: I don't know whether this poem is good or bad.

Zhu Tao couldn't help but think of something.

It was a snowy morning not long ago. He took only two servants with him, put on a raincoat and a bamboo hat, and took a small boat to fish on Qiantang Lake.

That day, as he sat in the boat, fishing rod in hand, he felt that everything he had experienced in his life—the power struggles in the court, the mountains of documents, the banquets and conversations, and the polite words that were said but not said—had all vanished into nothingness in the vast expanse of white snow-covered lake and mountains.

That day, he caught sight of two young men standing by the lake. He nodded slightly to one of them as a polite gesture, and the young man quickly bowed to him across the lake in return.

He didn't pay attention at the time.

Looking back now, wasn't that young man the same Liang Shanbo who was here today?

Zhu Tao held the poem manuscript, looked up, and gave Liang Shanbo a meaningful glance.

Liang Shanbo sat upright in the seat behind Meng Wenlang, his expression calm, his eyes lowered, not looking at anyone.

Zhu Tao withdrew his gaze, lowered his head again, and began reading "Snow on Qiantang Lake" once more.

Chen Mao, who was standing to the side, had finished flipping through the poems in his hands and wanted to exchange opinions with Zhu Tao. However, he noticed that Zhu Tao remained silent for a long time, staring at a particular poem. He paused slightly, then asked in a low voice, "Has Your Excellency come across a masterpiece?"

Zhu Tao did not answer directly, but handed over the poem in his hand: "Brother Minze, please take a look at this poem."

Chen Mao took the manuscript and looked down at it.

He read it the first time, his eyebrows twitching slightly. The second time, his brow furrowed. The third time, a look of hesitation crossed his face.

"My lord," he turned to Zhu Tao, "this poem is quite novel. Not a single word in the entire poem is about metaphysics, nor is there a single word about writing. It only describes mountains, roads, boats, and old men. I don't know whether it's good or bad."

Zhu Tao smiled knowingly, "That's why I showed it to Brother Minze. I dare not say I fully understand the meaning of this poem. I would also like to ask Mr. Meng to take a look, since Liang Shanbo is Mr. Meng's disciple."

Chen Mao nodded, turned to Meng Wenlang, and handed the poem to him: "Take a look, sir. This is your disciple's work."

Meng Wenlang took the manuscript and looked down at it.

The first thing he saw was the handwriting on the paper. He was familiar with Liang Shanbo's handwriting; it was clear and upright, with strong strokes, but unlike Wang Shu's, it was not outwardly sharp. Instead, it concealed its strength within gentleness, just like the man himself.

The second thing he saw was the three characters "Liang Shanbo" at the end of the poem.

Then, he began to carefully read the poem.

He looked at the twenty words over and over again several times, then looked up.

Zhu Tao looked at him: "Sir, what do you think?"

Meng Wenlang smiled slightly: "This poem should be appreciated and commented on by all the elders present."

Zhu Tao and Chen Mao exchanged a glance and both nodded slightly.

……

……

After a while.

Zhu Tao, Chen Mao, and Meng Wenlang have already reviewed the poems submitted by the young scholars.

The elders and young people present were waiting for Chen Mao to announce the results.

Chen Mao surveyed the crowd in the pavilion and called out, "Gentlemen..."

The pavilion fell silent.

Chen Mao's voice was clear: "I read through nearly thirty poems today with Mr. Zhu and Mr. Meng. Many of them are excellent works, which shows that there are many talented people among the children of Qiantang, and that the families and teachers have taught them well. I am very pleased."

He then changed the subject: "However, there is a poem here that is quite peculiar, unlike ordinary poems. After discussing it with Mr. Zhu, Mr. Meng, and myself, we think it would be best if all the elders present could appreciate and comment on it together."

Upon hearing this, a murmur of discussion immediately arose in the pavilion. The young men present exchanged bewildered glances, wondering what poem had prompted Chen Mingfu to utter such a statement.

Chen Mao handed Liang Shanbo's poem to a servant beside him. The servant held the poem with both hands and first went to Fan Zheng. Fan Zheng took the poem and read it several times. Then, elders such as Chu Wenju, Xiao Zhen, Sun Datian, and Du Shiyi also read the poem in turn.

After all the elders had read it, the manuscript was returned to Chen Mao.

Chen Mao then said, "This poem is titled 'Snow on Qiantang Lake,' and it was written by Liang Shanbo. I will recite this poem once."

He cleared his throat and recited aloud: "Birds have vanished from a thousand mountains, and human tracks have disappeared from ten thousand paths. An old man in a straw hat and raincoat sits alone in a small boat, fishing in the cold lake snow."

As soon as the voice faded, another round of discussion erupted in the pavilion.

Wang Shu and Gu Jun exchanged a glance and smiled knowingly.

This result did not surprise them. They had long since memorized their junior brother Liang's poem "Pine Fence." It would have been strange if their junior brother Liang had composed an ordinary metaphysical poem on this occasion.

Zhu Yingtai raised her eyes and looked at Brother Liang beside her. Brother Liang's expression remained calm, as if the "Liang Shanbo" and the poem mentioned by Chen Mao had nothing to do with him.

But her heart was not at peace.

That day, when I saw the old man fishing by Qiantang Lake wearing a straw raincoat and hat, Brother Liang actually came to life and wrote this poem!

At this point, Chen Mao asked, "Gentlemen, what do you think of this poem?"

Chu Wenju was the first to speak.

Chu Wenju said, "In my opinion, this poem is not a masterpiece. Not a single word in the entire poem describes the shape, color, or character of the snow. How can it be called a 'poem on snow'? It merely describes an old man fishing on a lake. This kind of poem is clear but cold, simple but lacking in literary flair, and deliberately focuses on the word 'solitude'."

Upon hearing this, many young men in the pavilion nodded in agreement.

Chen Mao turned to Du Shiyi and asked with a smile, "Mr. Du, what do you think of this poem?"

Du Shiyi was a renowned scholar from Qiantang, and he was always somewhat arrogant. He had come to the gathering today with the intention of competing with Meng Wenlang. The previous discussion had already showcased the brilliance of Meng Wenlang and his disciple. Now, during the poetry competition, it was once again Meng Wenlang's disciple, Liang Shanbo, who was in the spotlight. Du Shiyi's subtle jealousy intensified.

Yet, when he looked at "Snow on Qiantang Lake," he couldn't bring himself to feel any sense of denigration.

The profound sense of loneliness, the utter stillness of the world, the obscurity of all things, resonated deeply within him after reading it. It was as if those twenty words encapsulated all the hardships and unspoken sorrows he had endured in his life.

He was unwilling to speak his mind, unwilling to say that the poem "possesses a refined and distant charm without delving into metaphysics" or "has profound meaning without falling into the trap of logic." He simply replied, "In my opinion, this poem is quite good."

Seeing that the others offered no comment, Chen Mao then asked Sun Datian, "What does Elder Sun think of this poem?"

Sun Datian frankly said, "In the freezing cold, with no birds or beasts to be seen, an old man is fishing all alone on the lake. What could he possibly catch? This poem is a bit too 'abstract,' and I really can't see what's so good about it."

Sun Yuangui, kneeling behind him, couldn't help but feel embarrassed. He glanced at Liang Shanbo with apologetic eyes, as if to say: Brother Liang, please don't blame me, my father is just that straightforward.