Demon Sword Sect’s Undercover
Chapter 259 - 259 258 True Colors Revealed

259: Chapter 258: True Colors Revealed 259: Chapter 258: True Colors Revealed Hu Wen was quite surprised, “Discussing poetry, how shall we discuss it?”

“I’ve heard from monks in the temple that Mr.

Hu possesses great poetic talent, and many of the plaques in Jianjia Temple are inscribed with your verses, which I deeply admire.

Both Tideng Master and I are fond of poetry.

We’ve had a fruitful visit today, and thus would like to make friends through poetry with Mr.

Hu, enhancing our tea with verses.

Would you be willing to give it a try?”

Hu Wen responded with a restrained smile.

He dared not boast about understanding mysteries or boasting a lineage; however, when it came to composing poems, he was second to none, and it was his only hobby aside from cultivation, his shallow integration into the human world.

He had composed many of the inscriptions in Jianjia Temple.

Since he was skilled and the Master Nanneng did not appreciate poetry, it was a good chance for him to showcase his talent.

Although the temple was remotely located, it attracted many faithful men and women who visited from afar.

In addition to worshiping Buddha, they admired the temple scenery and often marveled at his works.

In this regard, the Upper Envoy was not deceiving him.

Having a skill, of course, one wishes to display it in front of others.

Humans are like this, and so is the Demon Clan; especially with poetic talent, which cannot ferment and mature hidden in the belly.

It must be written and shared to be remembered for a hundred generations.

Poets, each with a heart eager to outshine others in public.

“That is indeed my wish, and I dare not ask for more.

If so, please, Upper Envoy Hou, propose a topic.”

Hou Niao chuckled heartily, brimming with poetic inspiration, “Then let’s respond with a five-character poem, matching the current scene.

As it was I who initiated the challenge, let me be the first to offer a verse.”

Hu Wen was very interested.

With good poetry and at the temple, if it came to a contest of Buddha poetry, he was not willing to be outdone; he was curious to see what skill this Daoist Hou possessed.

If he truly had poetic talent, he might need to show some of his own skill.

If it were merely mediocre poetic flair, it wouldn’t do to embarrass him, and just humoring him with a couple of careless lines and a laugh would suffice.

Hou Niao rose to his feet and began to pace around the Zen Hall.

Whether truly inspired or merely pretending, his demeanor was convincingly masterful.

He had spent much time with the acidulous Scholar Luo Linwang and had picked up a thing or two through association.

Master Nanneng sat with eyes closed in deep concentration, while Tideng Monk watched Hou Niao’s antics silently.

Hu Wen alone held concealed anticipation.

“I have it!”

After parading around for effect, Hou Niao clapped his hands together and, with a shaking of his head and fluctuation in his voice, intoned:

“Lonely stands the reed marshes yonder, dimly spotted, Buddha Lamps do wander.

Beneath several red trees hither, a lone white-haired monk does shiver.

Cranes hide first from the chill dew, the tranquil woods, to hawks, are true.

The western wind stirs banner’s shade, wordlessly to Nanneng bow and bade.”

The group pondered the verse carefully, sensing its imagination.

Unexpectedly, even a Quanzhen commoner had such a skill; although the poem was not stunningly brilliant, it followed convention and could tentatively be considered a top-grade work, not the result of mediocre talent.

By opening with this poem, he had set the tone.

If the others were inferior, they would be ashamed to present theirs.

Cultivators demonstrate magic; scholars thrive in poetry contests.

Those truly passionate about their craft will admit no inferiority to another.

As the saying goes, no “first” in scholarship, and no “second” in martial skill, this is the rationale.

Tideng Monk knew it was his turn.

Even though he didn’t understand the point of his comrade’s performance, as a fellow traveler, he needed to cooperate a bit.

For cultivators like them, because their cerebral development far surpassed mortals, reading extensively was second nature.

Composing poetry was simply a matter of reluctance to waste time on it, not an absence of ability.

If that rough fellow could cobble together a verse, how could he not rise to the challenge?

Without pacing, he sat cross-legged, eyes closed, murmuring words to himself.

After a moment, he opened his eyes and declared:

“I too have composed!

Listen: Little smoke over village trails, lone hermitage stands proudly among hales.

Fragrant blooms, the Buddha Realm’s own, and dwellings mark the year anew, sown.

Birds peck at remnants from monks’ repast, deep into night, their zen paramount, and vast.

Cool breeze over several acres clear, already afar from worldly dust’s spear.”

Hu Wen clapped his hands and laughed heartily, thinking that these two had come to hold someone accountable, but it seemed they had already been rebuffed by the host; Hu Wen was prepared for this, with a variety of plans and countless rebuttals, but now it appeared they were unnecessary.

Against two little cultivators of the same realm as himself, even if they were human, how dare they indulge in front of the master?

With worries gone and the spirit of competition ignited, he might not dare to contend with these two human cultivators with connections, but when it came to poetry, even if the Heavenly God himself appeared, he would not yield!

With a slight lead-in to inspire creativity, the poems of these two were also quite talented among humans; without showing some real skill, he feared he might not surpass them.

He neither paced nor closed his eyes to ponder but instead, with a slight hesitation, the words flowed from his mouth,

“In a hermitage amidst the autumn colors, we sit together before the Buddha Lamp.

The wind carries the fragrance of sanctified incense, and the moon floats over the bubbling tea spring.

Sleeves chilled as the sandy wind presses, distant trees’ whispers hang beyond the window.

Crows settle as the talk ends, and the mountain monk enters night-time Zen.”

Indeed, it was a fine poem, and what’s especially precious was this quick wit.

Such literary talent, even among human scholars, was outstanding, yet Hu Wen was nothing but an untransformed demon of the Demon Clan.

Even Master Nanneng, watching from the side, nodded repeatedly, but within his nodding appreciation, there was also concealed worry; this Quanzhen disciple was not an easy one to deal with.

What else lay behind the poetry contest?

He couldn’t guess at the moment.

Hou Niao clapped and laughed, “Excellent, excellent poems!

But this is just an appetizer, there’s no victory or defeat yet—the fun is hardly exhausted.

We’ve compared five-character poems.

Let’s move on to seven-character ones, which must contain the word ‘Buddha’ and correspond to the Heart Realm.

I’ll start as a modest attempt to inspire creativity.

Dare you two respond?”

Tideng Monk curled his lip, “Just say it, as if I’d be scared of you.”

Hu Wen was also roused by a competitive joy, “The Upper Envoy commands, how dare I disobey?”

Hou Niao’s competitive spirit flourished, “Then listen well, you literary dregs!

Today I will show you what it means to excel in both poetry and swordsmanship!

‘Never greedy for progress nor resting, looking up and down the mortal world now with white hair.

All intentional acts are mere illusions, freely roaming with no obstructions in all directions.

Who says studying Buddhism requires wearing patched robes, I laugh at those seeking Immortality through building towers.

The true essence is simply to follow fate; I comfortably steer the boat, aiding the tranquil flow.’

One must admit, his poetry had reached a higher level of imagination than the prior five-character verses, but this display also aroused the competitiveness in the other two.

Tideng Monk suddenly stood up, hands behind his back, facing the sky.

He did not know Hou Niao’s intent, but he knew his cooperation was crucial—to set the stage was the only way to follow through with their plan!

“Spring breeze accompanies me to the monk’s abode, with a sigh I offer unnamed flowers to the Buddha.

Liu Ziheng, intoxicated not by wine but by dregs, Lu Xun discusses not water but tea.

Why covet the profound crane when one can compare to the white sands whether few or plenty?

I resent next year’s elusive sleep caused by your endless porridge and tea grudge.”

Their verses exchanged and their spirits increased, spurring Hu Wen’s poetic blood to boil, no longer caring for anything else; if only he could defeat them here, he would willingly shave ten years off his life!

With a grand wave of his sleeve, unyielding, “I have seen the phoenix loving the morning sun, not expecting the empty mountains to reveal Buddha Light.

Amidst broken walls and clouds, a marten sleeps sound, through the woods at dawn, swallows fly busy.

Ling Palace opens at dawn, all flowers bloom, the bell tower heralds spring, the grass also fragrant.

Occasionally, an old monk comes to sun his back—a sight amidst the robe shadows not easily forgotten.”

Hou Niao burst into laughter, “Brilliant poetry!

Hu Wen, you’ve been caught red-handed, and if you don’t explain yourself today, I fear your poetic talents shall be buried in the Underworld!”