Chapter Twenty-One: Poems for the Qingming Festival

Jin Changwu spoke sharply, and at that moment, the demonic aura emanating from Lu Jue seemed almost tangible. The turbulent energy was spilling out in all directions; if it weren’t for the scholarly aura temporarily suppressing it, the situation would have been far more dire.

Both Jin Changwu and Ouyang Hong were striving to resist, and now Ouyang Hong quickly interjected, “Find his location. Only by killing him will this demonic energy vanish.”

“Then let's act together. We must resolve him here and now!”

With that, the two men began composing poetry once more. Ouyang Hong even recited verses aloud. This time, however, they did not use poems for calm and clarity, but battle poems. Poems of clarity were meant to soothe the heart and dispel minor demonic energy, but Lu Jue had completely lost control, with demonic aura surging naturally from his body—battle poems were now necessary.

Indeed, as Ouyang Hong and Jin Changwu invoked their battle verses, a transformation swept through the cramped space. Jin Changwu penned a warrior's poem and was instantly clad in gleaming golden armor, a long blade materializing in his hand. He plunged into the midst of the demonic aura. Ouyang Hong summoned a flock of radiant birds, which chirped as they darted toward the small room behind the bars.

Both men were literary warriors; as scholars, their battle poetry was impressive. The golden seal at Jin Changwu’s waist glowed ever brighter, its light stirring the scholarly aura from the great works and the Literary Pavilion, wrapping the space in a protective veil.

In short order, without excessive struggle, Jin Changwu—armored in gold—flashed through the demonic haze with the help of the light birds. In the next instant, he broke Lu Jue’s limbs, seized his throat with one hand, and dragged him out.

Jin Changwu, after all, possessed the cultivation of a scholar, his literary power robust and profound. Dealing with a scholar-turned-demon who had yet to fully transform was effortless.

Lu Jue, meanwhile, had taken on a monstrous form. His skin flushed red, long black claws sprouted from his hands and feet, bones jutted from his back and arms, and his shadowed face now bore sharp fangs at the corners of his mouth.

Yet he was like a marionette with its strings cut, tossed aside by Jin Changwu.

“A bone demon. Someone has planted the seed of inner demon in him.”

Jin Changwu’s armor faded, and Ouyang Hong stepped forward, probing with literary power and immediately frowning.

“He still retains a sliver of clarity in his mind. Should we search his soul?”

“Can you manage it?” Jin Changwu dusted off his official robes as he asked.

“It’s not impossible, but to extract anything useful, I’ll need the aura from an original poem.”

“Then proceed.”

Ouyang Hong shook his head with a wry smile. “Will you compose a poem for me? At least a clarity poem with three measures of talent.”

“You know as well as I do—clarity poems are all about the mood. Only when the mood flows seamlessly does the poem have power.”

---

Jin Changwu sighed when he heard that composing a clarity poem required three measures of talent. He glanced at the waning Lu Jue and shook his head.

“Then I’ll dispose of him immediately.”

He moved to seize Lu Jue, but a tentative voice sounded from the doorway.

“Sir, perhaps I could give it a try?”

Jin Changwu and Ouyang Hong paused, Jin Changwu turning in surprise. “Song Mu, you haven’t left yet?”

Song Mu replied with an awkward smile, “With your golden seal in place, the Literary Pavilion has been locked tight.”

He quickly grew earnest. “But, sir, since Lu Jue might still hold some secrets in his mind, I’d like to attempt it.”

“Clarity poems aren’t so easily composed,” Ouyang Hong remarked, a trace of discomfort in his expression, thinking Song Mu was being overly confident. Though he had crafted a poem with eight measures of talent, that didn’t mean he could produce a clarity poem.

Such poetry, imbued with tranquility or meditative intent, was rare and difficult. Even he, a scholar, couldn’t guarantee success on short notice, yet Song Mu seemed sure he could manage it.

Ouyang Hong’s words were meant to temper him, but Jin Changwu stroked his beard thoughtfully, watching Song Mu, his mind unreadable.

Song Mu pressed his lips together, silent, gazing at the two men before him.

“Very well. Since Lu Jue is no longer a threat, you may try. It won’t hurt to wait a moment longer,” Jin Changwu decided, his gaze revealing a hint of anticipation. “Besides, we never witnessed your poem of literary inspiration the other day. Today, I’d like to see what clarity poem you can produce.”

Ouyang Hong frowned but did not object. If the boy made a fool of himself, it might teach him some humility.

Thus, Ouyang Hong tacitly agreed, and Song Mu nodded, retrieving a pouch of books and preparing his writing tools.

“Use mine,” Ouyang Hong offered, placing ink, paper, and a brush on the table. “And use the brush I just gave you.”

“But if you fail, then so be it,” Ouyang Hong continued.

Song Mu merely bowed and stepped forward. He ground the ink slowly, brows furrowed in contemplation.

---

Jin Changwu and Ouyang Hong watched Song Mu, wondering how he would compose a clarity poem.

After a moment, Song Mu produced the brush meant for subduing demons, dipped it in ink, and began to write. Ouyang Hong stood beside him, observing as Song Mu penned the lines, with Jin Changwu quickly reading over his shoulder.

“The body is the bodhi tree, the mind like a bright mirror stand. Ever strive to wipe it clean, lest dust should settle there.”

The verses leapt from the page, and in the next moment, the aura of literature surged forth. Ouyang Hong let out an exclamation.

“Ah?”

He stared, eyes wide, a new respect in his gaze as he addressed Song Mu. “Excellent, an admirable ‘lest dust should settle there.’ This poem is more than sufficient!”

As he spoke, Song Mu inscribed the poem’s title: “The Gatha of Cultivation.”

With the title complete, wisps of white aura drifted from the poem, filling the air with refreshing literary energy. Even the prisoners in the adjacent cells grew calmer.

Ouyang Hong’s delight was unmistakable; he no longer hesitated and turned to Song Mu. “Hold fast to your core. Do not absorb this original literary aura just yet.”

He formed incantations with his fingers, channeling literary power from his palms to stabilize the surging aura, then pointed at the prostrate Lu Jue.

The white aura swiftly enveloped Lu Jue, and Ouyang Hong sat cross-legged beside him, releasing literary power with both hands and closing his eyes tightly.

Song Mu fought the urge to absorb the aura, letting the ancient tome draw in the literary energy, while Ouyang Hong continued to cover Lu Jue with his own.

“This soul-searching technique rarely succeeds, but your poem holds five measures of talent. Now it’s up to Ouyang Hong to see if he can extract anything,” Jin Changwu explained to Song Mu as he watched Ouyang Hong’s actions.

After the time it took for an incense stick to burn, Ouyang Hong opened his eyes, formed another incantation, and addressed Song Mu.

“Song Mu, you may absorb it now.”

The cloud of literary energy swirled toward Song Mu, who released his restraint and let the ancient tome devour the aura.

…