203: Chapter 203 The Transmigrator's Confidence: The Great Emperor Knows Nothing About Poetry!

Chu Wushuang stood in place with his arms crossed, his chin slightly tilted, adopting a posture of "listening with all ears."

In his mind, he was already flipping through the Blue Star poetry database.

What poem should he prepare for the counterattack? "Bring on the Wine" was too flamboyant; he had to save it for the grand finale.

"Climbing High" had a deep enough Concept, but the rhythm was a bit slow...

No rush.

First, let's hear what level of work this Emperor can squeeze out.

A cultivation native who had lived for thousands of years—no matter how big his fists were, things like poetry and literary talent required cultural accumulation.

This world didn't even have imperial examinations, and even the metrical rules were incomplete. What could he possibly write?

Chu Wushuang had already sentenced him to death in his heart.

Inside the hall, one could hear a pin drop; hundreds of people held their breath.

Princess Xia Qingyue sat upright behind the white jade main table.

Having just been lifted by a finger of Lu Chen's Qi, her legs were still a bit weak, but her back was held extremely straight.

Her two hands unconsciously gripped the edges of her pale gold skirt, twisting the fabric into a bunch.

Her gaze had not shifted an inch.

That excessively handsome face showed not a hint of nervousness.

The collar of his black robe was open, and the silver-haired little girl in his arms breathed long and evenly, her small hands clutching his lapel as she slept peacefully in the crook of his arm.

Princess Xia Qingyue's heart skipped two beats.

Lu Chen moved.

His right hand patted Yue Shiyun's back; the little girl let out a soft mumble, and her small head burrowed from the crook of his neck to his shoulder.

He freed his right hand and flicked away non-existent dust from his sleeve.

Then he took a step; the first step forward.

On the warm jade floor, a green lotus bloomed silently.

It wasn't a phantom condensed from Qi.

It was a tangible Golden Lotus of the Great Dao, its petals stretching out, its stems and leaves distinct, with fine patterns of Law flowing on every petal.

The lotus bloomed from beneath his feet, taking root in the gaps of the warm jade tiles, emitting a faint fragrance.

Second step, another flower.

Third step, fourth step—with every step he took, a green lotus bloomed.

Holding Yue Shiyun, Lu Chen paced slowly in the center of the hall, a string of green lotuses forming a floral path behind him, extending from his starting point to the depths of the hall.

Lotuses blooming with every step.

No one was unaware of what these four words meant in the cultivation world.

Only when one's comprehension of the Heavenly Dao reached a certain extreme would natural phenomena be triggered by simply walking or sitting.

Just this entrance alone had already crushed the momentum Chu Wushuang had just built up into powder.

Chu Wushuang stared at those green lotuses, feeling his throat go dry for the first time.

But he quickly suppressed that unease. It looked good, sure.

But what did this have to do with poetry? Whether it was lotuses blooming with every step or flowers blooming with every step, he could do it in the future too; he was the protagonist who had transmigrated.

Lu Chen stopped walking.

He stood in the center of the hall, surrounded by seven green lotuses at his feet, his left arm steadily supporting Yue Shiyun, and his right hand behind his back.

"This poem of mine has no name."

"Prick up your ears and listen well."

This sentence was directed at Chu Wushuang.

Chu Wushuang's Adam's apple bobbed once, his hand gripping the broken folding fan tightened, and he subconsciously straightened his back.

Lu Chen withdrew his gaze and pulled that poem from his mind.

The memories of his past life were separated by untold years, and most were blurred, but some things were etched into his bones.

That long poem written by Master Taibai on the road to exile, hundreds of words long, had a scope that reached above the Nine Heavens from the very opening.

He still remembered the teacher's notes from his high school Chinese class: This poem begins with the Immortal Realm and ends with the Mortal World; it is the most complete spiritual autobiography of Taibai's life.

And he, Lu Chen, was precisely an Emperor who had personally shattered the gates of the Immortal Realm and chosen to remain in the Mortal World.

There was no poem more suitable than this.

Lu Chen's thin lips parted slightly.

"In the heavens lies the White Jade Capital, with its twelve towers and five cities."

The moment it fell in the Wangyue Tower hall, the entire nine-story building shook.

It wasn't a ripple of Laws, nor an impact of Qi; it was the Heavenly Dao itself responding.

As the lines were uttered from Lu Chen's mouth, every syllable resonated with the Great Dao of this world.

Green light of the Laws seeped from his body, spreading along the lotuses at his feet to the entire hall floor, climbing from the floor to the walls, and up to the dome.

In everyone's minds, the same image surfaced simultaneously.

A city.

A majestic White Jade City standing above the Nine Heavens, with twelve pavilions rising from the ground, surrounded by five main cities.

The city walls were built of white jade, and endless Immortal light flowed over the towers. That city was shrouded in a sea of clouds, looking down upon the vast Mortal World, unattainably high and untouchably distant.

That was the place every Cultivator spent their entire life trying to reach.

The Immortal Realm.

Yue Yihao's fist loosened.

His mouth hung open as he sat dazed in his seat.

He didn't understand poetry, but he saw the city described by those words. That was the ultimate goal of his cultivation, the meaning behind every punch he threw.

He had actually written it out in just a few words, writing it as vividly as if he had seen it with his own eyes.

Princess Xia Qingyue's hands were no longer just twisting her skirt.

Those few words crashed into her Divine Soul, and her Xuanhuang Heavenly Spirit Body operated automatically, frantically absorbing the Dao Rhyme contained within the lines.

The Heavenly Spirit Power deep within her spiritual sea surged.

Just a few words had touched the barrier of her Realm.

This was not poetry; this was the Dao.

The sneer on Chu Wushuang's face froze in place. The folding fan slipped from his hand, and he didn't go to pick it up.

His eyes widened as he stared at Lu Chen's face, at the golden spots of light remaining in the air after those words dissipated. Wasn't this the scene that was supposed to happen for him!

Why did others steal poetry and become saints on the spot, but he couldn't!

Before he could recover from the shock, his brain caught up.

"In the heavens lies the White Jade Capital, with its twelve towers and five cities."

Li Bai's "Recalling Old Travels in Jiangxia and Writing to Prefect Wei Liangzai after the Chaos and Exile to Yelang by Imperial Grace."

This was Li Bai's poem! How could this Emperor recite Li Bai's poem?

Impossible! Absolutely impossible! This world has no Li Bai, no Tang Dynasty, no Blue Star!

Unless...

An absurd thought that made his scalp tingle crawled out from the back of his mind.

---

When Lu Chen stole the poem, he didn't expect it to cause a resonance between heaven and earth. He guessed the Heavenly Dao was scared of being beaten by him, so it cooperated.

And this poem wrote of the unattainability of the Immortal Realm, the loneliness and unyielding nature of the banished Immortal, and the peerless pride of being in the Mortal World while having one's heart set on the heavens.

The person who recited this poem was precisely the Emperor who had personally shattered the gate to the Immortal Realm.

He had seen that there was no White Jade Capital in the heavens; he had rejected the twelve towers and five cities.

The Laws of the Heavenly Dao responded frantically, and golden runes gathered more and more in mid-air, spinning faster and faster.

The nine-story structure of Wangyue Tower began to resonate, and golden light surged from the grain of the ten-thousand-year-old Golden Silk Spirit Nanmu wood.

The entire tower, in the face of the power of the Literary Dao, transformed into a natural resonance Magical Artifact.

Chu Wushuang stood in place, his legs trembling. He finally understood one thing.

What he copied was poetry; what Lu Chen recited was the Dao.

The same words, spoken from different mouths, carried vastly different weights.

Even if he, Chu Wushuang, recited ten thousand poems, he wouldn't attract the resonance of the Heavenly Dao, because he didn't have that Realm, much less that state of mind, to trigger the resonance of heaven and earth.

But Lu Chen did. Behind the curtain on the second floor, Yue Qingxuan's phoenix eyes curved. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, looking very proud, as if the person showing off was her.

That was her man.