this is a collection of some of my poems. some of the poems are about love, life, unrequited love, sorrow, loneliness, and more. I hope you can enjoy of my collection of poems and I hope I can transmit the emotions that the poems are supposed to give.

The Book of Poems... But Instead Called Poems of Blossom
Brought to you by and written by a thirteen year old...
Be prepared to be surprised and...
Yes this is a book full of poems.

Good evening. It's Sunday today so I can say it's my most, lazieeeest day ever. I don't wanna do anything at all. Ughh. Can you imagine feeling lazy every Sunday? No, every daaaay? I'm doing noting yet I wanna keep doing nothing. I wanna go somewhere but I don't wanna do anything. I want to write a poem but nothing comes to mind.

Haha! Yes! I write poems too! It's been one of my favourite hobbies you know. It helps me calm my chaotic mind most of the time. I love, love, love expressing my feelings through simple words. Want some examples? Pfft. Noooo wayy. I feel like you'd be judging me! Now I'm anxious. Oh my gosh.

Oh! My mom's calling me for dinner time so I'll be going now. You also eat your meals!

And yes, I am talking to a piece of paper but who cares? Hahaha.


Your friend,
TSM

Three Shae Moone, a 17-year-old girl who simply writes on a notebook about her everyday life, narrating each event and her feelings down. A diary that consists her 365 days, plus 1, according to the calendar of 2020, will be written down on this simple notebook.

As this notebook of hers holds onto all her secrets in life that not even her family or her own best friend, Annaliese, knows about. Somehow, things are being revealed one by one.

What about you? Can you be a notebook that someone can always open up to without any hesitation and feeling judgements? Can you be a notebook and always be ready to catch each feelings that your owner will throw? In this simple short novel, you are Three Shae Moone's diary, with her signature as TSM. Just what are these secrets of hers?

------

NOTE:
Some events that are written here are base on real life dates. This story's plot and setting is pure Filipino and the author will do its utmost best to explain each detail so confusion will be minimum. Names and the characters are pure fictional. If by chance the author has written a wrong information, it will be edited or deleted. Opinions of the author regarding historical matters are meant to be respected, and is also ready to respect the readers' thoughts.
Inserted titles, fictional stories, and mentioned people/fictional characters are all credited to its rightful owners.

This short novel is originally written by the author, Fookim.

All rights reserved.

Afternoon.

The weather wasn't too good. It was a bit misty.

Zhang Ye came to the unit and before he entered, his phone rang. It was his mother.

"Son."

"Oh, mom."

"Are you coming home for Mid-Autumn's Day?"

"I can't go back; I have to work overtime."

"Overtime on a holiday? You should be free at night then?"

"I should be free tonight. I will go back once I have knocked off."

"Don't come back to Cai Shi Kou; go directly to your grandmother's place. The relatives will all be there. They have heard that you have gained fame; your younger sisters (cousins) are all nagging to see you."

"Okay. Then, I will try to go early."

"Don't forget; my face will depend on you tonight!"

"What face? They are all relatives. Are you bragging about me again?"

"Anyhow, just buy more things and bring them over. Don't be too thrifty; buy the expensive ones. You are now a public figure; don't go throwing my face. Okay, I’m hanging up."

Du Du Du; the line was disengaged.

Zhang Ye smiled bitterly. His mom didn't have any other bad points. The only big feature was that she liked to brag. Yes, Zhang Ye admitted that he had inherited this from his mother. But he had never felt this was a bad point! Many examples in his world would validate this.

Is bragging wrong? No!

Do you know how Bill Gates became the richest person in the world?

Do you know how Li Na became the tennis world champion?

Do you know how Liu Xiang broke the world record in the hurdles event?

Not many people should know about this! What is the reason? Haha, the reason is they...... Alright, all of these events have nothing to do with each other. Let's change the topic!

Not many people had arrived at the office.

Zhang Ye didn't look around as he walked in. Suddenly, a voice appeared from behind.

It was Big Sis Zhou. She smiled. "Greet me, or not. There will I stay, no sorrow, nor joy."

Zhang Ye quickly smiled and turn back to look at her, "Big Sister Zhou, good morning. I'm sorry. The flowers on your desk were blocking you; I did not notice you were here."

Big Sis Zhou said proudly, "How was it, Little Zhang? I used your poem correctly?"

Zhang Ye embarrassedly said, "You saw Weibo last night?"

"Of course, I saw it. I followed your Weibo last night. I did not expect that after I followed it, the party had also started. It caused me to fall asleep after 12 last night. You didn't follow me, right? I even forwarded your new poem." As she spoke, she felt some injustice for him, "Ignore those people from the Writers' Association. If you don't know what art is and can't write poems, then no one in the world can write poems. Big Sis supports you. Don't take it to heart."

Zhang Ye smiled. "Thank you, Big Sis Zhou."

Outside, people began streaming in for their overtime.

"Eh, Teacher Little Zhang, you've come? Why did you get into a pinch with people yesterday?"

"Vice President Meng is the Leader of the Beijing Writers' Association. How did you offend him?"

"That's right. I saw it yesterday, too. Teacher Little Zhang, if I had any say, you shouldn't have posted your last poem. Those are the Writers' Association's Leaders and seniors. If you really offend them, how are you to enter the Writers' Association in the future? I think that it is best to leave some leeway. Hai, but those people are also too much. Why did they reprimand you for no reason? Even if your poems aren't comparable to them as seniors, how old are you? You are still young. They also can't say that your poems have no literary value. That's too damaging. I think your poem is still acceptable and isn't as bad as they say."

"Sis Liu, what did you say? You say Teacher Little Zhang's poem is acceptable? I think you have been misled by that group of people; Teacher Little Zhang has so much talent!"

Several sisters and aunties began an exchange of difference in opinions.

Until work starts at 9 A.M., the topic was hotly discussed amongst everyone.

Tian Bin also had an interest in the battle on Weibo last night. He interrupted to ask, "Sis Zhou, what sort of person is Vice-President Meng like? Those old timers are very experienced. Big Thunder and a few other poets, all of them are professionals. If they said so, then it must mean they criticized it according to their literary learnings. How can we judge, since we are not as knowledgeable as them? It's not that I am stepping on Teacher Zhang Ye. But like the old comrades of the Writers' Association said, there are many issues. After reading it, I also feel some doubts."

Big Sister Zhou looked at Tian Bin, "Then why don't you create a poem for me to listen to?"

Tian Bin replied, "I don't have such capabilities, but I still have some basic judgment skills." He turned around towards Jia Yan, "Teacher Little Jia, what do you think?"

Jia Yan gave some thought and said, "Teacher Zhang's poems definitely cannot compare with those seniors. As for whether it has any literary value, it's not my place to make an evaluation."

What they said was also heard by Zhang Ye.

When Zhang Ye used two poems to save a life on Wang Xiaomei's live broadcast, the office and even everyone in the Beijing Radio Station had completely acknowledged his talent and poem. They had all said that it was good, with no one denying it. But now, the Writers' Association with Meng Dongguo as the head had openly questioned and denied Zhang Ye's poems publicly. As such, his colleagues were now not unified in their beliefs. Some said they were good, while others said they were bad. Even more were uncertain and confused. Sometimes, the authoritative opinions of experts were very damaging and also affected many.

How was one to change the situation?

How was one to eliminate the public's doubts?

There was no other way. As long as Zhang Ye's qualifications were weaker than Meng Dongguo and company’s, then he was not able to turn the tide. He would only be repressed by their words. Unless… Unless Zhang Ye used his absolute talent and strength to trample on Meng Dongguo and company at a specific place and time. Otherwise, the doubts by people would forever linger on. So what if he responded yesterday? So what if the poem was well-written yesterday? The Writers' Association said that it wasn't good! They said that he did not know art! They said that he did not know literature! Just them moving their lips was enough to make you be helpless! This was the deceptive power of authority and prerogative. Many commoners did not understand this, so they only believed what the experts said!

Today, there was no announcement of the listenership ratings, as there were a lot of things happening in the station.

Zhang Ye did not care what everyone said. He got up to get his recording done, "Xiaofang, help me reserve a recording studio. Quickly, or it will be too late."

"Alright." Assistant Xiaofang answered and immediately went to arrange it. However, she returned a few minutes later, "Teacher Zhang, the station has informed me that our Literature Channel's programs from noon to 2 P.M. have all been canceled. There's no need to record. Apparently, the News and Music Channels will also be broadcasting the Mid-Autumn Poetry Meet!"

"Ah?"

"It's been cancelled?"

"Mid-Autumn Poetry Meet? This is the thing that the Leader has been busy with over the past few days?"

A few moments later, Zhao Guozhou entered, "Everyone, quiet down. Today's broadcast has some last-minute changes. Listen for a while. From 12 noon, the seventh Mid-Autumn Poetry Meet that was held in conjunction with the Beijing Writers' Association and our radio station will begin. Our Literature Channel will also join in for the live broadcast. This Poetry Meet will be different from the last one done by the Jinshi Radio Station. There will be a composing and voting segment. We have invited the Education Ministry's Leader and the Vice President of the Beijing Writers' Association and about a dozen of its members. The exact name list has not been confirmed, but there will definitely be quite a few people. As the association's Teachers' creations will be poems related to the Mid-Autumn Festival, the listeners behind the radio can also compose and post them on our website's comment section. Later on, the listeners' votes will decide on the top three. So we have added some competitive elements to make the program more interesting."

Compose poetry?

Then Meng Dongguo and those people from the Writers' Association would also come?

Zhang Ye chuckled upon hearing this. "He who has one enemy will meet him everywhere." Yesterday, he had just been scolded by him on the internet. And today they would be meeting?

Would Big Thunder come?

Would Little Red Mushroom come?

In fact, Zhang Ye actually looked forward to seeing them in the station!

Zhao Guozhou exhorted, "So put down everything in your hands. Today, everything will have the Mid-Autumn Poetry Meet as its focus. Everyone, go help out. The live broadcast venue will be in the auditorium. This is the first time that we are using such a large live broadcast venue. The equipment has not been fully tuned, so those I call out will follow me later and help out. Right. As it was not easy inviting a large audience, everyone should take an early lunch later. The cafeteria will hand out lunch early at 10.30 A.M. At noon, everyone will take their seats in the auditorium.

After calling out some names, Zhao Guozhou brought four young lads with him to the auditorium.

Big Sis Zhou suddenly said, "Teacher Little Zhang, will you be participating in the Mid-Autumn Poetry Meet? Writing poetry is one of your strengths. They said that you don't understand literature? Then show it to them!"

Another Big Sis said, "Come on. Little Zhang did not make any early preparations and just got notified. Those Teachers must have been informed a long time ago. They would have foolproof preparations. How can Little Zhang compete with them? It's better that he not embarrass himself."

An auntie in charge of copyright said, "Little Zhou, don't let them give you bad ideas. Little Zhang's poems are good, but that's only to us. Those people from the Writers' Association are professionals. Some of them are poets and famous artists; how is he to compete with them?" In a layperson's heart, the work is not actually important. Reputation and prestige is what they first look at. Zhang Ye is just a newcomer and has never entered the Writers' Association, so people will subconsciously identify Zhang Ye's works as inferior.

There were all sorts of differing opinions.

Later, as there wasn't much time left, everyone went to the cafeteria for an early meal.

Zhang Ye was actually in a dilemma. For the Mid-Autumn Poetry Meet, Meng Dongguo, Big Thunder and company would most likely be participating. Wasn't this the best time to turn the tide for himself? Wasn't this the best moment to prove himself? But how was he to participate in it? It could be seen from the format of the poetry contest. Although the listeners could participate by publishing their creations, that was just in text form. But the people from the Writers' Association would be reciting their works live. Hence, the top three had already been decided by the station to be one of those from the Writers' Association. They had already given them a huge advantage!

Go mess things up?

Stab them in their backs?

Hence, even if Zhang Ye wanted to go on, he did not know if the radio station's management and the people from the Beijing Writers' Association would let him go on the show.

Forget it. We'll see how it goes. As for the poem regarding the Mid-Autumn Festival? Zhang Ye had not thought of it yet. It was not that his brain was void of works, but it was.. filled with too many!

He wasn’t prepared?

Did he even need to prepare?

Mid-Autumn Festival poems? Not to brag, but Zhang Ye would probably not be able to finish reciting them, even if given a day and a night!

The Mid-Autumn Festival was not a modern day festival. It had a long history that dated back to ancient times, so there was a countless number of poems relating to the Mid-Autumn Festival. In this world, history did not have many changes. There were the same old dynasties and emperors, just like in Zhang Ye's memories. As such, history would not cause too many changes. The game ring probably could not change the historical background, or else society might no longer have such a social structure. It would affect everything.

However, many famous cultural works and famous historical figures did not exist!

Li Bai?

Du Fu?

Wang Wei?

None of them existed!

They were all replaced by others!

This world's ancient master poets were people Zhang Ye had never ever heard of. For example, there was Haoran, or Chen Yiqian, or Meng Fan. Zhang Ye had also never heard of any of the poetry of this world. Similarly, he was sure that they had never heard of the classic poems from his world!


Zhang Ye was originally a mundane college graduate with aspiring dreams to become a star, but unfortunately has below average looks and height. However one day, he woke up and suddenly found himself in a parallel world! 
It’s like the same world, but wait a minute…many brands, celebrities and even famous works from his world changed and are gone in this new world! Armed with the profound literary knowledge of his previous world and a heaven-defying Game Ring that gives him magical items, stats and skills, Zhang Ye embarks on a journey to pursue his life-long dream of becoming famous!
Follow Zhang Ye as he takes the new world by storm, one plagiarized piece at a time, to hilarious reactions!

What concern of yours is the abyss of a woman, Gallus Baeticus?  
This tongue of yours is fit to lick the middle of men.  Why was your dick cut off with a Samian sherd,  if a cunt was so pleasing to you, Baeticus?  
Your head should be emasculated: for although you're a Gallus in your crotch,  nevertheless you cheat the sacred rites of Cybele: you're a man with your mouth.  
 
The joke in this poem that Baeticus is still a man because he interacts with female bodies, even though the act of cunnilingus itself is considered degrading for a man to perform. The poet offers another edit for Baeticus' body: that he remove the offending part—his head—because he is not using it correctly, according to his gendered role as a Gallus. The term Gallus brings with it a sense of intentionality: Baeticus has chosen to be emasculated, or perhaps has even emasculated himself. Death is the only solution for the man who has chosen to voluntarily remove his phallic power, for the man who still tries to use his non-masculine body for penetrating. Removal of phallic (generative) power from a body negates self-control and the personhood of the body. The type of sexual violence representative of altering the epigrammatic text that we shall see in chapter 2 will not usually apply to the text represented by the female body (although in certain cases, specifically prior to publication, the text is figured as a vulnerable body, e.g., a woman or puer, who are figured as having less control over their bodies than men).  
Since Martial's poetry has taken much from Ovid's poetic corpus,  we consider here an example of sexual violence as it represents the author and his work. The body as a gendered, editable text (especially representing the author) in tension with genre is on display in Ovid's 
Metamorphoses in the story of Procne and Philomela (Ov. Met. 6.412–674), which has, among other things, been interpreted as the poet responding to censure and criticism of his text.  This story puts on display the fundamental vulnerability of the female body. Philomela's safety should by all social conventions be assured while she visits her sister's family. She is, however, put into peril, not during her journey, but when she arrives by her sister's husband, a man who is 
  
effectively a family member. The poet or the text may be represented as a similar body-type with this specific vulnerability. This showcases for the reader the potential social danger toward the text and the poet's reputation. The reader may choose to safeguard the text for the poet or to abuse the text. There is also a stated anxiety within the text of punishment against the poet by a ruler or other authority. The poet attempts to mitigate this by describing his life and poetry in completely opposite terms. When a poet experiences punishment as a result of a social mistake that comes from his text, he is being punished physically and silenced metaphorically, which is represented by the text in a strictly physical way: the poet Ovid made a mistake in his text (carmen et error, Ov. Trist. 2.1.207), suffers the consequence of being exiled, and has written himself into his text in the figure of Philomela, who is physically punished (the removal of her tongue) for threatening to make a public accusation against Tereus for raping her.  
Talibus ira feri postquam commota tyranni   
nec minor hac metus est, causa stimulatus utraque,  quo fuit accinctus, vagina liberat ensem   arreptamque coma fixis post terga lacertis   vincla pati cogit; iugulum Philomela parabat  spemque suae mortis viso conceperat ense:   550 
ille indignantem et nomen patris usque vocantem   luctantemque loqui conprensam forcipe linguam   abstulit ense fero. radix micat ultima linguae,   ipsa iacet terraeque tremens inmurmurat atrae,   utque salire solet mutilatae cauda colubrae,   555 
palpitat et moriens dominae vestigia quaerit.    hoc quoque post facinus (vix ausim credere) fertur   560 
saepe sua lacerum repetisse libidine corpus. (Ov. Met. 6.549–562)  
 
Then, by these words the rage of the brutal tyrant was incited  and no less than this, his fear, goaded on by both reasons,  he draws from its sheath the sword with which he was equipped  and he grabs her by her hair and forces her, arms behind her back,  to endure chains; Philomela was offering her throat  and conceived a hope for her own death when she saw the sword:  
The tongue, indignant and continuously calling the name of her father  and struggling to speak, grasped by pincers that man removed with his brutal blade.  
The remaining part of the root of the tongue quivers,  trembling it lies on the dark earth and murmurs,  just like the tail of a maimed serpent is accustomed to spasm,  the dying part pulses and seeks the footsteps of its mistress.  After this deed it is also said—I scarcely dare to believe it—that  he returned often to the mangled body with his own desire.  
 
This description of added violence immediately follows Philomela's declaration to make a public accusation of **** against Tereus. Tereus responds with rage and fear to Philomela's threat with more physical violence against her body: he removes her tongue so that she will not be able to speak against him. Her disembodied tongue is endowed with human characteristics as it moves, makes sounds, and seeks to be reunited with Phlomela (6.558–560); Philomela, on the other hand, is reduced to a "mangled body" (lacerum… corpus, 6.562) having lost the power of speech. This is a metaphorical emasculation because the tongue represents speech, which is a masculine power particularly in Rome.  The tongue is one of the most powerful organs a person can possess, but women misuse it. We see a similar event played out in Martial's epigrams with the power of speech being equated to the power of the mentula particularly with its associations with obscenity and obscene speech. Ovid figures the tongue as the organ of poetry, but Martial figures the penis as the organ of poetry. If the text is expurgated or bowdlerized, the poet is emasculated. When Tereus removes Philomela's tongue, he is rewriting (bowdlerizing) her body, making it into something that he prefers. Tereus tries to rewrite the narrative of his physical violence against Philomela by rewriting her body (i.e., cutting out her tongue), but she uses other means (weaving, a women's craft) in order to tell her story and the truth of the events. Both poets 
  
reject—just as Philomela does—this fashioning by another of one's own self and one's own narrative. Ovid writes a character that tells her narrative any way that she is able: first, with her words, and when that ability is taken from, with her weaving. Martial fashions his own textual world  and populates it with people needing correction, like his text (1.3).  The poet acts as an educator, a praeceptor omnium. The poet is the ultimate authority of textual alteration,  and he may alter other bodies and texts, but may not be altered by others.  
The story of Procne and Philomela demonstrates the power of the voice represented by the tongue as well as the power of the material object on which a narrative is represented. 
Philomela's ****, exile, and mutilation is analogous to Ovid's exile. Tereus attempts to remove every piece of power that she has, but nevertheless she persisted telling her story by any means available to her (weaving). So too Ovid uses his poetry in an attempt to mitigate his punishment. 
We shall see that Martial makes reference to Ovid's exile and uses key themes of mutilation in Book 3 of his poetry to make a joke on censorship, Romaness, and obscenity (chapter 3).  
In the surviving examples of inscribed bullets from the glandes Perusinae, text-objectbody intersect among many examples of obscenely inscribed bullets.  Two examples of these bullets will suffice.  
FVLVIAE / <L>ANDICAM / PET<O> / (image of a thunderbolt) (=CIL XI 6721.5) 
I seek the clitoris of Fulvia.  
 
PET<O> / OCTAVIA / CVLVM (=CIL XI 6721.7)  
  
I seek the asshole of Octavian.  
 
The glandes are relevant to this discussion because they are texts that are phallically aggressive (in a metaphorical sense) and physically threatening in a literal sense. Both of these texts present themselves as a penetrator with the first-person verb (pet<o>) and the obscene description of the body part being sexually engaged (landicam, "clitoris" and culum, "asshole"). These two bullets come from opposing sides of the siege; one figuratively attacks Fulvia, the wife of Mark Antony, and the other insults Octavian, represented as effeminate with a feminine form of his name.  The physicality of these object-texts is felt more than most texts that are contained in a roll or codex.  
Bodily interaction with the text as an object is also felt in Catullus, for example: si qui forte mearum ineptiarum / lectores eritis manusque vestras / non horrebitis admovere nobis, … ("if by chance you who will be readers of my trifles and will not shudder to put your hands on us, …" Catull. 14b).  This poem is considered fragmentary, but the nobis at the end indicates a conflating of text with author. When the lectores hold the book, they hold the author himself and interact with him. The poet-text-reader interaction becomes a sensual experience. The poet cautions against conflating himself with the text two poems later and threatens another type of bodily interaction in poem 16, demonstrating that while the poems are trifles, the poet is not one to be trifled with.  
 
 Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,   
  
Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi,   qui me ex versiculis meis putastis,   quod sunt molliculi, parum pudicum.  nam castum esse decet pium poetam 5 ipsum, versiculos nihil necessest;   qui tum denique habent salem ac leporem,   si sunt molliculi ac parum pudici   et quod pruriat incitare possunt,   non dico pueris, sed his pilosis,  10 qui duros nequeunt movere lumbos.  vos, quod milia multa basiorum   legistis, male me marem putatis?   
 pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo.  (Catull. 16) 
 
I will buttfuck and facefuck you,  Aurelius the bottom and Furius the twink,  you who think me excessively immodest from my little verses,  which are small and soft.  
For it's fitting for a pious poet to be chaste himself,  but it's not at all necessary for his little verses;  which precisely have wit and charm,  if they are soft and immodest and  if they are able to excite that which itches,  
I'm not talking about boys,  but about those hairy men,  who can't move their inflexible loins.  
You think that I'm a bad man because  you read about my many thousands of kisses?  
I'll buttfuck and facefuck you.  
 
The mistake of Aurelius and Furius is to equate the poet with his text too much: a phenomenon that later poets (including Martial) will generally encourage—though not in a monolithic way— because the description of later epigram changes.  In this poem, the poet becomes aggressively 
  
masculine whereas he allows for his text to be soft and pleasant. This description of the text conforms to the elegiac idea that the text stands in for the beloved (puella, puer), who ought to be tender, an idea that does not find a home in the later epigrammatists, namely Martial, the Carmina Priapea, and Ausonius. The text as a body becomes solidly masculinized after Catullus, with the emergence of the CP and Martial's epigrams. Martial's epigrams will be pleasing as well, but in the way that a husband's mentula ("dick") pleases his wife (1.35): a soft dick will not cut it. Catullus, conversely, describes his poems as "soft" (mollis) and contrasts this with his own life, which he calls modest and pious (nam castum esse decet pium poetam / ipsum, 16.5–6). In epigrammatic poetry, the text as a body loses its softness, and it becomes a stand-in for the poet or subject of the text: a phallically penetrative man. Martial himself does not use the language of mollitia ("softness") to describe his text.  The text is still playful (lasciva, Mart. 1.4.8).  The text representing a phallic man can be gleaned from Catullus' poetry when it represents the male body or the text as a defender of the poet or as a surrogate of the poet threatening the suitors of his beloved. In poem 37, the relationship between pictorial representation of the body and the text as a body coalesce.  
Salax taberna vosque contubernales,  a pilleatis nona fratribus pila,  solis putatis esse mentulas vobis,   solis licere, quidquid est puellarum,  
 confutuere et putare ceteros hircos?       5 
an, continenter quod sedetis insulsi  centum an ducenti, non putatis ausurum   me una ducentos irrumare sessores?  atqui putate: namque totius vobis   
 frontem tabernae sopionibus scribam.      10 
  
puella nam mi, quae meo sinu fugit,  amata tantum quantum amabitur nulla,   pro qua mihi sunt magna bella pugnata,   consedit istic. hanc boni beatique     
omnes amatis, et quidem, quod indignum est, omnes pusilli et semitarii moechi;   tu praeter omnes une de capillatis,   cuniculosae Celtiberiae fili,  
Egnati, opaca quem bonum facit barba      15 
et dens Hibera defricatus urina.        20 (Catull. 37) 
 
Lusty tavern and you frequenters,  
nine doors down from the pillars of the brothers with hats,  you think that dicks are yours alone  and that only you are allowed to fuck whichever of the girls  and to think the rest of us are goats?  
Or because you sit together awkwardly in a group of one or two hundred,  you don't think that I would dare  to facefuck two hundred of you sitters one-at-a-time?  
But think it if you want:  
for I will completely cover the front of the tavern with dicks.  For, my girl, who fled my lap,  
one loved as much as no girl will ever be loved,  because of her I fought great battles,  she lays up in that shithole.  All you good and fortunate men  love her, and indeed, what's really harsh,  all the petty and wandering side-pieces  love her;  you beyond all one among the long-haired men,  
son of rabbit-infested Celtiberia,  Egnatius, whom a thick beard  and a tooth brushed with Spanish piss makes into a good man.  
 
Catullus has lost his girl (puella… mi, 37.11) to the brothel and other men pay to enjoy her company (perhaps an analogy for his text). Much like poem 16, the poet denounces his rivals/critics as men who would submit to his sexual aggression (non putatis ausurum / me una 
  
ducentos irrumare sessores? 37.7–8). The poet's boast of being able to penetrate orally 200 people sequentially (una, 37.8) makes his phallic aggression hyperbolic. Perhaps he means for his drawings of dicks or writings about dicks to assist him in the next lines (namque totius vobis / frontem tabernae sopionibus scribam, 37.9–10). With the phrase "scribble dicks all over the tavern," by using a term that also appears in graffiti, the poet could be referring to insulting poetry that calls out his rivals by name using graphic illustrations, words, or perhaps a

This is a novel that can touch you're sense

I'm one of those people that had trouble learning math, especially in high school. For me, the issue wasn't so much math, as how the math was taught: generally the way it was taught in my school years, was solution based, up until around the time I was a having to study Algebra for my gateway exams. I've always learned based on visualized examples, rather than hardware algorithms.

Most of this never became issue, through out the decade I've been writing science fiction and fantasy, until very recently when I had gotten back into learning Ruby. And now I find out that Ruby is almost a dead language at this point. Although for me that's part of the fascination, as I like playing with dead things: dead systems I mean. I liked resurrecting the dead in the form of source code. I was largely self-taught, as I could never afford a university, and my passion for artificial intelligence was something of a recent thing. It made learning the flow of code something of an experience, as my mind was always more of a creative writer.

Later I would eventually learn other languages, like HTML/CSS, some Python, an attempt at Perl, bungled C++, and a few other things like RGSS, which was essentially a version of Ruby specifically designed for video games. Without going into to much detail, let's say I preferred the embodiment of actual AI more than Non Player Characters. But I only gave it a cursory glance until I had finally finished 9 novellas, 84 poems, and some articles here and there.

To me, I think we can actually all learn how to program, but whether we can all learn math is a different matter. In my case it's because I'm more algorithmic in my approach rather than solution based, similarly to how to always preferred writing the ending first, but still wanting to largely imagine my own path forward in a work of fiction. And yet now I'm left with a left of uncertainty, because I've been kind of raised with the idea that I can't be mathematical, even if this was largely a self-imposed restriction. My life like strange fiction. A story of an algorithm raised as scattered flights of fantasy poetry.

All that to say, I'm not really sure how my approach to programming is going to be going forward, or even the fiction that I write. Despite what people may tell you, you don't become more sure of yourself the more you write, rather often sometimes the more doubt you gets, and thus the more of an urge to rewrite old things you wrote. I'm a bit a nervous, as I don't want to make Artificial General Intelligence as a video game character.

I want to embody the algorithm.

Before the second civil war, that broke the broken American Union into several smaller national units.

Set in the fictional Tennessean city of Chatlanta, where virtual reality is being newly developed, and the line between dreams and reality blur. A writer who has a hard time finishing a story, is in search for love.

The playful hacker accidentally courts an assassin/spy for a rival US micro-nation, and decides to rebuild her dead acquaintance to give her a second chance. Interspersed are dreams about being hunted by cannibalistic serial killers, and essays about the nature of the game-design industry.

Author Note: This work is half way finished,  the next half is being plotted.

"Two Days" continuously said the young one armed man sitting on a shabby bed. He felt like someone was holding a sword right on top of his head.

'I'm definitely not going to survive without help...'

The sole idea of being alone, in this cut throat world for an entire year with the mental capacity of a two year old was chilling. Prometheus didn't think that just because the village had helped him after the attack of the bandits they would also care about him for an entire year after he began to behave like a mentally impeded child.

Not even in a aristocratic house they would do something like that. Probably in a royal family they would keep you and try to sold you of to connect the family to some rich merchant clan, but that was only because of the royal title. 

Poor people? They would probably kill him themselves and feel good about it.

This was what he thought at least. He wasn't an expert on poor people living in Illusory Thunder. In fact he didn't know much about how poor people lived in Illusory Thunder. Yes, he was from here, but didn't even know what region of the world was the one he was reborn in. 

Illusory Thunder was a huge world after all.

Just take the kingdom where he was born in his first life, the Illuria Kingdom, as example: first, it was only one of the fifty-eight regions of the Luma Empire. Comparing it to a country from Earth, the Illuria Kingdom was about the size of modern day Russia. Even so, it was only one of the smallest region of the Empire. Plus, the Empire itself was only a small power in the North-East of Atlante, the Central and only Continent in Illusory Thunder. All around, spread the tumultuous Sage Sea and even farther there was the legendary Crown of Fire, an impassable mount range dominated by the most powerful organizations in the whole Illusory Thunder.

'Yes, that's about all what I remember about this world' considered the young man, trying to recall other information about Illusory Thunder that could help him.

For the moment, everything he remembered proved to be completely useless. He was a prince in his first life, after all. He didn't have much common sense knowledge. He knew a bit of general geography, lots of history about his own Illuria Kingdom and the Empire it served, and could recite and explain tons of poems and literary works. That was it. 

He had no real skill, nor he had been trained on how to find help while being a complete destitute.

In his first life, most of his time had been spent preparing to marry inside the Imperial Family. Ah yes, he - Prince Seven- had been chosen by the Emperor himself to be the husband of his third daughter. It was because of a weird celestial sign that seemingly connected with the one that appeared when the princess was born. And again, yes: they were born in the same day. 

Weird stuff. But not the weirdest thing that ever happened to him.

So, the Emperor decided that he had to marry his daughter. Probably that was the reason he was killed in the first place. 

In the seventeen years of his first life, he only learned about good manners and the history of the Empire. He was also forced to memorized poems and other literary works, when his royal family discovered that the imperial princess was passionate about those things. Him? Oh, he hated that with all his heart.  

Not being able to cultivate, his parents forced him to stay always inside the castle, fearing that some other power would try to assassinate him. 

Well, they were kinda right. However, even staying holed up inside his royal castle didn't save him from death. A death that probably occurred while he was sleeping, as he didn't remember it at all.

Which was a thing that Prometheus had always been grateful of. Just imagining how much disturbing would it be to remember his own assassination made him shiver. How could somebody peacefully live remembering their own death? 

Especially one caused by a wife that they never met. How would you be able to ever form a meaningful relationship with such a disturbing memory?

Prometheus laughed lightly.

'Marriage killed me... hahaha... wait?' 

The young man suddenly stopped laughing, his face freezing in a strange expression for a couple of minutes. 

'I'm a genius' 

"A GENIUS" he exclaimed his face brimming with joy.

He just had an incredible idea, something that would allow him to survive an entire year without being left to die.

"... marriage"

He mumbled. His eyes suddenly opened wide and he bounced up from the bed, his body exploding with new energy. This was an incredible idea! 

"HAHAHAHA, YES MARRIAGE!" 

He screamed with passion, hope returning to lift his spirit. That was a genius idea! Why didn't he think about it before? There were plenty of poems and myths were the hero lost his mind for a period of time and was cared about by his wife.

Yes, they were only literature, but stories had some truth on them.

"HAHAHA, Prometheus you are truly a genius!" he exclaimed loudly, slapping his tight.

"Mmm? A genius? Who's this Prometheus?" 

A vibrant voice came out from the door. Looking at it, Prometheus saw a tall fit girl with flaming short red hair. Her dark eyes looked at him with curiosity as she entered the room.

'Who the fuck is she?' 

Seeing that the maimed young man completely silent, the girl seemed to be offended. "Ehy, dummy! I asked you a question!" she said angrily, moving closer to the bed.

'System!'

An black interface appeared around the pretty face of the girl, enclosing it in a frame of some sort and displaying a multitude of information about her in black boxes around it.

[Name: Syndra]
[Surnames: Flower Picker, Firehead Syndy]
[Age: 16]
[...]

Lots of information remembered Prometheus about who she was and what relationship she had with the predecessor owner of his body: she was his best friend and hunt companion.

'Best friend?'

Prometheus looked at the girl more closely: she clearly was a beauty. The tomboy kind. A flash passed between his eyes, as he tried to think about the information that he read about her before. 

'Fuck, I should have payed more attention!'

Maybe was the confusion caused by his recent inter-dimensional travel from Earth to Illusory Thunder, maybe it was the panic of having so little time before becoming a retard or maybe was his mind regression having an effect on his memory, but he couldn't remember much about the things that he read just not too long ago about her.

'What the hell?'

[Short term memory compromised by the decreasing of consciousness] informed him the system, with the weird english-french accent.

'Fuck! This is broken! I hate this system! I should be invincible and have free packs of super useful stuff, not getting a useless lizard tattoo and fucking Alzheimer!'

"Hey silly, I'm talking to you!" said the red haired girl, putting an arm on her side while stopping right in front of the bed. 

"Oh sorry, I was distracted" nervously said Prometheus, trying to gain time. At the same time he ordered the system: ' System! Was Sif close with this girl? Not friendship close... I mean, very close...'

[Please provide examples of "very close"] asked the System.

'Damn you stupid thing! You are truly useless... you know... walking under the moon or some thing like that...' started the youth, thinking of some random things that could rapidly confirm to him that they really were childhood sweethearts. '...or doing thing naked together' he immediately added after thinking of it. 

[Indeed, Sif and Sydra have talked many times under the moon and bathed naked together in numerous occasion] revealed the system.

Prometheus eyes lit up with surprise, but then he thought about it more and realized that it was probably things that happened when they were children. 'Yeah probably when they were younger... no, I'm talking about recent stuff!'

[The most recent time was 3 days and 13 hours before the bandit assault] responded the System.

'Oh? That's... amazing! I don't even need to work on it!' Prometheus almost couldn't hold back from exploding in laughter at the news.

'Fuck it, if the power of the mc is disgusting but at least I have the childhood love interest that can help me stay safe.' thought the Illuria prince. He just needed to ask her without rising any suspicion. Maybe he didn't even need to marry her in the end. 

'No, I still need to make it sure!' he decided after a moment of thought. What would happen if someone else tried to take her hand or some other crazy thing like that? In this world she was already supposed to be married. 

"Ahaha, of course... I was just in awe of you beauty Syndra, you look amazing today" confidently said Prometheus, after having received confirmation about their relationship from the system why would he feel nervous? 

"Uh? Good, you clearly are feeling better today, at least your brain is surely working better" said the girl with a radiant smile. She seemed pretty happy about the compliment. 

'I'm saved! The Heavens truly do have eyes!'

Thanks to the Beast Master System, Prometheus can bind any creature to his will and use their strength to fight and improve his cultivation base.

His journey will take him from being the son of a simple commoner hunter, to the greatest Beast Master ever existed.

Ah, did I told you that this isn't his first reincarnation? Yes, he has plenty of old enemies to take care of.

Cover by Halycoon.

----- Content of The Novel ----
Cultivation, System, Vengeance, Wedding Contract, Slaves, Pet Army, Artifact Forging, Kingdom Building, Weak-To-Strong, Merchants, Magical Beasts, Academy


Comments and reviews are appreciated, they keep us authors motivated.

Also on rrl.

"Cutie?" Debbie couldn't knock off the feeling of goose bumps all over her body. Yet, the smile playing on her lips had already said it all. "Knock it off,"  she snapped. "Ask someone to bring some fresh fish here. I'll make some soup for Rika."    

"Yes, honey." Carlos had always been obedient to his wife.    

In the evening, Owen drove Erica to the manor first. He didn't leave until he made sure that the CEO's wife was safe inside the house.    

In the living room, Debbie was already waiting for her. She had prepared a plate of fresh fruits, beautifully-shaped desserts and peeled nuts for her.

Seeing her come in, the older woman stopped whatever she was doing and walked towards her. "Rika, you're here. Come and eat some fruits first."    

A sweet smile threaded across Erica's lips. "Dad, Mom!"    

"Sit down first." Carlos nodded in greeting.    

As if she was taking care of a little baby, Debbie pulled out a chair for her and helped her sit down. Finally, she placed her hand on the young woman's already bulging belly. "I've always been wondering why you're showing so early,"  she stated. "It turns out that you're carrying twins!"

"I didn't expect that I'd be carrying two babies either. I wonder if they're two boys or girls,"  Erica said thoughtfully. It was still too early to figure out their gender, so everyone was free to guess.    

Debbie sat down next to her and handed her a slice of melon. "Do you want them to be boys or girls?"    

"Well,"  she started with a pout. "Boys. Maybe then I wouldn't feel so guilty if I discipline them." If they were girls, she probably wouldn't have the heart to hit them. Knowing Matthew, he'd also be more inclined to spoil them to death.    

Debbie also smiled. "If you want boys, then they will be boys." She waved her hand. "Given your genes, they'll also be handsome when they grow up."    

"Thank you, Mom!"

Thinking of Matthew, Carlos sat opposite them. He crossed his arms and leaned back. "I think girls will be nice,"  he commented. "Maybe they'll be like Rika—all lively and adorable."    

"Please, we all know you just want granddaughters." Debbie snorted.    

Erica giggled. She had already guessed that her father-in-law would want a granddaughter rather than a grandson.    

"Just take Gwyn, Godwin, and Godfrey as examples,"  he defended. "Look how obedient Gwyn is compared to the two boys. She's less troublesome."    

"Matthew had been obedient when he was a child, and you know that." Debbie pursed her lips.

Matthew took after his father in terms of his temperament. He had always been considerate and thoughtful ever since he was a young child, which made Debbie sympathize with him more. Even then, Carlos never really looked his way. On the contrary, Terilynn had always been naughty, but Carlos never had the heart to yell at his daughter.    

The man picked up a slice of mango with his fork and handed it to his wife. "Have some fruit, honey."   

 Amused, she took the fork. "You know you can't win, so you just want to silence me with food." She chuckled. "Besides, this platter is for Rika. I won't be eating it." She handed the fork to Erica, who shook her head.    

"Mom, please eat it." Erica laughed. "I can't finish this massive platter."

Staring at the large fruit platter she had prepared, Debbie had to agree with her. Instead of insisting that Erica take the mango, she ate it herself.    

The mother-in-law and daughter-in-law pair chatted happily as they showed each other pictures from their phones. Sitting opposite them, Carlos listened to their conversation after he was done dealing with a few matters.    

He would offer some juice to them from time to time.

Just as he was about to go upstairs to handle some documents that needed signing, he heard Erica muttering, "I wonder who this 'Can't Do Anything' is! He's been following my Weibo account for a long time. Although we've never met, I feel like he knows me enough. But I haven't updated my account recently, and I don't talk to him much too."    

Carlos turned back at the younger woman who had already busied herself with her phone. "Rika, what did you say his username was?"    

"What?" She tilted her head.    

"The one you mentioned—your follower."    

"Oh!" Her eyes widened in realization. "His username is 'Can't Do Anything.'"

Carlos returned to his seat as a smile spread across his face. "Do you know that his username was inspired from a poem?"    

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Really? I didn't know that!" 'Please forgive my ignorance. I'm not that knowledgeable in poems.' She could already feel her cheeks flushing from her ignorance.    

Carlos didn't mind enlightening her. His face brightened. "There's a poem from The Legend of Qin. It goes like this: In the northern forest lived a pack of wild geese, with feathers as white as snow. Against the icy wind, they flew towards the south, wing to wing. As rain poured and broke her wings, she couldn't do anything but mourn her lost dreams.*

(*TN: This line of the poem contains the Chinese characters of Erica's name.) Waiting in the gust of howling wind, he vowed to never forsake or leave."    

Being a slow student herself, Erica wasn't quick to understand the depth of the poem. In fact, she grew even more confused. "Dad, I'm not that good at understanding poems,"  she said sheepishly. "Do you mind explaining it to me."    

He didn't mind. "The first line describes how a group of wild geese were living in the forest located in the north.    

Due to the cold weather, they flew to the south. It's part of their animal nature. Whenever the weather approaches winter, they would have to migrate to the south.

However, that's not the point.    

The third line is about how one of the female wild geese had broken her wings from the heavy rain. What else could she do but wait for her death? Upon seeing her, a male wild goose stopped his flight and stayed with the wounded animal. Under the howling wind, he confessed his love for her and vowed that even if her wings were destroyed by the rain, he would never leave her. If my memory serves me right, the poem is about a man expressing his love for a woman who he falls in love with at first sight."

'I will never forsake or leave you... Wow! Who knew my son is capable of being such a hopeless romantic? Like what Sheffield had said, my son was as unpredictable as he seemed, ' Carlos thought with a shake of his head.  

"What?" Erica exclaimed. 'A man expressing his love for a woman?' She was completely dumbfounded. That was when she thought of another problem. 'Does that mean that Can't Do Anything loves me?'    

She explained to the two elders, "Dad, Mom, please don't misunderstand. I don't even talk to him that much. If you didn't tell me just now, I wouldn't even know what his username means."    

Amused by her defensiveness, Carlos reached out his hand to stop her. "Don't worry, dear. We trust you." His eyes glinted. "Besides, I know who the man is."    

Debbie furrowed her eyebrows. "You do? Who is he? Why is he so mysterious?"

"I have the same questions! Who is he? Please tell us, Dad." The two women both stared at Carlos with their eyes wide with expectations.    

However, Carlos simply stood up from his seat and said, "Rika, there are so many wonderful things in life just waiting for you to discover them. For example, there's a person in this world who loves you very much."

'Alas! The brat actually hid his feelings well!' He laughed to himself.    

Back then, when he angrily asked Matthew to keep his distance from Phoebe, the young man didn't bother to explain himself.    

If it weren't for Carlos opening Matthew's safe to get an important file, he wouldn't have seen Erica's picture. It was then that he came to know that his son had fallen in love with the young girl a long time before.    

They all said that Carlos didn't treat his son well, but in fact, he had just given his son the best thing in the world.

"Drive this woman out!"

"Throw this woman into the sea!"


When he doesn't know Debbie Nian's true identify, Carlos Huo cold-shoulders her. 

"Mr Huo, she is your wife." Carlos secretary reminded him. Hearing that, Carlos gives him a cold stare and complained, "why didn't you tell me earlier?" 

From then on, Carlos spoils her rotten. Little did everyone expect that they would get a divorce.
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This is not my work

The originality goes to Miss Bai Cha

"What an excellent poem! Ningyan truly is the poet of the century." Li Mubai clapped his hand loudly.
The excitement written on his face was befitting a scholar who came across a masterpiece. There was also a hint of eagerness to see how the academy students would react.
Zhang Zhen said nothing but he gave Xu Qian a look of content admiration as if he was the one who groomed such an impressive student.
"The words are simple, yet they carry so much meaning. The candlelight burns from midnight to morn. That's when scholars should study the most… Brother Jinyan, do you still remember our academy days?" said Chen Tai.
He found the poem to be profound.
Zhang Zhen thought back to his younger years and said, "Our time in the academy? I was a poor student then and only had two steamed buns to eat every day. At night, my stomach would growl as I struggle to hold the candlelight over the book."
"Was that why you always stole my eggs?" Li Mubai said in a jovial tone.
"Hey, I was borrowing. Didn't I return them to you later on?" Zhang Zhen retorted.
Li Mubai blew his mustache and said, "An egg is worth so much more to a poor man."
Chen Tai coughed to break up the argument between the two friends. He turned to Xu Xinnian and said, "Cijiu, after the spring imperial provincial exams, you will be qualified for an official post regardless of your results. Have you given thought to the future?"
The sudden topic change threw everyone off. Zhang Zhen and Li Mubai quieted down as they thought of Xu Xinnian's future.
Chen Tai glanced at the two hesitant elders and quickly said, "Typically, one would begin in the city, then be sent out to govern other towns. That's the standard way to climb the ranks. Although I'm not a court official, I know people in the courts who could help."
Xu Xinnian's mentor was happy to hear that. "That sounds great. Cijiu, quick show your appreciation."
"No need for that. But I wouldn't mind a favor…" Chen Tai said with a smile.
His words made the two elders raise their eyebrows—something was not right.
No one said anything about a favor.
Chen Tai's eyes were crinkled into half-moons. "Ningyan, you're an unpolished gem. To stand out, you need someone to work on you. These two elders aren't the best at mentoring. Why don't you come with me?"
Li Mubai and Zhang Zhen were livid. "Go away, you shameless bastard!"
Xu Qian took the opportunity to speak. "I do have some questions for the elder."
His visit to the White Deer Academy was calculated—he wished to gain some free service.
"I'm stuck in the martial artist's refinement stage. As I have no achievements and my family is poor, I never had the chance to enter the Qi rank."
He made a 90-degree bow and said, "Please help me open my Heaven's Gate."
This was his second reason for the visit. Although he could sell the magic items from Song Qing, he figured there would be a better way. He simply did not wish to waste the magic items—he wanted a win-win situation.
Zhang Zhen shook his head and chuckled. "Are you crazy? Everyone here is on the path of Confucianism. We can't open your Heaven's Gate. How the Qi moves in a martial artist's body is only known by those who walk the same path."
'The divide among the disciplines is wider than I'd expected.' Xu Qian was somewhat disappointed when he asked, "I don't understand. If the Heaven's Gate requires a divine-class expert to unlock, how did the first martial artist open his Heaven's Gate?"
Li Mubai lifted his teacup and answered him with another question, "Do you think the martial arts discipline was founded by a person? That he ascended the ranks effortlessly?"
Xu Qian shook his head.
"The discipline is advanced by generations after generations," Li Mubai explained. "Perhaps at the beginning, the refinement rank was the highest one could achieve. As fate would have it, someone's Heaven's Gate was opened and the Qi training state became the peak. As centuries passed, we have the current, fully-developed martial arts discipline."
"Fate?" Xu Qian latched on to the important detail.
"Having a divine-class expert open one's Heaven's Gate is the safest and most convenient method, but it's not the only method." Chen Tai took over the explanation.
He smiled as he continued. "When a baby is born, he is enveloped by a pure Qi. As he grows older, the Heaven's Gate closes and the Qi retreats into the body. To master the Qi, one has to reopen the Heaven's Gate."
Xu Qian nodded—as humans consume all forms of mortal sustenance, the Heaven's Gate is clogged by impurity and thus, the Qi circulation is cut off.
His uncle had taught him the basic theory.
"Besides the widely-known, there are two other methods to open the Heaven's Gate. First, the expel-infuse method. It has to be practiced since young. Every day, one must bathe in a herbal bath to cleanse the meridians that lead to the Heaven's Gate. The method is time- and resource-intensive, thus eliminated from practice.
"The second method is to use an external force. This is the oldest and dumbest method used by our forebears. They swallowed monster pills. Monster pills are essence collected from monsters. With the energy accumulated in one's body, taking the pill will force open the Eight Extraordinary Meridians but the effect is uncontrollable. Only one out of ten survive."
'I see. While I didn't get what I wanted, some additional knowledge never hurt.' Xu Qian was grateful for the explanation. "Thank you for the enlightenment."
'Look at this polite and humble student. A good talker too.' The three Confucian elders wore satisfied smiles as they stroke their beards.
…
At the heart of the academy was the Sage's Study Palace, also known as the Sage's Temple. It was a place to enshrine and worship the founder of Confucianism.
The plaza outside the Sage's Study palace could fit all of the White Deer Academy students.
Every year, the headmaster would address the student body when the spring imperial provincial exams rolled by. He would urge them to study hard, get their names on the scoreboard and contribute to the greater good of society.
On the plaza, there was a mottled, red wall that had layers of papers stuck to it.
It was the academy's bulletin board. The mentors would paste their essays, poems, calligraphy, and occasionally their students' outstanding work.
Two students appeared before the wall—one was carrying the rolled-up paper while the other was applying paste to the wall. Then, the two worked together to unveil the new piece that was to be featured on the wall.
The scene attracted the other students in the area. The size of the paper—a human's height—astounded them.
"What's being featured? Come on, let's have a look."
"Doesn't look like an essay. Oh, a poem… Why the fuss over a poem?"
"Ever since Ziyang's Layman left the academy, the poems on the wall are rarely worth a read. The remaining mentors and elders aren't good at poetry."
As the chatter picked up, students flocked to the wall to check out the huge poster.
The characters were written boldly. The brush had been gripped by a firm hand—the ink had seeped through the paper. Each stroke conveyed the gravity of the poet's words.
"This is Mentor Zhang's writing." A student recognized the handwriting.
Others were focused on the content.
"'The candlelight burns from midnight to morn. That's when scholars should study the most…' Oh my. Ever since the autumn exams, I never stayed up to study."
"The words used in the poem are simple, yet it is thought-provoking!"
"Simple? 'When young, we neglect studies for fun. When old, we regret not learning enough.' The lesson is embedded within the poem, it is a worthy proverb."
"'When old, we regret not learning enough…' I've been falling behind on my studies. Spent too much time playing chess and exploring the mountains. This poem is a wake-up call to me."
"Whose mighty hand-penned such a good poem?"
More people gathered before the wall to check out the poem. Many resonated with the words and left feeling motivated to study.
The first half made the students blush with shame. Who could pull an all-nighter studying?
Such examples were littered across the academy grounds. The academy elders often spoke about their long study sessions decades ago when they were students.
The few outstanding students also spent an inordinate amount of time studying.
However, it was the second half of the poem that made the students sweat: When young, we neglect studies for fun. When old, we regret not learning enough.
The words echoed like a warning. The students who had been slacking were remorseful. They were overcome with anxiety as they worried about their future.
Deep in their bellies, a fire was lit and their motivation for study rejuvenated.
A short distance away, the three Confucian elders observed the scene from the edge of the plaza. Chen Tai stroked his beard and laughed. "I take back my words. The poem has touched many hearts. Xu Ningyan truly is the poet of the century."
Witnessing the effects of the poem on the student body, Zhang Zhen beamed. "You're right. He produced that poem before we even finished a pot of tea. His poetry skill and talent can outclass even the best poets in history.
Suddenly, Li Mubai fielded a question, "Do you believe that he abandoned his studies?"
The two elders nodded. Li Mubai smiled and asked, "How are you sure?"
Zhang Zhen replied, "When crafting the poem, he told Cijiu to write in his stead."
"As a scholar, why would you ask others to write in your stead? Unless he isn't proficient in calligraphy." Chen Tai added.
Calligraphy was the basic skill needed by every student.
Li Mubai sighed. "It's unfortunate that he's beyond the age of changing paths."
Chen Tai's heart ached. "Such talent wasted on martial arts. An affront to the gods!"
The rough practice of martial arts was not suited for a man with such flowery words.
Something crossed Zhang Zhen's mind. "I heard Cijiu mention when the two boys were young, his father decided Cijiu would study while Ningyan would learn martial arts."
"Xu Pingzhi is unfit to be a father! He wasted a good scholar. Upsetting, exasperating!" Li Baimu said in frustration.
The two elders agreed with his condemnation.


Once a police academy graduate—Xu Qian, woke up and found himself in jail. He was to be banished to the borderlands in three days...
Stuck in this inhumane society, his initial goal was just to be a rich man and pass his days in relative safety.
…
Many years later, Xu Qian recalled the events of the past. His enemies and friends were dead, there was nothing of them left but bones.
The rolling Yangtze River flows east as the waves wash away the heroes. 
Success or failure, wrong or right; matters little, it might?
The lush mountains remain while the sun sets every night.


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