Volume One: Storms in a Small Town Chapter 9: Composing Poetry at the Market

The street bustled with people coming and going. On either side stood taverns, teahouses, pill shops, and weapon stores. Street vendors lined the road, displaying their treasures for sale—not the kind you might be imagining. Was this not the very scene of an ancient street as seen on television? He had thought that cultivators were all recluses, shunning worldly pleasures, but it seemed they too could not escape the desires of the mundane world.

It was understandable, really. Most practitioners here were merely at the Body Tempering stage, the lowest rung among cultivators. They had yet to reach the point where they could forgo food or subdue their appetites and desires.

Finding an empty, shaded pavilion, Zhang Heng sat down. He had already thought carefully about how to make himself noticed. Through three days of poring over various tomes, Zhang Heng had discovered an amusing phenomenon: on this continent of cultivation, spiritual energy was abundant, and so martial prowess was revered above all. As a result, the general populace was not highly educated. In other words, no one here had ever gone to school…

Thus, the advantage of Zhang Heng’s modern knowledge became clear. Music, chess, calligraphy, painting—did they know any of these? Probably not.

Of course, there were exceptions. Even in this martial world, some chose to study the arts, especially those like Zhang Heng who lacked talent for cultivation.

After settling in, Zhang Heng took pen and paper from Little Red and wrote the character for “poetry” in bold strokes, noting beside it: “One poem for one piece of jade.” He then instructed Little Red to post it on the stone pillar outside the pavilion.

At last, Little Red understood what her young master was up to. “Young master, you can write poetry? How come I never knew?” she said, skeptical.

“Nonsense. There are plenty of things I can do that you don’t know about,” Zhang Heng replied, a little annoyed. He then fell silent, sitting quietly.

Having just transmigrated, his mind was still a bit hazy.

“Young master, if you don’t hawk your wares, there won’t be any customers,” the girl said, feigning wisdom.

What, does she think he’s selling cabbages? Zhang Heng was speechless. As the saying goes: “The fisherman waits for those who wish to be caught.” Only those with fate would obtain his poems.

Time slipped by. Two hours passed in the blink of an eye, yet no one paid any attention to their pavilion. It seemed most people in this world were indeed illiterate. Still, Zhang Heng was unperturbed. Who among these coarse folk would even understand his poetry?

Another half hour went by. Then, at the end of the street, a woman appeared, her face veiled in white gauze. She walked towards Zhang Heng with graceful steps.

The moment she appeared, Zhang Heng knew that the person he was waiting for had arrived. Her attire was elegant, her bearing aloof—one look told you she was someone of status and taste, someone who could appreciate the arts. This was exactly the kind of person Zhang Heng had been waiting for.

He had thought it through. In this world where might rules, someone as powerless as he was would never draw attention through martial cultivation. If the path of the sword was blocked, he would walk the path of literature. Poetry, after all, was the ultimate tool for charming women.

He would seek out a lady of beauty, background, and poetic sensibility, then use the knowledge from his previous life to grow close to her. There were two possible outcomes: either she took a liking to him and brought him home to her family, or she didn’t, and her admirers would come and beat him up. Either way, Zhang Heng would make his presence felt.

Would it really work? Even Zhang Heng doubted himself.

As the woman drew near, Zhang Heng flicked open his folding fan, striking the pose of a refined gentleman. Then he recited slowly:

“In the north, there is a beauty,
Unparalleled and alone.
One glance topples a city,
Another glance topples a nation.
Do you not know that fallen cities and nations are hard to regain,
While beauties such as this are truly rare?”

This classic song, once sung by Li Yannian, was perfect for praising such a woman.

She had arrived.

As Zhang Heng finished, the woman stopped before him. Inwardly, he laughed: Surrender to my talent, won’t you?

But the woman made no mention of poetry. Instead, she asked directly, “Little brother, do you know the way to the Murong residence?”

Asking for directions? Was she kidding him?

Zhang Heng finally understood: people in this world never followed the script. She had just heard such a fine poem and showed no reaction at all.

A deep sense of failure washed over him. So much for his plan to gain attention through poetry. If he was useless in martial arts and literature availed him nothing, what was left for him to do?

Seeing Zhang Heng remain silent, the woman stepped closer, placing her hands on the stone table before him, leaning in temptingly. “Little brother, do you know or not? Can you help me?”

Then she blew gently into his ear.

Was she teasing him? No, that wasn’t the point—the real marvel was how someone so cold and aloof could act with such fiery enthusiasm. Was this the legendary union of ice and fire? Who could endure that?

As the woman seemed poised to go further, Zhang Heng instead advanced, grinning wickedly. “Wouldn’t it be easier to find out if we tried?”

Only then did the woman straighten up, extending a delicate finger to lightly push Zhang Heng away, laughing, “Naughty boy! Do you know or not? Hurry and tell your big sister.”

Zhang Heng stood, pointed in the direction of the Murong house, and hurriedly replied, “Turn left up ahead, then go straight—you’ll be there. Take care.”

In recent days, aside from reading, he had also learned much from Little Red, so he knew the way to the Murong residence. After all, it was his former fiancée’s home, and as for the future, who could say what would happen?

Did disciples of the Linglong Sanctuary feel nothing? Of course not. As long as one was human, one had seven emotions and six desires.

Zhang Heng’s ambition was that one day, he would storm Linglong Sanctuary and shower all the women there with affection.

Having gotten her answer, the woman turned to leave.

Zhang Heng let out a sigh of relief. Any more of that and he would have made a fool of himself.

But as she reached the edge of the pavilion, the woman suddenly stopped, turned, and said, “Thank you, little brother. Your poem was nice, but I don’t understand it. Next time, I’ll bring someone who does to keep you company.”

Great. Now he’d lost face completely—living two lives, only to be teased by a woman. Perhaps this was a stain he would never wash away.

But Zhang Heng could hardly be blamed. In his previous life, everything he did was for survival; he’d never had time for romance. And now, after just four days in this new world, he’d hardly had the chance.

“Young master, it’s getting late. We should head back,” came Little Red’s voice.

Zhang Heng looked outside; sure enough, dusk was falling. Damn it, a whole day wasted, not only gaining nothing, but even being made a fool of. Was there no love in this world?

The woman’s appearance made it clear: most people here cared nothing for poetry. It seemed he would have to find another way to make himself noticed.

“Little Red, pack up. Let’s go home,” Zhang Heng said, and set off for the Zhang estate.