Chapter Forty-One: Poetry

“This round is not a loss,” Yan Luo thought to himself.

The emotions accumulating within the Heartless Doll soared swiftly past seventy points and continued to rise.

“Oh…”

A noblewoman's eyes sparkled, and she let out an operatic moan.

The Greeks had always revered the beauty of the human form. Yan Luo, as an Easterner, possessed facial features that, to Westerners, carried a certain delicate femininity. The Greeks of this era admired both masculine and androgynous beauty—many fair youths in Athens were known as “beloveds,” and, in fact, the pursuit of such youths was considered a citizen’s right.

Achilles, the most revered hero in the Homeric epics, was himself a beautiful youth with feminine grace.

Yan Luo’s skin gleamed with an ivory luster, his muscles powerful yet gently contoured, not at all exaggerated, and his exquisitely handsome features—by Western standards—were simply without peer…

At that moment, he ignited the entire square.

“I see divinity!”

An exclamation rose from the crowd.

It was noon; sunlight poured down, bathing his fair skin in a faint golden glow, so that Yan Luo seemed to stand encircled by a halo.

“Apollo!”

Suddenly, someone called out the name.

Apollo, one of the best-known Greek gods—god of the sun, of the arts, of medicine, of prophecy… Considered the most versatile and beautiful of the gods, the “Homeric Hymns” even praised him as the most handsome man in all the world, the very archetype of beauty.

The crowd, seeing this radiant youth bathed in gold, felt as though a deity had descended to earth.

“Apollo!”

More and more people joined the cry, until the shouts merged into a mighty wave.

You have received an intense surge of emotion:

Excitement +1, admiration +1, exhilaration +1…

The Heartless Doll’s emotional reservoir reached its maximum of one hundred points. This time, the emotions numbered over a dozen varieties—more diverse than before. Surely, to forge a persona mask from such a mix would end in failure, but Yan Luo was unconcerned and chose to merge them anyway.

A soft crack.

Once again, failure.

Persona Mask Fragment: 13%

“Thud…”

Euripides, furious and agitated, rolled his eyes and collapsed—he’d fainted from rage.

The archon Pericles and the elders and councilmen exchanged bewildered glances. The plan had been to overawe the envoy from Cathay, to display the glory of Greece and Athens. But now… Herodotus was dejected, Euripides unconscious, and many citizens and foreigners seemed to have defected, cheering for this young man from Cathay?

In truth, this was not betrayal, but Yan Luo’s disrobing had shifted the attitudes of many Greeks who had previously scorned him—he’d won himself a wave of new admirers.

“Brother Wang… do you think if I stripped, I’d get such a response too?” Zhu Xiaoyong muttered in Chinese to the nearly petrified Wang Dongwei at his side.

Regaining his composure with difficulty, Wang Dongwei shot him a look of utter indifference, as if his very face were a meme.

“Maybe Greeks just have special tastes…” Zhu grumbled, then added, “In the Tang Dynasty, they prized plumpness—if I traveled back to that era, I might be the most dazzling beauty in all of China!”

Wang Dongwei: “…”

Yan Luo displayed his body to the fullest until the Heartless Doll could absorb no more intense emotion, then calmly put his robe back on.

A few soldiers hurried over to carry away the unconscious Euripides and the deeply contemplative Herodotus. Meanwhile, the tragic playwright Sophocles seized the opportunity to give his old rival a resounding whack on the backside with his white laurel staff.

“Useless,” he muttered.

The elderly man scrutinized Yan Luo.

“Young man.”

Sophocles was already over seventy—a miracle in itself for that era, when the average Greek lived just thirty or forty years. In fact, he would survive to ninety, a true patriarch of his time.

Despite his apparent frailty, he was still vigorous and unyielding—a legendary figure in Athens, having competed in thirty dramatic festivals and won twenty-four times.

“You just said that shame is inherent to humanity, that even barbarians would not expose themselves… You mocked us Greeks for baring our bodies, taking pride instead of shame in it. Yet you yourself undressed just now. Isn’t that a contradiction?”

Yan Luo met the tragic master’s gaze and replied in a calm voice, “I did it to demonstrate a principle: Even with a body as beautiful as mine, I am content to keep it hidden beneath my robes. In our Cathay, beauty lies within, in our character. I dressed again immediately after disrobing, because I know shame.”

Some Athenians whispered among themselves, questioning whether their long-held aesthetic of baring the body might be mistaken.

Others discussed “Cathay,” growing curious about this unknown land.

Sophocles was undaunted by his unsuccessful challenge. As he had suspected, this youth was not easily bested. He circled Yan Luo, searching for a weakness to exploit.

He noticed the jade at Yan Luo’s waist.

“What is that?” the old man sneered. “You wear a rock on your person?”

“This is not a stone, but jade.” There was, as yet, no word for “jade” in ancient Greek—only terms for stone, marble, chalcedony, gemstones. Yan Luo spoke the Chinese word: “yu.”

“In our Cathayan culture, jade symbolizes the gentleman—a man of virtue and learning. As we say: If one has virtue, one is jade; without virtue, one is stone; lacking all virtue, one is mere dross.”

“A worthless stone can embody virtue? Absurd! Our Athenian marble is worth ten thousand times more than that! Look at our grand, awe-inspiring temples—even the gods marvel at them—sculpted with effort and decorated by artists.”

Sophocles gestured toward the temple atop the hill.

It was true—Greek architecture and sculpture were awe-inspiring.

“Gentle and lustrous, that is benevolence; upright and unyielding, that is righteousness; hanging as if about to fall, that is propriety; when struck, it rings clear and long, that is joy; flaws and perfections both visible, that is loyalty; dense and firm, that is wisdom; shining in all directions, that is faith; unique and outstanding, that is virtue; its spirit like a white rainbow, that is heaven; its essence pervading mountains and rivers, that is earth; and what is valued by the world, that is the Way.”

Yan Luo recited this passage from the “Book of Rites, On Envoys.”

Having spoken it in Chinese, he then translated it into Greek.

Benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, wisdom, faith—such plain yet profound morals had great appeal in that era, and many scholars nodded in silent agreement. Wasn’t it precisely these virtues that democratic Athens sought and admired in humanity?

Who would have thought that “jade” could embody such deep meaning?

Applause broke out for Yan Luo’s words.

Indeed, good looks and a fine figure were powerful advantages.

As the saying goes: a handsome man makes even marbles look elegant; an ugly man makes even golf look like dung-shoveling… With such a face and a physique that combined strength and grace, Yan Luo’s philosophical words instantly won many people’s admiration.

Within the Heartless Doll, emotions surged rapidly.

Though not everyone applauded, the sound of clapping was acutely grating to Sophocles.

“Hmph…”

The old man was displeased—Greeks supporting a foreigner, and one who had insulted Greek civilization! Inwardly, he vowed to defeat this youth and decided to wield his greatest weapon: poetry.

“For a nation to thrive in civilization, a prerequisite is needed—the abundance of material goods to nurture the soil where culture is born. Prosperous Athens is just such a land. Watered with democracy, reason, and wisdom, it blossoms with a brilliant civilization… And among all things civilized, the most beautiful is poetry.”

He intoned:

“When the fate decreed by Hades draws near,
Then, there are no wedding songs, or lyres, or dance;
At last, Death has come.
It is best for a man never to have been born;
But if born, then next best,
Is swiftly to return whence he came.
After he passes the folly of youth,
What suffering can he escape?
Jealousy, strife, quarrels, battles, and slaughter follow one another.
At last, old age arrives, hateful indeed,
Withering, sickness, and friendless isolation.”

This was a passage from Sophocles’ “Oedipus at Colonus,” one of his most proud and beloved works. The old man looked at Yan Luo with a warlike gleam: “Does Cathay have poetry to match this?”

He had reason for his pride. The poem spoke of life’s helplessness, the caprice of fate, and the sorrow of growing old—provoking deep reflection.

Applause thundered from the Athenian citizens, far more than Yan Luo had received earlier.

“That poem moves the soul.”

“The finest poetry resonates in the hearts of listeners. Sophocles is truly a treasure of Greece.”

“That envoy from Cathay will have nothing to say now, surely. Poetry is the distillation of civilization—barbarian empires like Persia could never produce such verse.”

Scholars murmured among themselves.

Even so, to have bested Herodotus and Euripides, the envoy from Cathay could already be proud, even if he yielded to Sophocles.

Seeing the old man raising his staff to accept applause and even cheers, Yan Luo shook his head. “Our Cathayan poetry and culture—can they truly be compared to yours?”

“If that is so, allow me to recite a few lines.”