Night was so quiet that one could hear the soft murmur of wind chimes at the corner of the hall. Moonlight poured in through the window lattice like water, sketching lines of silver-white on the floor. The night at Pujiu Temple was exceptionally peaceful, with only occasional insect chirps interweaving with distant Buddhist chants, like an ancient zen melody.
Zhang Sheng lay in bed, tossing and turning, his mind filled with that glance from earlier in the day. Those eyes, like hooks, had firmly caught his soul, never to be released again. When he closed his eyes, that devastatingly beautiful face appeared before him; when he opened them, every object in the room seemed to transform into her shadow.
"The minister's daughter... Cui Yingying..." he murmured, the three syllables rolling over his tongue with a sweet fragrance. He had never imagined that such extraordinary beauty existed in this world—one glance had left him completely entranced, unable to sleep.
He sat up and took a book from his bedside, attempting to distract himself, only to find every character in the book twisting and morphing to form the characters for "Yingying." He shook his head with a bitter smile and tossed the book aside.
"This won't do. I can't just wait around like this."
He suddenly sat upright, his eyes glimmering with unusual brilliance. In the moonlight, his features appeared particularly resolute. He, Zhang Junrui, had spent over ten years in diligent study—for what purpose? Wasn't it to strategize and triumph? The examination hall was like a battlefield, and so was the field of love! If he couldn't even muster this much courage, how could he ever top the imperial exams and bring glory to his ancestors?
He lit an oil lamp, spread out a blank sheet of paper, and, as if preparing for an exam, began to analyze the "enemy-friendly" situation. Dipping his brush in ink, the tip rustled across the paper, like the final deployment before battle.
"My advantages: exceptional talent (self-proclaimed), decent appearance, a devoted heart, and living in the same temple as the target—proximity is key." He paused, then added: "Outstanding poetic and literary skill, eloquent expression, understanding of feelings and reason, ability to empathize." Though somewhat self-flattering, at a moment like this, confidence was more important than anything.
"My disadvantages: poverty. Fallen family fortunes, disparity in social status. This is a critical flaw, impossible to remedy in the short term." He bit the end of his brush, furrowing his brow, seemingly contemplating how to compensate for this fatal weakness. A moment later, he wrote: "But poverty and hardship can be a form of dignity in itself. 'Passing down poetry and propriety through generations' has its own integrity, and besides, if I can achieve the top rank in the imperial examinations, everything can change."
"The enemy's... no, the friendly party's situation: target Cui Yingying, exceptionally beautiful, talented and accomplished, currently grieving her father's death, emotionally vulnerable." He paused his brush, closed his eyes, and in his mind appeared that snow-white figure and those tearful eyes, filling his heart with tenderness. "Key figure: Lady Cui, a traditional family matriarch with strong class consciousness—the biggest obstacle. Key figure two: that maid called Hongniang; judging by her eyes, she's clever, spirited, and protective of her mistress—the first barrier to approaching Yingying, but also... a potential breakthrough point."
At this point in his analysis, Zhang Sheng's thoughts suddenly cleared, like mountain mists dispersing to reveal a clear path ahead. His eyes sparkled with wisdom, and the corners of his mouth turned slightly upward in a confident smile.
Direct confession? That would be the act of a brute, certain to be beaten out as a lecher. Even if he could convey his feelings, it would frighten Yingying and infuriate Lady Cui, destroying all possibilities.
He must create an opportunity—one that would showcase his talent while allowing Yingying to see him properly and openly. He wanted her to know that he wasn't merely a superficial, frivolous man, but someone worthy of her affection. He needed to make his name remain in her heart, in a dignified manner.
This was a game requiring wisdom, a wait requiring patience, an adventure requiring courage.
Early the next morning, Zhang Sheng began the first step of his "battle" plan: information gathering.
He no longer stayed in his room but "happened to encounter" various people in the temple. He helped a young novice monk solve half a Buddhist verse, winning the young monk's admiration; he chatted casually with the burly kitchen monk, whose heart was touched by his humility and who enthusiastically shared much about the temple affairs; he also sought Buddhist teachings from a meditating elder monk, and this learned elder also greatly appreciated the knowledge-seeking scholar. After some indirect inquiries, an excellent opportunity presented itself—
Tomorrow, the abbot would hold a blessing ceremony in the Dharma Hall to chant sutras for Minister Cui's soul. At that time, Lady Cui and Miss Yingying would certainly attend, and according to custom, even strangers could approach to express condolences and respect on such occasions.
"Heaven helps me!" Zhang Sheng exclaimed excitedly, nearly knocking over the teacup on the table.
This was a stage custom-made for him! As the Art of War states: "The skillful commander takes up a position where he cannot be defeated." He would set the wheels of fate in motion, yet leave no trace.
He immediately returned to his room and found his best blue gown. Though somewhat faded from washing, when ironed flat, it still appeared clean and elegant. He also found his long-unused hairpin and carefully tied up his long hair. He even used a small knife to shave the fine stubble from his chin, making himself look fresher and more upright.
As night deepened, he took a deep breath before the bronze mirror. The young man in the mirror had determined eyes and handsome features; though simply dressed, he could not conceal his scholarly air and heroic spirit.
"Zhang Junrui, oh Zhang Junrui, tomorrow's battle must be won, defeat is not an option!" he told himself, his voice soft but resolute as iron.