Chapter 487: Arrived Here

He Xinliang

Wang Chutong, the young and talented Lady Wang, who earned second place on the Rouge Scroll's Deputy List for her literary prowess, was second only to Xu Weixiong. Yet, after writing "First Snow in the East Wing," she vanished without a trace, like a mud ox sinking into the sea. The formidable reputation that once made all other literary works by talented men and women across the land defer to her was gone. Even empresses in Tai'an City Palace had read "First Snow," as had the Princess Jing'an of Xiangfan City, who died for love. Not to mention how many well-bred young ladies were utterly captivated by it. For the corrupt Confucian scholars in Liyang, it was a huge relief; they believed this woman had finally stopped using her writing to "corrupt the world."

Only the Wang family on Laomu Mountain by Spring God Lake knew that for the past two years, their young lady's heart hadn't been on the mountain at all. Regardless of wind or rain, frost or heavy snow, she would go to the lakeside tea house and sit for a while, gazing east or north without a fixed direction. In the past, whenever she was unhappy, a session of polo, kickball, or swinging would make her troubles vanish. She could swing so high that even daring men would gasp in amazement. But now, she was different—reserved and often lost in thought on the swing, only gently touching her toes when she noticed it had stopped. Her personal maids, who despite the difference in status were like sisters to her, knew the reason. They resented the handsome man who had captivated their mistress's heart years ago. They tried to persuade her to write more poems, even if they were just "minor works" or "poetic remnants" of verses. Countless people across the land were eagerly awaiting her return to writing, but she simply ignored them. Especially now in winter, she would mumble about "hibernating and sleeping until old age." Apart from her unvarying routine of gazing out over the lake from afar, she would return to her study, read a few pages, then yawn and complain of sleepiness. The moment a maid would grind ink and offer a lamb-hair brush, she would find countless excuses to be lazy. Was this still Wang Dongxiang, who dared to boast, "Before I put pen to paper, clouds and mists rise as I meet saints, sages, immortals, and Buddhas; after I put pen to paper, the world is pure and bright as gods and ghosts come to bow to me"? Fortunately, her father, who had already accumulated immense wealth, never bothered her about these matters. He even politely declined marriage proposals from prominent families of suitable status.

As twilight deepened over Laomu Mountain, some people descended, and others ascended. Descending and boarding a ship was Wang Linquan, Qingzhou's richest man, who had recently withdrawn from the behind-the-scenes salt and iron trade in Lianghuai. He was teary-eyed and deeply moved. Ascending from the ship was a gray-haired young man who, without realizing it, arrived at Wang Chutong’s private chambers. When a maid saw the man’s clear eyes, her resentment inexplicably vanished. She remembered he hadn’t been like this before; back then, he was dashing, dressed in white robes with a jade belt, and his phoenix eyes seemed to hold a watery allure that would make any unmarried woman's heart flutter. Seeing him now, the maid sensed he had changed greatly, though she couldn’t pinpoint how. He was less flamboyant but felt more genuinely approachable. The man raised a finger to his lips, signaling silence, evidently having been informed by the attendant leading him that their mistress was still in her "winter slumber." The attendant respectfully turned back at the courtyard gate, saying little, yet the maid clearly saw the awe and fear in his eyes when he secretly glanced at the young master—it was more than a mouse seeing a cat; it was a mouse seeing a tiger.

Upon entering the warm and comfortable main hall, heated by an underfloor system, there were only three maids in the building. The other two also came swiftly upon hearing the commotion. They were all somewhat surprised to see him. He requested a pot of Spring God Lake tea free of any earthy or woody impurities, and he brewed and poured the tea himself, not troubling the maids. Even the first brew, often discarded as less flavorful, was clean and fragrant. He didn't forget to pour a cup for each of them, which flattered the young women, who, being alike in nature and scholarly, felt honored. However, his tea-brewing skills were clumsy and unrefined, yet even though every subtle detail was observed by all three, they dared not point it out. After drinking the tea, the young guest glanced at the sky. A quick-witted maid offered to wake her mistress. He asked if he could wait in the room, and the three maids exchanged glances, then smiled knowingly, nodding in unison.

Xu Fengnian, stopping over at Laomu Mountain, gently pushed open the door. A maid helped him close it, then tiptoed away. Xu Fengnian sat by the window, the lingering sunset light filtering through the screen. Unlike the opulence of Laomu Mountain, the young woman's private chambers were strikingly simple and elegant. On the desk, besides the four treasures of the study, there was only a "linglong"—an intricate carving of an old bamboo root, a large bamboo sphere encompassing smaller ones of varying sizes. Xu Fengnian's fingers rested on the "linglong," pushing it a few inches across the desktop with little sound.

A stack of small colored papers lay on the desk, in various shades of apricot, goose yellow, and bronze green. At the top, "Huai Huang Ji" was written in a crooked scrawl. Xu Fengnian had only learned of Wang Dongxiang's literary preeminence after his last departure from Laomu Mountain, but he had heard her handwriting was quite poor. Seeing it firsthand now, he realized it was truly "like worms crawling," unbearable to look at. However, the exquisite small notes tucked beneath "Huai Huang Ji," though also bearing her ugly handwriting, contained many impressive fragments and broken poems that were far from negligible. They encompassed both grand, martial border poetry and reclusive, contemplative verses, with remarkably few expressing the usual laments of a woman's boudoir.

The Rouge Scroll's Main List, which ranked women solely on their beauty (plump or slender, men had their own preferences), often caused dissent regarding its ten entries. Many claimed the famous courtesan Li Baishi was ranked too low, and that someone named Nangong, whom no one had ever seen, had no right to be placed above Chen Yu. The Rouge Scroll's Deputy List, however, was considered much fairer. Xu Weixiong, the Princess of Beiliang, Wang Chutong of Spring God Lake, and Yan Dongwu, the imperial scholar who was already the Crown Princess, were all widely recognized as deserving their places, with little disagreement.

Xu Fengnian flipped through the colored papers one by one. After reviewing them, he reversed the order and flipped through them again, returning "Huai Huang Ji" to the top. Stacking the sixty-odd papers, Xu Fengnian leaned back against the chair and gazed out the window. On Spring God Lake, Xuanyuan Qingfeng had brutally killed six renowned martial artists in a single day, becoming almost a public enemy of the jianghu. The next day, no one dared to step onto the challenge stage. On the third day, three more martial arts masters, whose fame resonated across the land, successively ascended the stage and were again summarily killed by Xuanyuan Qingfeng. Such a martial arts alliance leader was atrocious, certainly not the kind of leader the jianghu longed for. Yet, thanks to this, Huishan Mountain and Guniu Ridge became known throughout the land. Strangely, the more ruthless and merciless Xuanyuan Qingfeng's methods became, the less unified the condemnation was. The perceptions of the old and new generations of jianghu practitioners were diametrically opposed. The old jianghu was heartbroken, while the new jianghu was eager for action. Undercurrents circulated privately, suggesting that only such a cold-blooded woman, such an alliance leader, could hope to conquer Zhulu Mountain by using a villain to curb a villain. Xu Fengnian wondered what face the jianghu would wear in the future and what the old generation's influential leaders would think if they were still alive.

Xu Fengnian's thoughts drifted, recalling the fox fur cloak he had brought from Beiliang to the south, left behind at Shangyin Academy. If she had been truly resolute, she would never have left that cloak. But since she didn't wish to be a caged bird, Xu Fengnian could only feign magnanimity and go along with the flow. He wondered if she would be an old, gray-haired woman if they ever met again. He also recalled his first journey into the jianghu, when he was at the bottom, looking up. There was a lingering, unforgettable figure by the Luo River, now long faded from his memory. His second journey, by contrast, was from a lofty vantage point, looking down upon the jianghu. Xu Fengnian turned his head and glanced at the bed. That year, accompanying her on a turtle ride on the lake, he hadn't imagined this current state of affairs. He had indeed gone to Beimang and survived. Now, he would systematically succeed to his position, govern Beiliang, inherit Xu Xiao's legacy, and continue to "draw a prison" around himself, guarding the northwest gateway.

The lingering sunset light faded, and twilight deepened.

From the bed came a "thwack." A young, charming, and innocent woman, sleepily, with a face flushed in anger and embarrassment, sat up. The private chambers, warmed by an underfloor heating system that consumed countless amounts of charcoal, were as warm as spring in winter. However, this also provided mosquitoes with the means to hibernate and survive, making them extremely annoying. The woman was a heavy sleeper, and she always had to engage in a mental battle with these winter mosquitoes. Her maids couldn't wake her; it was always these mosquitoes that did the trick.

Wrapped in an embroidered quilt, she sat up, flailing her arms, relentlessly pursuing a mosquito that had bitten her. Grumbling, she gave up, unable to endure the cold outside her quilt, and muttered, "There's actually a mosquito in this world that can escape this female knight's Spiritual Finger! I'll spare your life for now." Then she flopped back onto the bed and pulled the quilt over her head to continue sleeping soundly. Perhaps feeling such decadence was truly wrong, she mumbled to herself for a long time under the quilt.

Eventually, she cautiously poked her head out and looked towards the brightest light coming from the desk. It was empty. The girl, who was no longer quite so young, was somewhat stunned and lost in thought, her clear, "autumn water" eyes showing a hint of unspeakable grievance. She pinched her cheek hard with two fingers. The sharp pain finally cleared her fatigue and sleepiness. She got up absentmindedly to get dressed, repeatedly shrinking back into the warm covers. By the time she was too lazy to put on her boots and only wore socks before stepping onto the floor, half an hour had already passed.

Stepping on the wooden floor, which was not cold, she finally became fully awake and began to exude the demeanor of the great literary figure, Wang Dongxiang—virtuous and graceful, her eyes particularly sparkling with spirit. She sat cross-legged on the chair, held her breath, focused, ground the ink, and picked up the brush. But after just one stroke, she was defeated by her own handwriting, finding it truly ugly. Instantly, all her grand ambition vanished. She sighed, bored, propped her cheek with one hand, and prepared to flip through those colored papers. Suddenly, her eyes widened. On the page of "Huai Huang Ji," a line of small characters had mysteriously appeared. Besides the current date, it read "Was here." The handwriting was naturally immeasurably better than Wang Chutong's.

Wang Chutong burst out of her room. She didn't bother to put on the fur cloak necessary for going outside in the cold, nor did she heed the calls of her personal maids, running all the way to the lakeside ferry at the foot of the mountain in one breath.

Her socks were covered in dirt.

Wang Linquan, who cherished his only daughter most, ran down the mountain in a frantic hurry, his face filled with worry.

Wang Chutong looked at the old man, her voice thick with sobs and regret: "I'll never sleep in again!"

Wang Linquan, contrary to his usual manner, grinned. He didn't comfort her; instead, he added insult to injury, saying, "If you keep being so bad at managing a household, who would dare marry you?"

Wang Chutong sniffed her delicate nose, on the verge of tears but unable to cry.

Suddenly, someone behind her lifted her by the armpits and turned her around. Her feet landed on the back of his shoes. The man smiled and said, "Only I would dare."