Wei Zhongdao of Hedong

After the bloody night, Luan Yi and his party once again set foot on the official road heading west to Luoyang. Having learned a hard lesson from the midnight attack, they were vigilant at every turn and cautious in all matters along the way. They would rather delay their journey by a day to rest only in large towns or county seats. The road was long and wearying—it took them eight full days to reach Luoyang.

Though Luoyang in the late Han had lost the splendor of its golden age, its lofty city walls and the orderly grid of its alleys still testified to the glory of an empire. This city, home to more than two hundred thousand permanent residents, was perhaps the largest in the world at the time. The east and west markets teemed with crowds, and the broad avenues, wide enough for six carriages abreast, bustled with traffic.

After much inquiring, Luan Yi and his companions found the mansion of Cai Yong in the eastern part of the city.

Not long after sending in their visiting cards, Cai Yong appeared, his face alight with excitement, hurrying out barefoot from the house with Cai Yan’s support.

For the first time in years, Luan Yi saw Cai Yan dressed as a woman. Her delicate features were lightly adorned with powder, and a flowing gown graced her figure—enchanting beyond words.

“My dear disciples, how could you come to the capital without letting me know? Come, come, let’s sit inside,” Cai Yong said with a warm smile, beckoning Luan Yi and the others into the house.

Luan Yi smiled, “We wanted to surprise you, Master!”

“Ha ha ha! A good surprise indeed! Come, come!”

As the group streamed through the gate, Luan Yi slipped quietly to Cai Yan’s side and whispered with a smile, “Sister, you’re truly beautiful today!”

Cai Yan’s lips curved mischievously. “Was I not beautiful before?”

Luan Yi was momentarily flustered, realizing his misstep. “Of course you were. But…”

“But what?”

“But before, your beauty lay in its simplicity—today, you possess a different kind of allure.”

“And which do you prefer, my simple beauty or my allure?”

Luan Yi flushed, but gathering his courage, answered, “Whichever is yours, I like them all.”

“Shameless…” Cai Yan chided softly, turning away, her ears blushing a rosy red.

Luan Yi couldn’t help but laugh inwardly. In a daze, he recalled a joke from his previous life: One morning, a handsome man and a beautiful woman dined together. The man gazed appreciatively at the woman, while she, in turn, eyed him curiously. She asked, “What are you thinking about?” The man replied, “Whatever you’re thinking about, I’m thinking the same!” At this, the woman scoffed and teased, “You’re such a rogue!”

“What are you chuckling about?” Cai Yan interrupted his reverie.

“Nothing!” Luan Yi replied, adjusting his expression.

Cai Yan, seeing he did not wish to elaborate, let it go. She only remarked, “It’s been half a year since we last met, and Ziqi has grown taller and stronger!”

“One must grow, after all!”

With laughter and light conversation, Cai Yong led his disciples on a tour of the house. The Cai residence comprised three courtyards in a row—front, middle, and rear—not large, but with a lovely environment. Lush branches, birdsong, and fragrant flowers made it an ideal place for self-cultivation.

In the garden, as tea was brewed, Cai Yong asked if Luan Yi’s journey had been smooth. Luan Yi replied that they’d met with a bit of trouble, then recounted the bandit attack at Hulao Pass—though he omitted that the robbers were the pass’s own garrison, saying instead they were mountain bandits.

At the mention of his disciples encountering bandits, Cai Yong was shocked. But seeing his five disciples, along with Xun Yu, Xun You, and Cheng Yu, all safe and sound, he relaxed. Furious, he declared, “Bandits in the heartland! What kind of Prefect of Luoyang allows this? I’ll make a formal complaint tomorrow!”

Cai Yan, too, was startled and looked at Luan Yi questioningly, but he simply waved his hand to indicate it was a minor matter.

After chatting for half a day, a servant came to report that the guest rooms were ready for Luan Yi and his companions to rest. Knowing his disciples were weary from their journey, Cai Yong told them to settle into their rooms and call on the steward for anything they needed. They were to treat the Cai residence as their own home.

Indeed, after half a month’s travel, Luan Yi was thoroughly exhausted. He fell asleep almost immediately upon entering his room, even taking his supper hastily on the bed.

Enveloped in blankets, he slept soundly until the sun was already high in the sky. Summoning Luan Fu, he was told it was already late morning. He hurried to get up, dressed in a fresh scholar’s robe with a gauze cap and jade hairpin, white boots on his feet, and folding fan in hand, then dashed out the door.

In the courtyard, Guo Jia and the others were just rousing themselves, yawning in the sunlight. Luan Yi greeted them with a bow and asked where their master had gone.

“He’s gone to the Imperial Academy,” Guo Jia replied, leaning against a tree with narrowed eyes.

“I see—off to work.” Luan Yi nodded and began to search the courtyard for someone—the figure who filled his thoughts both day and night. He searched both the rear and front courtyards but saw no sign of her. Only after asking the steward did he learn that every month, on the tenth day, there was a poetry gathering by the Wei River outside Luoyang. As one of the event’s founders, Cai Yan would always go to the riverside early that morning.

Luan Yi laughed to himself at the news. Truly, gifted women are never idle. “Luan Fu, prepare the horses!”

Hearing Luan Yi was going out, Guo Jia and Shan Fu instantly perked up. “Yi, where are you headed?”

Luan Yi replied, hands clasped behind his back, “Brothers, dare you accompany me to meet the talented scholars of Luoyang by the Wei River?”

“Why wouldn’t we dare!” It is often said that warriors are combative, but scholars, too, are quite competitive—though their battles are of wit and strategy.

Riding was forbidden within Luoyang, so Luan Yi and his companions could only proceed at a leisurely pace, urging their horses to a gallop only once outside the city gate, speeding toward the Wei River.

Originally, Luan Yi had worried that with the river being so vast, it might be difficult to locate the poetry gathering.

Yet, as it turned out, his concerns were unfounded. The event was far livelier than he’d imagined. There was no need to ask for directions—one could simply follow the procession of ornate carriages to find the gathering on the Wei’s banks.

By then, the riverside was already abuzz with hundreds gathered around a small pavilion. Vendors and commoners milled about, selling pastries, tea, and trinkets that caught the eyes of young ladies.

A short distance east of the pavilion lay a small rise, about forty or fifty paces across, offering a panoramic view of the scene below. An astute old man had set up a tea stand there, which was crowded when Luan Yi and his friends arrived. With no seats, they had to stand with their cups—an inelegant posture, but one that afforded a clear view of the gathering.

In truth, the view hardly mattered—they were too far to hear what was being recited. For Luan Yi, the sole purpose of this excursion was to see someone.

In the pavilion stood six men and a woman. That woman, of course, was Cai Yan.

Today, Cai Yan had clearly taken great care with her appearance. Her hair was adorned with emerald jade pins that fluttered in the breeze, styled like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, poised for flight. Her brows were deep and elegant, her clear eyes sparkling with brilliance, her nose smooth and proud, and her lips moving gently as she recited poetry.

When she finished, thunderous applause erupted. Luan Yi clapped with fervor, so much so that Guo Jia covered his ears and rolled his eyes. “Making a fuss—did you even hear what Sister Cai recited?”

Luan Yi ignored him. “What do you know? Even if I can’t hear the poetry, her beauty alone is a peerless ode!”

Beside Cai Yan stood a young man—rosy lips, even teeth, elegant bearing, though a bit frail and pale, with the sickly look of an invalid. After hearing Cai Yan’s poem, the man’s eyes shone, his gaze fixed on her face and reluctant to look away. Cai Yan turned to him with a sweet smile. Their eyes met, and both blushed, lowering their heads with shy delight.

Luan Yi saw the entire exchange clearly. For a moment, his heart felt pricked with needles. The smile on his face faded, growing stiff. “Luan Fu, find out who that man is.”

Luan Fu, taking note of the sickly scholar, went to inquire at the tea stand. With a few coins, he returned quietly. “Young master, that is Wei Ning, courtesy name Zhongdao, a student at the Imperial Academy. They say he is quite talented.” To Luan Fu, no one in the world could match his young master’s talent—Luan Yi, the child prodigy of Yingchuan, who wrote “Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio” at eight and “On Wealth” at nine. So when the tea-seller called Wei Ning “exceptionally talented,” Luan Fu begrudgingly downgraded it to “quite talented” in his retelling.

“So it’s him!” Luan Yi realized. Wei Ning of the Wei family of Hedong, known as Wei Zhongdao, was historically Cai Yan’s first husband. Less than a year after their marriage, he died of consumption, leaving no children. The Wei family subsequently resented Cai Yan, accusing her of bringing ill-fortune. Young and proud, Cai Yan could not bear this humiliation, and, against her father’s wishes, left her husband’s house in anger.

Thinking of this, Luan Yi narrowed his eyes and vowed to himself that such a tragedy would not befall Cai Yan again—for her sake and his own. With a wave of his hand, he addressed his brothers, “Come with me!”

Xun Yu, wise and well-mannered, knew that as visiting scholars, they would be put to the test at such a poetry gathering. The local students would pose difficult questions to challenge the outsiders, relying on answers they’d prepared in advance to showcase their own erudition. Such tactics were not unfamiliar—students from Yingchuan Academy had used them on outsiders before, mainly to prevent provocations, or as later generations would say, to “defend their turf.”

“Wait, Ziqi! Don’t rush in—come back!” Xun Yu tried to dissuade him, but Luan Yi paid him no heed. Head held high, he strode down the slope, snapped open his folding fan, and declared in a clear voice, “I am Luan Yi, styled Ziqi, prodigy of Yingchuan, and I have come to pay my respects to the Wei River Poetry Gathering!”

“I am Guo Jia, the genius of Yingchuan; I am Shan Fu, the talented scholar of Yingchuan; I am Ji Zhicai, the brilliant mind of Yingchuan; I am Mao Jie, the gifted strategist of Yingchuan—we have come to pay our respects to the Wei River Poetry Gathering!”