopes," "jade flowers scatter, heaven and earth are one color," and "snow, as a thing, condenses due to yin." The diction varied in skill and the metaphysical principles varied in depth, but they could not escape this cliché.

This was the prevailing trend in the Eastern Jin Dynasty. Scholars considered it noble to expound profound principles in their poetry, and beautiful language to be aesthetically pleasing.

But there are exceptions.

At this moment, Zhu Tao was holding a manuscript of poems in his hand, his eyes fixed on the paper.

A five-character poem was written on the paper, the handwriting clear and upright, the strokes subtly revealing strength. The paper was clean and spotless, without a single correction or ink stain.

The poem is written as follows:

Snow on Qiantang Lake

Birds have vanished from the mountains, and human tracks have disappeared from the paths.

An old man in a straw hat and raincoat, alone in a small boat, fishes in the snowy lake.

The poem ends with the three characters: Liang Shanbo!

Zhu Tao's gaze lingered on the twenty characters on the paper, over and over again, for a long time.

He was taken aback at first, then smiled slightly, and then frowned slightly. A complex expression appeared on his face, which was etched with the lines of time and hardship.