Chapter Ninety-Nine: The Painting Duel (Part Two)

Within the Prince of Song’s mansion, an unexpected commotion suddenly arose. Numerous servants emitted strange sounds—some beating drums and gongs, others wielding long bamboo poles—herding a flock of homing pigeons into another courtyard within the estate.

Startled, the pigeons took to the air in dense flocks, their cooing filling the sky. From a distance, it looked as though a vast expanse of silvery-gray blossoms had blossomed midair.

In the courtyard’s open space stood two enormous scrolls, each mounted on thick wooden panels and propped upright for display.

In a hidden corner of the yard, several people lay prone, their posteriors raised high, all watching the scene with gleaming excitement.

“Silence,” whispered Prince Zhao Ji, his own rear raised as he crouched low, quietly commanding those around him.

It was the first time Zhao Ji had witnessed such a painting contest, and he was unable to conceal his excitement, eyes wide and fixed intently on the unfolding spectacle.

Mi Fu and Li Sanjian lay on either side of Zhao Ji, mirroring his posture so precisely that, from afar, the three resembled a brush stand with a high center and lower sides.

The pigeons fluttered their wings, flapping noisily as they spread across the sky. While a few flew far away, most returned to the courtyard, settling on the ground. Their small, round heads bobbed with alertness, their tiny green eyes darting about with keen vigilance.

Moments later, the pigeons descended en masse, filling the air with a dense, rhythmic pecking noise.

This was the sound of the pigeons feeding. Astonishingly, nearly all gathered around Li Sanjian’s painting panel, pecking persistently at the wooden board and cooing softly, leaving the onlookers dumbfounded.

In stark contrast, Mi Fu’s painting was surrounded by silence and emptiness. Only a few pigeons landed nearby, promptly leaving behind several droppings before flying away…

“Burp…”

“Burp ah…”

Just as the mansion’s occupants watched with growing excitement, two crane calls rang out from afar.

Everyone looked up quickly to see a massive pair of red-crowned cranes, one male and one female, gracefully flapping their wings as they descended.

The cranes’ movements were as delicate as dancers’, their wings fluttering lightly as they glided down and, with elegant steps, approached Li Sanjian’s painting.

Wherever the cranes went, the pigeons scattered respectfully, as if in the presence of an emperor and empress.

“This... this...” Zhao Ji was utterly speechless, overwhelmed by astonishment.

Li Sanjian was even more dumbfounded. He had merely employed a clever trick to attract the pigeons, never expecting to summon celestial cranes.

When had his fortune turned so wondrously? He could hardly believe his own eyes.

Those around them were equally stunned, their eyes wide as if they might fall from their sockets.

What were these cranes? They were auspicious symbols, the very embodiment of good fortune—“a bird beneath the phoenix and above all others,” second only to the mythical phoenix itself.

“A crane lives a thousand years and turns gray; after two thousand years, it turns black”—the very essence of longevity and blessing.

“A sign of great fortune! A sign of great fortune!”

“Congratulations, Your Highness! Such a millennial omen descending upon the prince’s mansion is nothing short of a grand blessing!”

“Your Highness is truly the dragon among men, destined for limitless greatness!”

“Indeed, no one else could claim direct bloodline to the late emperor as you do.”

The courtiers and servants erupted in flattering praise, bowing repeatedly to Zhao Ji, showering him with congratulations, completely forgetting that these celestial cranes had been drawn by Li Sanjian.

“Your Highness’s future will only soar higher,” some spoke more boldly, growing increasingly uninhibited.

The loud flattery startled the two cranes, who spread their vast wings, called out softly, and lifted into the air, gradually vanishing into the distance.

“Enough! Silence!” Zhao Ji thundered.

Though lenient and tolerant with his servants, Zhao Ji was no fool nor a man ignorant of propriety. Such talk could not be allowed to spread openly in the mansion—if such rebellious words reached the imperial palace, it would be tantamount to treason, sparking the emperor’s suspicion and wrath.

Though Zhao Ji longed deeply for the throne...

It was common knowledge that Emperor Zhao Xu had no heir, his health fragile and poor.

The imperial clan, especially the direct descendants of Emperor Shenzong, were already engaged in subtle yet fierce power struggles, harboring simmering ambitions.

Yet outwardly, all pretended to care little, expressing a fervent hope that Emperor Zhao Xu would soon produce a son to inherit the throne.

At Zhao Ji’s command, the room fell silent, the servants no longer daring to speak of such matters.

Zhao Ji, pleased that auspicious signs had indeed appeared at the Prince’s mansion, quietly rejoiced inwardly. He merely chastised the servants sharply but bore no true anger. Turning to Li Sanjian with a pleased smile, he said, “Li Hanren’s painting is truly a divine work—unique and unparalleled.”

It seemed Li Sanjian was a bearer of good fortune indeed. The more Zhao Ji looked at him, the more pleased he became. Such a man could prove invaluable in the future, he thought.

With Zhao Ji’s words, the contest was decided: Li Sanjian had won decisively over Mi Fu.

Still bewildered, Li Sanjian bowed slightly, intending to offer humble thanks.

“Alas! Woe is me! Heaven helps him, not me!” Mi Fu, already disheartened, suddenly covered his face and wept loudly. “I am old! The good are bullied, the docile are ridden! The waves behind push forward, while the former crash upon the sand.”

His thoughts tangled, Mi Fu’s speech became incoherent.

He then cried as he left the hall, the setting sun stretching his shadow long and lonely.

Li Sanjian, feeling a pang of pity for his opponent’s unworthy victory, hurried over and whispered something in Mi Fu’s ear.

“Really?” Mi Fu’s tears turned to laughter, brightening with joy.

“Would I dare deceive you here in the mansion?” Li Sanjian nodded. “In truth, I am no match for you.”

Pigeons naturally return home, more so than any other bird, especially when frightened or threatened. This instinct was key.

Before the servants displayed the paintings of Mi Fu and Li Sanjian, Li Sanjian had carefully observed the courtyard, noticing a pigeon nest tucked in a corner. He deliberately placed his painting nearby.

Thus, when the pigeons arrived, they naturally settled around their nest, drawn also by the lifelike quality of Li Sanjian’s work, resulting in their gathering near his panel.

What puzzled Li Sanjian most was why the two red-crowned cranes had appeared.

Could it be divine intervention? he wondered silently.

“Ha ha,” Mi Fu laughed like a child upon hearing this. “You’re honest enough, and your work truly is extraordinary. So young—who taught you? From whom did you learn such skill?”

This was the first time Mi Fu had genuinely praised Li Sanjian since they met. Li Sanjian’s painting was indeed remarkable.

Unbeknownst to Li Sanjian, it was rare for Mi Fu to offer praise.

“My former mentor was none other than Master Dongpo,” Li Sanjian replied somberly. “But... he has since expelled me from his tutelage.”

“That explains the brilliance of your work,” Mi Fu remarked, then paused, laughing heartily. “Why were you cast out?”

“I still do not understand the reason,” Li Sanjian answered, disheartened.

He only suspected some subtle intention of Su Shi’s, yet dared not be certain—only time and a direct conversation with Su Shi might reveal the truth.

“No matter,” Mi Fu said kindly, seeing Li Sanjian’s sorrow. “There are many talented scholars in the world. Travel far and wide, seek other masters. There is no need to despair.”

“But for those who have failed the imperial exams, survival is harsh. Finding new mentors is no easy matter,” Li Sanjian sighed deeply.

Upon learning of Li Sanjian’s failure, Mi Fu’s face lit up with a knowing smile, growing fonder of him. Yet to Li Sanjian, it felt like mockery.

Though Mi Fu excelled in calligraphy and painting, and was a capable writer, he had never passed the imperial exams. Only through his mother’s connections did he obtain an official post.

Mi Fu’s mother had been the wet nurse to Emperor Shenzong, making Mi Fu and the emperor almost like brothers. This was why Zhao Ji addressed Mi Fu as “uncle.”

Thus, Mi Fu’s words were not mockery but born of shared hardship.

Though somewhat eccentric, Mi Fu was far from foolish—he was exceedingly clever, skilled at reading people.

Noticing Li Sanjian’s scowl, Mi Fu realized he had been misunderstood. Standing on tiptoe, he clapped Li Sanjian’s shoulder warmly and said, “There are many who could be your master right here in the mansion. How about you take advantage of your proximity?”

His hopeful expression was unmistakable.

You? Li Sanjian understood Mi Fu’s meaning instantly—and firmly rejected it in his heart.

To become his disciple? He would surely be driven mad.

“What are you two doing...?” Zhao Ji approached, puzzled by their sudden camaraderie.