Chapter 26: The Fiercest Debater at the End of the Han Dynasty

Upstairs in the private room, the faint sound of a zither drifted in the air. Accompanied by a woman's melodious singing and a dazzling dance with the barest hint of clothing, drinking here was indeed a pleasure.

“I am Mi Heng, styled Zhengping,” the young man said, bowing respectfully. “Greetings to my three elders. May I ask your esteemed names?”

Having taken a beating from Chen Cong, he was much more subdued now. His face was bruised and swollen; when he grinned, the gap in his teeth whistled.

“Jili.”

“Chen the Invincible.”

“Shi Ah.”

Cao Cao and Chen Cong exchanged glances—on the run for their lives, and yet they revealed their names. A moment's reflection, and they both let it go. So what if their names were known? No one knew who Shi Ah was anyway.

Unexpectedly, Mi Heng leapt up with a strange cry. “Could you be the hero of Hero Tower, the chivalrous Shi Ah?”

Shi Ah's eyes lit up, as though color had returned to the world. “Zhengping knows my name?”

Mi Heng nodded vigorously. “I heard you are the sworn brother of Chen Zining, the gallant who attempted to assassinate Dong Zhuo. After the failure, with Chen Zining on the run, you disappeared.”

Shi Ah: …

Prestige in the underworld? More like a lackey in the underworld!

Chen Cong stroked his chin. Mi Heng… the founding father of the art of verbal sparring. Compared to him, even Zhuge who scolded Wang Lang to death had to step aside. This fellow was ruthless—after insulting Cao Cao, he would turn on Liu Biao, and after Liu Biao, it was Huang Zu. He spared no one, unleashing his barbs indiscriminately.

Among his victims were Xun Yu, Xun You, Guo Jia, Cheng Yu, Zhao Rong, Chen Qun, Zhang Liao, Yue Jin, and the scholars and generals of Jing and Xiang—all had tasted his tongue. Even friends like Kong Rong and Yang Xiu were not exempt: “Eldest son Kong Wenju, youngest Yang Dezhu; the rest are all mediocre.” With one line, he condemned the world; no wonder he was beaten to death.

Yet, at the time, Mi Heng was so famous that even Cao Cao and Liu Biao, though they hated him, did not dare kill him. It was only when he met the hot-headed Huang Zu that his legendary career ended.

Huang Zu: “If Cao Cao and Liu Biao dare not kill him, I will! If they dare not bear the infamy, I will!”

But now, Mi Heng was still young, only seventeen. The burdens of future fame had yet to settle on him. His tongue was as sharp as ever, but he had not yet reached the point of utter recklessness.

Chen Cong had struck him first, and now Cao Cao was buying him wine and women. Under carrot and stick, at least he could be expected to speak with some civility.

Failing to recruit Guo Jia was a pity, but Guo Jia would come sooner or later. If they could take this era’s greatest verbal firebrand back with them, it would be a bargain. Not only would they have the ultimate weapon in any war of words, but Mi Heng’s literary talent was not to be underestimated—he could pen love poems or serve as a scribe.

But his personality was wild beyond measure. While he was still young and malleable, some “guidance” was in order.

“Mi Heng.”

“Yes?” Mi Heng cupped his fists. “Brother Chen, what advice do you have?”

“Not advice. Tell me, why are you in Gong County?”

Mi Heng’s face clouded with sorrow. He raised his cup and drank deeply. “Alas! That villain Dong Zhuo is cruel and ruthless, a tyrant without compare. I wished to go to Luoyang and denounce him at the drums. Unfortunately, the city gate official failed to recognize true talent. I was turned away at the gates of Luoyang, my funds depleted, and so I took refuge here in Gong County.”

Well now!

Chen Cong was speechless. He’d heard of people traveling a thousand miles with only a token gift, the gesture more important than the value. But to travel a thousand miles to deliver one’s own head—this was a first.

Luckily, the city gate official was shortsighted. Had Mi Heng actually entered Luoyang, his grave would be overgrown by now.

When Mi Heng insulted Cao Cao, Cao Cao spared him only out of regard for his reputation. But Mi Heng now had no money, no power, no fame. If delivered to Dong Zhuo, flaying, dismemberment, or being fried in oil would be the least of his worries.

“So, what are your plans for the future?”

Mi Heng pondered. “Kong Wenju of Beihai treats me well. If I fall on hard times, I’ll go to him.”

What did he mean by that? If he falls on hard times, he’ll go; but if not, then not?

Chen Cong’s interest was piqued. He pointed at Cao Cao: “What do you think of my lord?”

Mi Heng rubbed his nose. “Brother Jili… uncle… is righteous, but unless his talent surpasses mine, I will not follow.”

Choosing a master regardless of background, power, or ambition, but only for talent? That was truly unique.

Cao Cao was indeed talented, but his most famous poems were aspirational, composed after he had achieved much. To win over someone as proud as Mi Heng at this moment would be difficult.

Moreover, only those of the same ilk can win over the wild and unruly. Cao Cao was often exuberant, but rarely arrogant. The solution was simple: plagiarism!

Chen Cong quickly raised his voice, “You know nothing! Even the wild man Xie of Chen Commandery once said, ‘Of all the world’s talent, one stone is divided: Jili claims eight measures, I take one, and all others share the rest.’”

Mi Heng’s eyes lit up. He immediately regarded this “Xie” as a kindred spirit. Such a man could be a friend of Mi Heng.

So, what sort of talent must this Jili uncle possess, whom Xie praised as the one with eight measures of talent?

“May I ask if Jili uncle has any works known to the world?”

Cao Cao’s hand trembled, and wine spilled everywhere. Who was this Xie? What eight measures of talent? The only thing he’d written in his youth was a doggerel about borrowing money—hardly known to the world!

Secretly, Chen Cong bowed three times in his heart to a certain Li surnamed tragic figure.

“My lord shuns empty fame. Listen well, I shall recite a few of his impromptu poems.”

Mi Heng bowed. “I am eager to hear them.”

“A roc, one day, soars with the wind, rising ninety thousand miles in a single flight. And should the wind cease and it comes down, it can still stir the waters of the deep blue sea. The world sees me always out of tune; hearing my bold words, all laugh coldly. Even Confucius feared the young; how can a man dismiss the youth?”

Mi Heng clapped and laughed. “Splendid! Who would have thought Jili uncle was so bold and unrestrained in his youth!”

“There’s more. ‘A Zhao guest with a loose Hu cap, a Wu blade gleaming with frost and snow. A silver saddle mirrors a white horse, swift as a shooting star. In ten paces, one man falls; a thousand miles, and never a trace. When the deed is done, one brushes off his robe, hiding name and fame.’”

Mi Heng was swept up in the heroic spirit. He snatched a musician’s instrument and beat time, softly humming along.

“And more: ‘Jili, who writes a hundred poems over a cup of wine, sleeps in taverns throughout Luoyang. When the emperor calls, he does not board the boat, claiming instead to be the Immortal of Wine.’”

“Excellent!”

When the emperor calls, he does not board the boat! Such carefree wildness—was this not Mi Heng’s lifelong ideal?

Mi Heng was utterly convinced, prostrating himself in allegiance. “To meet you, Lord Ji, is like beholding a mighty mountain. I wish only to follow at your side, to grind ink and lay out silk as your humble page.”

Shi Ah’s eyes changed as well. He had met Lord Cao first, so how had this bootlicker beaten him to the punch? Hastily, he cast aside his wine cup and bowed deeply. “I am willing to hold your stirrup and lead your horse, to die a hundred deaths without regret!”

The three young women, too, felt their hearts flutter, gazing at Cao Cao with eyes brimming with unspoken affection. Such a peerless talent—to be his guest for even a day would be worth dying for.

Fortunately, Cao Cao’s skin was thick enough; he cared not where the poems came from. Chen Cong said he wrote them, so he wrote them. He even wrote them down on the spot, signing his childhood name, for Mi Heng and Shi Ah to admire.

Afterward, he pulled Chen Cong aside and whispered, “Zining, where did you find such fine verses?”

“It was nothing,” Chen Cong replied lightly. “During my travels, I befriended a certain Li Bai, whose poetic talent was unmatched.”

Cao Cao was aghast. “If someday this man’s name becomes famous throughout the land, how will I answer for this?”

Chen Cong shrugged. “Rest easy, father-in-law. This man cares not for fame or fortune, and besides, he is already dead.”

“….”