054 An Unconventional Registration

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Normally, registration is a simple matter—just confirming the applicant's legal identity at the appointed time and place. Yet, when the line reached Yang Tang, trouble arose.

The cutoff for registration was 9:50. When Shen Chen led Yang Tang past the entry ticket check and into the flower fair’s inner hall, only a handful of people lingered at the registration point, and it was exactly 9:30. By rights, Yang Tang should have had no trouble signing up on time.

But, as luck would have it, just then a dozen or so people—men and women—suddenly surged from the sides, shouting, "Line up! Line up! Line up!" They split into two groups, blocking both registration desks so thoroughly not even water could pass.

When Yang Tang and Shen Chen hurried over, they could only queue at the very end of each line.

From the front, the staff asked, "If you want to register, state your name and social security number."

"Yes, yes!" The man at the head of Yang Tang's line answered in a strange tone. "My name is Wang You Shi, my social security number is one-two-three-four-five-six-seven, uh, no, it's seven-six-five-four-three, uh, not that either..."

The same happened in the other line, though the person there didn't just recite numbers at random; instead, he stammered through his social security number, taking nearly half a minute to recite seven digits, revising four of them repeatedly. It was obvious—they were deliberately stalling.

Shen Chen saw through this at once and, tugging at Yang Tang’s sleeve, whispered, "Quick, think of something!"

"What am I supposed to do?" Yang Tang glared. "I’ve only been in Shenhai a couple of days—don’t know a soul. I’ll bet all these people are here because of you."

Shen Chen was momentarily stunned, then recalled something, and gritted her teeth in anger, "It must be that scoundrel!"

Yang Tang chuckled, "Oh? There’s someone like that? Which scoundrel? Introduce me sometime!"

Shen Chen was furious and retorted, "You’re a scoundrel too! I don’t care—if you can’t register, you owe me that thousand yuan!"

Yang Tang instantly realized that failing to register would not only mean returning the money, but losing board and lodging, and missing out on poetry rewards. "This is all you women’s fault! Damn, who is this? Cutting off my livelihood—so heartless it’s smoking!"

Hearing his grumbling, Shen Chen became smug. "Well? Do you have a plan or not? Are you going to register?"

Yang Tang didn’t answer her, but instead asked, "What time is it?"

"Nine thirty-four," Shen Chen replied, annoyed.

"Registration’s simple. Go get me a sheet of xuan paper—one person high, half a person wide—and a brush, a big one."

"Brush, ink, paper, inkstone, right? Got it." Shen Chen answered as she dashed off.

Within two minutes, Shen Chen had someone carry over a table. Beside her now stood another man—a “tail”—with delicate features, chirping incessantly in what was clearly an attempt to curry favor.

Though Shen Chen’s looks were only average, at least from Yang Tang’s aesthetic, he found her less pleasing than Fang Yuhua. Yet the man sticking to Shen Chen didn’t seem to mind, embodying the saying, "Beauty is in the eye of the beholder" and "Each to their own taste."

Given this, Yang Tang had no intention of engaging with the man. But once the table was set, the man stared at Yang Tang for quite some time before bursting into laughter. "Chen Chen, is this your hired gun? Apart from passable looks, he seems rather ordinary!"

Shen Chen was momentarily speechless, turning to Yang Tang for help.

Yang Tang glanced at the effeminate man and sneered, "Shen Chen, is this friend of yours who laughs and looks like a beauty?" The man primped his hair, looking quite pleased. "Did you meet in Thailand?"

With Yang Tang's sharp retort, Shen Chen paused, then covered her mouth to laugh, finally bursting into hearty laughter, her waist bent from mirth.

The effeminate man’s eyes widened, as if to devour someone, and after a long moment he spat, "I’d like to see how you manage to register today!"

Yang Tang, taking advantage of the paper being laid out, cast a sideways glance at the man. Unnoticed, the aura he’d accumulated—“Ten Victories”—silently pressed upon him.

The man suddenly felt a tightness in his chest, unable to vomit, sweat beading on his brow, looking as though he’d seen a ghost.

Short of time, Yang Tang skipped grinding ink, borrowed what remained in the inkstone, and wrote boldly from right to left: "The First Ode to the Peony!"

It was just a title, but Shen Chen was aghast. First, at Yang Tang’s audacity—countless poems have praised the peony, to claim “first” was beyond arrogance. Second, at the script—Yang Tang’s brushwork was a style she’d never seen, nor even heard of.

Yang Tang was not using his usual slender gold script, but the Liu style regular script he’d mastered in his early study of calligraphy.

In his former life, the four great regular scripts were Ouyang, Liu, Yan, and Zhao. In this world, except for Ouyang Xun, the other three were unknown. So Shen Chen was amazed by Yang Tang’s script—it was unique, and true mastery in calligraphy isn’t born from fanciful invention or a few days of practice.

Yang Tang also knew the Ouyang style, and among the four, he admired it most for its balance of uprightness and sharpness. But since Ouyang Xun was already renowned here, he couldn’t showcase his Ouyang script.

Instead, the Liu style, unheard of in this world, graced the paper. Not only Shen Chen, but the two workers who brought the table felt an unexpected freshness.

When the ink dried, Yang Tang continued writing vertically, to the right: “Royal beauty lifts the morning wine, heavenly fragrance dyes the night’s robe.”

Shen Chen’s eyes lit up and she clapped, exclaiming, "Wonderful!"

Yang Tang, merely transcribing, showed no excitement. He wrote the next line: “Crimson scenery intoxicates spring’s face, the bright moon asks when I return.” Then the signature: “Yang Tang, on the third quarter of the hour, day of Yi You, month of Ji Mao, year of Geng Chen.”

Setting down the brush, he turned to Shen Chen. “There are five or six minutes left before the deadline. Hang my poem up high, let everyone judge—better yet, snap a photo and post it online. There’s bound to be a stir!”

Shen Chen instantly understood his intent, and quietly reminded him, “You’re making trouble—don’t forget, I’m part of the flower fair committee!”

“Are you? Suit yourself. Anyway, I don’t plan to repay your thousand yuan. At worst, take the poem instead!” Even a hero can be stumped by a single coin; Yang Tang had no choice but to feign indifference.

“Really?!” Shen Chen was delighted, then a little downcast. “But my thousand yuan isn’t enough for your poetry.”

“Enough, enough, do as you please. Take my number, I’ll send you my social security. Register me if you can; if not, I owe you nothing.” With that, Yang Tang sent his number to Shen Chen, and without so much as a glance at the effeminate man’s uncertain face, strode away from the registration point.

After Yang Tang left, the registration area quickly became lively.

“Master Wang, how can you still be drinking tea? Something big has happened at the registration!”

Kindly Master Wang glanced at his watch, then at the alarmed messenger, and smiled, “Da Lu, it’s 9:49. Registration is basically done—what could happen now?”

The middle-aged man called Da Lu gave a wry smile. “Master Wang, things aren’t so simple. Your grandnephew has been pursuing Miss Shen, and he gathered a bunch of people to stall registration as the deadline approached…”

After hearing Da Lu’s explanation, Master Wang slapped the table so hard the teacup bounced. “Outrageous! This Guo Qian is too much. So he studied abroad—came back after years just to pick up such dirty tricks?”

Da Lu secretly sighed, Master Wang, I’m telling the truth, but you shouldn’t just believe me outright. Shouldn’t you check for yourself? Otherwise, if you change your mind later, I’ll be blamed!

Master Wang, less concerned with such worries, stood abruptly. “I want to see this so-called First Ode to the Peony myself. If it meets my standards, I’ll register the author personally!”

When Master Wang arrived at the registration point, all staff stood to greet him, except the effeminate man who shrank into the crowd.

Master Wang ignored him, focusing intently on the poem hanging above the registration desk. “Excellent script! Already forming its own style. Given time, remarkable! The poem is even better!”

Hearing Master Wang lavish praise on Yang Tang’s calligraphy and poetry, the effeminate man felt a growing sense of unease and was about to slip away, when Master Wang called out, “Guo Qian, get over here!”

He had no choice but to approach. “Uncle Grandfather…”

“I heard you drove away the poet Yang Tang? Then I command you to bring him back! If you fail, when the Guo family selects its heir this Mid-Autumn, I’ll speak well for your brother instead.”

Guo Qian’s face changed instantly. Master Wang, though not a Guo by blood, had immense prestige in the arts; often, it was not the Guo family supporting him, but he supporting them. Thus, in matters of succession, he held significant influence. He could truly reduce Guo Qian to an ordinary member, and then, not only would he lose his pursuit of Shen Chen—even entry to Shen Chen’s circles would be in doubt.

Paternal uncles are called Uncle Grandfather; maternal uncles, Uncle Great-Grandfather.

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