Chapter Forty-Seven: Talent Soaring to the Heavens!

Inside the hall.

Countless gazes settled upon that solitary figure—some filled with anticipation, others with speculation, envy, or even disdain.

Wang Ran was unlike the other prodigies. Years ago, he had lingered at the threshold of Foundation Establishment for years, earning the title of disgrace among the talented, and becoming a target of mockery. Later, he was chosen by the Grand Elder as a disciple and became the junior brother of Yao Jianjia, provoking the silent curses of many who believed fate had unfairly favored him. It wasn’t until he accomplished the Ten-Star Foundation Establishment that the whispers finally ceased.

Yet, opinions about him remained complex. Some revered Wang Ran, holding him as an idol to aspire to; others, consumed by jealousy, longed to supplant him.

The two elders, having heard tales of Wang Ran, now watched him with great interest.

Zhao Xiaobai gently fanned himself and smiled faintly. He had once remarked that Wang Ran had the bearing of a future hegemon, capable of strategizing and commanding the world—thus, he was supremely confident in his peer. If he himself could reach nine zhang of literary spirit, then Wang Ran would certainly be his equal.

Yan Wanrou felt much the same. In her eyes, there was no one in the world more formidable than Senior Brother Wang. She smiled slightly, revealing a pair of small tiger teeth, and waved her delicate hands in the air while cheering, “Go, Senior Brother!” Drawing many sidelong glances.

Tony Mook, meanwhile, stood at a distance, coldly observing.

As for Wang Ran, at the eye of the storm, he remained unmoved, calmly studying the scroll in his hands.

In truth, he had already completed all the questions, leaving only the final one unanswered.

For Wang Ran believed that the art of posturing was profound and boundless; even a minor literary examination should be approached with seriousness. If he were to hand in his paper, it must be with the utmost flair.

Thus, he waited. In his experience, the protagonist always made their entrance at the last moment—either to turn the tide or to astonish all with a single act.

No one else knew his thoughts, assuming he was still diligently answering questions. Elder Huang stroked his beard and watched with approval.

“A fine seedling indeed. Though called a genius by others, he is neither arrogant nor impetuous, always maintaining his own pace. Even under the watchful eyes of so many, he remains unflustered. Such composure is truly rare!”

“With time, this youth will surely achieve greatness and soar to the highest ranks.”

The white-robed elder was visibly shaken. Elder Huang’s status was so lofty that even the Grand Elder would yield to him; his discernment was unmatched. Though he had commented on others before, none had received praise as high or as all-encompassing as Wang Ran.

Could this disciple truly be so exceptional?

The white-robed elder’s heart was filled with doubt and awe.

“Ding! Congratulations to Host Wang Ran for causing a moderate mental shock to the inner sect elders. You have gained twenty points of Dao Attainment!”

Startled by the notification that flashed through his mind, Wang Ran wondered—he hadn’t even begun to show off, yet Dao Attainment was already coming his way?

Puzzled, he glanced at the two elders before him and, seeing a peculiar light in the eyes of the white-robed elder, vaguely understood—he must have been misunderstood.

Wang Ran smiled inwardly and looked back to his scroll.

After three days of study, he was thoroughly familiar with the answers to the exam questions, encountering no obstacles.

The first question, for example, asked about the composition of this world and its division into major provinces. Had this been before his Foundation Establishment, he might not have known. But now, having reached Ten-Star Enlightenment, his perspective had broadened immeasurably, and with the materials Zhao Xiaobai had given him, he could answer with ease.

This world was formed of infinite spiritual energy, giving rise to myriad races, among which humanity thrived. The continent was divided into nine great provinces: Cloud Province, Sword Province, Spirit Province, Alchemy Province, Azure Province, Soul Province, Herb Province, Buddhist Province, and, at the continent’s heart, Heaven Province—also called Central Province. Their sect resided in Cloud Province; all this was common knowledge to Wang Ran.

Scroll after scroll, hundreds of questions—none caused him the slightest frown.

Only the final question gave him pause.

This question tested the student’s state of mind: compose a poem that expressed one’s present mood. Simple, yet profoundly difficult. There was no fixed answer—everything depended on the disciple’s heart in that moment.

As the saying goes, “From a glimpse, discern the whole.” With the array’s power, one’s present mindset could reveal how far and high they might go in the future, thus forming the basis of assessment.

Many had stumbled here.

Wang Ran did not know how Zhao Xiaobai or Yan Wanrou had answered, but in his heart, he already had many possible responses.

In his previous life as a top student, he may not have memorized three hundred Tang poems perfectly, but he came close; already, several famous verses swirled in his mind.

The Poet Immortal Li Bai, the Poet Sage Du Fu, the Poet Devil Bai Juyi… The lines of those ancient literary giants hovered before him.

After much thought, Wang Ran chose Li Bai.

For Li Bai’s poetry was always grand and unrestrained, matching Wang Ran’s own mood and spirit—there was a certain kindred resonance between them.

Li Bai’s corpus was vast, with many worthy choices. Several verses gleamed in his mind.

Only after considerable deliberation—long enough that some onlookers began to grow restless—did his eyes brighten. He dipped his brush in ink and began to write.

“Bring in the Wine”

“Have you not seen, the waters of the Yellow River come from the sky, rushing to the sea, never to return?”

As Wang Ran wrote the opening line, a crystalline radiance shimmered around him; wisps of literary spirit began to coalesce.

Quite a few were left dumbfounded.

“That’s literary spirit? Just that little?”

“It’s not even a meter, let alone a zhang.”

“I know, right? And I thought he was some prodigy with a monstrous mind. Compared to the other three, the gap is huge.”

“If this is Wang Ran’s true strength, I’m thoroughly disappointed.”

The crowd scoffed, seeing only a faint trace of literary spirit.

They did not realize this was just the first line. Others only displayed literary spirit after completing all questions, but Wang Ran, with but an opening verse, already could not hold it back.

The two elders ignored the noisy disciples, their eyes shining as they watched Wang Ran.

Zhao Xiaobai and Yan Wanrou both wore grave expressions.

At the center of it all, Wang Ran’s demeanor was heroic, his brush moving like the wind.

“Have you not seen, the waters of the Yellow River come from the sky, rushing to the sea, never to return?”

“Have you not seen, in grand halls and bright mirrors, white hair mourned—once black as silk at dawn, now turned to snow by dusk?”

With these first two lines, the literary spirit immediately became visible.

“When life is at its height, one must seize joy; never let a golden goblet face the moon empty.”

“Heaven gave me talent for a reason; squander a thousand gold, it will come again.”

“Let us roast lamb, butcher oxen—let us be merry; let us drink three hundred cups in one sitting!”

“Master Huang, Zhao Baisheng, bring in the wine, let the cup not rest!”

With these four lines, the literary spirit visibly condensed.

Wang Ran’s strokes suddenly grew sharper.

“Let me sing you a song; listen closely, if you will.”

“Bells and jade platters are no true treasure; I’d rather be drunk forever and never awake!”

“Since ancient times, all sages and worthies were lonely; only the drinkers left their names behind.”

“Back in the day, Lord Chen held grand feasts at Pingyue; with ten thousand coins per cup, they reveled without restraint.”

“Why worry, host, about lack of money? Just go and buy more wine, and let us drink together.”

By now, the literary spirit gathered above his head, like a steed ready to charge.

Many disciples noticed this extraordinary scene and cried out in amazement.

With a solemn expression, Wang Ran penned the final line:

“Let five-flower horses, and thousand-gold furs, be traded for fine wine—so together, we may wash away the sorrows of eternity!”

The moment he finished the word “sorrow,” the literary spirit above Wang Ran’s head could no longer be contained—it burst forth completely.

One zhang!

Two zhang!

Three zhang!

Like a rainbow, the literary spirit surged upward, surpassing Tony Mook, surpassing Yan Wanrou, surpassing Zhao Xiaobai—straight toward ten zhang!

Ten zhang was the limit; he had matched Ye Cangping’s best from before.

Yet, just as the crowd gasped, thinking the spectacle had ended, the radiant literary spirit paused for a moment—then once more shot straight up, breaking through the array’s limits, soaring into the clouds!

Everyone was utterly astonished.

In that instant, countless disciples of the sect saw the dazzling light rising from the Fifth Mountain.

The poem was written; the world was left in awe.