Chapter Twenty-Three: Tang Dynasty BBS

Fifty coins a night, and that was already half price—wasn’t this daylight robbery?

Du Gu’ao and Lei Ji felt a bit uneasy at heart. Was this boy really as honest as he seemed?

Everyone knew that even the ordinary rooms in the city’s largest inns were just over twenty coins a night, and the finest suites rarely exceeded a hundred. Yet this boy dared to ask fifty coins?

“My good fellow,” Du Gu’ao tried to sound friendly, though he was still a bit stiff. “About the price for the room…”

“Do you find it too expensive?” Wu Ning asked outright.

Seeing both men fall silent, he immediately put on a sincere, earnest look. “I’m sure you both know, this inn is five miles from Fangzhou city—not too near, not too far. All the beds and furnishings, I carried every single piece on my back from the city, bundle by bundle!”

How familiar those words sounded! Couldn’t he come up with some new lines?

But no one here was a fool. Lei Ji understood why this boy dared to ask such a high price.

It was simple: beside the Temple of the Immortals, his was the only inn for miles. Glancing back at the crowd of over a hundred pilgrims waiting out in the wild, how could he not understand?

“Don’t worry, gentlemen!” Wu Ning patted his chest and made a solemn vow. “Stay here just one night, and you’ll find it’s well worth every coin!”

Liar! Whatever good impression they’d had of Wu Ning had now vanished without a trace.

But there was no choice. The matter with Sun Bo’an was still unresolved—they couldn’t just refuse to stay, especially with Young Master Sun watching from across the mountain path, clearly amused.

Reaching into his robes, Du Gu’ao counted out fifty large coins. “Fine, we’ll stay one night.”

Wu Ning took them gleefully, thinking, “My first customers!”

He pocketed the coins, then—extended his other hand toward Du Gu’ao. “And yours?”

“What?” Du Gu’ao fumed. “Didn’t I just give them to you?”

“Heh, fifty coins per person.”

Damn, this really was a black-hearted inn!

Instinctively, Du Gu’ao glanced back, only to meet Young Master Sun’s mocking gaze.

He swallowed his anger.

Face flushed, Du Gu’ao fished out another fifty coins and slapped them into Wu Ning’s hand.

“Excellent!” Wu Ning’s glee was obvious.

“Right this way, gentlemen!”

Damn you! Du Gu’ao and Lei Ji cursed him silently in unison.

It wasn’t the money that hurt—it was being played for fools by a mountain boy and unable to retaliate. The humiliation was hard to bear.

They muttered curses to themselves: A hundred large coins for a night in a shabby village inn—absolutely outrageous…

“Are you sure you don’t want dinner?” Huzi, the chubby boy, asked again, perfectly out of place.

“No!” Du Gu’ao snapped. “Just the rooms! No dinner!”

“Oh.” Huzi looked truly disappointed. If you don’t eat, I don’t get to eat either—why must we suffer together?

Still not giving up, he asked, “How about breakfast tomorrow—”

“Not eating!!”

Du Gu’ao was utterly fed up with the fat boy and, following Wu Ning’s gesture, escaped into the courtyard.

Then—

Du Gu’ao: “...”

Lei Ji: “...”

Both were stunned. “Is this… a village inn?”

Though not ostentatious, the thatched pavilions, wooden corridors, and lush flowers and trees, illuminated by gentle lantern light, created a scene of true comfort.

“It seems… rather nice?” Du Gu’ao was uncertain, turning to Lei Ji for confirmation.

Lei Ji surveyed the courtyard thoroughly and finally nodded. “It’s truly quite pleasant.”

He had traveled widely, but never before had he seen so elegant a guesthouse. The only other such refined courtyard he’d known was the hermitage of Master Sima Chengzhen, the renowned recluse.

“Gentlemen, please come inside.” Wu Ning, holding an oil lamp, led them toward their rooms.

The result was inevitable—these two had never seen such tastefully appointed quarters.

They inspected every corner for a long time, their expressions shifting from surprise, to acceptance, to delight.

Wu Ning couldn’t help but smirk. Wasn’t he the most genuine proprietor around? As if he would cheat them.

“I’ve already lit the incense—top quality sandalwood. You’re guaranteed a peaceful night’s sleep.”

“It’s late now—rest well, gentlemen.”

Outside, more guests were already getting bitten by mosquitoes, peering in with envy. Wu Ning needed to hustle and rent out the remaining room.

He was just about to leave when—

“Wait!!” Du Gu’ao suddenly called him back, staring in astonishment at the wall.

“That… that poem on the wall…”

“Yes?” Wu Ning replied, turning around. “What about it?”

Just a few wall poems—those were all the rage in the Tang dynasty. Otherwise, Wu Ning wouldn’t have followed the trend, scrawling on the walls himself.

To be frank, it was just these literati, having nothing better to do, who could no longer satisfy their urge to show off with black ink on white paper. Wherever they went, they couldn’t help but scribble a “I was here” or some such on the walls.

So, at some point, inns and taverns in places frequented by scholars began setting aside a wall for such writings and drawings.

One day, a guest would write a poem; the next, another would leave a diary entry. People came and went, but their words remained.

Later, some enthusiastic soul would see a poem left days before, and, impressed, would add a few lines below or write a commentary.

To Wu Ning, it was a bit like a primitive internet forum—someone starts a thread, others follow up with replies.

Since he was running an inn, Wu Ning had followed suit, painting a white wall for this very purpose.

Later, finding the empty wall unsightly, he wrote a few poems himself.

Of course, it was all fake—he had written them all.

Seeing Du Gu’ao’s expression, Wu Ning felt a bit proud.

Was he about to be praised for his calligraphy?

After all, he’d racked his brains and used every script—running, regular, cursive—just to make it look like the work of many hands.

And in his previous life, his family had literary roots, and his handwriting had always been among the best in his class.

“Do you like it, sir?”

“It’s splendid!” Lei Ji exclaimed, pointing to the signature under one poem. “Is this… truly the handwriting of Master Boyu himself?”

Damn!

Wu Ning’s heart sank. So it was the poet they admired, not the calligraphy.

“Uh, yes, it’s indeed written by Master Boyu.”

“‘Before me, no ancients; after me, none to come…’” Lei Ji recited, his voice ringing through the room. “‘Thinking of the vastness of heaven and earth, alone I shed tears!’”

“What a poem! Exquisite!” He clapped his hands in delight, unable to contain himself. “This is unmistakably the style of Chen Ziang—a genuine treasure!”

“Uh…” Wu Ning began to sweat.

But then he thought, what did it matter? Chen Ziang would never visit this rural inn—he’d never know.

“And this one?” Lei Ji pointed to another poem.

“‘Adorned in jade, a tree stands tall; Ten thousand strands of green silk fall. Who cut these fine leaves so well? The spring wind in February, like a blade—by He Zhizhang.’”

“This is by He Jizhen?”

“Yes…” Wu Ning resolved never to forge again—a single lie required ten more to cover it! The ancients did not deceive him.

Looking at the wall, there were works by Chen Ziang, He Zhizhang, Wang Bo, and Meng Haoran.

Wu Ning hadn’t thought much of it at the time—he’d just wanted to fill the wall, forgetting that so many luminaries all showing up at his inn might arouse suspicion. What if these two started asking questions?

He hurried out, muttering, “Rest well, gentlemen, I’ll leave you to it.”

Behind him, Du Gu’ao and Lei Ji’s voices drifted out as they discussed the poems:

“‘At the southern ferry I dwell, accustomed to wild men’s boats…’”

“Meng Haoran?”

“Who is this Meng Haoran?”

“Never heard of him.”

“But the poetic mood here is beyond our reach…”

Wu Ning: “…”

They didn’t even know who Meng Haoran was? He was one of the most famous poets of the Wu Zetian era!

That thought made him stop dead, looking as though he’d seen a ghost:

“Could it be… I’ve made a mistake?”