Chapter 3: A Battle of Poetry at the Daming Palace

Western Palace.

Long Chen was escorted into a small, dark room by two beautiful palace maids. As the door closed behind him, both women fixed their predatory gazes on him, like hungry wolves eyeing their prey.

“Little Dragon? Freshly cut, aren’t you? Still looks like a man to me,” one of them remarked, her voice laced with mischief.

One maid kept watch at the door while the other approached him, intent on mischief. Long Chen was seized with panic—he had never been castrated. If these women assaulted him, his secret would certainly be exposed.

Cursing inwardly, Long Chen seethed: Just you wait! Don’t underestimate a eunuch—fortunes rise and fall, and one day I’ll show the world what I’m made of!

“Ladies, if you lay a hand on me, I’ll scream!” he threatened.

The maids merely laughed. “This is a cell, sweetheart. Scream all you want—no one will come to your rescue.”

“Then I’ll smash my head and die. If I do, the princess will surely hold you responsible.”

“Pah! No fun in that,” one of them scoffed.

Uninterested, the two maids left the little dark room, tossing a final threat over their shoulders: “Count yourself lucky. If you’re not needed tomorrow, you’d better prepare to die for peeping at the princess!”

Bang!

The door slammed shut.

Sitting alone in the tiny cell, Long Chen was overcome by boredom and gnawing hunger—he hadn’t eaten all day. He surveyed his prison: a single, tiny window let in a sliver of light; the walls were thick and impenetrable. Escape was impossible.

“Would a place like this have some martial arts manual left behind by a master?” he mused.

He laughed at himself. “That’s too cliché. I’ve read too many novels.”

The stone floor was freezing, forcing Long Chen to curl up in a corner. The faint light from the window barely illuminated the room.

Then, to his astonishment, he noticed something etched in the corner.

“Wait…could it be?”

There, in the shadows, was a passage of cultivation instructions. Long Chen immediately pressed himself to the ground to read it carefully.

As it turned out, a brazen predecessor had once used a secret technique to conceal his masculinity and sneak into the palace for pleasure, only to be exposed due to lack of mastery. Before dying, he was imprisoned here and created another hidden art: the Grand Yin Concealment Technique.

“Heaven truly helps me—this is exactly what I need!”

Long Chen was not a lecher. His entry into the harem was not for shameful pleasures, but for revenge—he aspired to become the strongest under heaven.

Since arriving in this world, the memories of the original owner’s vendetta haunted him, festering into an unshakable obsession.

Li Chengdao, Southern Liang, Western Xia, the barbarian tribes…they all had to die!

But first, he had to hide his identity; if discovered in his current state, death was certain.

Long Chen began practicing the Grand Yin Concealment Technique. The yang energy within him gathered and dispersed in a strange rhythm. He could even feel the damaged meridians in his body showing signs of recovery.

That predecessor must have been a peerless genius—if only he hadn’t been so debauched.

Time ticked by as Long Chen sank deeper into this peculiar sensation.

Clang!

The door to the little dark room swung open, and two alluring palace maids entered, lifting Long Chen to his feet and escorting him outside.

“Ladies, what do you intend to do?” Long Chen asked, emerging from his cultivation trance. He felt the technique had worked—his masculinity now fully suppressed. Not only that, but his crippled meridians had also recovered considerably.

“Little Dragon, this is your only chance to live. It all depends on your luck,” one maid said.

“Not that I think you’ll succeed…just look at him,” the other muttered, eyeing Long Chen with ambiguous intent.

“What may I call you?” Long Chen asked.

“No need for pleasantries. If you survive this ordeal, we’ll talk,” one replied.

“If you don’t die, perhaps we can get better acquainted,” the second teased.

Their flirtation sent a chill down Long Chen’s spine. Were these beautiful maids, or bone-devouring demons?

With the two maids leading him, Long Chen soon found himself before a grand palace. Female soldiers clad in armor stood guard, blades in hand, each exuding a heroic presence.

This was Daming Palace, the great hall of Eastern Zhou, where the Empress held court and received foreign envoys.

“Who’s visiting today—Southern Liang or Western Xia?” Long Chen asked one of the maids.

She didn’t respond, instead quietly ushering him through a side door into Daming Palace, seating him behind the Fourth Princess, Di Luoxi.

Now seated, Long Chen finally had a chance to take in his surroundings.

On the throne sat a woman in phoenix robes—the Empress of Eastern Zhou, Di Shitian. Though said to be over forty, she looked no older than twenty, her eyes commanding and regal, her very presence radiating imperial might.

A central aisle divided the hall, with ministers from both nations seated on either side.

To the east sat the hosts, Eastern Zhou’s officials and four princesses. To the west, the Southern Liang delegation, led by the esteemed scholar Yu Shinan, accompanied by the four imperial princes.

At the sight of these four, the original owner’s hatred surged within Long Chen, filling him with murderous intent.

Qingyue and Xuan Yi, two personal attendants, sat behind Fourth Princess Di Luoxi. Noticing Long Chen, Qingyue quietly explained the situation.

The Southern Liang delegation had come to Eastern Zhou to compete in poetry and prose; so far, Eastern Zhou was losing, prompting Di Luoxi to bring Long Chen in as reinforcement.

“If you win, your life is spared. If you lose, prepare for reincarnation,” she warned.

Long Chen glanced at the opposite side. The leader of Southern Liang was Crown Prince Li Chengtong, followed by the other princes: Li Jiye, Li Yuanying, and Li Wenji, with Yu Shinan at the end.

At the sight of his enemies’ sons, Long Chen’s fists clenched, his eyes bloodshot—he wished he could slaughter them where they sat.

Sensing the murderous aura behind her, Di Luoxi turned to glance at Long Chen. He quickly suppressed his killing intent.

“If Eastern Zhou fails to match this poem, then Fishing City is ours,” Li Chengtong declared smugly.

Qingyue explained in a whisper: the Southern Liang delegation had proposed a poetry duel. If they lost, they would cede Linjiang City to Eastern Zhou; but if Eastern Zhou failed, Southern Liang would seize Fishing City.

The Empress turned to Second Princess Di Xingwan, renowned for her literary talent and the main hope for this contest.

Di Xingwan, delicate and elegant in her white robes, looked troubled—she could not match Yu Shinan’s poem.

“What’s the poem?” Long Chen asked quietly.

“It’s a verse about snow,” Qingyue replied.

“Let me see.”

Qingyue handed him the copy transcribed by Di Luoxi. Long Chen read it—it was decent, but nothing remarkable.

“Can you do it?” Di Luoxi asked softly, turning her head slightly.

Long Chen smiled. “Rest assured, Princess. This sorry excuse for poetry is hardly worth mentioning.”

With that, Long Chen dipped his brush and swiftly composed his own ode to snow.

Qingyue quickly presented it to Di Luoxi. She glanced at it, her expression shifting as she turned to look at Long Chen with newfound depth.

“Wait,” Di Luoxi announced, “I have composed an ode to snow as well.”

All eyes turned to her. Second Princess Di Xingwan looked surprised—after all, the Fourth Princess was famed for her martial prowess, not for poetry.

The Southern Liang envoys exchanged mocking smiles, well aware of the specializations of each Eastern Zhou princess.

“I’ve only heard of the Fourth Princess’s unrivaled skill in combat and assassination,” Li Chengtong sneered. “Who knew she could compose poetry?”

Yu Shinan chimed in with a tone of derision: “I thought the Fourth Princess was illiterate, yet here she is, writing poems.”

The Southern Liang delegation burst into laughter.

The Empress fixed her gaze on Di Luoxi, perceiving a quiet confidence in her demeanor.

Di Luoxi’s lips curled in a cold smile. “I can kill your generals on the battlefield and outmatch you in poetry. Listen well!”

Yu Shinan gave a mocking bow. “Then let us hear your verse, Fourth Princess.”

Everyone’s attention focused on Di Luoxi. Would she perform a miracle or make a fool of herself?